Blood Money

by James Grippando

  Jack glanced at Abuela, who thankfully had missed the f-bomb. She could converse one-on-one in English, but typically a stray word from some conversation between Anglos didn’t elicit a reaction from her, unless, of course, she thought it had something to do with Cuba or Castro. NBC News confirms that Iranian dictator Ahmadinejad has declared death to infidels—“Ay, Jack! Qué dijo de Fidel?”

  “So let me get this straight,” said Chuck. “Of all the things you could ask for, you’re burning a favor on a Facebook problem?”

  “It’s my client’s account,” said Jack. “It’s been hijacked.”

  “Hijack?” said Abuela. It was one of those buzz words. “The plane?”

  “No, no,” said Jack. “Chuck, excuse me a second. Abuela, the planes are fine, I promise. Really, todo está bien con los airplane-os.”

  “Airplane-os?” said Chuck.

  It even made Theo wince. “Worst damn Spanish of any half-Cuban boy in Miami.”

  Abuela sighed in despair, muttering something that translated roughly as “Thank God your mother isn’t alive to hear this.”

  “Can we just focus, please?” said Jack. “Chuck, I need you to access my client’s account and delete all of today’s postings. Can you do it?”

  “Sure.”

  “This is an emergency. Don’t tell me you can do it if you can’t do it right now.”

  “Piece of cake.”

  “Is that a yes?” asked Jack.

  “What else would I mean by ‘piece of cake’?” said Chuck.

  “Allow me to translate,” said Theo. “Jack, he said: Piece-o of cake-o. Easy as pie-o. Like falling off a bike-o and hijacking an airplane-o.”

  “Hijack?” said Abuela.

  “Enough with the hijacks!” said Jack. “Chuck, I need to be able to count on you for this. Shut the thing down, and make sure it stays down.”

  “No fucking problem, dude.”

  “Ay!” Abuela shrieked, covering her ears.

  Jack cringed and took him off speaker, escaping a second f-bomb by literally a half second. Jack thanked him, and as the call ended, Theo pulled up to curbside check-in. Jack got out, grabbed Abuela’s suitcase, and then helped her out of the car. Fridays were always busy at MIA, but even with the cars and buses streaming past them, baggage attendants at work, and hundreds of travelers coming and going, Jack felt alone with his grandmother outside the terminal. It was the tear hanging from the corner of her eye that got him.

  He gave her a hug. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “I see this before. Old people go away. They no come home.”

  “Is that what you think? I’m just sending you away?”

  “Like my friend, Beatriz. ‘Oh, Nana, here your plane ticket to Chicago—just a nice visit to see your niece.’ Two week later the moving van come. Beatriz never be back.”

  “That’s not what this is about. Don’t ever think that I would do that.”

  “Never did think. Before today.” She reached up, cupped her hand on his face. “Bye, mi vida.”

  She tried to lift her own bag, which tore Jack apart. “Okay, stop. Abuela, this isn’t permanent. This is—”

  “Jack,” said Theo.

  Jack shot a look over his shoulder. “Not now.”

  “Jack, really.” Theo was walking around the back of the car with his phone in his hand.

  “What now?” said Jack.

  “You need to take this.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yeah, you can,” said Theo, handing him the phone. “It’s Sydney Bennett.”

  Chapter Thirty

  At two P.M. Jack was in Courtroom 22-A at the Miami-Dade Courthouse. Ben Laramore was seated with him at the table near the empty jury box. Celeste’s mother had refused to leave their daughter’s side at the hospital, but Jack had wanted at least one of his clients to attend.

  Civil cases in Miami were heard miles away from the criminal justice center. The eighty-five-year-old courthouse on Flagler Street was once the tallest building south of the Washington monument, and its limestone facade and classic Doric columns continued to raise architectural expectations for first-time visitors. Most were disappointed. Far from the grand old courtrooms of yesteryear, Judge Burrows’ courtroom was badly renovated office space that had been converted into an extra courtroom out of pure necessity. The sagging ceiling was held up by two pillars in the center of the room, which forced Jack and his client to stand at opposite ends of the table so that each could have an unobstructed view of the judge entering the courtroom.

