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 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.”