Suzy's Case: A Novel Page 20

  I enter my garage and see Oscar. “Don’t bury it. I’ll need access at a moment’s notice.”

  As I walk out of the garage I get a call on my cell. Before I get to say hello, I hear an irate Lily. “Bert Beecher just called and wants to talk to you. He said it’s important. When I told him you weren’t in, he asked me where you were, but I didn’t tell him.”

  “Good job. That HIC is a loose cannon.”

  “I know. He asked for your cell number, and I told him I couldn’t give it out.”

  “Good job again.”

  “I know. He wasn’t very happy about it. I had to spend a few minutes trying to calm him down. I told him you’d call him on his cell in ten minutes. Here’s the number.” She gives it to me.

  “Try not to have much interaction with Bert Beecher. You never know what’s going to set that guy off.”

  “I didn’t sign up for this HIC shit,” Lily notes, then hangs up.

  I dial Beecher and he picks up. “What da ya want?”

  “Bert, it’s me, Tug Wyler, your new attorney. What’s up?”

  “Oh yeah, you. You’re a motherfucker for doing what you did to me the other day.”

  I play innocent. “What’re you talking about?”

  “You know what the fuck I’m talking about! You know real well. I don’t take kindly to humiliation.”

  “Bert, we were just dealing with what’s in Betty’s medical records. I didn’t intend to humiliate you,” I tell him in my defense.

  “There’s no other kind of humiliation but intentional, motherfucker.” The line goes dead.

  Bert has busted me. I admit it and embrace my error. A slip I should not have made because Henry warned me about this guy’s smarts. I promptly make a couple of mental notes: 1) Don’t act superior to HICs or anyone else, and 2) If you’re going to humiliate someone, be clear to whoever it is that you’re trying to humiliate him because, as Bert correctly pointed out, there’s no other kind. He’ll calm down and come to his senses. I hope.

  I arrive at my building and I detect a whiff of marijuana in the elevator on my ride up. The closer I get to my floor, the closer I feel I am to the source. I open the door to my office suite and sitting on the couch is a burnout puffing on a doobie. I thought those guys were away.

  “Hey!” I scream at him. He’s slow to react. “You can’t smoke that in here! This is a law office.”

  “Sorry, dude, I thought this was TOKE—you know, the magazine.”

  “Well it is,” I hesitate to admit, “but you still can’t smoke that in here. It’s illegal, especially within a law office.”

  “Dude, how we going to get weed legalized if we’re so uptight about smoking it?”

  “Put it out! Now!” He sees I mean business and complies.

  As I pass Lily, I bark, “You got to enforce the ‘no smoking’ rule, and please bring a pad and follow me right now.”

  I enter my office, put my bag down, sit at the desk, and wait. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. No Lily.

  I buzz her. “Lily, what’s up? I need to dictate.” I hang up the phone without waiting for a reply. I mean business. I’ve got a lot of things on the agenda. I’ve got purpose and passion running through my vessels.

  I wait two more minutes, which seem like ten. Still no Lily. I get up and go out to her station and see she’s on the phone. As I approach, she gives me the international sign for “wait a minute.” I am not happy. “No. In my office, now!”

  She speaks into the phone. “I got to go. My boss is being an ass.” This comment is intended for me.

  I shake my head, turn around, and walk back toward my office.

  “I don’t get it. What’s with you?” I ask when she enters. “I told you to come in my office immediately.”

  “Yes, you did, but you didn’t say ‘good morning’ first or give me any other type of appropriate greeting.”

  I am incredulous. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I kid you not. I demand a proper greeting.”

  “Look, the Suzy Williams case has taken a turn in our direction, and I have a lot to do. I don’t have time for pleasantries. I’m facing a motion to dismiss here.”

  Lily casually sits back like she couldn’t care less. “I suggest you make the time for pleasantries or find another paralegal.”

  “Oh my God! Okay. Good morning, Lily. There, was that better?”

