Suzy's Case: A Novel Read online

  He stands up and takes a derby off his head. I introduce myself, identifying June as one of my associates, and we take seats. “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Jones,” I say. “I appreciate that your time is valuable, so I’ll get directly to the point. According to a police report I have here, you were a witness to an incident where a poor little boy riding his brand-new bicycle he got as his eighth birthday present was struck by a police car. Do you remember that?”

  “I certainly do,” Mr. Jones states.

  “Great. My client is the unfortunate little boy, who sustained a bad injury to his leg. He may never fully recover, and I’m advised by his mother that the children at school make fun of his limp so much he comes home crying a few times a week. I can only get money for the child’s life-changing and permanent injury if I can show the officer driving the police car did something wrong, like speeding, failing to yield the right of way, going through a red light without his sirens on, or failing to apply his brake mechanism in a timely manner. If he did nothing wrong, then I can’t get this little boy, who happens to live in your community, any money. Do you understand me, Mr. Jones?”

  “I sure do.”

  “Great. So what did the driver of the police car do wrong? Was he speeding, did he beat the red, or what?”

  “Nothing. That boy caused the whole accident. He just rode right out into the street and into the passenger side of the police car as it was driving by.”

  “I see. I guess we really have nothing further to discuss, and I do appreciate you coming here. May I ask, did you tell the lawyers for the police department the same thing?”

  “Yes, I did,” he answers. “I also told them what someone at the accident scene yelled out.”

  “What was that?”

  “After the boy rode into the side of the police car, the officer jumped out to see if he was all right. The boy looked at his mangled bike, then took a boxer’s stance, saying he was going to kick the officer’s f-ing ass for totaling his new bike. That’s when someone at the scene screamed out something, causing the boy to fall to the ground and grab his leg.”

  “I’m following. What did the person scream out?”

  “The man knew the boy by his first name,” Mr. Jones says, “and he screamed out, ‘Hey, Taheem, lay down, you just hit the jackpot!’ ”

  I thank him politely, he makes a comment about the weed smell, then departs, leaving June and me in the conference room. “It appears Taheem isn’t much different from Cornbread Connie,” June comments.

  “I guess not. What’s worse is he’s just a kid.” I shake my head in disgust. “Before taking over these HICs, I never had to deal with this kind of bullshit.”

  “What’s an HIC?”

  “Did I just use the term HIC?”

  “Yes, you did. What’s an HIC?”

  “An HIC is a client that was referred to me from Henry Benson. I call them Henry’s Injured Criminals, or HICs.”

  She looks hurt. “So that’s what I am to you? An HIC?”

  “No, June. Your dead husband with the lengthy criminal record would’ve been the HIC. All I’m saying here is that with HICs I have to investigate my own clients to make sure they have legitimate cases. That’s not why I became an attorney. Besides, it’s frustrating and burdensome, and the worst of it is I’m continually doing a conflict shadow dance. I’m supposed to represent them zealously, but how can I do that when I confirm fraud, then am told by a judge I can’t be relieved as counsel? In effect, I become an enabler for these clients. And then there’s your case, June.”

  “I see what you’re saying about the conflict, but why is my case different for you?”

  “The verbal report from Henry on your case was, and I’ll quote, ‘There is no case.’ Remember this is coming from the guy who goes forward on fraudulent cases. So what am I supposed to believe or do?”

  “You want the answer?” she asks.

  “Sure. What’s the answer?”

  “The answer is you’re a good man at heart. As each situation presents itself, you’ll somehow end up doing the right thing, just the way you’ve agreed to further investigate Suzy’s case. So give it no more thought.”

  “Thank you, June. Now it’s time to see if Dr. Laura, our expert, is going to do the right thing. Come on. We’ve got to get to Brooklyn before noon or we’re going to have a problem.”

  12.

  June and I enter my garage, and I wave down Oscar. “Yo, I got to fly. How ’bout it?”

