Suzy's Case: A Novel Read online

  My sister answers for her. “She discharged herself against medical advice. Again.”

  “Good move, Mom,” I tell her. “They’ve got to love you for doing that, giving them a complete defense, knowing I’m a malpractice lawyer. Now what are we here to discuss?”

  “I called you children here so we can plan my funeral.” My sister and I give each other a look and I crack a smile. “What’s so funny?” Mom asks.

  “Nothing’s funny about you dying and all,” I reply. “You just have a funny way of going about it.”

  “Well, I’ve finally accepted this is the end of the road for me and I want to make sure things go smoothly.”

  “Okay, we’re listening.”

  “First of all, who do you think we should invite to the funeral?”

  “Mom, it’s not a bar mitzvah, for God’s sake.”

  “I know, but I just think there should be a guest list. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been to a funeral and someone’s not there who I know should be. I don’t want that to happen to you. I want my children to know who snubbed their mother. I mean, I’m not asking you to make our guests RSVP. I just think sending out an invitation is enough.”

  “Um, okay, Mom. Just check the names of the people whom you want us to invite in your address book and we’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Good,” Mom says, satisfied. She turns to my sister. “Now, what do you think I should wear?”

  I cut in. “Does it matter? We’re Jews, for Christ’s sake. The casket’s going to be closed. What’s the difference?”

  “Of course it matters,” Mom insists. “It’s technically a formal occasion so black’s appropriate. I want to be dressed in proper attire even if I’m not going to be seen. I’ll know the difference.”

  “How will you know the difference? You’ll be dead.”

  “If I don’t pick out an outfit now, I’ll know the difference while I’m still alive and that’s the point. Well, honey? What should I wear?”

  “Why don’t you wear that black velvet jacket with the red Chinese embroidered flowers you love so much,” Rachael suggests.

  “Oh, I was thinking of that, too, but it’s too good a piece to be buried in and I wanted you to have it. Maybe you guys can dress me in it for the service at the funeral home and then take it off my back before we head to the cemetery.”

  “You’re kidding, right, Mom?” I ask.

  “No, but I guess it does seem like it’s too much trouble. Rachael, why don’t you take it home with you tonight and then you can wear it to my funeral instead of me.”

  Rachael looks at me, then back at Mom. “Uh, good idea, Mom, I’ll do that.”

  “Fine, then.” Mom turns to me. “Are you free Friday?”

  “I can try to be. Why?”

  “I’ll have recovered enough by then to leave the house and I want you to take me to Bergdorf’s to get me something to wear to my funeral.”

  “Bergdorf Goodman’s?”

  “Of course. Where else would I go to get something to be buried in?”

  “Fine. We’ll go to Bergdorf’s so we can bury you in a nice new outfit.”

  My phone rings and I look at the caller ID. It reads: PRIVATE CALLER, which is not private anymore but rather June Williams. I hit the ignore button despite my promise to be more sensitive to her situation. A few moments later, it rings again. She’s stubborn. It happens twice more before I shut it off altogether. Client obligations or not, I don’t want to interrupt my mom’s funeral-planning session.

  We don’t have long to wait before she tackles the next item on her agenda. “Now, I’d like there to be a nice obituary written. Who’s going to take care of that?”

  “I’m really busy now,” I offer, perhaps a tad too quickly, “investigating a case where a little girl went from perfectly healthy to perfectly brain damaged in a matter of minutes. I’m a little tight on time.”

  “Well, I’m tight, too,” my sister says. “At least you work for yourself.”

  I look at my mother. “You have some time on your hands right now, Mom. How about you write a draft and I’ll mark it up before it goes to press?”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  When it comes to her bio, we all know she prefers creativity to hard fact. Great art dealer, yes. But we all know she didn’t discover Picasso as a child, despite her tale otherwise. The timing isn’t even right. So even if I’m going to be the editor, it doesn’t hurt to remind her. “Now, no fudging—”

  Suddenly, the intercom rings. Mom grabs it. “Send it up.”

  “Send what up?” Rachael asks.