  Lily comes back to attention. “That was fine, but don’t make me ask next time. Now what do you want?”

  “I’m going to dictate a list of things for you to do and it’s critical that you do each task immediately. Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “Number one,” I begin. “Letter to Judge Schneider requesting the pending motion to dismiss the Williams case be adjourned for an additional thirty days. Number two—”

  Lily cuts in. “Hold on a minute. Slow down. Okay. Number o-n-e. Letter to who?”

  “You’re kidding me, right? You only got the first word down?”

  “That’s right. I told you when you hired me I hate taking dictation. I got a slow hand. You’ve known this for years.”

  “Just forget it, then. I’ll send you an email.”

  “Good. Will that be all, sir?”

  “No. Please don’t say I’m an ass to other people even if you feel that way. It’s very inappropriate.”

  “Don’t be an ass and I won’t say you’re one.” Lily sticks her pen behind her ear, gets up, and walks out. She’s making my wife look good. I pull my keyboard over and begin typing:

  1. Letter to Judge Leslie Schneider on the Williams matter requesting a thirty-day adjournment on defendant’s motion to dismiss.

  2. Call June Williams up immediately and tell her I’m hoping to see our medical expert today sometime after one. Ask her if she could please come to the office before then and bring the wire and patch with her so Dr. Laura Smith can look at them.

  3. Do an Internet search and identify every single manufacturer, wholesaler, and retailer for cardiac-monitoring machines that did business in New York for the ten-year period prior to Suzy’s date of occurrence. Send out the following letter, certified mail, to each one and direct it to the attention of their legal department. Dear Sir or Madam: Please be advised this law office represents a little girl who was electrocuted and sustained severe brain damage as a result of your negligence. The cause was a defective cardiac monitor you placed into the stream of commerce at the Brooklyn Catholic Hospital of New York. Your failure to respond within seven days from this date shall result in the formal institution of legal proceedings against you and negative media attention about your product and practices.

  4. Do a Notice for Discovery & Inspection and serve it on Winnie McGillicuddy. I’m hoping to get some documentation on the hospital’s use of heart monitors. It should read: Plaintiff hereby demands to discovery and will inspect any and all documentation, writings, charts, records, memoranda, inscriptions, notes, letters, notices, emails, interoffice communications, third-party communications, scratch pads, crib notes, Post-its, and any and all other writings heretofore not specifically delineated maintained in the ordinary course of business of the Brooklyn Catholic Hospital in general and the Engineering Department in particular that possess, contain, and/or allude to information relative to the proper and/or improper use, application, connection, disconnection, patient preparation, and otherwise general use of cardiac-monitoring machines and devices including, but not limited to, circumstances that may result in electric shock and/or electrocution of a hospital patient.

  Before hitting the send button, I finish by writing, “Lily, I typed this really fast so clean it up and make it look lawyer-like.” I send the email on its way.

  My Hunch Is She’s an N in the Making

  I open my drawer and pull out a little blue address book with maroon trim. It contains contact information for all the medical experts I’ve ever used over the course of my career. They are the key to my success and have paid for enough
tennis lessons to improve my wife from a 2.0 player to a 4.0 rank. The book is thumb-indexed for each letter, A to Z, so entries can easily be made alphabetically by last name. However, I’ve organized experts according to medical specialty.

  I run my finger down the side tabs and stop at the letter N for neurology. I may need to call Dr. Mickey Mack, a rogue physician and my go-to guy. His license was suspended because of his drug problem, but it didn’t cut into his income because he’s a self-made millionaire. He developed ouchless medical tape, patented the idea, and sold it for a bundle. I enter his number into my cell phone just in case I need to call him later for guidance.

  In my book the letter S appears next to Mick’s name, which, according to my key code, stands for “suspended license.” It’s the only S in my book. I crossed out the letter P and the number 15 when I entered that S.