  “Good afternoon,” said Judge Burrows.

  “Good afternoon,” the lawyers replied—one from Jack’s side, five from BNN’s table. Ted Gaines’ booming voice was most audible.

  Burrows was an affable old judge with more hair on his face than on the top of his head and a long, long history on the bench. Jack hoped that experience would work to his client’s advantage. The written motion that BNN had filed right before the hearing confirmed that Gaines did, in fact, plan to seek dismissal of the case as a sanction for the Facebook postings. Generally speaking, judges who had “seen it all” didn’t throw litigants out of court lightly.

  “Mr. Gaines, I’ve read your motion,” the judge said. “Having served on this bench for over a quarter century, I have to say that it is the rare case in which dismissal of the entire action is an appropriate sanction for violation of a court order.”

  Good start, thought Jack.

  Gaines rose, buttoning his coat. “This is such a case, Your Honor.”

  “Tell me why.”

  Gaines walked smoothly around the table, framing himself between the two pillars in the middle of the room. Oddly, the architectural flaws seemed to reinforce his strength. “Judge, this court entered an order that required the plaintiffs to file their complaint under seal, not part of the public record. That order further precluded the plaintiffs from discussing those allegations in public.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the judge, “and for the record I would point out that the hearing has been closed to the public, consistent with that order. Proceed.”

  “Just yesterday we brought to this court’s attention certain postings that appeared on the Internet. Specifically, on Celeste Laramore’s Facebook page. These postings tracked verbatim and in detail each of the substantive allegations against BNN in this lawsuit.”

  “I’m aware of that. And I also understand they were removed.”

  “They were,” said Gaines. “Until this morning. They were back up, along with further so-called evidence against BNN.”

  The judge had the defendant’s motion before him, which he was skimming while listening. “Tell me more about this new evidence.”

  “I’ll read it to you,” said Gaines. He had the printed Web page in hand. “And just to put this in context, the previous postings on Celeste’s Facebook page have already released onto the Internet the plaintiffs’ detailed allegations that doctors could have saved Celeste Laramore if BNN’s alleged interception of the data transmission from the ambulance had not shut down the flow of information to the ER. Now, according to this latest posting this morning, we get this additional detail.” Gaines put on his reading glasses, then read aloud: “‘A physician who works at Jackson Memorial Hospital has reviewed the intercepted data and has confirmed that if the vital information had not been illegally intercepted, the ER physicians would have recognized that Celeste had a heart condition known as long QT syndrome. Armed with that information, ER physicians would have directed appropriate remedial steps, which would have almost certainly brought about Celeste’s full recovery.’”

  Jack glanced at his client, and he could see how difficult it was for Mr. Laramore not to react to what he firmly believed was the truth: His daughter should have been saved.

  “What is long QT syndrome?” the judge asked.

  Jack rose. “I can answer that, Your Honor.”

  “Please do.”

  “Long QT syndrome is a heart rhythm disorder. Som
e people are born with it, but it can also have other causes. Mr. Laramore informs me that Celeste has had it all her life. The danger is that it can potentially cause fast, chaotic heartbeats, which in turn may trigger anything from a sudden fainting spell to a seizure or even sudden death.”

  “Or, in the case of Celeste, a coma,” said the judge.

  “That’s correct,” said Jack.

  “Mr. Swyteck, how widely known was it that Celeste had this condition?”

  Jack checked with his client, then answered to the court. “Basically her family. Her physician.”

  The judge nodded, as if that was the answer he’d expected. “Let me tell you why I ask the question. I anticipate that you are going to tell me that you have no idea how these postings landed on Celeste’s Facebook page.”

  “That’s correct,” said Jack. “And that is the truth.”

