James Grippando - A King's ransom

“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.

“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.”

“I didn’t come here to hand you a bill. If anything, I came because I felt like I was the one who owes you.”

“Owes me what?”

She lowered her eyes and said, “An apology. For the way I acted at Duffy’s the other night.”