The phone rang again immediately. It was Catherine.
“Mary, I’m putting Mr. Marquez through to you. It’s about the press conference.”
“What now? Okay. Put him on. Señor Marquez, I’m just on my way to see the Coronas. Is there some change of plans?”
“ Buenos dias, Ms. Katz. I’m concerned about the rain. Maybe we should hold the conference in my office.”
“It’s a little late to call all the media again, isn’t it?”
“Well, that’s another thing. No one seemed too interested in attending. They all just said they’d pass on the information.”
“Who did you speak to?”
“I had my secretary call the Herald and the local TV stations. She left messages with the receptionists.”
“Leave it to me. I’ll head over to my office. You need to get through to the actual city desks and newsrooms and to all the Spanish radio stations and Univision and the other Spanish newspapers and CNN. If you don’t mind, call the Coronas and tell them I’m delayed.”
I clicked off and called Catherine back to tell her to look in my Rolodex for all my media numbers. After the Lillian Yarmouth case, I had obtained a number of private contact numbers for news-hungry reporters. When Catherine and I finished on the phone, a good crowd would be assembled outside the courthouse, and the grieving family might look even sadder with a backdrop of rain.
By the time I got to the Coronas’ hotel, it was almost time to leave for the courthouse. Miguel and Maria were a well-dressed couple in their fifties. I assumed Maria’s elegant dress and jewelry came from one of their boutiques. Their worried demeanor was evident.
“Mr. and Mrs. Corona, I’m sorry I’ve been delayed. I’m Mary.”
“I am so glad to meet you in person, Mary,” Miguel said with a slight bow.
Maria nodded. She was clutching a handkerchief. Between the rain and the crying clients, I was beginning to feel like the victim of a dripping water torture.
“Exactly what are we to do at this meeting of reporters?” Miguel asked.
“Just tell them what a good boy Luis is, and how worried you are that no one knows where the government is hiding him or why. Just be yourselves and be honest. I’ll explain the papers I’m filing to try to force the feds to produce Luis, and Mr. Marquez will explain how upset the Argentine government is about Luis’s treatment. Hopefully, this pressure will bring us the answers we need.”
“This is good. Also I spoke this morning to J.C. Martin. He is going to try to get through to Ambassador Miller. I told him you have had no luck.”
I eased the Coronas out to my car, and we made our way to the federal courthouse for our one o’clock press conference. The rain began as soon as we hit the freeway.
By the time I pulled up to the nearest access point at the federal courthouse, it was not just raining. The skies were dropping a tropical deluge. I handed Miguel one of my large black umbrellas reserved for pre-hurricane sprints from car to court.
“Wait for me under the porticos in front and look for Mr. Marquez, but don’t speak with any media people until I get there,” I said.
Miguel and Maria hurried up the steps. I saw no cameras or reporters gathering.
I left the car at the closest parking lot, grabbed my second-class umbrella, and jogged back to the courthouse. My carefully planned white suit was now mud spattered and my once blow-dried hair was dripping down onto my blouse.
One lonely TV remote truck pulled up as I reached the front steps. It was from the local Fox News affiliate. No others were in sight. As I mounted the steps, I felt a tug on my elbow. A very young-looking guy holding a reporter’s pad was staring at me. He looked like a boy on the first day of school, scared but expectant.
“Ms. Katz? You’re Mary Katz, right? I’m Harlan McFarland, from the Herald. Our regular courthouse reporter, Roberta Nowack, sent me over. She’s tied up covering a trial or something. She apologizes for not getting over here herself. I know she promised you earlier she’d be here but — ” His voice trailed off.
“Harlan McFarland? Is that your real name? It’s like a little poem.” I couldn’t believe I had just said that. Harlan looked like he might cry. “Just a little joke,” I said, making matters worse.
“It’s really my name. My grandfather’s name was Harlan and my mother insisted on it in spite of our last name. It’s okay. I get worse comments all the time.”
