A King's ransom

by James Grippando

  Matthew froze for an instant. He hadn’t told anyone about Cartagena. “How did you know about that?”

  “I keep my ears open. The guards talk plenty.”

  Matthew said nothing, thinking.

  “So you with me or not, fisherman?”

  Again Matthew lowered his eyes toward the fish. It was about to bite, then swam away from the hook. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have responsibilities here.”

  “What?”

  “The two young Colombians. When Joaquin took us back from FARC, he said he’d kill Emilio if I tried to escape. He’ll kill Rosa if I succeed.”

  “It’s a bluff. He won’t kill two prisoners with families willing to pay.”

  “I can’t risk it.”

  “Don’t be a fool. You need to look out for number one. You said your wife is pregnant, right? Your family needs you.”

  That was true, in part. The family needed him-the new family anyway, the baby who might never know his father. It would have been easy for Matthew to feel sorry for himself, but he felt even worse for the much younger parents who might never see any of their children grow. Matthew had been blessed with the chance to raise two children to adulthood. Sometimes he’d felt as though he’d screwed it up; often he wished he were closer to his children. But there was no denying he’d been given the chance. Whether he deserved a second one, he couldn’t say.

  “I just can’t run out of here at someone else’s expense.”

  “They’d do it to you, my friend. This is the law of the jungle. Survival of the fittest.”

  “I told you, I can’t.”

  “All right. I’m on my own. But think about it, will you?”

  “Sure,” he said, but he knew that escape wasn’t an option. It wasn’t even necessary. Maybe Joaquin was angry about the shoot-out in Cartagena, but in the end a ransom payment would surely ease his grief and erase whatever anger he felt toward Matthew. Joaquin loved money, and Matthew’s insurance company had plenty to give.

  But why was it taking so long?

  Just hope I picked a good company, he thought as he turned away from Jan and refocused on his fishing.

  29

  The week ended as it had begun, with me headed for a meeting with Duncan Fitz. This time it wasn’t going to be the folksy chat in his office. I’d been summoned to the private conference room adjacent to the Miami managing partner’s suite, and the bad vibes had already started in the lobby. The receptionist greeted me pleasantly, but the moment I’d passed, I got the strange sense that she’d picked up the phone to alert someone I was on my way. Secretaries seemed unusually busy typing or filing, no time to look up from their desks and say hello. A partner emerged from his office, saw me coming, and went right back inside. It seemed as though everyone had decided that my family had defrauded a client.

  Seemed, I chided myself. You’re getting paranoid.

  I wasn’t sure what Duncan had been thinking since the unpleasant ending to our meeting on Monday morning. My first clue came from his secretary in the form of a bare-bones E-mail telling me where to be and when to be there. Of course the meeting would deal with the insurance coverage issue, but beyond that I’d been told nothing. That was the norm at Cool Cash. As a rule, news from the management committee leaked first to certain secretaries, then to partners, next to the associates at large, and lastly to the poor slob most directly affected by the action.

  I checked my watch: 10:00 A.M., right on time. I turned the final corner, started down the hall, and slammed right into Duncan Fitz’s secretary, knocking her files to the floor.

  “Gosh, I’m sorry,” I said.

  “It’s okay, my fault.”

  Beverly was a sweet but plain-looking divorced woman in her late thirties who had given up her social life for the benefit of Duncan Fitz, which meant working till eight o’clock every night, a full day on Saturdays, and a fair number of Sundays. She was the most efficient and organized person I’d ever met. Every day she worked through a lunch that consisted of either an orange or a banana, one granola bar, and the latest live-forever vitamin cocktail that she’d ordered online from a health food Web site. She didn’t have many friends at the firm or, for that matter, outside the firm. The only photographs at her workstation were of cats, especially a big white one with awesome green eyes. Maybe it was because I’d always made a point of asking how Puffy was doing, but for some reason she’d always liked me.

  “I can’t believe I did this,” I said.

  We were kneeling and facing each other, scooping up the scattered papers from the floor. In the midst of the cleanup she stopped so suddenly that I stopped, too. She looked me in the eye and whispered, “Be careful what you say in there. I’ve seen the memos.”

  She tucked the reassembled files under her arm, as if to end our conversation right there.

  “Thank you,” I said, rising.

  With her eyes she seemed to say, “Good luck.” Then she continued down the hall without another word.

  I took a deep breath, knocked on the conference room door, and entered on command.

  Dark suits were the order of the day. Seated at the conference table were three men dressed in various shades of navy blue, plus one woman wearing charcoal gray with burgundy accents. Duncan Fitz was at the far end, nearest the window. Sid Templeton, the managing partner of the Miami office, was at his side. The other two I didn’t recognize.

  “Martin Rush,” said the man, “Chairman of the Ethics and Conflicts Committee.” With the accent, he didn’t have to tell me he was down from the New York office. He seemed tightly wound, a compulsive jogger, I imagined-wiry body, thin face, hair cropped a little too short, the red bow tie a bit too tight.

  “Maggie Johans,” said the other. I’d never seen her face before, but from the name alone I immediately recognized her as the lawyer Duncan had called in New York to help me-the partner who served as Quality’s general counsel.

