Suzy's Case: A Novel Page 14

  “A pussy like you is a flight guy,” he replies with a hint of challenge.

  “Bert, we have a situation here, and it’s not between you and me. Let’s not complicate things with personal attacks.”

  He doesn’t respond so I take the opportunity to have a little internal dialogue. I say to myself, I hate Bert Beecher. He’s a bad guy who’s trying to shake down his wife for money he’s not entitled to. He needs to be shown he can’t go around bullying everybody. He needs his face rubbed in the reality of you can’t always get what you want—and I’m going to take satisfaction in doing it. Yeah, you want to see your wife’s records? Then you can see them, fucker.

  I focus on him again. “Are you the kind of guy who can keep a secret, Bert? I mean, if I show you Betty’s records, could you keep it between us guys?”

  “I’m a lot of things, but I ain’t no stoolie. Secrets are my specialty.”

  “Heck, I’ll show you her records, then. Would you mind if I came around this big desk separating us and sat next to you?”

  “No, I don’t mind. Just let me see them.”

  “Coming right up.” I move around and sit in the chair next to him. I put the records down in front of both of us and open them up. “Can you see good, Bert?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Excellent. I don’t want you to miss anything. Apparently, Betty made some complaints to her gynecologist that are inconsistent with a great sex life before the malpractice.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I understand. That’s a natural reaction, but I’m pretty sure the truth of the matter is she hated having sex with you.”

  Beecher starts turning red. “I totally doubt that,” he grumbles angrily.

  I point to the chart. “Look at this entry right here. Over a year before the malpractice it reads, and I’ll quote: ‘I hate having sex with my husband.’ See?” I point with emphasis to the chart again. “It says ‘I hate having sex with my husband’ right here.” I start tapping on the entry with my finger. Beecher looks but has no response.

  I go on. “Let me show you something else. Over the next three-month period, your wife submitted to a battery of tests in an effort to ascertain if there was an organic basis for her hating to have sex with you. That means they evaluated things such as the size of her vagina, its moisture content, whether or not it had any bacterial organisms, anatomic abnormalities, such as a variation in its shape that would contribute to her having complaints of pain during sex, and other things that would explain why she couldn’t stand having sex with you. They concluded nothing was wrong with her organically, meaning her equipment was completely normal. Are you with me on this, Bert?”

  No response.

  “They also took a medical history from her,” I continue. “She said you were the first person whom she ever hated having sex with. Let me show you. See?” I hammer my finger into the chart. Beecher looks at the record and says nothing at first, then takes a stab at reason.

  “If she did complain of pain while having sex with me, which I’m sure she didn’t, despite what those records say, then maybe my package was too big for her. Yeah, that was it. My package is too big.”

  “That would be the first thing I’d say in my own defense. Good for you. You’re thinking like a lawyer with a big dick, Bert. Now I have to go out for a minute. Look through these records while I’m gone. There’s some other stuff in there, too. They got a lot of info on you and your penis for cross-examination. I’ll be right back.” I exit my office, leaving Bert looking all rattled. I head for the elevator.

  I go down to the lobby and walk out with a purpose. Snacks. I go next door into Deli-De-Lite to pick up some beef jerky and a big bag of popcorn to munch on during the second act of the Bert Beecher show. Since they’re out of jerky I go for the beef stick. Okay, two beef sticks. One hot and one teriyaki.

  I go back upstairs and sit down next to Bert, who’s using his finger to read the records, one word at a time. “Beef stick?” I offer, tilting one in his direction.

  “I don’t eat that shit.”

  After demolishing both sticks while watching Bert try to make sense of the handwritten doctor’s entries, I take out the large bag of popcorn. Beecher looks up. “Popcorn?” I offer.

  “Yeah. I’ll take some of that.” His monster-sized hand barely makes it into the open bag. He comes out with half the popcorn. Figures—half, his favorite percentage.