  “I ordered in Thai. It just seemed the right kind of food for the occasion. Plus, I have no appetite these days, but for some reason was craving Thai.”

  “You can’t eat,” I advise her. “They just took out two pieces of your colon the other day. You’ll perf yourself and end up with a colostomy bag.”

  “Oh, please. I’m not really going to eat. I’m just going to put the food in my mouth and absorb the flavor.”

  The bell rings. I answer the door and pay the guy. I hand my sister the two brown paper bags inside the two white plastic bags, and she carries them over to the table. I try to remember the last time the three of us had a meal together like a real family.

  Just then the intercom rings again. I go to answer but Mom says, “I got it.” She listens to the doorman. “No, I don’t know who that is. Sorry.” She listens a little more. “One moment,” she says, turning to me. “Tug, are you expecting a June Williams?”

  “Uh, no. Why?”

  “Because she’s here and claiming it’s urgent she see you.”

  “Urgent? Sound familiar, Mom? Okay, tell him to tell her I’ll be right down.”

  “Too late. She’s on her way up. She gave Antonio the slip.”

  I sigh.

  “Who’s June Williams?”

  “That’s the case I’m working on. Right now I’m in the middle of trying to figure out whether there was malpractice or if her daughter’s brain damage resulted from a sickle cell crisis.”

  “Treat her nicely. She’s been through a lot.”

  “I intend to, Mom. But I’m allowed to feel irked about my situation, which I don’t want to get into.”

  I peek out the door, waiting for the elevator. I hear a ding and June comes walking down the hall, looking hotter than ever.

  I step out and close the door. “Uh, hi, June. Nice red, white, and blue outfit you’re wearing. How patriotic.”

  “What can I say, I was inspired by Lady Liberty this morning.”

  “I am curious. Could you enlighten me as to how you knew I was at my mother’s and how you knew where my mother lived?”

  “Sure. I came into the city hoping I’d find you at your office because I wanted to talk to you about something. I thought you’d be there because your number came up on my missed call list. When I went up, your doors were locked. I thought you were still in there so I called your office number but the machine picked up. I hung up and tried again, still no luck. I was desperate to talk to you, so I called a third time, and when the machine answered, instead of leaving a message I entered your birthday for the security code. It worked and I listened to your messages and heard the one from your mother. And not that it’s my business, but if she’s sick, then you should be the one checking up on her, not the other way around. Anyway, so I called information and she was the only Adele with your last name. So here I am.”

  Wow, she’s good. “How did you know my date of birth?”

  “Well, when Mr. Benson told me he was transferring my file to you, the first thing I did was look you up in the New York State Bar Association directory to see when your birthday was so I could establish your zodiac sign. I need to know zodiacs. I’m just like that.”

  “You’re something, June. Your resourcefulness is scaring me.”

  “I had to find you tonight because I got a man-genius who can look at the wire and patch for us except that he’s
leaving for South Carolina on an early-morning flight. So we have to see him tonight at his junkyard in Brooklyn.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m busy at this moment planning my mother’s funeral with her.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry about your mom. Is she going to die soon?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. According to her doctors, she should’ve been dead years ago. They can’t give her a life expectancy because they’ve never seen a case like hers. She’s basically living with bits and pieces of her vital organs.”

  “It’s sweet of you to make the plans with her. I’ll wait downstairs, and when you’re finished we’ll go.”

  “You’re not going downstairs. You’re coming inside or I haven’t heard the last of it from my mother.” We go inside. “Mom, Rachael, I present my favorite client, June Williams.”

  Mom yells to us from the table. “Hi, June. Come sit down. We waited for you two. There’s plenty here for everybody.”

  “Thank you so much for your hospitality,” June says courteously. “I’m so sorry I barged in like this. Your son told me in the hall. I hope things aren’t too painful for you.”

  “Now, that’s quite all right,” Mom assures her. “How would you know we were planning my funeral? Unfortunately, things have become painful. I’m on the patch now—you know, morphine. It’s the first step on your way out. Still, it’s better than the pump, which I know is coming next.”