  “Oye, amigo, momentito,” he replies. “The keys are in the visor.” He points back behind us. We turn around and see that the Eldo has its own private parking spot with no cars next to it, an unusual visual for a city garage.

  “Oh my God, that car is beautiful!” exclaims June. “Trace and the Fidge would love to cruise that.”

  “Thanks, June. It takes a particular kind of person to appreciate it.”

  Making good time, we cross the Manhattan Bridge, right onto Flatbush Avenue, the most direct route. A little bit down, the traffic is backed up, way congested for this time of day. “Damn,” I say as we come to a stop for a red light. I realize this is the first word spoken since we turned out of my garage.

  “What’s the matter?” June asks. I look to her. She has a wide smile, ear to ear, the same one she has been wearing this whole trip.

  “Traffic,” I answer. “What’s the big smile for?”

  “This is my first time in a convertible. I love it. Suzy would love it, too. Look around, everybody is staring at us, pointing and smiling. I’m not used to that—the smiling, that is. With Suzy, everybody stares and points, but nobody smiles, ever. It’s just the opposite. This is a nice change.”

  “I can appreciate that, June.” The light turns green and we slowly cruise down Flatbush toward increasing congestion. Storefront after storefront lines the avenue, with a bodega on every other corner. People are moving in the street, on the sidewalk, everywhere, none of them in a suit, other than me, the bald guy in the Eldo with a sweet cup of hot chocolate in the passenger seat. We stop at another red and the obvious source of the traffic jam is the commotion on the corner. Not a disorderly one—rather it has the type of energy you feel in a casino, where people surround a player who’s hot at a gambling table.

  “A big game of three-card monte,” June says, looking over.

  “What?”

  “Those boys over there got a game of three-card monte going on—you know, a money scam, a short con, where a plant pretends to buddy up with a guy they’ve marked to cheat the dealer while really conspiring with the dealer to cheat the mark.”

  “Thanks for the definition, June. I’m familiar with the card game. I just couldn’t see the box from my vantage point.” I pull up a few feet more to catch a better look.

  “Check the boy with the bills slipped between his fingers. That’s done to cover up his hand tricks with the cards.” I look over and as I do, nothing short of a police raid breaks out initiated by two uniformed cops who snuck around the corner. The kids running the game go flying, as does the dispersing crowd, and the one with the money in his hand heads in our direction, hobbling on a cast.

  It’s none other than Barton Jackson III—Mile High.

  “Yo, yo, yo, it’s my lawyer,” he says, opening June’s door, to her surprise.

  “Yo, scooch over, hurry, scooch over.” June reluctantly complies, the door slams shut, and Barton yells, “Go, go, go, the light’s green.” I make the getaway. The legal term is aiding and abetting.

  “Hello, Barton Jackson the Third,” I say. He looks to June and his brows rise high.

  “Yeah-ya,” I say, “she’s a great-looking woman.” June smiles. Mile High gives a nod of approval.

  “I didn’t know you had a thing for the Nubian princess. This girl’s got it going on,” he says, looking at June with intentions, as if he had a chance. It’s clear she’s not into talk like that.

  “Barton,” I say before June cuts him down, “remember that respect thing we d
iscussed in my office concerning my paralegal, Lily?”

  “Oh yeah, man. She has it going on, too. My lawyer’s a ladies’ man and smokes weed, too,” he says, laughing it up.

  “I don’t smoke pot, Barton! I rent space to … oh, never mind. Anyway, the same respect rule applies here and with every girl you encounter, and you shouldn’t be using your cast as a walking boot. Why don’t you go back to the hospital orthopedic clinic and ask them to change it into one?”

  “ ’Cause I got no ride,” he answers, suggesting. I look at my watch.

  “You’re lucky, we’re heading near there anyway.”

