“I can assure you, your father never saw a dime of that money.”
“How can you be sure?”
I saw anger in her eyes. Without a word, she got up and left the room. Two minutes later she was back at the kitchen table with a file folder.
“This is how I’m sure,” she said, sorting through the papers for me. “This is a second mortgage on our house that your father took out two years ago to pay off a shrimp boat that capsized in a storm off San Juan del Sur. No insurance. Unfortunately for us, he personally guaranteed the loan from the bank to pay for the boat. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” She moved to the next file. “Here’s an unsecured line of credit that we’ve maxed out at ninety thousand dollars. Here’s the cash advances we’ve taken on Visa, MasterCard, Discover-anyone who’d give us unsecured credit.”
“I had no idea things were so tight for you.”
“Your father’s company hasn’t turned a profit in eighteen months. At least, none that he’s seen. Now, does that look like the financial portfolio of a man who holds the keys to secret bank accounts with millions of dollars?”
“No, but. .”
“But what?”
“I’m trying to think like Duncan Fitz.”
“And you’re thinking what?”
“This does sound like a man who might defraud an insurance company.”
“Your dad didn’t defraud anyone.” She rubbed her eyes, as if a headache were coming on. She got up and went to the sink for a glass of water. From the side, the pregnancy was definitely starting to show.
“I guess the baby on the way only added to the financial stress.”
“What are you suggesting? You think your father bought a kidnap-and-ransom policy so that we could build a life for our new baby on the proceeds of insurance fraud?”
“Not at all. It’s just that these credit cards are like a black hole. I wish he’d come to me. I could have helped out.”
She looked at me as if I were crazy. “Do you think in a million years that your father would come to his own son asking for money?”
“I suppose not.”
“You suppose. Nick, he used to agonize for two days before getting up the nerve to call you on the phone and invite you over for dinner.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“And that’s the whole problem between you and your dad. Neither one of you is ever at fault.”
“You know the truth, Mom. You know how he used to be.”
“That’s in the past. You have to forgive him for that.”
“I have.”
“But have you ever told him that?” Her tone made it sound more like an accusation than a question.
“I think so.”
“Yes, and I’ll tell you why you think so. Because you’ve had the conversation in your mind so many times that it feels real to you. But it never happened. You have to make it happen.”
“I will. Or I’d like to anyway. But what do you expect me to do about it now?”
“Stop blaming your father for the way he used to drink, the way he used to be. A fifty-one-year-old man shouldn’t be made to feel like he has to start a whole new family to find a child who loves him.”
“What?” I said, incredulous.
She brought a hand to her mouth, as if wishing she hadn’t said that.
“This is crazy,” I said. “You know I love Dad. He knows it.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”
“But you meant it.”
Her eyes clouded as she laid a hand on her pregnant belly. “It’s not that your father has given up on his children. He just wanted another chance.”
“I’ll give him as many chances as he needs.”
“Maybe you will. And when he finally comes home, maybe you can look him in the eye and tell him so.”
Her take on me and Dad was so simplistic, I knew she didn’t understand. The issue wasn’t whether I could forgive him for his drinking. I could have certainly done that. The man hadn’t touched alcohol in fifteen years. That’s why she had forgiven him. For her, Dad’s drinking had been a chronic weakness, a dark chapter in their lives that they’d put behind them. For me, it all boiled down to a single moment on a single day-the one and only day he’d ever taken me lobster diving with him. The hurt that had lasted all these years stemmed not from his alcoholism but from the words that seemed to flow instinctively from his mouth in a moment of crisis on the boat that day, something no twelve-year-old boy should ever hear from his father.
I didn’t even try to sort that out with my mother. But there was one thing we’d left unresolved.
“Mom, we haven’t talked about Lindsey.”
“Yes, I think we have.” She gave me a long look, as if to say that everything that had gone wrong between my father and me applied double to his daughter.
“It’s a very serious accusation they’ve thrown at her. But so far it’s just an accusation.”
“I haven’t spoken to your sister since her birthday.”
“Has Dad?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time?”
“I don’t know. But I think they’ve actually even seen each other a few times down in Nicaragua.”
“Was it an ugly thing, or were they on good terms?”
“Let me put it this way. Your father and Lindsey have never been that close. But they were never, never that far apart.”
“Thanks, Mom. That’s a help.”
She nodded as if to say “You’re welcome,” then quietly left the room.
36
She didn’t immediately say no. That I took as a real positive, since it was the biggest favor I’d asked of Jenna in the five years I’d known her, and the asking had come two months after our busted engagement.
