At 10:00 A.M. Joseph Kozelka reached the K &G Building, a modern highrise that towered above downtown Denver. The ground-floor lobby was buzzing with men and women in business suits, the clicking of their heels echoing off the polished granite floors. Four banks of elevators stretched from one end of the spacious atrium-style lobby to the other. The first three were for tenants who leased the lower thirty floors from K &G. The last was for K &G visitors and employees only, floors thirty-one through fifty.
Kozelka stopped at the security checkpoint before the special employee elevators. The guard smiled politely, almost embarrassed by the routine.
“Good morning, sir. Step up to the scanner, please.”
Kozelka stepped forward and looked into the retinal scanner. The device was part of K &G’s high-tech corporate security. It could confirm an employee’s identity based on the unique pattern of blood vessels behind the retina, like a fingerprint.
A green light flashed, signaling approval. The guard hit the button that allowed passage to the elevators.
“Have a good day, sir,” he said.
Kozelka nodded and continued on his way. It was the same silly charade every morning, part of Kozelka’s self-cultivated image as a regular guy who tolerated no special treatment for anyone, including himself. Indeed, he never missed a chance to recount the story of the former security guard who had greeted him one morning with a respectful “Good morning, Mr. Kozelka,” allowing him to sidestep the scanner. Kozelka fired him on the spot. To his cigar-smoking friends over at the Bankers Club, it was a perfect illustration of how, in Kozelka’s eyes, the CEO was no better than anyone else. Never mind that a fifty-year-old faithful employee with a wife and three kids was suddenly on the dole. Kozelka didn’t much care about the real-life sufferings of the peons he used to promote his image.
And it was all image. Equality and accountability simply weren’t part of the K &G corporate lexicon. K &G had just two shareholders. Joseph held fifty-one percent. A trust for his children held the other forty-nine. The occasional talk on Wall Street of taking the company public never failed to make his lawyers giddy, but Kozelka wasn’t interested. Share holders would mean the loss of control. Kozelka didn’t need the money he’d get from the sale of his stock. It was the control that drove him — control over a corporate empire that in one way or another was connected to one out of three meals served in North America daily, be it pesticides, produce, fertilizers, feed, grain, livestock, fish farms, or any other link in the food chain. The real money, however, came from commodities trading. Some would even say manipulation. Minute-by-minute activity on the market flashed beneath the crown moldings in Kozelka’s penthouse office.
The elevator stopped on the thirty-first floor. Kozelka stepped off and transferred to a private executive elevator that took him to the penthouse office suite.
Half the top floor was his. The other half was divided among the remaining senior corporate officers — nonfamily members who served at the whim of Kozelka. No decorating expense was spared on either side of the hall. The doors were polished brass. The walls were cherry paneling. Sarouk silk rugs adorned floors of inlaid wood. The mountain views were nothing short of breathtaking, though Kozelka was thoroughly immune to them. For twenty years he’d commanded the same magnificent view, ever since his father had died and turned the desk, the office, and the thirty-billion-dollar family-owned company over to his son.
“Good morning, Mr. Kozelka,” his secretary said.
“Morning.”
She followed him into his office, taking his coat and briefcase. She had his morning schedule laid out on the desk for him, beside his coffee. Fridays were typically light, ever since his doctor had warned him about his blood pressure. He reviewed the schedule as he reclined in his leather chair.
His secretary stopped in the doorway on her way out. “One other thing, sir.”
“Yes?”
“I wasn’t sure I should even mention this, but there’s a man in the visitor’s lobby who says it is very important that he see you this morning. When I told him he would need an appointment, he said you would be expecting him. He’s been waiting two hours. I was going to call Security, but I wanted to check with you before making a scene.”
“Who is it?”
“He’s a doctor. Dr. Ryan Duffy.”
Kozelka said nothing, showed no emotion.
“Sir, what would you like me to tell him?”
“Nothing,” he said, reaching for his phone. “Just close the door on your way out, please. I’ll take care of this myself.”
Norm had an early-morning hearing in criminal court and didn’t reach his office until midmorning. It seemed to have come as somewhat of a surprise to Ryan, but he actually did have other clients with other cases. Norm hung his suit coat behind the door. He was only halfway to his desk when his secretary appeared in the open doorway.
“Judge Novak’s chambers is on line one,” she said.
“Novak?”
“The judge in Dr. Duffy’s divorce case.”
What now? he thought, then picked up. “Hello.”
The judge’s deputy was on the line. “Mr. Klusmire, I have Phil Jackson on a conference call. Since Mr. Jackson’s injuries prevent him from coming to the courthouse in person, the judge has agreed to hold a telephonic hearing on his emergency motion to reschedule the deposition of Brent Langford. Please hold for the judge.”
Norm heard the click of the hold button. He and Jackson were alone. “Emergency motion? What kind of rescheduling you talking about?”
“If you knew anything about practice in family court, Klusmire, you’d know that the rules don’t allow us to take a deposition on a Saturday. I originally set Brent’s deposition for Thursday of next week, but I have to depose him tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Because his depo could lead to evidence that your client is responsible for the injuries that put me in the hospital. If that proves to be the case, I need to get a restraining order issued as soon as possible to protect both me and my client from any further abuse at the hands of Dr. Duffy.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“It’s all in the papers I filed. Check your in box, chump.”
Norm hadn’t even checked the morning mail. He riffled through the pile, found an envelope from Jackson’s office, and tore it open. It took only a second to see what Jackson was really up to. The rescheduling of the deposition was secondary. His primary objective was simply to poison the judge’s mind with wild accusations against Ryan.
That son of a bitch.
The judge joined them on the line. “Good morning, gentlemen. I’ve read Mr. Jackson’s papers. Excellent, as usual. Mr. Klusmire, on what grounds are you opposing the motion?”
“Your Honor, if I could just have a minute to read through it. I haven’t really had a chance to consider it.”
Jackson jumped in. “Judge, the motion was hand-delivered to Mr. Klusmire’s office last night. It was plainly marked as urgent. In my cover letter I urged him to call me here at the hospital by 9:00 A.M. if he would agree to let me take the deposition on Saturday instead of Thursday of next week. I hate to burden the court with an emergency motion on a simple scheduling matter, but Mr. Klusmire never called me. I had no choice but to petition the court.”
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.”