James Grippando - Blood Money

Corso put on her TV face, her most sanctimonious expression. “We would never stage anything for the sake of television entertainment.”

“Ted Gaines might have something to say about that.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” said Corso.

“Nothing. I digress.”

The general counsel shook his head. “Mr. Swyteck, are you suggesting that BNN somehow planned for Celeste to be attacked and end up in a coma?”

“No. The attack that put Celeste in a coma wasn’t your plan-but it was your fault, and it was your problem. So two days later, you shifted all responsibility from yourself by blaming someone else: me. Before anyone said one word about Celeste getting paid, BNN had the exclusive report that the defense team had hired a college student to be a decoy on the night of the release. You manufactured yet another reason for the American public to hate Sydney Bennett and her lawyer. And you had the whole world blaming someone other than BNN for what happened to Celeste.”

“That’s quite a theory,” said Corso. “But not much evidence.”

Jack glanced down his side of the table. “Hannah, show them.”

Hannah powered on her iPad and handed it to Jack, who then laid it flat on the table between himself and Corso. The image was right side up for the BNN team’s viewing.

“What’s this?” asked Corso.

“Celeste Laramore and three other contestants in a Sydney Bennett look-alike contest.”

“That contest was canceled, I was told,” said Corso.

“The one on the night of Sydney’s release was canceled. But for that whole week before Sydney’s release these contests were quite the rage. This one was at a bar called Pendleton’s in the Design District, five days before Sydney’s release. Celeste won.”

“Good for her,” said Corso.

“Good for BNN,” Jack said. With a touch of the screen, he brought up the next image. “This one is from the same night. It was taken by the security camera at Pendleton’s.”

“Some guy leaving a club,” said Corso. “So what?”

Jack touched the screen again, this time working it with his fingers the way Hannah had taught him. The zoom got tighter and tighter, until finally the only image on the screen was a man’s face.

The general counsel leaned into the table for a closer look. There was enough surprise in his expression to make Jack wonder if he was part of the bigger plan. “That’s Mr. Keating’s bodyguard,” he said.

“Roland Sharp,” said Jack. “I believe he’s affectionately known as the Shadow.”

Corso quickly dismissed the whole thing, which in Jack’s mind only confirmed her involvement.

“So the guy likes to go clubbing,” she said. “What does that prove?”

Jack ignored the question, staying on the offensive. “We found the money,” he said. “A thousand dollars in cash. Celeste hid it in her closet.”

Corso didn’t flinch. “That doesn’t even begin to prove that it came from BNN.”

Jack’s stare tightened. “It was inside one of those plastic dossiers you can buy at any office supply store. I’m told by an extremely knowledgeable FBI agent that plastic is an ideal surface when it comes to lifting fingerprints. That same FBI agent also told me that a certain bodyguard’s fingerprints were found on this particular dossier.”

Corso and the BNN general counsel exchanged uneasy glances, but they said nothing.

“Whoops,” said Hannah.

Jack rose, as did Sydney and Hannah.

“You think about our offer,” Jack said, standing behind his chair. “Five million. Payable to Celeste Laramore. The whole matter can be resolved with or without your interview of Sydney Bennett. Your choice. But Mr. Keating and his thousand-dollar blunder will be part of any interview that Sydney grants. That you can count on.”

Jack and his team headed for the door. Jack opened it, and Sydney stepped out first. Hannah was right behind her, and she was almost out the door when she stopped and did a quick about-face. The four-foot-eleven pit bull was apparently feeling another deja vu moment.

“I told you we were gonna kick your-”

“Hannah,” said Jack, giving her the same down-girl expression that he’d given her at the conclusion of their ill-fated settlement conference.

“Sorry, boss,” she said.

Jack watched her all the way out into the hallway, but he didn’t follow. He stood in the open doorway for a moment, his hand on the brass door handle. It wasn’t that he was searching for something to say. It was simply a message that there was nothing more to be said.

Finally, he stepped out of the conference room, closing the door quietly on Corso, her producer, and one unhappy lawyer.

One month and eleven days after Celeste Laramore slipped into a coma, Jack received a phone call from her father.

“Celeste opened her eyes!”

It was the best news Jack had heard since the check from BNN had cleared. The prognosis was still uncertain, but it was a first step toward a recovery that many doctors had predicted she would never take. It would be a long road, though Jack wondered whose might be longer-Celeste’s or Sydney’s.

Although Jack’s demand on BNN had been for five million dollars “payable to Celeste Laramore,” it would never be in Sydney’s blood to do anything for free, and the Laramore family agreed to cut a check for a hundred thousand dollars to her on the condition that it go toward the cost of the mental health treatment she needed. Jack’s last conversation with Sydney had been her call from Miami International Airport, two hours before her flight to Utah. She was entering a sixty-day program at a wellness facility for victims of sexual, physical, and emotional abuse. Sydney had sounded determined to succeed, but Jack doubted that she would ever return to Florida-unless, as part of the healing process, she felt compelled to get some kind of explanation from her mother in Florida State Prison.

Jack, too, got a share of the BNN settlement. He had his own idea of “recovery.”

“Dude, you sure you want to do this?” asked Theo.

They were in Theo’s car at the Twelfth Avenue exit from the Dolphin Expressway. Downriver, in the distance, stretched one of the most picturesque vistas of the Miami skyline, but Jack’s near focus was on a seedier stretch of riverfront along the expressway, where so much had happened the month before.

“I’m sure,” said Jack.

“It’s a lotta dough.”

Fifteen percent of anything over a million dollars was the discounted fee arrangement that Jack had given the Laramore family. It was less than half of what most lawyers would have charged, but Theo was still right: a lot of money, especially for a few weeks of work.

“I told Andie to think of this as my way of becoming debt-free,” Jack said.

“That’s cool.”

They crossed the drawbridge and continued on North River Drive toward an old neighborhood along the river. Once exclusively residential, the area had evolved into a haven for small business. Many historic houses remained, preserving some feel of the old neighborhood, but they were now home to Pilates studios, computer-repair shops, and everything in between. The Criminal Justice Center was less than a mile away-which was precisely the reason Neil Goderich had chosen this location for the Freedom Institute. Jack smiled as they turned onto Northwest Ninth Court.

Court. Jack suspected that Neal had felt a little karma when, as a young and idealistic lawyer, he’d made that same turn off North River Drive and fallen in love with the perfect place that wasn’t located on a street, avenue, boulevard, terrace, lane, or road.

“What the hell?” said Theo as they pulled up at the curb in front of the house.