James Grippando - A King's ransom

His words hung in the air, more an accusation than a question. I looked at him coldly and said, “Enough to know that you’re totally full of shit.”

I picked up my bag and walked out the door.

From the airport I drove straight downtown to the Miami-Dade County Courthouse. Though I’d refused to let him see it, Huitt had gotten to me. He made me realize that no matter how badly I needed the ransom, Guillermo really wasn’t an option. I had to do everything possible to get the money out of Quality Insurance Company.

I reached the courthouse just a few minutes before the lunch hour, and I planted myself at the top of the tiered granite steps at the south entrance to the building. In the shadows of massive stone columns, I waited. Though she clearly hadn’t remembered me, I’d second-chaired a weeklong trial in front of Judge Korvan about eight months earlier, which meant that I did little more than carry the trial bags back and forth from the courthouse to the offices of Cool Cash. If nothing else, the experience had taught me that Judge Korvan was a creature of habit when it came to the lunch hour. I knew she’d be passing by any minute on her way to the Boston Sub Shop.

“Judge Korvan,” I called out.

She kept walking, donning her huge dark sunglasses. I followed her down the first tier of steps, calling her name once more. She slowed her pace but didn’t stop.

“I’m Nick Rey,” I said, walking alongside her.

“I know who you are.”

We passed the hot dog cart on the street, then continued to the crosswalk. For an older woman, she walked at quite a clip.

“I have to talk to you, Judge.”

“Is this what I think it’s about?”

“My father’s case against Quality Insurance.”

“Then stop right there. You have a new judge.”

“Are you aware that the case has been put on hold?”

“I have nothing to say about that.”

The light changed, and we continued across busy Flagler Street.

“Do you think that’s a fair result?”

“I’ve recused myself. It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“It matters to me.”

“It’s completely inappropriate for you to confront me this way.”

“You’re right, but I’m running out of options.”

“Maybe I should report you to the Florida Bar, and we can see what they think.”

“Maybe I should invite you to my father’s funeral so that it’s clear I don’t care what they think.”

She stopped cold on the sidewalk. “Did something happen?”

“It’s about to. I have a week to raise three million dollars or they’re going to kill him.”

From the look on her face I could see that I’d pegged her correctly. She had a well-known reputation for fairness, and I’d sensed that she was a woman of compassion.

“I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”

“Why did you remove yourself from the case?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Judge, a man’s life is at stake here.”

Cars were passing in the street, a steady flow of pedestrians racing by us on the sidewalk. She seemed edgy. “This discussion should not be taking place.”

“I know what the rules of ethics say.”

“I’m not talking about the rules of ethics,” she said in a hushed but urgent voice. “I’m telling you this for your own good and mine. This conversation should not be taking place.”

Her tone chilled me. I thought I knew what she was telling me, but I wasn’t sure. “Are you saying that you stepped down because-”

“Every judge has skeletons in her closet. They found mine.”

I stood mute. She clearly had more of a conscience than I’d thought, and the shocking candor was perhaps her way of apologizing for having bailed out of my father’s case.

She touched my hand and said, “Watch yourself, young man. Quality Insurance Company does not intend to lose this case.”

With that she left me. She was well out of earshot by the time I uttered my reply.

“Neither do I,” I said beneath my breath. I cut across Flagler Street to my Jeep.

Matthew got a new pair of boots. “Replacement” boots was a more apt description. They were better than the old ones, but definitely not new. He recognized them as the Swede’s.

“What happened to Jan?” he asked the guerrilla.

It was the fat guy with the tattoo on his face, Cerdo. “He’s gone.”

“Home?”

He smirked, then said with a chuckle, “Yeah, home. Now, let’s go.”

“Where to?”

“You’ll see.”

Matthew rose slowly. He didn’t like the vibes, but he tried to be rational. They wouldn’t have brought him a better pair of boots just to take him out and shoot him.

“Bring everything with you.”

“Everything?”

“Are you deaf? Yes, everything.”

Matthew pulled on the boots and buttoned his coat. It was a cold morning, so he was already wearing every stitch of clothing he owned. Two shirts, a pair of pants, a wool sweater, and a knit cap that one of the guerrillas had pitched aside because it was too full of holes. He also had two pairs of socks, one for his feet and one that served as mittens on really cold nights.

He looked around his sleep area beneath the canvas tarp, making a mental inventory of “everything.” Beyond the clothes on his back, there wasn’t much. He unfastened the tarp from the trees and shook out the water. He rolled his blanket inside and strapped the bundle to his back. He felt like a Great Depression-era hobo about to hop a train.

“Got it all?” asked the guerrilla.

“That’s everything.”

“Make sure. We’re not coming back.”

“What a pity,” said Matthew.

Matthew’s spot was down the hill from the guerrillas’ main hut. He followed Cerdo up the path, then stopped short, startled by what sounded like machine-gun fire in the distance. It was faint, but he recognized the sounds from his tour in Vietnam.

“What’s the shooting?”

“ Chulos ,” he replied. That was the guerrillas’ word for the Colombian army.

Was the army moving in for a rescue?

That had been Matthew’s first thought, but his hope faded quickly. Rescue didn’t seem possible. This place was too remote. It had to be just another skirmish in the decades-old war between the army and the leftist guerrillas. Or the guerrillas and the right-wing paramilitaries. Or the guerrillas and some group of Ecuadorian or Peruvian bandits. Or a turf war between FARC and the ELN. Or right-wing extremists dragging unarmed campesinos into the street and murdering them in front of their families just because they were suspected of being sympathetic to the guerrillas.

Out here, there were just so many ways to get killed in the crossfire.

They reached the hut at the top of the hill. Matthew followed the guerrilla to the front, then stopped short at the sight.

The camp had been completely transformed. Joaquin and his men were standing to one side, guns in hand and their packs strapped to their backs. Several dozen other guerrillas-men and women whom Matthew didn’t recognize-had taken positions around the hut, including a long trench that they’d dug and fortified with fallen trees. Near the hut, guerrillas were rolling black ink onto their weapons and striping their faces with black greasepaint. Someone was anticipating some night fighting. From the dragon insignia on the fatigues, Matthew recognized them as FARC.

“Sit here,” said Cerdo .

Matthew quickly searched for the driest patch of earth and seated himself in front of the hut, to the right of the door.

“Matthew,” someone whispered.

He peered around the corner of the hut and spotted Emilio, the Colombian prisoner, seated along the side of the hut just a few feet away.