  As he swallows a handful, I start in. “Where were we? Oh yeah, you were saying your package was too big. That’s something her doctors definitely considered.” I slide the records back so they’re between us, then turn a few pages. “Yes, here it is.” I point to what looks like a multiple-choice question. Bert leans over to see. “Look at these three questions in large print,” I say. “The first question instructs, ‘Circle one,’ and reads: ‘I consider my partner’s penis small, medium, or large.’ Betty circled the word small. See, right here? She circled the word small. See it right here? Is that the way she makes a circle, Bert? Is that her circle right there around the word small?”

  Beecher says nothing, but clearly he’s agitated.

  I could stop. But I don’t. “The next question reads: ‘I would describe the thickness of my partner’s penis as thin, medium, or thick.’ Your wife circled the word thin. See it right here? Are you looking where I’m pointing, Bert? It says ‘thin’ right here. See it?” Beecher says nothing, his complexion reddening.

  I carry on. “The next question states: ‘When making love to my partner, I reach an orgasm never, some of the time, or always.’ Betty circled the word never. See it? Right here. ‘Never.’ It’s right here.” Beecher is just about at a boil. Perfect. I turn the page. “Look at this entry, Bert. It reads: ‘Patient states her partner would measure less than four inches when aroused, ruling out a mechanical basis for her pain from her slightly anteverted uterus.’ ”

  Bert, now steaming, keeps his head down. Looking at the record, he says nothing.

  “According to the impression on the next page,” I say, “their conclusion was your wife has a psychosomatic disorder relative to having sex with you.”

  “What’s that? Something’s wrong with her, right?”

  “Um, no. That means since there wasn’t anything abnormal with either of you physically, the only explanation was the way she felt about you. In effect, Betty hated you and hated having sex with you, so her subconscious conjured up some nonsense pain response associated with your intimacy. Let me show you, right here next to the word impression. See?” Beecher looks and says nothing. His eyes are now bloodshot, presumably from elevated pressure.

  “Since you want money for a loss suffered to the quality of the marital intimacy,” I tell him, “and since these records generated before the malpractice say things inconsistent with this claim, the jury will hear it all, as it goes to your credibility. I also might add these gynecological records indicate your wife tested positive for venereal disease on two separate occasions prior to the malpractice. There’s actually a quote that reads: ‘My husband gave me VD,’ as a presenting complaint on one of these visits. See? Look right here for yourself.”

  Beecher looks and becomes belligerent, defensive, and attacking all at once. “She was the one who gave me the VD!” After his outburst, Bert looks both deflated and defeated. It seems he has learned the lesson I set out to teach him. I just sit, watch, wait, and continue to eat popcorn in the stillness of the moment, curious to hear what he has to say next.

  Finally, after about a minute, Bert speaks up. “Listen,” he says, “I knew about these entries. They’re wrong. In fact, Betty wrote a letter asking the doctor to correct her record.”

  “Really? That’s helpful. We need to get a copy of that letter because the doctor didn’t make it a part of her permanent chart.”

  “I’ll get it from Betty and if she don’t got a copy I’ll make her write it again, yeah, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “So long as you deal with her in a civil m
anner, that would be fine.”

  “You saying I ain’t civil?” he challenges.

  “Not at all, Bert, not at all. But I’d suggest the five percent is very acceptable in light of these entries. I mean, it’s all in the records, Bert, and I’d hate to see this stuff come out in court. Those VD entries offer the jury the option to give you nothing, and we’re not talking about the schvitzing kind of VD either.”

  “The what kind?” Bert asks.

  “Nothing, Bert,” I respond, underestimating him again.

  “I need to think about this shit. You’re supposed to be my lawyer and you’re fucking forcing me to take, like, nothing while Betty gets it all.”

  “Listen, Bert. I’m new to this case and these entries have been in existence long before I ever got involved. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “Shooting’s not my style,” he says, getting up in a huff.

  I look up at him as he’s standing over me. “I’ll need you to sign these documents should you decide to take the five percent.” I slide the general release and spousal release agreements I had Lily prepare in front of him. “Here. Take them home with you and read them. I’ll answer any questions you have. What it all boils down to is you’ll take five percent in full satisfaction of your claim. No rush. Just think it over. I’m here.”

