Try whatever approach you like, said Teesha, her tone less than amicable. If this case doesn't settle today, we're going to trial.
Duncan smiled thinly and said, Let's make a deal.
I'm listening.
That is my proposal: Let's make a deal. As in the old television game show from the seventies. You know, Monty Hall, Carol Merrill.
Are you on drugs? she said.
I was no longer thinking about Jenna. This was actually getting interesting. For twenty minutes these two lawyers had been trading self-righteous speeches to impress their clients. I'd said nothing, which was exactly my job. Watch and learn. That was the Cool Cash method of training its young lawyers, and Duncan Fitz was regarded as one of its best teachers. Duncan was a seasoned litigator whose two favorite forms of recreation were boxing with men half his age at the gym twice a week and, whenever possible, depriving an unprepared plaintiff's lawyer of a nice, fat contingency fee.
Duncan said, Clearly we're at an impasse. Med-Fam has very generously offered to settle for fifty thousand dollars. You want ten times that amount.
Twenty, if we go to trial.
Which will be a year from now. Then Med-Fam takes an appeal, which tacks on another year. By the time my client forks over a dime, Mr. Jones will be long since dead. The only winner will be his lawyer.
How dare you, she said. We're outta here. My client doesn't need to hear this.
Yes, I do, said Gilbert. He spoke with a hint of a Caribbean accent, as he was Bahamian by birth. Tiny beads of sweat had gathered atop his shaven head, the dark, smooth skin glistening beneath the fluorescent lights. His gaze moved slowly from one person to the next, soulful eyes that bespoke resignation. Mr. Fitz, you're right, mon. I don't have time to wait for trial. And I'm tired of standin' on the sidelines while you lawyers yakkity-yak-yak my precious time away.
Teesha sank back into her chair. All right, then. What's the offer?
I've been a litigator for thirty years, and I swear, every time I step in front of the jury it's an adventure, said Duncan.
Nature of the beast. It's a roll of the dice.
Precisely. So why not roll them now? Duncan removed three documents from his briefcase and laid them on the table, one after the other, like playing cards dealt face up. Med-Fam has executed three standard settlement agreements. The legalese in each is identical. Mr. Jones agrees to dismiss his lawsuit and forever release Med-Fam from any liability. In exchange, Med-Fam agrees to pay him a sum of money.
How much?
Excellent question. As you can see, the amount payable is hidden by white adhesive tape.
You want Gilbert to guess?
That's where the game gets interesting. In one document the hidden amount payable is zero. In another it's the amount of Med-Fam's previous offer: fifty thousand dollars. But in the third we pay Gilbert Jones the full amount of his latest demand: five hundred thousand dollars.
This is preposterous. Let's go, Gilbert.
Can't go, he said. My only chance is this.
Reluctantly, she closed her briefcase. You don't settle a case this way.
Why not? asked Duncan.
Because you just don't. For one thing, my client loses two out of three.
He wins two out of three, said Duncan. He loses only if he pulls up the zero. Or if he listens to his lawyer and goes to trial.
There should at least be a fourth choice. The amount Gilbert would win if this case went to a jury.
It's my game, Counselor. Take it or leave it.
This be legal? asked Gilbert.
Absolutely, said Duncan. Med-Fam has already signed all three. Whichever one you sign, that's the deal.
Don't do it, said Teesha.
Quiet. I'm trying to think.
Take your time, said Duncan.
Gilbert stared at the choices before him, as if trying to see through the tape that hid the numbers. He licked his lips once, then again. His eyes darted from one document to the next. The thick creases in his brow grew deeper with concentration.
I could tell that Duncan was enjoying himself. He was even starting to sound like a game show host. What's it going to be, sir? Door number one? Door number two? Or door number three?
Teesha said, As your lawyer, I strongly advise you to get up and walk right out of this room. They wouldn't ask you to play this game if they didn't know you were going to win at trial and win big.
But the man's right. I'll be dead by then. This be my only chance to see my money.
The room was silent. Duncan slid a cartridge pen across the table. Gilbert glanced at it, then locked eyes with Duncan. Finally he looked at me - why, I don't know. Perhaps he misconstrued my silence as impartiality. The expression chilled me, made me feel his desperation. This lawsuit was all this dying man had left in his life.
His right hand shook as he grasped the pen. He stared at the first document and then at the second. The pen started toward the third, then stopped. He went back to the first one, signed on the blank line, and dropped the pen, mentally exhausted.
Lordy, lordy, Teesha said, groaning.
Without emotion Duncan said, Number one it is. Let's see what you could have won, had you chosen document number two. Nick, he told me, pull the tape.
I obliged.
Fifty thousand, said Duncan. Whoa, Nelly. That means Mr. Jones has either struck out completely or hit the jackpot. Let's have a look, shall we?
He nodded at me once more, again delegating the honors. I was beginning to feel like an unwilling accomplice, but I did as I was told and removed the tape.
Gilbert froze. His lawyer was speechless. He'd chosen the zero.
Ooooooh, I'm so sorry, said Duncan. If only you had trusted your first instinct and gone with number three. He removed the tape himself this time, as if throwing salt in the wound. It was really there: five hundred thousand dollars.
This is bullshit! Teesha shouted.
Only because you lost.
What are you hiding, Fitz? If you put a half million on the table, the case must be worth ten times that much.
Right now it's worth zero.
It's gambling. The agreement's illegal and unenforceable.
Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But I'd truly hate to put your client through the ordeal of getting a court order to enforce a settlement agreement. So tell him there's five grand on the table, and we all walk away happy. The offer's good for twenty-four hours. After that, I move to enforce the deal.