  “I’m so sorry. Yes, I know about the patch. My mother passed from cancer. She was an unusual case. She had both breast and ovarian cancer at the same time.”

  “I can’t believe that!” Mom exclaims. “She was one of us! A Thirty-Eight Special!”

  “A Thirty-Eight Special? You mean like—”

  “Not the gun, although it’s deadly. You see there’s a group of thirty-eight women—most dead now—who have something wrong with a particular gene that triggers breast and ovarian cancer simultaneously.”

  “Oh my God. I never heard of that,” responds June.

  “It’s a recent discovery. Who knows how many there were in the past. How old was she when she died?”

  “Young, twenty-six. I was just a child. And as I understand it, breast and ovarian cancer were rare in a woman her age. But we stayed strong, my father and I. He was devoted to me, but fell victim to an act of violence, shot dead when I was twelve. My aunt took me in after that until I was old enough to be on my own. I know you didn’t ask me all that, but I’m just saying. It came to mind,” she finishes, glassy-eyed, with a tone of sorrow in her voice.

  Mom turns to me. She’s a champion of sorts in transitioning away from a sad moment given all she has gone through. “You better win the case for June’s daughter or expect to hear from me! I’m going to stay alive as long as it takes to make sure you do your job right. By the way, June, I love your handbag, and the boots, too.”

  “Thank you so much, Adele,” June tells her. They beam at each other. Mom dishes out pad Thai and basil chicken onto everybody’s plate and we eat.

  After dinner, my sister and I watch June and my mother bond. My mother gives June the recipe for her famous salmon mousse in exchange for June’s cheddar-corn soufflé. All of the funeral planning stopped after June arrived, but for some reason the salmon mousse recipe brings us full circle.

  “We still have to talk about what you’re going to serve at my shiva,” Mom says thoughtfully. “I’m going to make a couple of my salmon mousses just before the end so you can put them out with the buffet. I like the idea of cooking for my mourners.”

  CD Orange 45

  June and I leave just after midnight. “May I get you a cab?” the white-gloved doorman asks.

  “Yes, please,” I say.

  “No, thank you,” June overrides me. “We don’t need one.”

  I turn to her. “Okay, then. How are we going to get to Brooklyn?”

  She responds with a wave. The 1962 black Impala bubble top with the checkered flag badge on the front grille comes roaring toward us from down the block. You can hear the cylinders scream through the stainless dual exhaust pipes as it accelerates. Its tires screech as it slides up to the curb and stops abruptly.

  The doorman jumps back, eyeballing the plate. “What’s ‘the Fidge’?” he asks.

  “The Fidge,” I reply, “is not a what, it’s a who. He takes care of things that need taking care of around the hood and keeps his peeps safe. Right, June?”

  “Right, counselor,” she confirms with a wink.

  I hear superloud gangsta music emanating through the smoked-out windows of the Impala. Under the SS badge on the side fender the number 409 appears, signifying the cubic size of the engine. It has aftermarket Cragar mag wheels with redline tires flared by chromed curb feelers. I see the passenger-side window slowly descend into the doorframe, allowing the music to make a blasting escape. Passersby slow their pace and stare at the menacing piece of 1960s muscle.

  A large black man with a shaved head and a full, neatly trimmed beard is leaning toward the passenger side. He speaks commandingly as he throws the door open of the Fidge’s lowrider. “Get in.” It’s the same guy who picked June up after we ate our dogs in front of the courthouse.

  June looks at me. “This is my friend Trace. He’s going to take us to Fred’s. It’s safer to go with Trace in the neighborhoods we’re going to travel through than in a taxi.”

  “Trace, like in Trace Adkins, the famous country singer?”

  “Uh, no,” June replies. “More like ‘if anyone messes, they’re gonna disappear without a trace’ Trace.”

  “Hmm. I see.” I look in at the colossus behind the wheel. “Good evening, Trace.”

  “It’s morning,” he informs me in a slow, deep voice.