“Well, Harlan, it looks like you’ve got a clear field for a singular story. I don’t see any other print media here.”
“Gee, that’s great. I’m a summer intern. This’ll be my first story. I’m covering for El Nuevo Herald also. I speak fluent Spanish.”
“Okay, let me take you over and introduce you to Miguel and Maria Corona, the parents of Luis Corona, who the government has kidnapped and taken into hiding. Here’s a copy of my habeas corpus petition.”
I handed him the papers, introduced him to Miguel, and went to speak to a very well-dressed gentleman who had to be Mr. Marquez. At least he had been well dressed. At the moment his water-splotched suit pants were dragging on the ground. He looked as angry as the thunderclouds that were spewing lightening flashes as they hovered overhead.
“Señor Marquez, it’s so nice to finally meet you in person,” I said.
“I told you we shouldn’t have held an outdoor conference,” Marquez said, forgetting what I expected would be his old-world manners. No hand kissing and bowing today.
“Well, I was wrong. Sorry. But look, a few more news-hounds are arriving.” I pointed to a woman and two men approaching with cameras.
Altogether there were five reporters, representing one Argentine paper, the Herald kid, the local TV station, a courthouse blogger, and good old CNN. The Coronas, Marquez, and I lined up shoulder to soggy shoulder and began to address the motley group.
“I am Philipe Marquez, consul general of the Argentine consulate here in Miami. Thank you for coming here today in spite of the weather. We are greatly disturbed about the arrest of Luis Corona last week. Luis is a young man of spotless reputation, a citizen of Argentina, who was traveling to Miami to purchase a business here. He was arrested when he arrived here by plane. He has not been charged with a crime, has not been afforded a hearing to set bond, and worst of all, no one knows where he is being held. As a representative of the government of Argentina, I have orders to find this young man and see that he is returned to our country. I must say that we are shocked that Luis has been afforded none of the rights that Americans constantly state their constitution mandates.
“Luis’s parents have traveled here from Argentina. This is Miguel Corona, the father of Luis, who will speak to you now on behalf of his wife, Maria, and himself.”
Miguel stepped forward and began to speak. His voice was unsteady. It was clear that he was fighting back tears. “I am Miguel Corona. I am here with my spouse to implore the members of the press to help us find our son. I beg the government or any citizen who knows where our boy is to please let us know that he is all right. We have heard rumors that he is being treated as a terrorist and may be on his way to Guantanamo or some other country.
“I sent Luis to the United States to purchase a store. We own a group of boutiques in Buenos Aires and its suburbs. That was Luis’s only purpose in traveling here. He is a good Catholic boy who attends Mass with us every Sunday. Your country has made a terrible mistake.” Miguel’s voice trailed off. I stepped next to him and took his arm. I could feel his body shaking.
“I am Mary Magruder Katz,” I said. “I am Luis’s attorney. I saw Luis briefly at the Dade County Jail two days after his arrival in Miami. He was removed from the jail by government agents while I was present. I was unable to gain any information regarding what charges are being lodged against him or where he was being taken. That is the last anyone has seen or heard of Luis.
“This afternoon I am filing a petition seeking a habeas corpus hearing before a federal judge to seek the release of Luis Corona. It is outrag
eous that an innocent person arriving in our country is spirited away by our own government. Luis has been afforded none of the safeguards that sets our justice system apart from most other countries. Any person on our soil who is arrested has a right to know what he is accused of, and within hours, to have a hearing before a neutral magistrate to set conditions of release.
“I join the Coronas in asking anyone who can give us information regarding Luis’s whereabouts to come forward.”
Mr. Marquez stepped forward again. “My government wishes to resolve this matter peacefully and quickly before we are forced to seek international help in this matter. Are there any questions?”
The CNN reporter called out immediately. “Ten days ago another Argentine citizen was found murdered at a downtown hotel. Is there any connection between these two matters? The murdered man had in his possession documents from a group called the Army of Allah.”