You're bluffing.
Try me. Duncan tucked the signed document into his coat pocket. Nick will show you the way out. With that, he gathered his papers and walked out the door with a delighted client.
It was an awkward moment, me left behind like the six-foot fly on the wall in the aftermath of one of Duncan's client-pleasing stunts. I stepped away from the table and waited near the door, praying that Gilbert was not a violent man. But he didn't appear to be angry. He was stunned and silent, rocked by the loss of a half-million-dollar settlement.
Hope you're proud of yourself, said Teesha.
I did a double take, realizing that she was talking to me.
Tricking a dying man, playing on his desperation. You bastards are unbelievable.
I couldn't disagree, but I couldn't disown my own supervising partner, either. I just wanted to let Mr. Jones know that this hadn't been my idea. Is he going to be okay?
What do you think? she said sharply.
My question was stupid, admittedly.
Just leave, said Teesha. We know our way out.
I left quietly, catching one last glimpse of Gilbert's stunned and pathetic expression. Had I not known what his case was really worth, Duncan's showboat tactics might not have disgusted me so. But I'd sat through the confidential strategy conferences. I'd heard the client privately admit responsibility for Mr. Jones's injuries. Med-Fam would have been getting off cheap even if it had coughed up the half million dollars hidden behind door number three. I'm not so pious as to refuse to represent anyone who shows up in my office wearing a black hat. But I had to draw the line at toying with a victim, destroying what little was left of his life, and then going back to Duncan's office to celebrate.
Victories like this one made me wish I'd listened to my father and literally gone fishing the rest of my life. Dad would have liked that, but only if it had been my choice, only if I'd truly shared my old man's love of the sea, the salty air, the squish-squish of fish guts beneath rubber boots.
I couldn't deal with Duncan right then. I started back toward my office, then heard my name called as I crossed the main lobby.
Nick Rey, caller holding.
It was a page from the operator, which concerned me. The firm's policy was to refer unanswered calls to the voice mail system. Pages were only for true emergencies. I took the call at the phone bay off the main lobby. It was my mother, which only heightened my worries. Never did she bother me at work. She sounded awful.
What's wrong? I asked.
It's - Her voice broke.
I could tell she'd been crying. Mom, what is it?
It's about your father.
My heart leaped to my throat. Is he okay?
We don't know. He's missing.
What do you mean, missing?
He may have been kidnapped.
When?
Last night.
Where?
On one of his boats, in Cartagena.
Colombia? What was he doing there?
No one seems to know anything for sure. It's all so confusing to me, the things I'm hearing.
Who told you this?
I went numb when he called. I'm sorry. Maybe you should call him back and speak to him directly.
Who, Mom? Who did you talk to?
Oh, dear. I'm blanking out. Your father's business partner in Nicaragua.
She was getting more scattered by the minute. Guillermo, I said.
Yes, Guillermo. He was trying to be strong, but he sounded so worried.
Guillermo had survived Nicaragua's earthquakes, revolutions, and hurricanes. If he was worried, I was worried. But I didn't dare let Mom pick up on my concern. Don't be scared. Everything's going to be okay, I'm sure.
Just come home, please. The FBI will be here any minute.
Did you call them?
No. Guillermo did.
That's good. Things are moving already.
I need you here now. I can't do this by myself.
I'm on my way.
As I hung up, I noticed my hand shaking. A deep breath calmed my nerves. None of that in front of Mom, I told myself. Then I ran back to my office to grab my car keys.
Chapter 3
Shortcuts shaved about twenty minutes off my trip. I knew all the winding back streets, having logged thousands of miles as a kid on a bicycle in the area known as the golden triangle in Coral Gables. My parents still lived in the same colonial-style house on Toledo Street that the family had moved to when I was eight and my sister was five. It was all so familiar, with one exception: the unmarked vehicle parked in the driveway. It was a reality jolt, my first visual confirmation that Dad was really in trouble and that the FBI was truly involved.
I parked my Jeep on the street and hurried up the sidewalk. Through the front window I saw my mother seated on the edge of the living room couch. A man was seated in the armchair, his back to the window. I entered quickly without a knock, then halted in the foyer. My mother rose, and we locked eyes. She said nothing, but the expression said it all. I went to her and held her. She was heavy in my arms, sobbing. Finally she broke away to dab her eyes with a tissue.
I'm sorry, she said with a sniffle. I'm being so rude. Nick, this is Agent Lester Nettles from the FBI.
Nettles rose but didn't smile, almost too somber even for an occasion as serious as this one. He was well groomed, handsome, very professional-looking. He struck me as the African-American version of the quintessential G-man portrayed on those old television shows back when the FBI seemed to be comprised entirely of white ex-Marines. We shook hands, dispensing with the formalities as I got right to the point.
Is my father okay?
We believe he's alive.
What happened?
He finished off the last swallow of coffee my mother had brought him, then continued. It appears that three fishing boats belonging to your father's company were overtaken by force while in port in Colombia. Three crew members were shot and killed. Three others jumped in the harbor and swam for their lives. One is still missing. Two have been recovered, the only witnesses so far.
Do any of them know what happened to my father?
No one's a hundred percent sure. They all say that the gunmen seemed to want to take your father alive. But there was a lot of gunfire exchanged.
That doesn't mean he was hit. He could have escaped, right?
Nettles was slow to respond. Too slow. My mother shuddered, realizing that there were only two realistic possibilities, neither of them pretty.