  “I stand corrected, Trace. Good morning.” I reach down and pick up the chrome release lever allowing the front passenger seat to fold forward so I can get in the back, observing as I do that the interior is a sea of red. There are high-grade custom red leather seats stitched in the original pattern, red carpet, door panels, and dash. Even the fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror are red.

  June gets in the front. “Thanks for waiting, Trace.”

  He responds with a gentlemanly nod.

  The doorman watches as we ready ourselves for takeoff. Trace catches his attention waving him over. He makes his way around to the driver’s side and bends down. Trace shoots up two fingers with a twenty wedged between. “Compliments of the Fidge.”

  The doorman stops his nervous shaking and slowly takes the bill. “Please tell the Fidge I say thank you.”

  “Yeah,” Trace says pleasantly, then peels away from the curb with the doorman standing street side.

  “June, can I see the wire and patch, please?” I ask over the interior rumble.

  Her hand disappears into her bag and she pulls out the wire. This has been one long-ass day, and it ain’t over yet. I wish I were home right about now. Home! Crap! My wife. I forgot to call and tell her I had to go to my mother’s and wouldn’t be home for dinner. I’m in deep mud. If I call now and wake her from her precious sleep I’ll be in deeper, waist high. But if I don’t call and tell her of my whereabouts, the mud will act as quicksand. I pull out my phone.

  “Who you calling?” June asks on the third ring.

  “My wife.”

  “Hang up. You don’t have to—”

  “Shush,” I say, putting my index finger to my lips.

  “Did you just shush me? I know you didn’t just shush me. Nobody shushes me—”

  I hold my finger up to my lips. For a second or two this compounds her anger, but then June smiles. “Okay, be that way. Call your wife.”

  Tyler answers in a sleepy, annoyed voice, “What?”

  “It’s me. Sorry, honey. I’ve been running around and forgot to call you to say I wouldn’t be home for dinner. I had to go to my mom’s to plan her funeral and now I’m in a gangsta lowrider heading to the hood to meet an electrical expert at his junkyard.”

  As u
sual, she’s full of questions. “Plan a funeral? Gangsta lowrider? Meet an expert? At a junkyard in the hood?” She pauses, but only briefly. “You’re an asshole. Don’t call here so late ever again!” Click.

  “That didn’t go over so well,” I comment as I stuff my phone away.

  June laughs. “Domestic problems?”

  “You might say that.” She hands me the patch and wire.

  “White girls. She’s got to understand you’re a hardworking man and you got the power to change people’s lives. That’s a big responsibility. If you don’t win our case, me, Suzy, and Dog will be stuck forever, dependent on the system—and the system doesn’t work.”

  “I really don’t know how to respond to that, June. I’d like to believe my wife understands how important a lawsuit can be for a person in your circumstance.”

  “It’s probably just another payday to her. I’m sure she just wants to know if you won. Bet she never asked you how winning your case changed somebody’s life, did she?”

  “I’m not really sure she has, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know or care.”

  “We’ll see. After you win this one for us, we’ll pay her a visit and set things straight if they need setting straight.”

  “That might not be a bad idea. On the other hand, it might be a really bad idea.”

  I look up at the bubble-shaped ceiling, which I know to be one of the unique design features of the 1962 Impala. Cool. I take in the red-and-white houndstooth pattern and see there’s a courtesy light on the ceiling. I reach up and click it on, sending light into my lap right where I’m holding the stolen goods.

  The stainless steel lead wire is three feet long, an eighth of an inch thick, and is covered with clear plastic coating. At one end there’s an inch-long metal prong that I know from my visit to Dr. Vargas’s office gets inserted into a housing attached to a cable that leads to the heart monitor. I bring the prong up to the light for closer inspection and see a bunch of black spots on the shiny steel wire inside the plastic right where the prong exits the coating. At the other end, there’s a smaller prong still attached to the patch by being inserted into a tiny metal receptor that protrudes from the center of the patch. I look at its flip side, the part placed on Suzy’s chest, and see some kind of substance residue. The residue on the patch at one end and the spots inside the plastic coating on the other are the only presumed abnormalities I see.