Suzy's Case: A Novel Read online

  “Are you going to tell me something I don’t already know? What’s our theory of recovery, then, if not that?”

  “I believe this unfortunate little girl was electrocuted by an inexperienced nurse. She placed an electrode patch on Suzy’s chest, connected the lead wire to that, then plugged the child into an extension cord connected to a wall outlet she mistook for the monitor’s cable.” There’s silence, and I’m actually not certain if it’s a pause or not.

  I’m about to do the “Hello, hello?” thing myself when Benson finally speaks.

  “What the devil are you talking about? I don’t recall anything like that in the hospital records.”

  “That’s because it’s not in the hospital records. It’s nowhere to be found, but I have the mechanism of electrocution in my possession, which is a cardiac-monitoring lead wire and electrode patch. I had them tested by an electrical expert named Fred Sanford and he was the one who came up with this conclusion. It’s based on hard evidence. That’s the best kind, although everything else surrounding this theory is still circumstantial at this point.”

  Benson is confused. “Fred Sanford? Isn’t that the name of that comedian on that show with the junkyard?”

  “The character, not the comedian. Anyway, my Fred Sanford owns a junkyard, too.”

  Benson shifts from confused to concerned. “Are you feeling all right? This sounds ridiculous.”

  “Oh, I’m fine, perfectly fine. Your instincts were right about there being a malpractice case here but wrong about what the malpractice was.”

  “What did I tell you about pointing out to me when I was wrong?” Benson asks, although it seems like a command in question form.

  “Never to do it?” I answer.

  “That’s right. So don’t do it again. I’m glad you found a case here. That’s why I hired you. Is there anything else? I want to get back to my pumpkin pie.”

  “Yes, there’s something else. I need to know how you found the expert on the case, Dr. Laura Smith.”

  “Why is that important?”

  “Because I discussed the wire, the patch, the electrical expert, and the scar on Suzy’s chest with Dr. Laura, as she likes to call herself, and she and her control freak husband weren’t receptive in the way I’d expect an expert for the plaintiff to be. Before I continue with her, I just want to know a little more about her. The place to start is how she got involved in the case.”

  Benson pauses, but I’ve lost count of the pauses by now. “My recollection is that she was referred to me by another doctor.”

  “Who was this other doctor?”

  “After the girl sustained her injury, the mom switched her care to another hospital and a different group of doctors. I believe it was one of her subsequent treating doctors that made the referral to this expert. In fact, I’m sure it was, but I don’t recall the doctor’s name.”

  “Hm, okay. Got to go. Enjoy your pie.”

  Henry Benson is so good at keeping criminals out of jail and so bad at understanding the dos and don’ts of handling a medical malpractice case. Although the rule is not absolute, you never want to rely on a subsequent treating doctor or a referral from a subsequent treater to be your expert in a malpractice case. First of all, many patients are referred to a subsequent treating doctor by their prior doctor or group who is the malpractice offender. If this is the case, then obviously the two know each other and the bias is inherent. Second, the prior and subsequent treaters are likely to know each other if their specialty is the same—especially if they’re practicing within a close geographic proximity—and that influences things as well. Moreover, if the subsequent treater commits malpractice during the patient’s care, the only reason the subsequent treater would point the finger at the prior treater would be to transfer responsibility away from his own mistake.

  Furthermore, at the time of trial the subsequent treating doctor will be cautious not to say something on the record that one day could come back to bite him in the ass if a similar act of malpractice is committed in the future. Last, by hiring such a doctor or a referral from such a doctor as your expert, you may find there’s a high probability that he is unfamiliar with the medical-legal process, and there’s no room for inexperience in this game.

  It’s possible Dr. Laura Smith falls into one of these categories. Or maybe she’s hesitant for other reasons not yet known. The fact of the matter is that when I told Dr. Laura I had hard proof that Suzy Williams was electrocuted, she should’ve been all over it. Instead, she hesitated, resisted, and then her obnoxious husband made his play to get their own electrical expert’s review. This all makes no sense to me, even given the guy’s control-freakism. In addition, Dr. Laura found more complications from the sickle cell crisis than are documented in the hospital record or even in defendant’s expert’s affidavit in support of the motion to dismiss, which I also find curious.