  “Please, have a seat.” She was evidently taking the lead, which didn’t bode well.

  “Thank you.” I glanced at Duncan and Sid Templeton as I settled into my chair, trying to get a sense of any sign of support from the Miami contingent. Sid glanced out the window. Duncan lowered his eyes.

  Maggie said, “This committee has been assembled to determine the proper response of our law firm to the dispute that has arisen between Quality Insurance Company and the Rey family. In making that determination, we wanted to afford you an opportunity to express your views.”

  “Are you sure you want to hear my views?”

  “Why wouldn’t we?” she asked.

  “Because my family has been accused of fraud.”

  “That’s true.”

  “My view is that the accusation is baseless. Quality Insurance Company has acted in bad faith, and I hope that somebody makes them pay for the added stress they’ve put on my mother and for every additional minute my father spends in captivity because of their refusal to pay the ransom.”

  She and the other New Yorker exchanged glances. Duncan shot me a look, as if warning me to tone it down a notch.

  The skinny ethics chairman asked, “Is it your intention to sue a client of this law firm?”

  I measured my response, mindful of Duncan’s nonverbal admonition. “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Sid Templeton, the Miami managing partner, jumped in. “Before everybody gets their back up, can we simply talk a few things out?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Whenever there’s a disagreement, I find it helpful to stand in the shoes of the other person. If you’ll bear with me, Nick, you may gain some insights as to where the insurance company is coming from.”

  “I’m all for that.”

  Sid cleared his throat, then began, “Your father was a fisherman for almost thirty years, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He never had kidnap-and-ransom insurance.”

  “No.”

  �
�Finally he buys a three-million-dollar policy and-bam! — not much later he’s kidnapped. That’s a red flag for an insurance company, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I suppose it might be.”

  Sid shrugged, as if giving me an opportunity to explain away the suspicion. Before I could say a word, Maggie took over the line of questioning. “Why did your father purchase three million dollars’ worth of coverage?”

  “Maybe that was the most he could afford.”

  “Let me ask the more pertinent question. Why do you think the kidnappers demanded exactly three million dollars in ransom?”

  “The dollar amount of the ransom is part of an ongoing confidential negotiation. Unless the insurer intends to pay it, I prefer not to share that information.”

  “You already told Duncan it was three million dollars.”

  I looked at Duncan with surprise. Obviously nothing we’d talked about on Monday had been kept confidential, or “friend to friend” as he had promised. “I don’t know why the kidnappers demanded three million. You’ll have to ask them.”

  “Or your father,” she said.

  “What are you implying?”

  “It hardly seems coincidental that the ransom demand is in the exact amount of coverage.”

  “First of all, that doesn’t mean my father defrauded anybody. Second, the insurance company didn’t even know that the ransom demand matched the policy limit until after it denied the claim as fraudulent.”

  “Young man,” said Mr. Ethics, “what prompted your father to purchase kidnap-and-ransom insurance after going without it for thirty years?”

  “Circumstances change. Kidnapping for ransom is more prevalent these days. And I would imagine that my mother’s pregnancy had something to do with it. He started to think like a future father again.”

  “So he jumped on his boat and headed for Colombia. That doesn’t sound like the responsible future father.”

  “In hindsight, I’m sure he wishes he hadn’t gone.”

  Maggie narrowed her eyes, leaning closer. “Of all the companies out there, what made him choose Quality Insurance Company?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it your recommendation?”

  “No,” I said, surprised by the question.

  “Did you tell your father that Quality might look more favorably on his claim, given your association with this law firm?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Did you tell your father that you would use the partners in this law firm to pressure the insurance company into paying the claim?”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Then why did you ask Duncan Fitz to call me and use my influence with Quality?”

  “Duncan offered to call you, I didn’t ask. Tell her, Duncan.”

  He answered in a hollow voice, “As I recall, Nick, you came to me.”

  “Yes, and you offered to help.”

  Sid intervened. “It should be made clear that no one is suggesting that Duncan knowingly participated in any kind of scheme to defraud.”

  “There was no scheme by anyone,” I said. “The only thing motivating me or Duncan was the fact that my father was kidnapped and needed help. Period.”

  No one seemed convinced, least of all the New Yorkers.

  “Is that what this is about?” I said. “You think I told my father to buy a kidnap-and-ransom policy from Quality Insurance so that I could scam them?”

  There was no answer, but I could see where this was headed-me and my father, co-conspirators. The warning from Duncan’s secretary was ringing in my ear: Be careful what you say in there. I’ve seen the memos.

  “This is a sham. You don’t care what my views are. You’ve already made your decision.”

  Maggie said, “I assure you, we came here with an open mind. We had sincerely hoped to hear something from you that would allow a course of action other than the one we must now recommend to the management committee.”

  “Exactly what is your recommendation?”

  “Suspension without pay until the dispute is resolved.”

  “Why?”

  Mr. Ethics scoffed. “Your failure to see the reason only underscores the urgency of our recommendation.”

  “How do you expect me to get the help my father needs with no income?”

