James Grippando - Found money

Kozelka folded his hands atop the desk. “Unless she panics. Unless there’s a warrant out for her arrest on six other unrelated scams we don’t know about. Unless the FBI offers to wipe her slate clean if she’ll tell them who hired her and what’s going on in this case.”

“That’s possible. But it’s premature.”

“I have just one thing to say to you, Rusch.” He leaned forward, staring him in the eye. “Don’t let it happen.”

The courthouse on Saturday was like church on Monday. Row after row of empty seats. Utter quiet in the halls. Lights and air conditioning were on in limited areas only. It had a way of making the proceedings seem both more and less important. It brought everyone in on their day off, but it was the last place anyone wanted to be.

With the exception of Phil Jackson. He seemed energized, if not happy.

Ryan tried not to look his way. He sat quietly beside his lawyer at the old mahogany table farthest from the jury box. Liz sat at the other table next to Jackson. While waiting for the judge, Ryan had glanced her way several times. He couldn’t help it. She had yet to make eye contact.

“All rise,” said the bailiff.

Judge Novak entered from a side door and stepped up to the bench. Norm had said he was old, but he looked even older than Ryan had expected. Huge age spots dotted his balding crown, like the markings on a globe. Hearing aids protruded from both ears. As he passed, Ryan noticed that he’d forgotten to zip up the back of his robe. Ryan looked away. It was hard to take a judge seriously knowing that his bony butt was clad in plaid Bermuda shorts. So much for the judicial mystique.

“Good morning,” said the judge. “We’re here on the petitioner’s emergency motion for a temporary restraining order. As I’m sure the lawyers have explained to their clients, there is no jury in this proceeding. I am the trier of both law and fact. A word of caution to the lawyers. Spare me the usual histrionics you might use in a jury case. I’m eighty-one years old. I’ve seen it all.

“Mr. Jackson, please call your first witness.”

Jackson rose slowly, as if a little stiff in the joints. His face was slightly puffy. Other than the bandage over his eye, however, he showed few outward signs of the beating. Only on close examination was the faint purple discoloration on his cheekbone evident. It was hidden beneath the makeup. How vain did a guy have to be to wear makeup to an empty courthouse on a Saturday morning?

“Your Honor, our first witness is the petitioner, Elizabeth Duffy.”

Ryan did a double take. No wonder she hadn’t looked at him.

The judge scooted forward in his chair. “Another word of caution,” he said in a lecturing tone. “You may call your client to the stand, Mr. Jackson. But bear in mind that I have allocated only forty-five minutes for this hearing. I don’t intend to sit here and listen to everything that was wrong with the Duffys’ marriage. That is for another day. Keep the testimony limited to the issue in this hearing — that is, was Dr. Duffy involved in the attack on the petitioner’s lawyer, and should a restraining order be imposed against Dr. Duffy to prevent any further attacks.”

“Your Honor, I have one limited area of testimony I would like to cover with Mrs. Duffy. I promise it will take only a minute.”

“Proceed.”

Ryan watched carefully as Liz took the oath. She was dressed sharply in a Chanel suit. Either she’d sold her car or somebody had been fronting her some wardrobe money. She seemed nervous as she slid into the witness box. She still wouldn’t look at him.

“Ms. Duffy, please state your name.”

“Elizabeth Frances Duffy.”

“And you are married to the respondent, Dr. Ryan Duffy, correct?”

The judge interjected. “Let’s move it along. We can all stipulate they’re married, she wants a divorce, blah, blah, blah. Get to the heart of the matter.”

“Ms. Duffy, did you know Frank Duffy?”

“Yes, very well. Frank was Ryan’s father. He died of cancer just two weeks ago.”

“Did you have any conversations with him before he died? Specifically, any conversations about money?”

Norm sprang to his feet. “Objection. What does that have to do with the issues just framed by the court?”

“Your Honor, I would ask for a little latitude. If I fail to tie it all together with my next witness, you can deny my motion, hold me in contempt of court, and throw me in jail.”

“ This I can’t wait to see,” said the judge. “Proceed.”

“Ms. Duffy,” said Jackson. “Did you have any conversations with Frank Duffy about money?”

“Yes. We spoke on the telephone about two weeks before he died.”

“Give us the gist of that conversation, please.”

“Objection, hearsay.”

The judge grimaced. “Isn’t it enough that Mr. Jackson said I could throw him in jail if he didn’t tie this together? Overruled.”

Liz lowered her eyes, speaking softly. “Frank knew that over the years, Ryan and I had many disagreements over money. He always wanted me and Ryan to stay together. So, in this last conversation, he told me to hang in there. He said money would come soon.”

“Did he tell you how much money?”

“No.”

“Did he do anything to identify any specific funds?”

Liz looked up, glancing briefly at Ryan. Then she looked at her lawyer. “Yes.”

Ryan felt a chill — more like a stabbing sensation. He recalled his conversation with Liz out on the front porch the night of the funeral. She hadn’t mentioned this.

Jackson continued, “How did he identify the funds?”

“He gave me a combination.”

“You mean for a lock?”

“Yes. He didn’t say what it was for exactly. It was a very short conversation. He just, you know, intimated it had something to do with the money. He told me to check with Ryan. He would know.”

“What was the combination?”

“Thirty-six-eighteen-eleven.”

“Thank you, Ms. Duffy. That’s all for now.”

Liz rose slowly. Ryan watched, stunned. The numbers were right on. It was the exact combination to the briefcase in the attic. Dad had given her the combination. Not him. Her.

The judge looked across the courtroom. “Mr. Klusmire? Any cross-examination?”

Ryan caught his lawyer’s eye. They could read each other’s minds. This was dangerous territory. The FBI did not yet know about the two million dollars in cash in the attic. Any further examination could bust that secret wide open.

“No, Your Honor,” announced Norm. “No cross.”

“Mr. Jackson. Your next witness, please. And remember,” he said, smiling thinly. “If you don’t tie this together, there’s a nice cold cell waiting for you.”

“I’m confident I’ll be sleeping in my own bed tonight, your honor. The petitioner calls Brent Langford.”

Norm rose, speaking in his most apologetic tone. “Your Honor, I took your admonition on the telephone yesterday very seriously. We tried to bring Mr. Langford here. We called him repeatedly, never getting a response. Despite our most diligent efforts-”

He stopped in midsentence. All heads turned as the doors swung open in the rear of the courtroom. Brent was coming down the aisle. Norm and Ryan exchanged glances. The looks on their faces made it clear: This could not be good.

Brent’s footsteps echoed in the near-empty courtroom. He stepped through the swinging gate that separated the lawyers from the gallery, keeping his eyes straight ahead, looking at no one. His face was strained with concentration, even before he’d uttered a word. He looked like a school kid before an exam, trying to remember all the right answers.

As the bailiff administered the oath, Ryan could barely stomach the sight. There was Brent, promising to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Ryan had been there the last time Brent had staked his sacred honor before God and witnesses — a deadbeat pledging to love, honor, and cherish a woman he had beaten before and would beat again. Vows meant nothing to Brent. Nor did oaths.