  My code works like this: the letter N stands for a negative review on a case. The letter P stands for a positive review, meaning the expert doctor, on his evaluation of a matter I submitted, found malpractice took place. If a name has three N’s next to it, I’ll never use that doctor again, on the assumption he’s antimalpractice.

  Next to the N or P is a number between 3 and 15 that signifies a rating assessing how well the doctor testified or performed in court. The number range of the point system is based on the Glasgow Coma Scale, or GCS. It’s a neurological scoring system devised to give an objective way of recording the conscious state of a person after a head trauma. A GCS score of 3 means the expert was unconscious or completely sucked on the witness stand, and a score of 15 means the expert was alert, oriented, responsive, and an excellent court witness.

  Using the tabs again, I stop at the letter H, for hematology. The last entry there is Dr. Laura Smith, whom I entered before I went to see her. I place a straight vertical line next to Dr. Laura’s name. I hope to convert it into a P for positive review after our unscheduled meeting today but have an unsettling feeling that’s not going to happen. My hunch is she’s an N in the making.

  After entering Dr. Laura into my cell, I dial her on my office line. On the third ring a familiar voice answers. “Smith Sickle Cell Pediatric Care Center. Steven Smith, director, speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Hi. This is Tug Wyler, the lawyer on the Suzy Williams matter. The doctor reviewed the case, and I was in a few days ago.”

  “Yes, with your dog. How can I help you?”

  “I need to meet with your wife again.”

  “It’s my understanding she turned down the case.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but—”

  He interrupts. “Why don’t you just accept that there’s no case, Wyler?” Called by my last name, I hate that. “To my understanding, your client sustained a terrible complication from her sickle cell disease. That happens, you know.”

  “Yes, thank you for sharing, but I need to speak to your wife again. Her opinion was based on what she had before her and I have something new to add to the equation that I think might change her mind. She told me to let her know if there were any new developments, so that’s why I’m calling.”

  “You can tell me,” he says primly, “and I’ll relay this new information to my wife—I mean the doctor.”

  “I’d be more comfortable discussing it directly with her, if you don’t mind. And in person. I don’t like to talk about important legal matters over the phone.”

  “Okay. But I just want you to know my wife shares everything with me. I suggest you tell me and I’ll tell her. Then she can decide if she wants to see you, with my input, of course.”

  I am getting annoyed. “Maybe you didn’t understand me. I don’t want to talk about it over the phone.”

  “Oh, I understood you just fine. Please don’t take that tone with me.”

  “Listen, your wife is my expert. I have some new information that will help my client. I need to see the doctor to discuss privileged matters. I sense you’re being obstructive. Now, if there is a problem, just let me know and I’ll act accordingly.”

  “It’s just that she’s had two looks at it, and I don’t like pushy lawyers trying to take advantage of her helpful nature,” Smith all but snarls.

  “That’s completely understandable,” I say, keeping my temper. “But I assure you I just want to share the new information with her to see if it changes her opinion. That’s all.”

  He takes a long pause. “Fine. She can see you tomorrow at five. Bring another check in the sum of one thousand seven hundred fifty dollars for the expedited appointment.”

  “I need to see her today.”

  “Are you saying it’s a rush?” Smith asks. I know this is a loaded question but have no choice.

  “If needing to see her today is a rush,” I answer, “then yes, it’s a rush.”

  “Hold on a second. Let me look in the book.” I detect a hint of glee in his voice. “Okay. You can see her today at noon, but I’ll have to charge you the rush fee.”

  “Is that something different from the five hundred extra you tacked on for the expedited fee?”

  “Oh yes. Expedited means twenty-four hours’ notice. Rush is a same-day appointment. That’s five hundred dollars more so it’s going to cost you one thousand for the rush, seven fifty for the hour of time, and another five hundred for my wife’s—I mean the doctor’s—time away from patients. That makes the total two thousand two hundred and fifty dollars for the hour. And just like an expedited appointment, that money is gone one minute into the meeting. If you’re not here before noon, I’ll consider you missed the appointment and you’ll be billed anyway since I’m setting the time aside. Those terms are nonnegotiable. Are they satisfactory?”