  It turns out Barton Jackson III is a really smart young man. That’s not an observation, that’s a cold hard fact that June surfaced. He’ll be going to college next year, the first in his family to attend, on full academic scholarship. He was running the monte game to raise funds for “uncovered expenses.” That kid, another product from Brownsville, is going to be somebody. He already is. And he and June are hitting it off well. It seems Barton’s little cousin has cerebral palsy and he’s well aware of and sensitive to June’s struggles, which she greatly appreciates. I pull up to his stop.

  “Out you go, Barton.” He and June are exchanging numbers.

  “Now, Barton,” June cautions, “don’t be abusing the privilege. I can’t be getting any late-night calls from an overzealous youth.”

  “Oh, snap, June, nice try. Being the betting man that I am, I’d wager you’ll be the one calling my hotline before I’ll be calling your precious digits.”

  How Did You End Up with a Creep Like Him?

  We arrive at the Smith Pavilion at eleven-fifty-five. I park illegally right in front of the entrance in a space reserved for emergency vehicles instead of in the underground garage. The thirty-five-dollar parking ticket will be a lot cheaper than the two-thousand-dollar-plus loss if we’re a minute late.

  I close the Eldo’s weighty door. “Let’s go, June. We’ve got to roll.” We fast-walk into the building. I hit the button and again my elevator waiting time has potential consequences. The doors open to an empty compartment and I pull June in. She didn’t realize I was going to grab her so as a result loses her balance. She ends up falling into my arms. As she looks up into my eyes there’s what I believe to be a romantic pause, which is ranked way up there in the world of pauses. I lift her up and she shoves me backward.

  “Don’t handle the merchandise,” she cautions. She smoothes out the imaginary wrinkles in her clothing caused by the dip. When she’s done, she looks back over and smiles.

  “We’ll flirt later,” I tell her. “There’s no time for that now.” I hit the fourth-floor button.

  The elevator door opens on four. Directly ahead is the HEMATOLOGY DIVISION, SMITH SICKLE CELL PEDIATRIC CARE CENTER sign with an arrow underneath pointing to the right. We hit the hall floor running. I gain the lead and come to a sliding halt at the entry doors to Hematology. I pull the right door open and we enter.

  Humpty Dumpty is sitting behind the reception desk on his high chair again. “We’re here, Mr. Smith,” I announce.

  He looks at his watch. He cocks his neck around 180 degrees to see the clock hanging on the wall behind him. It reads: 11:59. “You just made it.” Then he nods at June. “Who’s this?”

  “This is my client, the child’s mother, June Williams.”

  “She can’t go in. She’ll have to stay in the waiting area.”

  “I don’t think so,” I tell him firmly. “It’s her case and she has a right to sit in. There’s a Court of Appeals decision on this point. It’s the matter of Homer Simpson, formally cited as 45 New York Supp. Second 419, affirmed 1978 by the Court of Appeals. I’ll have to charge you a hefty cancellation fee for violating June’s right to be present if you don’t let her in.”

  Smith gives way. “She can go in, if my wife does not object, but I need your check before either of you take another step.”

  “Sure.” I pull the check out from my wallet and hand it to him.

  He grabs it like a four-year-old getting a lollipop and inspects it for spelling, grammar, and punctuation. He looks up. “Two thousand two hundred fifty. Very good.”

  He takes leave of us now, clutching the check and scooting down the corridor to his wife’s office.

  June laughs. “Homer Simpson? You got to be kidding me. You could’ve blown the whole thing.”

  “There’s no way a guy like that would know of The Simpsons. He’s too busy counting his nickels.”

  The patient waiting area to our right is filled with little kids presumably with sickle cell. The place does a good business. Smith comes out of his wife’s office and waves us over. “It’s great that your wife is helping all these children,” I say. “And I bet you’re not doing too badly on the receivables, either, judging by the crowd in your waiting area.”

  “We’re the most profitable sickle cell center in the nation,” Smith tells us smugly. “People come from all over to consult with my wife. We have numerous contracts with major institutions to provide hematological services related to sickle cell disease. Plus, we receive grants for the research we do here.”