  Stay Conscious

  I leave the office and stop in a newsstand downstairs. I pick up two six-inch Avo cigars, one for the journey home and one just to keep on hand. As I’m walking down the garage ramp, Oscar sees me and heads in the opposite direction to retrieve the Eldo. He pulls it up and the two other people before me waiting for their cars start acting out. Oscar disarms them. “You’re right. You were here first. I’m sorry,” he tells his confronters, who, of course, are disappointed they won so easily. He’s a smart guy, and we travel on the same path of life.

  I pull out of the garage and head toward East Thirty-Fourth where I intend to take the FDR Drive to the Thruway to the Saw Mill to home. I cross East Thirty-Fourth Street and turn into a parking area underneath the FDR overpass where people are let off for the heliport. I put the column shift into park and retrieve one of my cigars from my inside pocket. It’s not that easy to light a cigar while trying to keep the Eldo between the lines.

  As I lower my window, I see a homeless guy lying there by the little building with an overflowing shopping cart. He’s registering my presence. I hold my cigar out of the car and clip the butt, which begins its journey down. The nonmedical term would be gravity. After I’ve lit it, I think the guy’s going to say something, and he does. In a cultured voice.

  “Is that Eldorado a ’seventy-six?”

  “You nailed it.” I puff carefully.

  “I had one of those in another life.”

  “What happened to your Eldo?”

  “Lost it with everything else.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  “No worries,” he says with a shrug. “When I’m ready, I’ll have it all again. For now, I’m too busy being happy without a dime of money or a penny of responsibility. Life was too complicated when I had everything.”

  I think about that for a second. “There’s something to be said for that. How’d you make your money?”

  “I worked for a law firm.”

  “I’m a lawyer, too.”

  “Oh no. I’m not a lawyer,” my new friend corrects. “I was a mailroom clerk.”

  “How’d you make money doing that?”

  “Inside stock information.”

  “Huh. How’d you get the inside information?”

  “By copying confidential documents. I also happen to like to read, so as fate would have it, I was privy to a lot of info on new issues and put it to good use—or so I thought at the time.”

  I acknowledge this and then there’s a break in the conversation, which I’m pretty sure is a “crime doesn’t pay” pause.

  “You’re a resourceful guy,” I tell him. “I’m working on a case right now, and my client has proven to be pretty resourceful, too. I misjudged both of you on appearances alone. I’m kind of in the profiling business, and whoever coined the maxim ‘You can’t judge a book by its cover’ knew what he was talking about.”

  “Benjamin Franklin, and he did. Is that an Avo you’re smoking?”

  “It is, actually.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare one, would you?”

  “I certainly do. Do
you want to smoke it now?”

  “That would be a treat.” He gives me a broad smile.

  He gets up and walks over to the Eldo. Even in a torn suit that probably hasn’t seen the inside of a dry cleaner in years, he still looks pretty respectable. He has a full head of long brown slicked-back hair, further confirming my theory that the homeless have a genetic predisposition against male-pattern baldness. He can’t be older than fifty.

  I cut the butt off the cigar. I hand it to him with my windproof lighter. He thanks me, then runs the cigar under his nose while taking in a big inhale. “Ahhh. This is going to be good. It may even motivate me to go back to work.” He sparks it up like a pro, then takes a few puffs. The way he holds the cigar, brings it to his mouth, and draws on it all are pretty sharp. I have everything in the world going for me and I’m envious of a guy down on his luck because he has a full head of hair and looks cooler than I do when he smokes a cigar. What does that tell ya?

  The man extends his hand to formalize our meeting. “My name is Horatio Cohen. What’s yours?”