  Bert grabs the documents and crumples them the way one does when taking anger out on paper. “Fucker, this shit ain’t over,” he grumbles, then stomps out.

  I Love You, Too, Baby

  I open my bird’s-eye-maple built-in and my TV/VCR combo unit awaits me. I thought I’d never use it again after the advent of the CD, but that just goes to show you. I hit the power button and slip in the tape of Suzy’s fifth birthday party. I think this is the first tape I’ve ever played in my office that wasn’t a video surveillance of one of my clients exchanged by defense counsel, showing the HIC performing some activity they testified under oath they could not do.

  The tape begins to play. Suzy is standing in front of a tree in what looks like a public park. She’s an obviously delightful little girl. She has pigtails with yellow bows that match her yellow party dress. She’s still got all her tiny white perfectly aligned baby teeth. She’s standing there as if waiting for something fun to happen. All her expressions exhibit excitement, anticipation, and exuberance. It’s hard to believe I’m looking at the same disabled, deformed child I just left back at Dr. Harper’s office.

  After ten seconds, Suzy speaks in an adorable voice. “Is it on, Mom?” She’s gazing straight at the camera.

  June’s voice responds. “It’s running, honey. Take it away.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Hi, y’all. I’m Suzy Williams and today is my birthday. I’m five years old and we’re having a party to celebrate. I made my mom have it right here in Prospect Park, the most beautiful park in all of Brooklyn. Everybody from my kindergarten class was invited so nobody got their feelings hurt. Not everybody showed up yet, but it’s time to get my party started. We’re gonna play duck, duck, goose, pin the tail on the donkey, and I made a piñata all by myself out of papier-mâché that I filled with the best stuff I just know everybody is gonna love. My mommy is the cameraman and I love her so much for making my party dreams come true. Say hello to everybody in partyland, Mom.”

  The camera moves off Suzy and the image flips around like the camera almost fell. June’s face comes into focus on a superclose close-up as she holds the camera on herself. “I love you, too, baby.” June smiles and wipes away a big tear from underneath her giant-sized false eyelashes. Then the camera flips back around, but not before I’ve noted June and Suzy are wearing matching outfits again. June looks good in yellow.

  “You’re the best mommy. Make sure you tape as much as you can. I want to show my friends that weren’t able to come.”

  I spend the next sixty minutes watching the most incredible five-year-old I’ve ever seen. She’s a superstar. Not only is Suzy well-spoken, but she spends her whole party making sure everyone else is having a good time like a perfect little hostess.

  The tape ends with Suzy standing in front of that big tree again. June’s voice is heard. “I love you, baby!” The tape cuts off.

  I’m numb. The girl in the tape was bright and engaging, filled with a love for life. The Suzy I know is retarded, as crude as that word may sound. Not to mention politically incorrect and insensitive. She’s a severely compromised, brain-damaged, spastic quadriplegic capable of saying only three words.

  After viewing that tape, I have the feeling that Suzy’s hip to her situation. She’s aware that what she is today is not what she once was. Somewhere in her consciousness she recognizes how her life has changed. There’s a condition doctors call locked-in syndrome, and this resembles it in some small degree.

  Two lives were lost when Suzy suffered her “complication.” No amount of money will ever give her or her mother back their worlds, but their quality of life certainly can be improved. From my dealings with children like her who rely on Medicaid, I know they struggle daily just to get the necessaries. If I can make a difference here, I’m going to.

  I hit the eject button and take the tape out while thinking how excited Suzy got when she saw it. She watches it every day. Yeah, she knows about her predicament.

  Acute and Unpredictable

  It’s time to search the records. The entry I’m most concerned about in the Williams file is the one made right before Suzy’s cardiorespiratory arrest or stroke. Or whatever it was.