  “Dr. Laura must be quite a good physician.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but she owes all this to me. I’m her business partner. We own this building. This whole operation, including its high profitability, was my brainchild. Medicine is a business just like anything else, and, done right, it can be a lucrative one.”

  “I see. You’re quite the entrepreneur. I bet you’re the one who developed the distinction between the expedited fee and the rush fee.”

  He beams proudly.

  From inside her room I hear Dr. Laura’s voice. You have to wonder why she settled for this character. Opening her door, she stands there waiting for us. They must have had a fight over something because she looks visibly upset.

  I do the introductions. “Dr. Laura Smith, June Williams.”

  “Please, call me Dr. Laura. Everybody else does.” She extends her hand. As they shake, she places her other hand over June’s and holds it there. “I’m so sorry about the terrible injury your little girl sustained. Sickle cell can be crippling when a crisis gets out of control. If I understand correctly what my husband has told me, your attorney has something new for me to consider that may change my opinion. I hope it does. I want to help.”

  Dr. Laura slowly lets go of June’s hand. “Please, be seated, and let’s get to work. My husband has carved out an hour for us and I mustn’t run over.” She turns to him. “Dear, will you be good enough to close the door, please?”

  He follows her instruction, but to my displeasure remains on the wrong side of the door. “Mr. Smith, please take no offense, but I’ll be divulging confidential communications to your wife. If a third person is present, husband or otherwise, it’ll be considered publishing, which, in effect, makes it lose its privileged status, so I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  “I thought I told you my wife tells me everything.”

  “You did, but her telling you something and you hearing it come from my mouth are two different things.”

  “I don’t see any difference. I don’t want anybody intimidating her into changing her opinions. I think it best I stay.”

  “I can assure you we’re not here to do that. Again, I must ask you to leave.”

  I peek over at Dr. Laura. She knows I’m right but doesn’t dare call her husband wrong. He’s got her number, that’s for sure. Just as I’m about to cave, June, who has been looking intently at Dr. Laura, turns to Smith and speaks up. “Mr. Smith, you’re obviously a very important person around here, and I appreciate the concern you have for your wife. Men as devoted to the marital bond as you are hard to come by. I understand that by leaving the room you feel that you are giving up your ability to care for your wife, so I’m going to promise to keep watch over her. In addition, my lawyer’s going to give you an extra three hundred dollars to compensate you for what you feel you’ll be giving up. Would
cash be acceptable?”

  “I’d feel better about it if the compensation were four hundred.” Smith sniffs. “I feel I’m really giving up a lot here.”

  June turns to me. “Give him the money.”

  “June,” I say quietly, “can I talk to you outside for a moment?”

  “Sure, after you give him the money.”

  “Fine,” I reply. I reach for my wallet and pull out whatever bills are in there. They add up to three hundred eighty-two dollars. I look at Smith. “Give me a moment. I always keep some emergency funds in my bag.” I search six different compartments and come up with another six dollars and forty-seven cents. I turn back to him. “Would you accept three hundred eighty-eight dollars and forty-seven cents as payment in full?”

  “I’ll accept that now as partial payment,” he says in an officious manner, “but you’ll have to promise to promptly make up the difference.”

  “I promise.”

  He takes the money out of my hand and looks at his wife. “Laura, I’ll be back at reception if you need me. Remember, don’t go over the hour, or should I say the fifty minutes you have left.”

  Dr. Laura looks back at him affectionately. “I won’t, dear. Thank you for your concern.” Smith departs, still reluctant but clutching my money. During their exchange I note that her diplomas are still on the floor leaning against the wall face forward. As I’m thus prevented from ascertaining her medical training, I remind myself to ask for her CV again.

  “I must apologize,” she tells us. “My husband is very protective of me. Sometimes I feel honored, and sometimes I feel like he’s protecting his investment. Either way, I wouldn’t be where I am today without his business skills and the way Steven manages my life so I can concentrate on my patients.”

  “He manages your life?” I ask. That she admits this seems a little odd.