my own.
I was the last to arrive at Judge Korvan’s chambers. Duncan Fitz and his New York partner, Maggie Johans, were seated on the battered plaid couch in the waiting room. They probably would have shaken my hand if I’d offered it, the hypocrites.
Maggie wasn’t a trial lawyer, so I assumed she was here not in her capacity as Cool Cash partner but as an officer of Quality Insurance. She’d brought down a pair of sharp litigators from the New York office to assist Duncan, a man and a woman I’d never met. Unlike my peers in the Miami office, they’d have no personal reservations about filleting me like a flounder. No one had bothered with introductions, but I knew from their engraved leather trial bags that they were seasoned litigators. Trial bags were badges of honor at my firm, the more beat up and battle- scarred, the better. Litigators at Cool Cash took their image seriously. Unlike corporate lawyers, health-care lawyers, antitrust lawyers, and so on, lawyers who specialized in litigation were never called litigation lawyers. They were “litigators,” a term that connoted more fighting than lawyering and that, quite appropriately, even sounded a little like “gladiator.” When business dealings went sour, nobody ever threatened to call in the real estate department. If lawyers were sharks-a joke I heard far too often, being the son of a fisherman-then litigators were the great whites.
“The judge will see you now,” announced her secretary.
The hearing would be held in chambers, rather than the main courtroom, which wasn’t unusual when a judge intended to hear only argument from counsel with no live testimony from witnesses. There was no stone-faced bailiff, no high mahogany bench from which the judge presided. The intimacy of a proceeding in chambers, however, did not mean informality. The judge wore the same black robe and the lawyers were just as respectful as in open court. Her carved antique desk was at the far end of the chambers, positioned so that the judge’s back was to the window. A table extended from the front of her desk to create a T-shaped seating arrangement. The lawyers sat on opposite sides of the table, the plaintiff to the judge’s left, the defendant to the right. The court reporter was off to the side, near the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
“Good morning,” Judge Korvan said in an amicable tone. She reminded me a little of my grandmother before the Alzheimer’s, except that the smile seemed less genuine. Judge Theresa Korvan was a twenty-year veteran on the bench, who’d seen it all and had a reputation for smiling pleasantly no matter what she was doing, whether bidding you good morning or citing you for contempt.
The lawyers introduced themselves, four for Quality Insurance, two partners and two senior associates. And then me. Judge Korvan seemed amused by the lopsidedness.
“You must be quite a lawyer, young man.”
Duncan said, “Excuse the crowd, Judge, but our client takes this case very seriously.”
“So does mine,” I said dryly.
Duncan met my stare, then looked away.
“Splendid,” said the judge, still wearing her patented smile. “Now that we’re all so serious, let’s get started.”
Duncan said, “This is basically an action by an insurance company to enforce the confidentiality provisions of a kidnap-and-ransom insurance policy. Matthew Rey is the insured, and his family claims he was kidnapped. Quality Insurance Company has denied coverage.”
“I gathered that from your papers. Explain what you’re asking the court to do.”
“Essentially we’re asking for a moratorium on any lawsuit that could have the effect of putting the kidnappers on notice that a dispute has arisen between Matthew Rey and his insurance company.”
“Let me get this straight. You want to deny coverage, and you want me to enter an order that prevents Mr. Rey and his family from suing you?”
“Only until Mr. Rey is released from his kidnappers. In addition, we ask that the court seal the record in this proceeding, so that this action filed by Quality Insurance does not become public knowledge.”
Judge Korvan made a face, confused. “Why is this such a big secret?”
“It’s customary for a kidnap-and-ransom insurance policy to prohibit the insured from disclosing that he has insurance. The object is to keep the insured from becoming a target and to prevent kidnappers from making exorbitant ransom demands.”
“I understand that. But once Quality Insurance has denied coverage, why should you care about secrecy?”
“In an ordinary fraud case we wouldn’t. But this is no ordinary case.”
“Enlighten me,” she said.
“Me, too,” I added.
“First of all, Quality Insurance company does not deny that Matthew Rey was kidnapped by rebels.”
“A wise concession,” I said, “given three dead bodies in Cartagena.”
“Mr. Rey, please. You’ll have your turn.”
“Sorry, Your Honor.”
Duncan continued, “If he had staged his own kidnapping, we could deny the claim and have nothing to worry about. But we believe that he is truly in the hands of some dangerous people. The basis for our denial of the claim is that the insured revealed to a third party that he had kidnap-and-ransom insurance. That alone voids the policy.”
“You’re not alleging fraud?”
“We believe there is fraud, but Quality Insurance doesn’t have to prove that much to invalidate the policy. All we have to show is that he told someone he had insurance.”
“So it’s your contention that Mr. Rey told someone he had insurance, and then what?”
“Clearly the kidnappers are in cahoots with someone who knew that Mr. Rey was insured for a ransom payment up to three million dollars. That someone is getting a cut of the three million dollars. A referral fee, if you will.”
“If the kidnappers already know about the insurance, then why do you need secrecy?”
“At this point it’s not the existence of the insurance policy that needs to be kept secret. It’s the denial of the claim. If the kidnappers find out that Quality Insurance Company is refusing to pay, Mr. Rey will be in serious danger.”
“Then pay the claim,” I said.
“Mr. Rey, enough,” said the judge.
“I’m sorry, Judge. But it’s impossible for me to sit quietly and listen to Mr. Fitz suggest that it’s in my father’s best interest for the court to enter an order that prohibits him from suing the insurance company that denied his claim.”
“You’ll have your turn,” she said sharply.
I backed off. Duncan continued, his tone indignant. “Quality Insurance Company has no obligation to pay this claim. That doesn’t mean we want to see Mr. Rey’s father murdered when the kidnappers find out that the insurance company is refusing to pay.”
“I see,” she said, as if finally catching on. “If a jury were ever to decide that your denial of the claim was wrongful, the last thing you want is his death hanging over your corporate head.”
“It wouldn’t be on our head, Your Honor. We had a meeting with Nick Rey in our office last week, and he made certain comments that led us to believe he was foolish enough to jeopardize his father’s safety by filing a lawsuit that would make our dispute public. If the court allows him to do that, it’s on his head. And with all due respect, Your Honor, it’s on yours as well.”
I glared but held my tongue. Duncan had managed to push the judge into my corner, so I didn’t have to speak.
“I don’t really care whom you wish to blame, Mr. Fitz. I still don’t see how your proposed moratorium works. You want me to prohibit Matthew Rey from suing until after his release from the kidnappers, correct?”
“Yes. Then, once he’s released, he can sue to his heart’s content, and a jury can decide whether the insurance company’s denial of coverage was justified.”
“Here’s the problem: How would the family ever pay the ransom to gain his release?”
“We can’t,” I said.
“They can,” said Duncan.
One of the associates from New York handed him a file. Duncan said, “I didn’t want to have to raise this