Admittedly her name hadn’t been at the top of my list, but Judge Korvan had ordered me to find co-counsel, and I was having trouble finding someone. The lawyers I knew best either worked for Cool Cash or were Cool Cash alums who earned a good chunk of their annual income on referrals from their old firm. No one was willing to cut off that gravy train just to take my case. I couldn’t blame them, especially since I couldn’t pay them. With no job, I had no income. If my father had a Nicaraguan company with millions of dollars in hidden assets, as the FBI suspected, his loved ones had seen no evidence of it. As it was, Mom and I would have to borrow money to pay the ransom. I needed an attorney who would take the case on a handshake and a promise to be paid somewhere down the line. And it had to be someone I could trust with a potentially dark family secret.
After eleven strikeouts and considerable agonizing, I put my ego aside and finally called Jenna. I’d talked to her twice since the kidnapping. Both times she’d told me to call if there was anything she could do to help. Both times I’d been unable to conceive of any possible circumstances under which she might actually lend a hand. Slowly, however, as one lawyer after another concocted an excuse, I talked myself into asking her to work by my side, not really sure what to expect. Certainly I hadn’t banked on the good twenty seconds of silence that preceded her reply.
A good sign, I told myself, waiting. An immediate answer would never be yes.
Finally she spoke. “We should talk about this.”
I nearly dropped the phone. “Sure. Whenever you like.”
“I can meet you tonight for dinner.”
With that, I actually did drop the phone but quickly got myself together. She selected the restaurant, one that the two of us had never been to together. A wise choice. No ghosts.
“Meet you there at seven,” she said.
“Terrific.”
She was about to hang up, but I caught her just before she did. “Jenna?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“I haven’t said yes yet.”
“But you had every right to give me a flat-out no.”
I imagined she was flashing the faint smile that I knew so well. “Maybe so,” she said.
>
“I just want you to know that I’m grateful you’d even consider doing this for me.”
She paused, then said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, all right? But if I decide to do this, it will be for your dad.”
I detected no animosity in her tone. Still, I wasn’t sure how to take it. “That’s as it should be,” I said.
“Right. As it should be. I’ll see you tonight, then?”
“Sure.” I said good-bye and hung up the phone.
I’d always thought of Jenna as wiser than me. We’d met at the University of Florida when she was a third-year law student and I was still an undergraduate headed for law school in the fall. After six months of dating, we moved in together. She took a job as a prosecutor in Gainesville, bought a house not too far from the law school campus, and for the next three years served as my best friend and live-in tutor for contracts, torts, civil procedure, and, of course, the real-life version of domestic relations. I aced all but the last of those subjects, though she didn’t present the failing grade until after we’d moved to Miami.
We didn’t agree on everything, but that had kept things interesting, and only once had it made me nervous. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was the prelude to our breakup. We were bicycling through Coconut Grove and stopped at the water’s edge in Kennedy Park. It was a sunny and warm Saturday in February, the kind of day that made you realize why you lived in South Florida. Picnic blankets dotted the green landscape, parents were out playing with their children all over the park, a clown was entertaining a flock of children at a birthday celebration. I couldn’t help noticing that most of the moms and dads in that particular group looked even younger than I was. Just the thought of making a lifelong commitment so early in life had me both in awe of them and scared for them.
“What makes them so sure?” I asked, almost to myself.
The question had come out of the blue. Jenna and I had been sitting on the grass in silence, but she knew exactly what was going through my mind. She always did.
“It’s a process,” she said. “It doesn’t start with kids, or even the thought of kids.”
“Where does it start?”
“Physical attraction.”
“What?”
“Every successful romantic relationship is built on physical attraction.”
I gave her a strange look, but she was serious. “That’s ridiculous. You think the most important thing is looks?”
“Physical attraction encompasses a lot more than looks.”
“Like what?”
“Millions of things. You might think I’m smart. On one level that might make you want to be in my study group. On another it might make you want to romp naked with me in a big bowl of Jell-O. Physical attraction can flow from anything about me that makes you want to touch me.”
“And that’s the basis of every successful romantic relationship?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Then you should move in with your sister and adopt children.”
“Come on. You’re saying that what makes all these people want to get married and take their kids to the park on the weekend is physical attraction?”
“No. I’m saying that it’s what makes them want to rip each other’s clothes off and jump in the sack. And if we don’t want to do that, there aren’t any kids to take to the park on weekends.”
