I'm as sure as I can be. And I hate to say it, but if I'm wrong, I guess Lindsay deserves what she gets.
She leaned into the table, seemingly excited about her pitch. Tell the government to forget about the immunity that Agent Huitt has been offering you in exchange for incriminating information on Guillermo. Tell them you want reward money.
What kind of reward?
I did some research while you were in Colombia. The Diplomatic Security Service oversees a reward program for informants who come forward with information against international terrorists. Kidnappers are considered terrorists. If Guillermo set up your father, he's a co-conspirator, a terrorist in his own right.
Sounds interesting in theory. But we're pretty pressed for time.
They might bite fast. The FBI sure seems eager to nail him on something. Terrorism is a lot juicier than just another drug-smuggling case.
Except that our pitch still has holes in it.
Such as?
Start at the top, I said. As far as we can prove, the only talk Guillermo and my father ever had about kidnap-and-ransom insurance was at the brunch where Guillermo's wife figured out that my mother was pregnant. That was back in August.
So?
These policies are country-specific. The trip to Colombia wasn't even on the map back then.
The original policy didn't cover Colombia?
Heck no. You don't buy coverage for Colombia unless you know for certain that you're going there. It jerks the price way up.
Then how did your dad get coverage for Colombia?
That came later. The insurance company issued a Colombia rider before the trip.
Couldn't Guillermo have been in on that?
We can't prove that he was. The policy was issued to my dad, not the company. The only thing we can prove is that two people knew about the extension of coverage to Colombia - my dad and the insurance company.
My words hung in the air. We looked at each other, Jenna seeming to read my mind.
Maybe that's enough, she said.
Does it make sense?
Think it through. Why would an insurance company tip off rebels to kidnap one of its own policyholders?
It wouldn't. But a renegade employee might.
She smiled, the proverbial light seeming to go on. That would certainly give Quality Insurance Company something to hide. Which would explain their scorched-earth litigation tactics.
I felt the excitement between us, but it was checked by the daunting reality that we both fully appreciated as lawyers.
The question is, how do we prove it?
Chapter 55
I called Duncan Fitz in the morning, repeatedly. Each time his secretary insisted that he was unavailable.
I knew that Beverly was simply running interference. She had a reputation for being difficult, but this was the same considerate woman who'd literally run me down in the halls of Cool Cash to warn me that she'd seen the memos and that I'd better be careful in my ill-fated meeting with Duncan and the henchmen from New York.
I don't want to get you in trouble, I said finally. But if Duncan won't take my phone calls, then let's assume that I don't want to speak to him either. Hypothetically speaking, is there any place I shouldn't go today, just to make sure we don't run into each other by accident?
She paused. I crossed my fingers and hoped that God would reward me for those late work nights with Beverly when I'd smiled and listened politely as she droned on about all nine lives of all seven cats with whom she shared her one-bedroom apartment.
Well, hypothetically, she said.
Yes? I encouraged.
I suppose you shouldn't go anywhere near the inner loop of the People Mover before his three o'clock hearing in federal court. If you were to bump into him on the tram, you'd be trapped and couldn't get away. Wouldn't that be awful?
Horrible. Thanks for the warning.
You bet, she said, then hung up.
From two o'clock on, I perched myself on the elevated platform at the Brickell Station. With the water table so close to the surface, the city of Miami has no subway, just rubber-tired trams that run on cement tracks elevated anywhere from two to ten stories above the city. I stood to one side of the platform, behind the elevators, watching the trains leave every few minutes. Finally I spotted Duncan climbing the escalator, toting his own briefcase for a change. The tram had stopped momentarily for loading and unloading, both sets of doors open. He entered at the set farthest away from me. I waited until the chime sounded, then hurried out from behind my hiding spot and jumped aboard. The final chime sounded, the doors closed, and the tram left the station. Duncan and I were alone in front.
Hello, I said.
He seemed surprised but handled it with his usual aplomb. Mr. Rey, how are you?
After working side by side for over a year, we were now on a last-name basis. I spoke to Judge Korvan yesterday. She tells me that she was blackmailed off the case.
That's absurd.
It's true. She said it herself.
I'm not in the business of blackmail.
I'm sure you're not. But your client would do it behind your back. Quality Insurance Company has something to hide.
Your family defrauded my client. End of story.
No, that's their story. Ask your client how they got the case taken away from Judge Korvan and reassigned to a judge who sits in your hip pocket. The answer isn't dumb luck.
Cases get reassigned every day.
Not the way this one was.
Look, I've been doing this law thing a little longer than you, junior. Don't tell me how to represent my client.
Duncan, I wouldn't have this conversation if I didn't know you to have a conscience. All I'm asking is that you do the right thing and ask your client the hard questions. It's no less than you would have expected from me as your protEgE.
He stared out the window of the moving tram, silent. For an instant I thought I was getting through to him, but slowly his disposition changed.
You're the one who should be asking himself the hard questions. I've heard plenty from the FBI. Now, stop following me around on trains. Or I'll tell Agent Huitt to add stalking to your list of indictable crimes.
His mind had been poisoned, clearly. It would have been futile to argue my innocence, but I was too angry not to say what I really thought of him.
Gilbert Jones killed himself, you know that?
Who?
The overweight cop, the last case we worked on together. After you made him gamble away his settlement money playing Let's Make a Deal,' he couldn't look at his children. He went home that night and turned off his oxygen.