  “Rockwell, Trevor Rockwell,” I say. It’s the one I keep in reserve. No need to give him my real name.

  “I like the way you say it, although I question whether it’s your actual name. No matter. So, tell me about this case of yours.”

  “It’s a long story. The short version is, I represent a little girl who got electrocuted by a nurse who misapplied a cardiac monitor by plugging her into a wall outlet. The only people who believe in the fact of this unwitnessed and undocumented event are the little girl’s mother, a junkyard dealer name Fred Sanford, who’s a friend of Neil Armstrong the astronaut, and myself. My own medical expert is giving me resistance, and I’m facing dismissal if she doesn’t change her mind real soon.”

  Horatio Cohen takes in what I said. It’s clear he’s of a very high intellect, probably much higher than mine. “How certain are you this is what really happened?”

  “Positive.”

  “Then get a new expert.”

  “That may sound easy, but time’s a factor. This expert is familiar with the case, and it’s not so easy to get a new one just like that. You know how doctors stick together and don’t like to finger-point.”

  “Get a new expert,” Horatio repeats in a clear and convincing tone. “Go do what you know needs to be done and do it now.”

  “Now?”

  “When you’re done smoking your Avo. Don’t waste time. Follow your instincts. Trust yourself and align with others who believe in you, trust you, and who share your passion. Move away from the nonbelievers. There can be no conviction regarding your cause absent belief.”

  “You know what? That’s really sound advice. I appreciate it, Horatio.” We blow sizable clouds into the air, cementing this agreeable mutuality.

  Horatio puts his right hand on my left shoulder. “Always know who is for you and who is against you. Always be conscious of each. You hear me? Always be conscious of who your ally is and who your enemy is, and never confuse the two. Stay conscious to this fact, you hear me? Stay conscious, conscious, conscious …”

  How Does This Feel?

  … conscious, conscious. “Is he conscious? I think he’s coming around. He’s conscious!” I hear June’s voice scream. “Get a nurse! Get a doctor! He’s conscious! Get someone! Go get somebody, damn it! He’s coming out of it! His eyes are open! He’s awake!” June pleads with enthusiasm as she pushes on Trace, who doesn’t budge. That’s because he wants to watch a guy—me—come out of a coma and arise from near death. Who could blame him?

  I open my eyes a little more and take in my full surroundings. June, Trace, and Fred are standing over me. I look past them and see Suzy in her wheelchair jerking back and forth in excitement while staring up at the ceiling as Dog tries to balance herself on her lap. “Sch-weet, sch-weet, sch-weet!”

  I’m lying down with my upper body slightly elevated, which I know for a fact from the angle of my view. My head is pounding. I feel like every bone in my body is broken. I look toward my feet to see my left leg has a cast on it. I look around and, for sure, I’m in a hospital. I’m a patient. I look at my left hand and there’s an IV infusing. I look up at the IV bag and note I’m getting lactated Ringer’s solution for hydration. The last time I was hospitalized, I was being infused with the same solution, but that hydration therapy was for a diagnosis of dehydration. It’s clear to me my condition this time is one of a traumatic nature and so the IV’s about maintenance.

  Maybe Horatio Cohen assaulted me and stole my Eldo, but I kind of remember giving him a hug good-bye. But what else could have happened? My last conscious memory is him telling me I must always know who’s on my side. I also vaguely remember someone chasing me. A car chase. Maybe more will come back to me over time. I’ve seen it happen with many of my head trauma clients.

  June takes a step closer, bends over, and puts her beautiful face in my face. “Can you hear me?” she says, slightly louder than necessary.

  My throat and lips are so dry I don’t even think I can talk. I can hardly get my mouth and throat to a place where I can swallow, but I force some saliva down, which burns my esophagus. I must’ve had an airway tube put in so I must’ve had surgery. I struggle to speak. “J-J-June, what’s up? What am I doing in a hospital? What hospital am I in? What happened? What day is it? I need a drink. What …”

  She caresses my forehead. “Settle down. Just settle down.” She pulls a spoon out of a cup with something on it. “Here, suck on this,” she directs, putting a few ice chips in my mouth. Despite all the pain I’m feeling during this postcoma awakening, when June said, “Suck on this,” I briefly thought she just might pop her tittie in my mouth. I want to blame the thought on the delusional effects of the pain medications, but I know better. I’m a pig. At least I admit it.

