Madam Poley was curious about discovery and asked how it was going. Mitch thought it should be wrapped up in ninety days. There were more depositions to take, more documents to haggle over, more experts to pin down, but ninety days should be enough.
Mr. Robb?
He wasn’t much of an actor and did a lame job of pretending to be surprised that counsel opposite would be so optimistic. There were at least six hard months of discovery left, maybe more, and a trial in less than a year was simply not possible. Using the standard defense playbook, Robb checked off a handful of reasons why much more time was needed. After rambling on for too long, he finished with “And I can only imagine how much more complicated our issues will become in light of recent events in Libya.”
As if waiting for an opening, Madam Poley said, “Well, let’s talk about recent events. Mr. McDeere, do you foresee amending your complaint to ask for additional damages?”
The answer was yes but Mitch wasn’t about to say so in court. He feigned frustration and said, “Your Honor, please, the situation in Libya is fluid and can change dramatically on any day. I can’t possibly predict what will happen and what the legal consequences will be.”
“Of course not, and I understand your position. But, given what has already happened, it’s safe to say that the issues will only become more complicated, right?”
“Not at all, Your Honor.”
Robb saw an opening and jumped in with “Your Honor, please, you are indeed correct. Events beyond our control are muddying the water, so to speak. It’s only fair that we agree on an extension of time and not force ourselves to rush to an unworkable deadline.”
Mitch came back with “The deadline works, Your Honor, and I can promise the court that the plaintiff will be ready by February, if not sooner. I can’t speak for the defense.”
“Nor should you,” retorted Robb.
“Gentlemen,” Madam Poley said firmly before the debate dissolved into bickering. “Let’s see how things play out down there and discuss it later. Now I’d like to move on and take up some of the issues already raised in discovery. By my count, the plaintiff has listed eight potential experts who might testify at trial. Six for the defense. That’s a lot of testimony and I’m not sure we need that much. Mr. McDeere, I’d like a brief summary of each of your experts’ testimony. Nothing fancy. Off the cuff.”
Mitch nodded and smiled as if he would like nothing better. Roberto was quick off the mark and handed him some notes.
By the time he finished discussing his third expert, an expert in cement, he was certain all three judges were asleep.
Chapter 20
Two London newspapers ran stories about the hearing. The Guardian, on page two, back-filled with some history of the case and reminded its readers that there had been no “reported” contact with the kidnappers. It described the reschedule in Geneva as “boring” with little progress being made. The Board seemed reluctant to make decisions with so much uncertainty in the case. It ran a small stock photo of Giovanna, and a new one of Mr. McDeere walking into the Palais de Justice with Roberto Maggi at his side. Both were correctly identified as partners in the mammoth law firm of Scully & Pershing. They were seeking at least four hundred million dollars for their client from the Libyan government.
Mitch, once again over the Atlantic, studied the black-and-white of himself. He was not pleased at being identified but knew it was inevitable.
The Current ran a teaser on the front page — Gaddafi’s Lawyers Seek Delays: Nothing From Giovanna — and on page five attacked the “ruthless dictator” for not paying his bills. The slant was clear — Gaddafi was behind the killings and kidnappings because he was angered by the lawsuit. There was a photo of Mitch; one of Giovanna; and the same sad image of poor Youssef hanging by a wire.
On May 1, Walid got what everyone expected. His killers chose to prolong his suffering by slashing his testicles and letting him bleed out. He was hanging by one foot from a tall cypress tree near a busy road, twenty miles south of Tripoli. A similar note was attached to his unencumbered foot: Walid Jamblad, Traitor.
A lawyer in the Rome office saw the news first and alerted Roberto Maggi, who in turn called Mitch. A few hours later a video was dropped into the deep web, another sick clip of thugs killing an innocent man for sport. Or maybe there was a reason, or a message. Roberto watched it and warned Mitch not to.
No one was left but Giovanna. Of course she was the prize, and there would be nothing simple about her destiny.
Mitch, Jack Ruch, and Cory Gallant endured another conference call with Darian at Crueggal. If he told them anything that wasn’t obvious or that they didn’t already know, it was not noted. After the call ended, and Mitch was certain there were no hot mikes or unflipped switches, he asked Jack, “And how much are we paying these guys?”
“A lot.”
“That was another wasted half hour.”
“Not exactly. Bill it to Lannak.”
Mitch looked at Cory and asked, “You still believe in these guys? They’ve produced nothing so far.”
“They’ll come through, Mitch. I think.”
“What’s our next move?”
“We don’t have one. We wait. Until we hear from Giovanna or the bad boys holding her, there’s nothing we can do here.”
Jack asked Mitch, “What’s the latest from the arbitration court?”
“Not much. Nothing really. It’s waiting too. The case is on hold as long as she’s a hostage. Remember, it doesn’t take much to inspire the court to find ways to delay itself.”
“And Luca?”
“I talk to him every day. Some are better than others but he’s hanging on.”
“Okay. Time’s up. Let’s chat again in the morning.”
On May 4, Riley Casey arrived at his office at his usual time of 8:30 A.M. He was the managing partner of Scully’s London office and had been with the firm for almost three decades. Eleven years earlier, he had drawn the short straw and interviewed a young American lawyer in town looking for a job. A law degree from Harvard barely got him in the door. A nimble mind, quick wit, and good looks got him the job, and Mitch joined Scully as a thirty-year-old associate.
Six years after that, Riley hired Giovanna Sandroni, and, like most of the men in the office, had a secret crush on her. Secret but quite professional and, of course, unspoken. Riley was a happily married man who kept his pants on; otherwise, he would have already made a fool of himself. Having hired her, at Luca’s quiet behest, he was watching with great pride as she developed into a fine lawyer, one who would probably run the entire firm one day.
Before he could have a drink of his morning coffee, his secretary entered without a word and handed over her cell phone. On the screen, the message read: “Unknown Caller. Tell Riley to check spam.”
He looked at the screen, looked at her. Something wasn’t right, and given the suffocating pressure around the office since Giovanna’s abduction, every little aberration was treated cautiously. He motioned for her to walk around to his side of his desk. They looked at his large desktop computer. He went to spam, then clicked on an email from an unknown sender that had landed eleven minutes earlier. Both recoiled in disbelief.
On the screen was a large black-and-white photo of Giovanna, sitting in a chair, wearing a black robe and a black hijab that covered everything but her face. She was neither smiling nor frowning. She was holding a newspaper, the morning edition of Ta Nea, “The News” in Greek, and the largest daily in the country. Riley enlarged it and the date became readable — May 4, 2005. That very morning. The lead story was a farmers’ strike and there was a photo of a row of tractors blocking a highway. Nothing about Giovanna, at least not on the front page above the fold.