How do you know that?
I guess you either know these things or you don't. Like the first hearing you ever sent me to, when I refused to go into court and argue that one of your other insurance companies didn't have to pay fifty bucks a week for respiratory therapy' because it technically wasn't physical therapy.' Would that have been a victory in your book, keeping a twelve-year-old kid with cystic fibrosis from loosening the phlegm in her lungs so she could breathe?
You're making this personal. And you're going to regret it.
It already is personal. And my only regret is that it took my father's kidnapping to open my eyes.
The chime sounded and the tram doors opened. Even though we were five stops away from the courthouse, Duncan started for the platform. On his way out he glared at me and said, This was low. Even for you.
He stepped off, the doors closed, and the tram pulled away from the station.
It had actually felt good to air my true feelings, not just about the kidnapping but about the kind of lawyer Duncan had tried to mold me into. But watching him through the window as he hurried down the steps to street level, my heart sank with the fear that another precious door had just closed on my father. For good.
Chapter 56
Matthew had no idea where he was. Without the benefit of pack mules they'd marched deep into the valley. At the first sighting of a real road, the prisoners were blindfolded, first Emilio and then Matthew.
They walked about another hundred meters, the barrel of the rifle poking him in the back, urging him forward. They stopped on command. He heard a car door open, and he was shoved into the back of a van. He heard Emilio bang his head and curse, which strangely comforted Matthew. At least he knew he wasn't going alone. The door slammed, the engine started. The van pulled away, a very bumpy ride at first, then a little smoother. It felt like the same road that they'd taken from Cartagena when this whole nightmare had started, but with the blindfold he had no way of knowing.
Emilio? he whispered.
ASilencio! said the driver.
He recognized the voice as JoaquAn's. Matthew retreated into darkness, strangely deprived of more than just his sight by the thick blindfold. Bouncing in the rear of the van had put his entire equilibrium off.
He lay on his side on the metal floor, the tires of the van whining just below his ear. Seated in front were at least two guerrillas. Matthew sensed the presence of others, but he'd heard only two voices. The driver was definitely JoaquAn, and he was pretty sure the other guy was Cerdo. He was complaining that his new street clothes were too tight, but Matthew's mind had already raced beyond the petty gripes. If they were wearing new clothes, they were leaving their guerrilla fatigues behind. Matthew knew what that meant.
They were headed for the city.
He tried not to start the emotional roller coaster, but his spirits soared anyway. A trip to the city could certainly be a sign that his release was in the works. The blackness behind the blindfold was suddenly a happy place. He saw Cathy's smiling face, his hand on her pregnant belly. He saw Thanksgiving dinner in Coral Gables with Nick and Lindsey at the table. He saw hot showers and razor blades and juicy sirloin steaks.
He didn't care if silence was the rule. He needed to ask a question.
A?AdA3nde vamos? Where are we going?
ASilencio! shouted JoaquAn.
It was risky to act up, but Matthew was tired of the abuse, tired of knowing nothing. A?AdA3nde vamA3s? he asked once more.
The other guy, Cerdo, said something that made JoaquAn laugh. Matthew didn't understand what he'd said.
A?DA3nde? he said.
Neither one answered. JoaquAn was still chuckling softly to himself. Finally Matthew heard a whisper from Emilio in English.
He says we're headed for the hostage hotel.
Matthew retreated into dark silence. Somehow it hadn't struck him as all that funny.
Chapter 57
Dinner was at Mom's house. I worried about her a lot lately, and tonight's dinner only heightened my concerns. Since the kidnapping we'd made it a practice to eat only in the kitchen, never in the dining room where she and Dad had normally shared dinner. Tonight, however, without explanation, she methodically set three places at the dining table. One for her. One for me. And one for Dad.
I sat across the table from Mom eating my beef Stroganoff in silence, trapped by fear. It might have helped to talk things out, but I didn't want to risk showing Mom how worried I was. Alex and I were supposed to deliver the ransom in a matter of days, and I still had no idea where the money would come from.
Dinner was delicious, I said as I planted a kiss on her forehead.
My obstetrician says I'm not gaining enough weight. I make the most fattening food in my cookbook, and I'm still the skinniest pregnant woman in his office.
That's because you've hardly touched your food. Please, try to eat something.
Her eyes drifted toward the living room in an empty gaze.
I took my plate to the kitchen, then came back to the table and reached for the clean plate at Dad's chair.
No, she said sharply. That stays until your father walks through that door.
I backed off. Whatever helped her to get from one day to the next was healthy in the big picture, I supposed.
Have you talked to Grandma this week? I asked.
I saw her on Monday. She's slipping more and more each day. I doubt she'll know her son when he returns.
I know about that, I said, thinking of the way she'd booted me out twice. It's good that you visit her. Maybe it will keep some spark alive somewhere inside her.
I hate the way she talks about your father. He was such a good son to her, and she somehow has it in her head that he's good for nothing.
Alzheimer's can make people say horrible things. Things they don't mean.
I know. I went through a little bit of the same thing with your father when he used to drink. Every now and then I used to wonder if the disease was making him say things he didn't mean. Or if it was unleashing his true feelings. Is that silly?
Totally, I said as I squeezed her hand in mine.
I shouldn't even be thinking of that. Every day since your father has been gone, I've tried to remember the good times. But tragedy has a way of bringing back the bad times as well. Is it that way for you, too?