  “Be quiet. Just relax. You were in an accident,” she tells me.

  “An accident?” I question whether my head trauma has caused me to suffer from echolalia, a medical condition where you immediately repeat a word or phrase you’ve just heard someone say to you. I promptly dismiss the notion. “When? Where? With who? …”

  “You were run off the road by someone with a severe case of road rage, at least according to the cops. The guy in the other car crashed and died. We’re supposed to call them if and when you woke up, when you’re well enough to talk. They have some questions for you.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Ten days. This all happened the same day we went out to see Dr. Laura.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” I ask. I honestly don’t know if I said that or just looked as if it were what I was thinking.

  June responds in either event. “I promise you, I’m not kidding. You’ve been in and out of semiconsciousness for the last eight days. The first two you were in a deep coma.”

  Holy shit! “Is there a chart hanging on the end of my bed?” This time I hear my own voice.

  “Yes, right over there.”

  “Hand it to me, please.”

  June complies. I read the entries under the heading “Impression.” It’s written in scribble-scratch, which I am an expert at reading:

  1. Status post left ankle fracture with open reduction and internal fixation

  2. Blunt head trauma with loss of consciousness, negative for skull fracture or mass effect on brain

  3. Testicular trauma and torsion requiring operative intervention without complication

  Shit! My boys were injured! I need to undertake an immediate accounting. I reach under the covers to check on my testicles. I feel one, two, and … three. Yep, they’re all there. What the fuck? What the fuck? I check again. On the recount it’s only two but my left nut is so swollen it feels like a third. Odd numbers would be fine as long as it’s not one. I also feel a whole lot of stitches with the tip of my finger running the length of my sac. I want to jerk myself off this instant to make sure my mechanics are in check, but I suppose that’ll have to wait.

  I
hand June the chart back. I take another big swallow to coat my scratchy throat. “The last thing I remember I was smoking a cigar with a well-dressed homeless guy named Horatio Cohen and we were discussing your case.” June looks to her left at Trace and then to her right at Fred with an expression that translates as “My lawyer’s gone crazy.” I continue. “No, really. I shared an Avo with a thick-haired, good-looking bum at the East Thirty-Fourth Street Heliport. That’s the last thing I remember clearly. I must have posttraumatic amnesia. Where did the accident happen anyway?”

  June looks to Trace. “On the Saw Mill River near Pleasantville,” he discloses. “Didn’t they make a movie about that town?”

  “Trace, please.” June, annoyed, shakes her head.

  “What hospital am I in?”

  “Northern Westchester.”

  “Oh God! My wife! Does she …?”

  “Relax,” June tells me, “she’s been by your bedside around the clock since you were admitted. That is, in between her yoga, tennis, and kickboxing. She left about an hour ago at our insistence, to get some rest and see the kids. I promised we’d stay right by your side and told her not to worry.”

  “Apparently, that means you met Tyler?”

  “That’s what it means. Tyler Wyler, I love that name. It has a ring to it and she carries it well.”

  “I see.”

  June turns to her posse. “Trace, Fred, I need to speak to my lawyer alone, please. I’ll meet you in the waiting area when I’m done. Take Suzy with you.” Trace grabs Suzy’s handgrips and begins to wheel her.

  “Feel better,” Fred wishes me, then follows behind as June watches them make their way out of the room.

  Just as June turns back to me and smiles, worry fills my head. “Man, I feel like I got worked over. The case! We got a deadline! I’ve got to get out of here. I have papers to prepare.” The energy of my excitement has the effect of a piano falling on my head from ten stories up.