  “But this latest information posted on the Facebook page is highly specific. It doesn’t say ‘heart trouble’ or ‘heart problem.’ It says long QT syndrome. Given the small universe of people who knew she had this condition, I’m having trouble seeing how someone other than your clients could have been behind the posting.”

  “It wasn’t us,” said Laramore.

  The judge gaveled him down. “Mr. Laramore, I understand there is often an urge to speak out in open court, but when the court is addressing the attorneys, the clients do not speak. Am I understood?”

  “We apologize,” said Jack.

  “Apology accepted. Mr. Gaines, if you could wrap up, please.”

  “Yes, Judge. The court has already hit the nail on the head. It only stands to reason that these postings are the work of the plaintiffs in this case. Who else would do it? I’m sympathetic to their plight. Their daughter is in a coma. They need money to pay her medical bills. They have no health insurance. But posting this information online in violation of this court’s order cannot be tolerated. These egregious tactics amount to nothing short of extortion: ‘Pay us a big chunk of money, or we are going to smear your reputation all over the Internet.’”

  Jack was on his feet. “Judge, there has been no settlement demand from the plaintiffs.”

  “As if that’s not coming,” said Gaines.

  “Mr. Swyteck, let him finish, please.”

  “Thank you,” said Gaines. “Judge, like I said, we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t feel sorry for this family. But corporations are people, too.”

  “Uh, yeah,” the judge snorted, “I’ll believe that when the state of Florida executes one.”

  Gaines kept his composure. “Legally, a corporation is a person with the legal right to protect its reputation.”

  “I understand your point, counselor. I’m just saying.”

  Gaines continued, “We are not talking about one technical violation. This is a huge violation followed almost immediately by a second violation in contempt of this court’s order.”

  “I get your point,” the judge said. “Mr. Swyteck, what’s your response?”

  Jack rose. “First of all, Judge, my clients didn’t post this information. We don’t know who did.”

  “I’m not buying it,” the judge said, “and not just because of what I said before, about how the information is so specific. The bottom line is that this is your client’s Facebook page. If you were unable to control what goes on it, then you should have shut it down after the first violation. You didn’t.”

  “Well, there’s an emotional factor here, Your Honor. Mrs. Laramore did not want to wipe out the last few posts that her daughter put up on Facebook before she went into a coma. So we changed the username and password, effectively freezing the account.”

  “You did that at your peril, Mr. Swyteck. If you chose to keep the page up, you’re responsible for what goes on it.”

  “Well, I disagree with—”

  “Disagree all you want, but not on my time. Next argument.”

  “All right, I’ll move on. But before I do, I just want to make the general observation of how unusual this whole situation is. Millions of lawsuits are filed in this country as a matter of public record. A tiny fraction of those cases are filed under seal. And when a case is filed under seal, the media often intervene and fight tooth and nail to make it public information. In fact, I did a little computer research before the hearing, and BNN itself has filed no fewer than fifty lawsuits to remove gag orders imposed by courts in various jurisdictions arguing that such orders interfered with a free press.”

  “Stop right there,” said the judge. “Mr. Swyteck, you are way late in the day to argue that there is something wrong with the order I entered in this case directing you to file your complaint under seal. If you had a problem with it, you should have filed a motion to dissolve it. I assure you, the appropriate response is not to defy it. That’s strike two. You’re starting to annoy me. What else you got?”

  “My main point, Your Honor, is that we didn’t do it.”

  “I said, What else you got?”

  “In response to Mr. Gaines’ concern about his client’s reputation, all I can add is that everything that has been posted is true.”

  “That’s not the point,” the judge snapped. “I ordered you not to make your allegations public, and you ignored my order. Twice. I think that leaves just one question to be addressed: What is the appropriate punishment?”

  Gaines spoke up. “Your Honor, BNN requests a complete dismissal of the case with prejudice.”

  “Of course you do,” said the judge, “but I’m just not inclined to issue the death penalty if there is some merit to the claim.”

