Omar had been close to Luca for over twenty years and was concerned about his friend. He had met Giovanna on a number of occasions as she was growing up. Several times Luca and his family had vacationed at the Celik beach estate on the Black Sea. Omar was, of course, angered by the fact that the Libyans owed him $400 million for the bridge, money he was determined to collect, but he was much more concerned about Giovanna’s welfare.
In one of their many conversations, Denys Tullos told Mitch that the company was financing private security deep inside Libya in an effort to find her. Mitch relayed this to Darian Kasuch at Crueggal, who was not surprised. “Join the crowd,” he said.
The hearing was scheduled for 2 P.M., Thursday, April 28. Mitch and his team spent the morning in a hotel conference room with the Celiks and Denys Tullos. They reviewed Luca’s timetable and looked for ways to streamline the mountain of discovery still to be done. They debated the strategy of amending the lawsuit to include damages for the deaths of the four security guards and Youssef, all Lannak employees. Early on, Omar took control of the meeting and proved why he was regarded as a tough corporate boss who didn’t back down. He had been fighting with the Libyans for over twenty years, and while he usually got paid he was fed up. No more projects there. He doubted the regime was responsible for the ambush and bloodshed because it had always promised to protect foreign workers, especially those with Lannak. It was clear to Omar that Gaddafi was losing control of much of his territory and could no longer be trusted. Omar certainly wanted the lawsuit expanded to cover the deaths, to hold the Libyan government responsible, but agreed with Mitch that more time was needed. Walid would likely be found with his throat cut. No one could predict what would happen to Giovanna. At the moment there were too many unknowns to map out strategies.
After a sandwich for lunch they taxied to the Palais de Justice and went to the courtroom on the fifth floor. Waiting outside in the vast, empty hall were two reporters. One, with a camera hanging from his neck, was with a London tabloid, the other from a broadsheet. They asked Mitch if he had time to chat. He offered a polite no, kept walking, and entered the courtroom.
It was a wide, tall room with soaring windows, plenty of light, and enough seating for hundreds of spectators. But, there were none — only small groups of lawyers huddled here and there, whispering gravely as they watched each other from across the room.
The bench was an imposing piece of furniture, at least eighty feet long and made of some dark, rich wood that had probably been harvested two hundred years earlier. It stood six feet tall, and behind it were twenty leather rockers that swiveled and rolled. They were identical, deep burgundy in color, and exactly the same height so that the magistrates, when court was in session, looked down at the lawyers and litigants from positions of great knowledge and power.
All twenty were empty. A clerk led Mitch, Stephen, Jens, and Roberto to the plaintiff’s table on one side of the room. They unpacked thick briefcases as if they might be there for hours. Across the way another team of grim-faced lawyers marched to their table and also unpacked. The Reedmore firm, from London, Libya’s favorite firm, a notorious bunch of arrogant boys who seemed to relish their reputations as world-class assholes.
Reedmore had only 550 lawyers, not even enough to crack the top twenty-five in size, and limited its business to only a handful of countries, primarily in Europe. The firm had been in bed with the Libyan regime for many years. Luca said that was probably why they had such a sour outlook on life.
Along with its wealth of talent, ambition, skills, and diversity, one great asset of working at Scully & Pershing was its sheer size. It had been the largest firm in the world for a decade and was determined to stay on top. Its lawyers were known to often walk with a little swagger because of the firm’s remarkable reach and depth. There had never been a bigger law firm. Size did not always equal talent, nor did it guarantee success, but in the world of Big Law, being number one was the envy of firms two through fifty.
The Reedmore lawyers were formidable foes and Mitch would never take them lightly, but at the same time he wasn’t impressed by their aloofness. Jerry Robb was the attorney of record for the State of Libya. He’d brought with him a couple of younger guys, and all three wore matching, impeccably tailored navy suits. They seemed incapable of smiling.
However, since there was bad news at the other table, Robb felt compelled to pick at the scab. He walked over, stuck out a hand, and said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” He was stiff as a board and shook hands like a twelve-year-old.
Nose up a bit, he said, “I spoke with Luca last week. I hope he’s doing well, in spite of.”
In spite of. In spite of the fact that he’s dying of cancer and his daughter is being held hostage by some really unpleasant people.
“Luca’s fine,” Roberto said. “In spite of.”
“Any word on Giovanna?”
Mitch refused to take the bait and shook his head. No.
“Nothing,” Roberto said. “I’ll tell him you asked.”
“Please do.”
Any further conversation would have been just as stilted, but a clerk by the bench began bellowing and Robb went back to his table. In English, the clerk called things to order. He sat down, and another one stood and did the same in French. Mitch glanced around the vast room. There were two pockets of lawyers seated far apart with a few clients sprinkled in between. The two British reporters were in the front row. He doubted anyone in the room spoke French, but the court had its procedures.
Three judges entered from behind the bench and took their seats. The ruling magistrate was in charge and she sat in the middle. Her two colleagues were at least twenty feet away. Seventeen of the thrones were empty. The reschedule docket did not warrant full participation by the board.
She was Madam Victoria Poley, an American from Dayton, a former federal judge who’d been one of the first women to finish at Harvard Law. It was acceptable to address her as Madam, Magistrate, Judge, Your Honor, or Lord. Anything else was problematic. Only lawyers from the British Isles and Australia dared use the word “Lord.”
To her right was a judge from Nigeria. To her left was one from Peru. Neither wore headphones, so Mitch assumed there would be no delays for the interpreters.
Madam Poley welcomed everyone to the afternoon session and said there were only a few matters on the docket. She glanced at a clerk who stood, called the Lannak case, then proceeded to read its history, beginning with the filing of the complaint in October of the prior year. It would be next to impossible to make such a reading anything but dull, but the clerk’s monotone cast a heavy pall over the courtroom. She went on, flipping pages as her voice grew flatter and flatter. Mitch’s last thought before he fell into a coma was, I hope they don’t do this again in French.
“Mr. McDeere,” a voice called out, and Mitch snapped back to life. Madam Poley was saying, “Welcome to the court and please give my regards to Signor Luca Sandroni.”
“Thank you, Your Honor, and he sends his regards as well.”
“And Mr. Robb, always nice to see you.”
Jerry Robb stood, bent slightly at the waist and made an effort at a grin, but said nothing.
“You may be seated and feel free to remain so.” Both lawyers sat down.
Madam Poley said, “Now, a trial date has been scheduled for February of next year, almost a year away. I’ll ask each of you if you can be prepared for trial by then. Mr. McDeere.”
Mitch stayed in his chair and began by saying yes, of course, the plaintiff would be ready. The plaintiff had filed the complaint and it was always incumbent upon the plaintiff to push hard for a trial. A plaintiff rarely backed away from a trial date. Regardless of how much work was yet to be done, Mitch was confident he was on schedule. His client wanted a trial sooner than February, but that issue would be raised another day.