A King's ransom

The thought of being spiffed up like a used car before trade-in infuriated Matthew. “He tried to sell me once before. To FARC.”

“You better hope the ELN gives him his price. If he gets the idea that you’re unsalable, that’s not a good thing.”

“I don’t need that kind of trouble.”

“We’re already in trouble. I’ve said it all along: We’re too many for Joaquin to handle. If ELN won’t give him his price, he’ll have to get rid of at least one of us.”

“Maybe he’ll turn one of the women loose.”

“Dream on, fisherman. It’s going to be either you or me. And he isn’t going to sell us off too cheap, and he isn’t turning anyone loose.”

From a distance Matthew watched Joaquin more closely. The discussion with the ELN leader was well out of earshot, but they were standing in the open, and Joaquin was waving his arms with emotion. It was clear from the expression on his face that the negotiations weren’t going his way.

Finally Joaquin shouted something in anger and stormed away.

“?Vamos!” he told his men.

The guerrillas rounded up the prisoners. Without another word to the ELN, they headed back into the jungle, single file down the same path that had brought them there. No one talked, except Joaquin, who was cursing FARC and the ELN for their greediness. He was fuming, and as they continued down the overgrown path, it made everyone edgy, even the other guerrillas.

The path was becoming treacherous. The footing was unsure, and a misty rain made the rocks even more slippery than on the way up. The warm waters of the pond had actually made Matthew’s legs rubbery, and after a full day of marching, fatigue was taking its toll. He forced himself to concentrate, especially on this narrow stretch of path along the cliff with the deep ravine below. For some reason going down was proving to be more difficult than climbing up. The grade seemed steeper on the descent, and if you focused on the river two hundred feet below, vertigo could easily overtake you. The group proceeded one at a time. Three guerrillas went first to show the prisoners the proper technique. They didn’t walk straight down the path but took half steps sideways with their backs to the cliff and their chests toward the mountainside. Two hands were on the face of the mountain at all times.

Next it was Matthew’s turn.

Despite the danger and his need to focus, he couldn’t clear his mind of a terrible sinking sensation. He remembered what Emilio had told him after the FARC deal had fallen through. The worst place for a kidnap victim to be was with a rogue criminal like Joaquin. The survival rate was better with an established Marxist group that had the resources to hold prisoners for longer periods of time.

A scream pierced the jungle, the desperate cry of a dying man.

It was hard to tell where it had come from-Matthew could have sworn it was below him. Confused, he hurried ahead to the base of the narrow pass. He looked back and saw Jan, the Swede, and he was immediately concerned. The order of descent had been Matthew, the Japanese man, and then Jan.

Behind Jan was Nisho, the Japanese woman. She was hysterical. One of the guerrillas grabbed her and carried her down the rest of the way. Two other guerrillas were at the cliff’s edge. Matthew hurried over and looked down into the ravine.

The Japanese man lay dead, facedown, his body smashed on the rocks near the river a hundred feet below. The wife was screaming inconsolably. Grief was what Matthew thought at first, but she was swinging wildly and cursing in Japanese, seemingly more angry than anguished. One guerrilla wasn’t enough to control her. Two others finally came over to subdue her.

Joaquin was last on the scene, having doubled back from his lead position. “?Que paso? ” What happened?

Jan answered quickly, “?El americano le empujo!”

Nisho was still screaming wildly, and Matthew wasn’t sure if he’d heard Jan quite right. “I pushed him?” he said, incredulous.

Two guerrillas grabbed him. “No, no!” said Matthew.

“Si, si,” said Jan. “?Matthew le empujo!”

Matthew locked eyes with the Swede. In a flash, that earlier nervous talk of Joaquin’s having more prisoners than he could handle came back to Matthew, and he realized what Jan had done: Some prisoners needed to be eliminated, and Jan had made sure that he wouldn’t be one of them.

The crying widow was fighting to break free of the guerrillas’ grasp, trying to crawl on her hands and knees to the cliff’s edge to see or perhaps join her fallen husband. The guerrillas restrained her to the point of exhaustion, but the wailing continued.

Joaquin had fire in his eyes as he walked up to Matthew and, without warning, delivered a monstrous sucker punch to the solar plexus. Matthew doubled over, sucking air, but the guerrillas held him up, forcing him to stand on his own two feet.

“He’s lying,” said Matthew, barely able to speak.

“You’re lying,” said Joaquin. He grabbed Matthew by the hair and yanked him straight up to the standing position. “And don’t think you won’t pay for this.”

He unleashed another blow to the same spot. Matthew went down onto his knees, gasping for air. Another guerrilla kicked him from behind, an army boot directly into his left kidney, which sent him sprawling face first into the dirt.

Matthew coiled into the fetal position to fend off any further blows. He could hardly breathe, and the dizziness was making it almost impossible to see. Mustering all his remaining strength, he managed to turn his sights on the Swede, but his fellow captive just looked away. Jan had been saying it for days, though Matthew hadn’t wanted to believe him. Now he knew it was true.

They were becoming their own Pitcairn Island. It was every man for himself.

34

The Miami-Dade County courthouse was practically ancient by Miami standards, an imposing stone tower and distinctive bump on the city’s modern skyline. My first visit had been on a field trip in middle school, though it wasn’t the massive fluted columns or tiered granite steps that had impressed me so much I’d decided to become a lawyer. It was the unbridled energy, the almost perpetual state of confusion.

On Tuesday morning it was abuzz with the usual chaos. From every direction swarms of people converged on the main entrance, squeezed through the metal detectors, and then raced across the lobby for a spot on a slow- moving elevator that would eventually land them before one of twenty-three judges on fifteen floors. It was a nonstop stream of lawyers and litigants, witnesses and jurors, court employees and members of the media. Thrown into the mix were the venerable retirees who had nothing better to do than pack a liverwurst sandwich into a paper sack and head over to Flagler Street to enjoy the real-life version of The People’s Court. They were like unofficial court historians, capable of rattling off stories about the giants in Miami’s trial bar the way baseball fans knew the legends of the sport. For them, trial was theater, at times the theater of the absurd, and the longest-running show around was right here in this old building. A few could even wax nostalgic about the old days when the courthouse also served as the stockade, well before my time. Criminal cases were no longer heard here. These days the docket was strictly civil.

“Civil.” That wasn’t exactly the word that came to mind as I braced for the sight of Duncan Fitz as opposing counsel.

The hearing was scheduled for 9:00 A.M. before Judge Korvan, roughly sixteen hours after I’d been served with the papers. I was well aware of the old adage that a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client, and I’d considered asking the judge to postpone the hearing. But searching for a lawyer and then bringing him up to speed on the facts would only have delayed matters. My father needed someone to get before a judge and plead the family’s case as quickly as possible, and I knew the case better than anyone. At least for round one, I was on