  “It’s my understanding that the FBI works for free,” Maggie said dryly. “At least for families who aren’t defrauding insurance companies.”

  I could have argued with her, but I saw no upside in explaining that the point of contention between my family and the FBI was not alleged insurance fraud but suspected drug smuggling out of Nicaragua.

  I rose and looked each one of them in the eye, allowing my glare to linger a little longer on Duncan. “This is far from over,” I said, shaking hands with no one as I left the room.

  30

  “Suspended.” That was the word that stuck in my mind when I woke Saturday morning, once the initial anger had passed. I reminded myself that my ego was secondary, that the real fight was for my father. But it was hard not to take a betrayal like this personally, especially from Duncan Fitz, a guy who’d given me nothing but glowing reviews from the day I’d started working for him.

  I wondered what the party line would be on my suspension. The firm couldn’t announce that I’d been suspended for pressing a fraudulent claim on a kidnap-and-ransom policy. Quailty prohibited anyone-including its own lawyers-from disclosing the existence of kidnap-and-ransom insurance. Of necessity, the explanation for my departure would be vague, which would only invite salacious speculation on Miami’s legal grapevine. Soon the poor guy whose father had been kidnapped in Colombia would be known only as the idiot associate over at Cool Cash who’d been suspended for sleeping with the managing partner’s sixteen-year-old daughter and kicking a blind cocker spaniel.

  I could fight rumors, but on the more serious front, I wasn’t sure who was the more formidable opponent, the Colombian guerrillas or Quality Insurance Company. Battling alone was foolhardy. I needed help.

  Since Tuesday’s uncomfortable encounter at Duffy’s Tavern, I’d left Alex alone to cool off. On Saturday morning I phoned her at home to find out where she stood. I half expected her to hang up on me, but to my surprise she suggested we meet for lunch at the News Cafe on South Beach, near her apartment. I jumped at the invitation.

  “See you there,” I said, hanging up before she could reconsider.

  I didn’t get to Miami Beach often. It was only a few miles away, but traffic made the trip from Coral Gables only slightly less difficult than leaping across the Grand Canyon. Each time I went, however, I vowed to make a point of going more often. Beneath a perfect blue sky, with warm breezes blowing in from the ocean, South Beach was one of the reasons to live in South Florida.

  The News Cafe was a popular sidewalk cafe on the corner of Ocean Boulevard and Seventh Street, if not the heart of South Beach, at least its left ventricle. Any outside table was prime entertainment, ideal for spotting a Brazilian supermodel, the dance troupe from the latest Latin MTV video, or morbid tourists headed for a macabre Kodak moment on the very steps where Gianni Versace had been gunned down. Street traffic was typically bumper to bumper, a slow parade of expensive convertibles, motorcycles, and rolling boom boxes that blasted out a variety of music, some that made you want to get up and move to the beat, some that made you want to get up and move to Iowa. Across the boulevard was a grassy park with palm trees and volleyball courts, and then there was the famous sandy beach beyond. Scantily clad skaters maneuvered around pedestrians with the skill of slalom skiers, weaving in and out, excusing the occasional brush of a sweaty body with a glib “Sorry, dude.”

  Alex showed up just seconds behind me, dressed in capri pants, a sleeveless blouse, and Chanel sunglasses. It was definitely the kind of look that would have turned my head if she’d been a stranger just passing by. We found a table in the shade of an umbrella, and the waiter brought us sparkling water with lemon. She seemed to be waiting
for me to start the real conversation.

  “I’m almost surprised you came,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Things have taken a turn for the worse at my law firm. I thought you’d be even more concerned than ever about someone from Quality Insurance seeing us together.”

  “Trust me. That doesn’t matter anymore.”

  I sipped my bottled water, reluctant to ask the logical question. “Is that because you’re done with me?”

  “No. It’s because Quality Insurance fired me.”

  “From my case, you mean?”

  She removed her sunglasses to reveal the serious expression in her eyes. “They terminated my retainer agreement. They’ll never send me another case.”

  I grimaced, knowing it was my fault. “I swear, I didn’t tell anyone you were helping me.”

  “I told them myself.”

  “Why?”

  “After you and I got together at Duffy’s, they confronted me. Apparently someone saw us there together.”

  “That’s so weird. As you were leaving, I sensed someone was watching us.”

  “Might have been someone from your law firm, but whoever it was has a pipeline to the general counsel for Quality Insurance.”

  “That’s because the GC is also a partner in our New York office.”

  “Kind of incestuous, isn’t it?”

  “Tell me about it. So Maggie Johans called you?”

  “Yeah. Wanted to know what the hell I was doing fraternizing with the enemy.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That I didn’t agree with the company’s decision to deny coverage, and that I intended to continue helping you on my own terms.”

  “Damn, Alex. You should have said you were pumping me for information, setting me up for their benefit.”

  “Is that what you would have done?”

  I thought for a second, then said, “No, but I still feel terrible. Quality Insurance has to be a huge source of business for you to lose.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “I do worry. If helping me is going to cost you an entire book of business, that’s a debt I can’t ever repay.”