  “Judge, there is no merit,” said Gaines.

  “Hard to say,” said the judge, “with no evidence before the court. So here’s what we’ll do. Mr. Swyteck, I’ll give you half a day to put on sufficient evidence to demonstrate to the court that you have a colorable claim. If you fail to make that showing, I will dismiss this case with prejudice. How does Monday at nine A.M. work?”

  “That’s not good,” said Jack.

  Gaines was smirking. “That’s Mr. Swyteck’s opportunity to convince Judge Matthews that he didn’t bribe a juror.”

  The judge shook his head. “Not your week, is it, Mr. Swyteck?”

  “No, sir. Not so far.”

  “All right. Tuesday. Nine A.M. See you then.”

  The judge gathered his papers, stepped down from the bench, and exited to his chambers. Gaines walked over to the court reporter and thanked her, never missing an opportunity to suck up to anyone who might be in a position to put in a good word for him to the judge. Then he walked toward Jack and stopped at the table.

  “Not your week, is it, Mr. Swyteck?” he said with a smile, doing a fair imitation of the judge’s gravelly old voice. Then his expression turned deadly serious. “And next week will be even worse.”

  Jack wanted the perfect comeback, but the only one that came to mind—Yeah, for you—would have made him sound like Hannah on the way out of their New York settlement conference. He just let it go. There was far more at stake than ego.

  “Is the judge going to dismiss our case?” asked Laramore. Most of the color had drained from his face, his eyes clouded with concern.

  “Not if I can help it,” said Jack.

  “But Tuesday is around the corner.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You have three days to find witnesses and prove our case.”

  “I realize that.”

  “And you have another hearing on Monday. How are you going to do all that between now and Tuesday?”

  Jack’s gaze drifted across the courtroom. Led by Gaines, the BNN lawyers were filing out as a team, all smiles, as if they’d already won.

  “We’ll save the celebration for when the case is actually over,” said Jack. “That’s how.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Jack met Andie for happy hour at Ra Sushi in South Miami. It wasn’t so happy.

  They had an outside table beneath a canvas umbrella that seemed abou
t as big as a circus tent. The sidewalk was still damp from one of those reliable afternoon thunderstorms that cooled things down and made outdoor life possible in July. Andie was helping herself to the edamame with sea salt. Jack was studying the menu. Raw fish was not really his thing, but he was learning to love it since Andie lived on it. He ordered the “crispy shrimp tempura roll,” which was essentially fried shrimp in batter with rice. Not really sushi.

  “Kind of like going to Il Mulino and ordering pizza,” said Andie.

  Jack had never been to Il Mulino, but he’d heard that the only way to get a reservation was to have Bill Clinton make it for you, so he took her meaning. “I’m getting better,” he said.

  She smiled, leaned across the table, and kissed him. “Yes, you are.”

  Jack smiled back, but an obnoxious ringtone ruined the moment. It was a rap song unlike anything Jack would have downloaded, unless for reasons unknown he were specially commissioned by the Library of Congress to catalog the number of words in the English language that could be forced to rhyme with “suck” and “bitch.”

  “What the heck is that?” asked Andie.

  Jack pulled Theo’s phone from his pocket and silenced it. “Theo loaned me his phone.”

  “Why?”

  Jack checked the incoming caller—somebody named “Squeezeplay”—and let it go to Theo’s voice mail. “When we were at the airport today, Sydney Bennett called me on his phone.”

  “You talked to her?”

  “For about five seconds. Then she freaked and hung up. Theo let me keep his phone in case she calls back.”

  “So she obviously thinks your phone lines aren’t secure.”

  “And she would be dead right about that.”

  “Our techies gave you a secure phone to call your clients.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know how to reach Sydney. She has to call me, and she seems to have made Theo’s cell her number of choice. So until she calls again, I’m serenaded by Lil Wayne and Shorty Shitstain.”

  “Jack, that’s gross.”