Free Found Money by James Grippando

She replied with a weak smile.
    Ryan glanced at the stenographer, then at Jackson. “What’s the court reporter here for? I thought this was an informal meeting, not a deposition.”
    “No one is testifying under oath,” said Jackson. “She’s just here to take down everything we say, so there’s a record. It’s basically no different than turning on a tape recorder or having my secretary take really good notes.”
    Right, thought Ryan. Only fifty times more intimidating, you son of a bitch. “I’d rather she not be here for this.”
    “Why?” Jackson asked with sarcasm. “Are you one of those people who will say something only if he can reserve the right to deny he ever said it?”
    Ryan glanced at the stenographer. Her fingers were moving on the keys. She’d already recorded the first pointed volley. “Fine. She can stay.”
    Jackson maneuvered around the stenographer and took the seat beside Liz. Ryan took the chair on the opposite side of the table. He was facing the window. The blinds had been adjusted perfectly in advance of his arrival, so that the sun hit him directly in the eyes.
    “Excuse me,” he said, squinting, “but I left my welding visor in the car. You think we could fix the blinds here?”
    Jackson smirked. “Gee, I’m sorry. Let me take care of it.” He leaned back to adjust the blinds—but only a smidgen. In a few minutes, the sun would be right back in Ryan’s eyes. It was part of Jackson’s strategy, Ryan surmised. Every three or four minutes, Ryan would be staring into the sun. Anything to distract and annoy the opposition. This guy’s unbelievable.
    Jackson said, “Let’s start by making it clear for the record that Dr. Duffy has fired his attorney, so he is representing himself today. Is that true, Doctor?”
    “Yes.”
    “Very well,” said Jackson. “Let’s start our discussion with a review of the documents.”
    “What documents?”
    He handed one to Ryan. “This is something our accountants prepared for us. It’s a more accurateassessment of your net worth and earning potential.”
    Ryan’s eyes moved immediately to the bottom line. He nearly choked. “Seven hundred thousand dollars! That’s ten times my annual income.”
    “Ten times your reported annual income. Although your tax return shows a modest five-figure income, we know differently.”
    Ryan glanced at Liz. Did she know about the attic? “What are you talking about?”
    Jackson laid a file on the table. It contained a stack of documents nearly eight inches high. “Invoices,” he said flatly.
    “Invoices for what?” asked Ryan.
    “During the last eight months of your marriage, Liz took over the billing practices of your clinic. She mailed these to your patients with delinquent accounts. You don’t deny she did that, do you?”
    “No, I don’t deny it. It was Liz’s idea. I told her we’d never collect, that these people couldn’t pay. She sent them anyway. But you can’t count uncollected invoices as income. That’s absurd.”
    Jackson leaned forward, more than a little confrontational. “We don’t think they went uncollected.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “You knew Liz was unhappy. You knew this divorce was coming long ago. We intend to prove that you accepted cash payments from patients under the table so that you could hide the money from Liz and keep it for yourself.”
    “Have you lost your marbles?” He glanced at his wife. “Liz, tell him.”
    She looked away.
    “Dr. Duffy, the bottom line is that you owe your wife seven hundred thousand dollars in a lumpsum payment, plus monthly alimony commensurate with a thriving private practice.”
    “This is laughable.”
    “No one’s laughing, Doctor.”
    “Liz, I can’t believe you would set me up like this.”
    Jackson said, “I’d appreciate it if you would direct your comments to me, Doctor. Not to your wife.”
    “Naturally. I’m sure you’re the one who concocted this scheme in the first place.”
    “No one has