The judge grumbled. “Mr. Klusmire, I’ve never met you, but this is the second time we’ve talked on the telephone. The first time was the other night when you called me at home, in direct violation of my rules against ex parte communications.”
“Judge, I swear I was paged by-”
“ Never interrupt me,” he said harshly. “I don’t like the way you practice, Mr. Klusmire. Good lawyers don’t call judges at home. And they don’t force other lawyers to seek emergency relief from the court where good old-fashioned courtesy and cooperation should enable the lawyers to work things out themselves.”
“That’s what I always say,” said Jackson.
“Now,” the judge continued, “I’ve read the affidavit Mr. Jackson submitted in support of his motion, and I must say I am deeply disturbed. If Dr. Duffy and his brother-in-law are in any way responsible for this attack against Mr. Jackson, I want to put a stop to this before somebody else gets hurt. The request to take the deposition of Brent Langford a few days early is entirely reasonable. In fact, if Mr. Jackson weren’t injured, I would dispense with the deposition and proceed directly with a hearing on whether a restraining order should be imposed against Dr. Duffy.”
“Judge,” said Jackson, “I’m feeling better already. If the court has room on its busy calendar for an evidentiary hearing, I owe it to my client to be there.”
“Are you sure you’re up for it? Physically?”
“Yes. It was a mild concussion. Believe it or not, having your face smashed against a windshield looks a lot worse than it is.”
The judge growled. “I can’t believe they did this to you. I rarely schedule a Saturday hearing, but in this case I’ll make an exception. Can you have your witnesses here at ten o’clock tomorrow?”
“I believe so.”
Norm said, “Your Honor, Dr. Duffy will certainly be there. But if Mr. Jackson intends to question Mr. Langford, I can’t guarantee he will attend. I have no control over him. He’s not a party and he’s not my client.”
“Mr. Klusmire, if you know what’s good for you, your client will make sure that his own brother-in-law is in my courtroom tomorrow morning. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Judge,” said Jackson.
“Good day, gentlemen.” The judge disconnected, leaving only the lawyers on the line.
Norm shook his head. “You’re everything people say you are, aren’t you, Jackson?”
His face hurt, but Jackson managed a smile. “Everything — and then some.”
“This hardball stuff really isn’t necessary.”
“But it is,” he said, his smile fading. “This isn’t the Liz and Ryan Duffy soap opera anymore. This is personal. I’ll see you in court.”
44
The wait was going on two and a half hours. Ryan took it as a good sign that he hadn’t been thrown out of the building yet. Even better, he hadn’t been thrown off it. He could wait all day, if he had to. The visitors’ lobby was certainly comfortable enough. The leather couches weren’t the stiff grade found in family rooms. These were as soft and supple as driving gloves.
Ryan had thought hard before coming directly to K &G headquarters. Last night, Amy’s reaction had convinced him of one thing. He couldn’t live with the money without knowing the truth. There was no honor in profit at the expense of a raped woman. He had to know how the rape was connected to the extortion.
Ryan’s father was dead. Amy’s mother was dead. The only living person who could possibly hold the answer was the man his father had blackmailed. Ryan couldn’t be a hundred percent sure that it was Joseph Kozelka, but Norm’s investigator had not identified a single other person in the Boulder High yearbook who had acquired the financial wherewithal to pay that much money. True, he and Norm had agreed they would talk to the FBI before moving on Kozelka. Waiting, however, would deprive Ryan of his leverage. The threat of going to the FBI and dropping Kozelka’s name seemed like the only way to get Kozelka to tell him if he in fact had paid the money to Frank Duffy — and more important, why.
He knew what Norm would say. It was risky, maybe even dangerous. Somehow, however, his father had managed to keep the scheme going and keep himself alive for some twenty years. Ryan would take those odds. Still, he couldn’t tell Norm in advance and give him the chance to talk him out of it. This time, Ryan was on his own.
“Dr. Duffy?”
It was a baritone voice from behind. Ryan rose from the couch and turned. The sheer size of the man suggested he was from corporate security.
“Yes,” said Ryan.
“Come with me.”
They walked side by side down the hall in silence. Ryan stood over six feet, but he felt small next to this guy. He was easily six-five and solidly built. Not like those upper-body freaks at the gym with Herculean chests and legs like Bambi. This man’s build was proportional, more athletic. Ryan suspected a military background.
“Where are we headed?” asked Ryan.
He stopped and opened the solid oak door to a conference room at the end of the hall. “Inside, please.”
It was an interior conference room, no windows. Eight leather chairs surrounded a rectangular walnut table. The lighting was soft and indirect.
He directed Ryan to the other side of the table. “Sit there.”
Ryan noted how evenly his voice had carried. The sound in the room was like Norm’s media room — acoustically perfect. The room had that sleek look of those counterespionage corporate conference rooms he’d seen in magazines, with cameras hidden in wall clocks and anti-bugging devices throughout. Ryan was glad he hadn’t come wired. It surely would have been detected.
The guard sat across from him. “Why did you come here?”
All doubts as to whether he had come to the right place were quickly evaporating. “I thought it was time we started a dialogue.”
“Why?”
“Simply to put some issues to rest.”
“There are no unresolved issues.”
“There are for me. And I think Mr. Kozelka could clear them up for me.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
He leaned forward, shooting a steely glare.
“Because Mr. Kozelka has no time for you.”
Ryan was unfazed but suddenly noticed something. Just over the man’s shoulder, behind him on the wall, was a very strategically placed painting. It was a hunch, but he felt certain that Mr. Kozelka was not only listening but watching — and probably recording.
With everything on tape, he had to be careful. The last thing he needed was to come off as an extortionist — like his father.
“I want you to give Mr. Kozelka a message. Tell him the woman in Panama who stole my bag made a big mistake. Tell him I have her fingerprints on a bar glass.”
“Mr. Kozelka has no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, he does. But that’s not why I’m here. I came to thank him personally for all the advice he gave to my father over the years. No self-respecting small-town electrician should be without the services of an experienced consultant on matters of international bank secrecy.”
The man’s face reddened, but he said nothing.
Ryan said, “I’m almost embarrassed to say it, but I could use Mr. Kozelka’s good advice, too. Ever since that mishap in Panama, the FBI wants to know all about my father’s bank account in Panama. They are determined to find out where all that money came from.”
Ryan checked for any reaction. It was subtle, but the mention of the FBI seemed to have hit a nerve.
“Now, I’ll ask you again. Can I count on you to deliver a message to Mr. Kozelka?”
“I don’t make promises.”
“Fine.” Ryan rose and faced the portrait on the wall — the hidden camera. He spoke directly to it.