Mr. Marquez answered quickly. “I have been investigating whether the murder victim was an Argentine. We have been unable to match his fingerprints with any on file in my country. We do know this much. The passport he used actually belonged to a gentleman in his seventies who died over a year ago. There is no relationship to Luis Corona at all.”
I remembered reading about the murder at the Floridian Inn, but I was startled to hear this new information about the identity of the victim. Could our government actually have been linking Luis to some scumbag who could be from anywhere? What kind of paranoia was gripping this country?
“Any other questions?” Mr. Marquez asked.
Harlan McFarland raised his hand. As he did so, he dropped his notepad on the wet pavement, scooped it up, looked embarrassed, and asked, “What kind of agents removed Luis from the Dade County Jail? Where did they say they were taking Luis?”
“Good question,” I said. “They never identified themselves, but they looked like the Secret Service people you see on TV. They were busy shoving me out of their way and weren’t answering any of my questions. However, the desk sergeant did say that the feds were the ones who were coming to get him, and that he thought they were accusing him of trying to blow up a plane.”
I heard laughter behind me and realized Miguel was actually chuckling. “What’s funny?” I whispered.
Miguel stepped forward. “The reason I laugh is because Luis was the poorest science and chemistry student in the history of his academy. These were the only subjects he totally failed. When I addressed his poor work with him he told me that he couldn’t stand to touch the various components in the laboratory. He said the smells made him nauseous and dizzy. I don’t think he would be a candidate to blow up anything.”
Miguel continued to chuckle. Soon the reporters joined him and right then the rain stopped. When I looked out over the street, I saw the beginning of a rainbow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I left the Coronas with Mr. Marquez and sped back to the office. I couldn’t do anything else for Luis except hope that someone would respond to the press conference; someone who wasn’t a crackpot with some misinformation.
Time was running out for Judge Liz. I had to put my plan in motion before Jason decided to convene the grand jury. My plan called for inveigling Mark Epstein. Without his help, I couldn’t get my plan off the ground.
“How did it go?” Catherine asked.
“Wet and wild,” I said. “I need to work on Liz’s case right away. See if you can get Mark Epstein on the phone and hold off on anything else for a while.”
“Okay, but here’re the papers Carlos sent over. He’s being sued.”
“I know.” I grabbed the papers and put them on the side of my desk.
Catherine buzzed the intercom. “The secretary said Mr. Epstein is unavailable at the moment. I left a message.”
“Unavailable. Since when did he become so damn important?”
“I told you, you should have gone in and thanked him when we were at his office. You can’t control the wind, but you can adjust your sails.”
“What does that mean? Did you get that from Marco?”
“Well, yes. He said his grandmother always said it. It means you never know when you’ll need something from someone so act accordingly,” Catherine said, and clicked off the intercom.
I thumbed through my Rolodex and found Mark’s private office number. Thank God, I never clean out my Rolodex. Mark picked up on the second ring.
“Is this unavailable Mark Epstein? This is Mary Katz, the humble attorney,” I said.
“I saw the message, Mary. I figured if you wanted to talk to me, you could have called yourself without the help of your secretary. You also could have stopped by to see me the other day after I practically turned my office over to you. What favor do you need now?”
“I apologize. Can I come and see you in the morning? Yes, I really do need a favor. I’m kind of in a mess. Please.”
“Okay. I guess so. Could you come around noon? My morning is crazy tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you at noon,” I said. This wasn’t going to be easy, and I hate begging, especially where an old boyfriend is concerned.
I really wanted to go home and get out of my wet clothes; especially my soggy sagging panty hose, but I knew Carlos would want to hear that I was working on his lawsuit.
I pulled the papers back to the center of my desk and began to read the complaint. The first thing I noticed was that the lawyer who was representing the plaintiffs was Henry Cumberland, one of the underlings in Frank Fieldstone’s office. My old fiancé strikes again. I was surprised that Carlos hadn’t noticed the name of the firm.
