James Grippando - A King's ransom

“I know. You could use a little help. By the way, how’s your search for cocounsel coming?”

Alex and I had talked about the court hearing last night. She knew that the judge had ordered me to find another lawyer. “Fine, I think.”

“I have the name of a pretty good plaintiff’s lawyer for you. Lots of experience suing insurance companies, if you’re still looking.”

“Actually, I may have found someone.”

“Who?”

“I’m thinking about Jenna.”

Silence. I moved closer to the speakerphone. “Hello?”

“Yes, I heard you. Do you think that’s really such a good idea?”

“I don’t have many choices. Yes, she’s my ex-fiancee, but Jenna is still someone I can trust. She’s an excellent lawyer. She had tons of trial experience as a prosecutor, and she’s done strictly civil litigation ever since she moved to Miami.”

“I’m sure she’s competent. I was talking more about your personal history. It can get very complicated, working with someone you used to be in love with.”

“Then I suppose I have nothing to worry about. You said it yourself at that restaurant in Bogota: I was never in love with her.”

“That was before I saw the way you looked at her at Duffy’s.”

I chuckled nervously. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

She had a way of stepping on my tail, no wiggling away. “Alex, I’m just trying to do the right thing here.”

“I think you’re testing my theory.”

“That is so not true.”

“Then, if you think Jenna’s the answer, by all means, go with her.”

“I’m hoping to make a decision tonight.”

“The sooner the better. Just remember one thing, will you?”

“What?”

“Do what’s best for your father.”

Her delivery was mellifluous, but it still felt as if I’d been hit between the eyes. “Of course,” I said. “That’s all this has ever been about.”

“Let me know what you decide.”

“I will,” I said, but there was a click on the line before my response was out. She’d hung up without saying good-bye.

I met Jenna for dinner in Coral Gables at seven o’clock, as planned. She’d chosen an unpretentious Vietnamese restaurant near her office, called Miss Saigon Bistro. It was the kind of place where Mom cooked her own recipes while her grown kids waited tables, dressed in traditional Vietnamese silk wraps. The tasty smells of beef with lemongrass and steamed soybeans greeted us at the door, as did a singing waiter named Richard, who told us that it would be about an hour before he could seat us.

We ordered a couple of Bahamian beers and waited outside. Jenna had walked straight from her office on Alhambra Circle and was still wearing her lawyer uniform. I was sporting what might have been called the casual-chic, I’m-out-of-work-but-my-kidnapped-father-has-ten-million-bucks-stashed-somewhere-in-Nicaragua look. We made small talk for a few minutes, but Jenna seemed to sense that I was eager for her answer.

“I’ve decided to do it.”

“Do you mean it?”

“I wouldn’t kid about something like this.”

“That’s fantastic,” I said, raising my beer in a toast. “Have you cleared it with your firm?”

“To a point.”

“What does that mean?”

“We have a small office. It’s just eight of us. If I spend a substantial amount of time on your case, they naturally would like to know if there’s any hope of getting paid.”

“There’s no hope for a big hit, if that’s what they’re wondering. The policy limit is three million. Most plaintiff’s attorneys would want a cut of the cash recovery, but in this case the entire amount has to go to the payment of the ransom. That’s the main problem I had in talking to other lawyers.”

“You talked to other lawyers?”

My foot was squarely in my mouth. “Yes. But only because I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

“That’s okay. I didn’t think I’d say yes either.”

We exchanged a little smile, and then she turned serious. “My partners will be happy with whatever fee the court awards over and above the damages recovered. That’s if we win, of course. They’re more concerned about what happens if we lose.”

“I’ll pay your hourly rate, but you’ll have to give me terms. Say, six months to pay it off?”

“Nick, I’m not going to charge you.”

“That’s crazy.”

“That’s my decision.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“It’s not your decision. Like I said on the phone, I’m doing this for your dad. I owe him that much.”

“You owe him?”

She lowered her eyes, the way she always did when touched by emotion. “When my father died last year, I was devastated.”

“I remember.”

“It was the worst thing I’d ever gone through. There were days when I wondered if I was ever going to be myself again. Now, of course, I realize I was just fortunate to have been that close to him.”

“That’s true.”

“But I was also lucky to have someone like your father to talk to.”

“My dad?”

“He was wonderful. That was such a dark time, and he filled a void for me. Just to have someone to turn to for fatherly advice was important to me. That’s something I’m truly indebted to him for.”

“I never knew that.”

“That’s the kind of person your father is. He works quietly.”

I smiled wanly. “Thank you for telling me. I feel better.”

“About what?”

“Honestly, it hurt me at first, the way you stressed that you weren’t doing this for me but only for my dad. Now that you’ve explained, it’s nice to hear that someone loves him.”

“Everyone loves your dad.”

“That’s what I always thought. But there have been some strange goings-on since the kidnapping. Even his own mother has been saying horrible things about him.”

“Doesn’t she have Alzheimer’s?”

“Yeah. But it still bothers me, the way she treats me. She thinks I’m my father. The last two times I visited her, she threw me out of the house. Screamed at me, called me a lousy son. She even made stuff up about a sister that my father never even had, as if to suggest that my dad had somehow mistreated her.”

“I don’t know about the mistreating part. But your father did have a sister.”

I did a double take. “He did?”

“Yeah. He mentioned her in a conversation we had right before my father’s funeral. My mother wanted an open casket, and I didn’t want to see him that way. Your dad said he felt the same way when his sister died. Didn’t want to see her dead. Of course, he was only six or something like that at the time.”

“How did she die?”

“He didn’t say. He didn’t really want to talk about it, and I suppose I was too wrapped up in my own grief to probe.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me this?”

“I guess I figured you knew.”

“I didn’t know,” I said, with too much edge.

“I’m sorry. But that isn’t my fault.”

I took a step back, mindful that I’d been coming on too strong. “You’re right. It’s not your fault.”

“Forget it. I know you’re under a lot of pressure.”

“Pressure isn’t the half of it. It seems like I learn something new about my dad every day.”

“You need to stay focused. Is any of it really all that important?”

I glanced toward the bar across the street, the lights playing tricks with swirls of cigar and cigarette smoke inside. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s important anymore.”

“What does that mean?”

I looked her in the eye and said, “Do you think you could hold down the legal fort a few days if I went away?”

“Sure. What do you have in mind?”