I wasn’t sure I agreed, but I nodded and smiled. Back then it didn’t take much for Jenna in spandex to make me nod and smile. “So are you physically attracted to me?” I asked.
“Are you asking if I want to get married and have your kids?”
“No,” I said, smiling wider and shaking my head. “No-no-no-no-no-no.”
She rose quickly from the grass and walked toward her bicycle. My stupid grin quickly faded, and I hurried after her.
“Jenna?”
She continued down the bike path, no answer.
“Jenna, wait.”
She strapped on her helmet and got on her bicycle. I grabbed the handlebars to keep her from taking off. She looked me in the eye and said sharply, “A single no would have sufficed, jerk.”
Our eyes locked for a moment longer, as if she were waiting for me to say something to redeem myself. Before I could speak, she broke free, leaned into the pedals, and took off.
“Damn it,” I said beneath my breath. I was angry at myself for having played this game, for having said no so emphatically just to preserve the big surprise. Her thirtieth birthday was a week away. I’d planned to pop the question then. After this blowup, I didn’t think she’d ever believe that I’d bought the ring two months earlier.
I watched in silence as she sped down the bike path, keeping her in my sights until she was almost too small to see.
Not once did she look back.
37
Late Wednesday afternoon a package arrived. It was about the size of a box of checkbooks and wrapped in brown shipping paper. Torn at every corner, it was held together by multiple straps of clear plastic tape picturing a colorful parrot atop a blue box that read “Correos de Colombia.” The metered postage was stamped ADPOSTAL SANTA FE DE BOGOTA D. C.
I assumed it was from the kidnappers.
Interestingly, it was sent to my house in Coconut Grove, not to my mother in Coral Gables. That made some sense. Alex had told them I was with her during the radio communication in Bogota. Perhaps they’d decided to communicate with me directly, and my father could have given them my address. The thought of his telling them anything lifted my spirits. It meant he was still alive.
I was eager to open the package, but I proceeded with caution. I shook it lightly. Something moved inside. My mood suddenly shifted from curious to macabre. The warnings of Duncan Fitz at yesterday’s court hearing came flooding back to me, the gloomy picture of what dangers my father might face if ever the kidnappers learned that the insurance company had denied coverage and refused to pay. Could someone have tipped them off to the dispute? I suddenly feared that the box might contain some gruesome warning from the kidnappers, something that my father would have given up only after a struggle, something so shocking that he would have begged them to send the package to his son and not his wife.
My hand began to shake. I’d heard of kidnappers sending ears or fingers to the family in the mail, and this box was the perfect size. I closed my eyes and forced myself to bring it to my nose and sniff for strange odors.
I detected nothing, but the contents could have been sealed in plastic. From the kitchen I phoned Alex and told her my concerns.
“Open it,” she said.
“But what if it’s-”
“I think I know what it is. Open it.”
I put the phone down and switched Alex to the speaker. Slowly I peeled away the already torn paper. The box inside was sealed with more tape. I slit it with a kitchen knife, drew a deep breath, and flipped open the box.
“It’s an international pager,” I said.
“I knew it. Those bastards.”
“What? This has to be a good sign. They wouldn’t send me a pager unless they wanted to be able to contact me on a moment’s notice. They must be getting ready to turn Dad loose.”
“That’s what they’d like you to think.”
I was only half listening. “There’s a note here,” I said, already translating in my mind. “They want me to wear the pager at all times. It says they’ll be in touch.”
“It doesn’t say when, does it?”
“No.”
“Of course not.”
“I would assume they’ll call when they’re ready to make the exchange.”
“Stop it, Nick. You’re doing exactly what they want you to do.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve seen it a dozen times. It’s a psychological ploy. They give the family a beeper, and the reaction is always the same: Resolution is near. But the beeper never sounds. You’ll wear it every day, check it every ten minutes, wonder if
it’s broken, take it to a repair shop, drive yourself crazy. Finally you’ll get a message, but the number you’re supposed to call will have a few digits missing, which is intentional on their part. You’ll think your father is going to die because the stupid pager didn’t work. It’s all a game for them. It’s how they wear you out, make you pay the big bucks.”
I held the pager in the palm of my hand. I wanted to cling to the idea that my father might soon be released, but the dose of reality from Alex had turned most of my hope to anger. “What should I do with it?”
“Keep it, of course. Just don’t drive yourself crazy with it.”
I wanted to throw it against the wall but calmed myself and took a seat on the barstool at the kitchen counter. “I’m tired of the games on all fronts. The kidnappers, the lawyers, the FBI. It’s wearing me out.”
“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.”
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