  I take out the records, place them in front of me, then put the empty file folder on the floor. The top two pages are the Discharge Summary. This narrative typically gets dictated and signed by the attending doctor just after the patient goes home or to the morgue, whichever the case may be. At the time of dictation the doctor is meant to go over the record to incorporate and summarize all the salient medical findings, treatments, and diagnoses. I know for sure that if a medical error has occurred, it is known at the time the Discharge Summary is created. However, by this point in time the doctor has had the opportunity to reflect upon the mistake and so dictates the Discharge Summary from hindsight rather than the initial reactive impulse to the event. Meaning, this lapse in time offers the possibility of creative medical thinking.

  Before I actually begin to read Suzy’s Discharge Summary, I scan it, looking for that configuration of letters that to me is the equivalent of a large pink elephant sitting on the side of a highway. The letters spell “iatrogenic.” Iatrogenic, defined medically, means an injury sustained during the course of medical care.

  Defined nonmedically, it means the doctor fucked up.

  Complication, then, is the word doctors use to explain why the iatrogenic injury occurred. If I ever see either of these words—iatrogenic or complication—I can be sure a defense of the medical error has been set in motion by the doctor and/or the hospital’s Risk Management office during the admission. Risk Management is that department of the hospital that is set up specifically to deal with medical mistakes in the appropriate manner, whatever that may be.

  My scan of Suzy’s Discharge Summary reveals a circus so populated by pink elephants that a cover-up would just be laughable. Starring in the role of top complication is her sickle cell disease. How convenient, but under the circumstances possibly true. I read the summary from beginning to end, noting the many defenses in the case, most of which I’ve heard already from my expert Dr. Laura Smith and that confirm the medical affidavit in defendant’s motion to dismiss papers. Dr. Laura, I note, offers a complication not even referenced in the Discharge Summary—the blood infection.

  The only good news, as far as the case is concerned, is the overall big picture: Suzy presented to the hospital in one condition and left in a vastly different one. She walked in with a fever and was wheeled out with massive brain damage. This is a major point, regardless of whatever complications may have occurred, because the injury claimed is seemingly unrelated to her presenting condition. Also, young people of relati
vely normal health tend to get better with hospital treatment, not worse.

  The Discharge Summary indicates Suzy’s condition deteriorated day to day, going into cardiopulmonary arrest on the morning of hospital day three. I finish reading it and place its two pages facedown. Then I begin going through the record page by page in a quick and methodical manner. The stack on the left begins to shrink as the pile on the right grows.

  I get to a nurse’s entry recorded at seven o’clock in the morning, but before I read it I take the next page off the stack, just to tease myself. Is it the one that documents the event? Yep. I’m excited to see how the moment is going to play out, but I’m willing to wait. You could call it record-reading foreplay.

  The seven o’clock entry is a nurse’s note with an illegible signature, the first letter of which is B. It reads in its entirety as follows:

  Patient be restless. Temperature be up and down all night according to night nurse. Her blood pressure be high and she be breathing fast. See the girl’s vitals chart. Patient says she has headache and sweating. She was comforted by me and mother is at bedside. Doctors on way doing their rounds.

  The event entry is timed at 10:45 A.M. and is authored by the Dr. Valenti whom June spoke of. It was entered into the record by hand after Suzy met with her cardiopulmonary arrest at eight in the morning. It reads in perfectly clear and legible printed handwriting as follows:

  Patient seen by myself (Dr. Gino Valenti) at eight o’clock this morning with hematology residents (Gold, Hassan, Guthrie, Peck, Lim) during rounds. I was the covering physician for Dr. Wise. After review of chart and physical examination continuous cardiac monitoring was ordered by me to monitor the patient’s cardiac condition and vitals, which were of concern. At or about the time the patient was hooked up to the monitor she fell into cardiac arrest. The event was acute and unpredictable. Advanced cardiopulmonary resuscitation was initiated and a code 99 was called (see code sheet for further details). The patient’s heart was electrically stimulated by defibrillation but she was without pulse for eleven continuous minutes (see code vitals chart). After being revived the patient was transferred to the pediatric ICU for further acute care. This author and residents did not witness the onset of the arrest. Cardiac monitoring was being initiated by the on-duty nurse, Nurse M. Braithwait.