  Absolutely not. No fucking way. “Pencil me in.”

  “See you at noon, then. Bring a certified check, Mr. Wyler.”

  “Certified check? Why do I have to get it certified?”

  “Because this case has already been turned down once on initial review and then a second time when you came here before. I don’t want to chase you for the money when it gets turned down for a third time. So, a certified check or no appointment.” Click.

  “Greedy fuck,” I say aloud as I slam down my phone. I look up and see June standing within the frame of my office door. God, she looks amazing. “Hi. What’s up? I just told Lily to call you to bring in the wire and patch so I can take them to my expert in a little bit. I hope you have them.”

  “I have them. Is my lawyer smoking weed? I can’t have you smoking weed while working on my case.”

  “No, June, I’m not smoking weed. My subtenants are TOKE, the marijuana magazine, or should I say civil rights group. One of their people lit up in the entry. You probably passed the guy on the entry couch.”

  “No one was on that couch when I came in, but as long as it’s not you, I’m fine. What time are we going?”

  “There’s no need for you to come along. I can handle it.”

  “You telling me you still don’t realize how important this is?”

  “I know, June. I’m sorry. I’d love to have you come with me.”

  “Now that’s a good lawyer.” She walks into my office, sits down, leans back, puts her boots up on my desk, folds her arms across her lean stomach, and smiles.

  I nod at her feet. “Nice boots.”

  “Thanks.” The conversation stops there.

  It’s my turn to talk, but I’m looking to avoid an uncomfortable pause situation just now.

  “Can I ask you something?” I say quickly. “Did you call my wife yesterday and tell her you were a new girl in my office and that I’d be coming home late?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I tried, but you shushed me.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “I guess you won’t be shushing anyone again anytime soon now, will you?”

  I shake my head in answer to her question. “Listen, at ten o’clock I have a witness coming here on another Henry Benson case
. I need to take a statement, then we’ll go right after.”

  “What kind of Benson case? Medical malpractice?”

  “No. This one’s an eight-year-old who was struck by a cop car while riding his bicycle. The officer said in the police report that the child rode out between parked cars and into the passenger side of the squad car and that there was nothing he could do to avoid the accident. My eight-year-old client says the officer went through a red light without any sirens on or lights flashing and hit him while he was in a crosswalk. I’m hoping this witness, who’s listed on the back of the police report, can corroborate my client’s version.”

  “Did the officer who hit the kid also make out the police report?”

  “That’s a very astute question. Yes, the officer who hit the kid also made out his own police report. I’m certain there must be some policy or procedure against such a practice.”

  “You’re wasting your time. The officer wouldn’t have listed the witness if the witness wasn’t on his side.”

  “You’re probably right, but I have to carry out my due diligence.”

  “Can I sit in?”

  “Sure, but please, just observe. Don’t say anything—and I mean it this time.”

  June raises her right hand as if swearing an oath. “I’ll keep my mouth shut, I promise.”

  “Good. I have a particular approach when I’m meeting with a nonparty witness who I believe is going to say something against my client’s interest.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I try to appeal to their human side.”

  Lily buzzes. “The witness on the Taheem Thomas case just arrived. I put him in the conference room. He’s waiting for you.”

  I look at June. “Time to work the witness. Come on.”

  We enter and find an elderly black man sitting at the far end of the conference table. He has a well-groomed white beard and mustache, which alone give him a dignified presence. He’s in a three-piece suit I imagine he has worn to Sunday church for the last thirty years. A silver chain hangs flat against his vest ending in a pocket at the end of which no doubt is an antique watch that his father passed on to him. And he smells like the aftershave fragrance you smell when you walk the beauty aids aisle that runs through the center of Bloomingdale’s. My take on this guy: he is elegant and respectful.