The lawsuit was fairly simple. Fifteen disgruntled buyers were suing to get their deposits back due to the delay in the completion of their condos. They also sought interest compounded from the day they paid the deposits, and punitive damages for triple the amount, plus court costs and attorney fees. They claimed each had been injured in various ways; paying rents to stay in their current homes or losing income on renting the new condos or other sundry costs.
Next I turned to the standard contract that each buyer had signed. I flipped through the pages until I came to the paragraph I hoped was there. “In case of disputes between buyer and seller for any reason, buyer agrees that the filing of any lawsuit in any jurisdiction is waived, and that the sole remedy shall be binding arbitration.”
This was a piece of cake. None of them had any right to sue, so this lawsuit would be dismissed as soon as it walked into a courtroom. At least I would have one happy client. Thank goodness it was the one who currently occupied my bed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I phoned Carlos and told him not to worry about the lawsuit. Then I left for home. Sam did his usual greeting, dancing circles around me and running to the cupboard where I keep his dog chow.
I poured his food, which he devoured in the time it took me to remove my shoes and the soggy panty hose. I was as ravenous as Sam had been. I picked up some carryout pasta from Papa Luigi’s on my way home, which I ate right out of the cardboard container.
I carried my glass of red wine into the bedroom and dropped the rest of my clothes onto the floor. It felt very warm in the bedroom. My first thought was that the air-conditioning was broken. This is a disaster in June in Miami. My air conditioner repairman’s number is the first one on my speed dial.
I checked the register. Cold air was tumbling out. I pulled up the window shade I hadn’t bothered to open in the morning and saw the problem. The bedroom window was pulled open as far as it would go. Rain had come in and saturated the window sill and floor. I couldn’t have left the window open. Sam certainly couldn’t open the window, as bright as he is, especially since I leave the bedroom door shut. Otherwise Sam spends the day frolicking on my bed.
I shut the window and went into the bathroom. That’s when I saw the writing on my mirror. In bright red, it said “BITCH, MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS. YOU’LL GET HURT. WATCH OUT!” I saw my twenty-dollar lipstick lying on the side of the basin. My first though
t was, couldn’t the writer have used their own lipstick?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
By the time the Coral Gables Police arrived, I was dressed in jeans and had downed the rest of the wine, but my hands were still shaking. Police Lieutenant Fonseca was photographing the mirror.
“How do I rate a ranking officer?” I asked.
“Everyone on patrol is busy, so I came myself. I’m the shift commander.” He bagged the lipstick in an evidence bag. “I noticed in my computer on the way over here that we answered a call here a few months ago when your house was vandalized. Is there somebody who is pretty angry with you?”
“Actually, the break-in was last February. It was someone I knew, an old boyfriend.”
“Why didn’t you report that to us?”
“I really didn’t want to prosecute. Let’s just say, I took care of it myself. I doubt that he’d risk breaking in again.”
A loud knock on the front door startled me. Then I heard, “Mary, it’s Flako.”
Flako is Marco’s head Pit Bull. I called Marco before I called the police. I let Flako in. He’s a huge man, imposing enough to scare away the meanest bad guy. The “Flako” nickname, which really means chicken, is the Pit Bulls’ idea of a joke.
“Marco said to tell you he’s sorry he couldn’t get over here himself. He’s following some wandering spouse for another client. Wow,” Flako said as he followed me into the bathroom. “Hi, Fonseca. Glad you’re here to file a report.”
“I was just asking Ms. Katz if she had any thoughts about the perp. What else are you involved in these days? Any angry clients?” Fonseca asked.
“I was part of a press conference this afternoon. I have a client who’s been seized by the government. I’m trying to find out where the feds are hiding him,” I said.
“Oh, I saw that on CNN a little while ago. You represent that terrorist?” Lieutenant Fonseca frowned. For a minute, I thought he was about to tear up his report. He stood staring at the paper in his hand.
Justice in June Page 11