Suzy's Case: A Novel Page 27

  When I’m about twenty feet away, the right-hand door slowly opens outward. I see Smith’s silhouette image holding the door open. His shadow looks like a big black egg with a short arm popping out of the shell.

  “Great. You’re right on time,” he greets me as I slowly move toward him.

  “I know your rules. I can’t afford to be late.”

  “Follow me,” he directs. “My wife’s waiting for you in her office.”

  I follow, but he’s trotting faster than I can hobble. He stops at Dr. Laura’s office, then looks back at me. He seems annoyed the journey is taking me so long, but the stingy little control freak can go shove it, having me come out here at this time of night. I shamble past him and see the doctor is seated behind her desk. The next thing I notice is that all her diplomas are back on the wall, the name Laura Smith on each one.

  She smiles. “Hi. I’m glad you could make it at this late hour.”

  “No problem at all. This is an important case and an important meeting.”

  “Yes, it is. Please have a seat.” She looks at me curiously. “What happened to you?”

  “Car accident, but I’m okay.”

  Before I can get my next word out, a loud throat-clearing is heard. I look over. “Let me guess. The check?”

  “Yes, the check.” Smith confirms my hunch.

  “Here it is,” I reply, plucking it from my wallet.

  He examines it, wrinkling his nose but making no comment.

  I turn back to Dr. Laura, sitting attentively behind her desk, as Smith voluntarily leaves without protesting to stay. A deviation from his normal behavior. Interesting.

  “First order of business. I need your CV, or whatever you use as a summation of your medical education, training, board certifications, awards, hospital affiliations, and the like.”

  “My husband mailed it to you per your request just after you left here last time.”

  “I don’t doubt he did, but it’s just that I never got it. Do you have another?”

  “I’ll have my husband get it for you before you leave.”

  “Do you think I could have it now? I’m postcoma, and my short-term memory likes to play hide-and-seek. I don’t want to forget.”

  “If you insist.” She looks out into the hall, calling in a loud but apologetic voice, “Dear, I’m sorry to trouble you!” She pauses, the type one employs when waiting for someone to turn around and respond. “Would you bring in a copy of my CV, please? He never received the one you mailed!” She sits back down. “He’ll bring it.”

  “I see you got your reissued diplomas.”

  “Yes, we put them up just yesterday.”

  I briefly admire them, complimenting her on the presentation and framing, then get to the point of my visit. “Let me bring you up to speed. I’ve confirmed that what happened to Suzy was indeed an electrocution.”

  “Oh?” At least she doesn’t turn white this time.

  “Yes. What was a strong theory supported by physical evidence when I last met with you is now a certainty.”

  “How so?” Dr. Laura looks interested. Just not as interested as I’d like.

  “I received a letter from a representative of a company named Toledo, which manufactured and supplied heart monitors to the defendant hospital. He told me a patient had been electrocuted in the same exact manner three years before Suzy’s event. More important, he said Brooklyn Catholic Hospital had been informed of this event by written letter. Toledo, in fact, sent the hospital an adapter that would have wholly prevented Suzy’s electrocution, but obviously the hospital never placed it on the defective machine.”

  Dr. Laura still doesn’t look as excited as I thought she would. Maybe Horatio Cohen and Dr. Mickey Mack were right.

  “I brought for your review a copy of the Toledo letter, together with a statement made by the hospital attorney saying in effect they don’t have the Toledo letter. This is despite a certified return receipt establishing otherwise. I also brought my expert engineer’s affidavit, and crafted a proposed affidavit for you to read—and, I hope sign—which will likely defeat the hospital’s dismissal motion. You might note certain contents in your affidavit are also in support of my cross-motion to add a new claim, which basically states the hospital was negligent by failing to utilize the adapter. I am also making a claim for punitive damages.”

  Dr. Laura once again has suddenly lost all color. “Can I see the Toledo letter and everything else?” she requests.

  “Sure. That’s why I brought it.” I hand her the documents, and she begins to read.

  A few minutes in I interrupt her reading. “Doctor, would you mind if I elevated my broken leg on the edge of your desk? It’s throbbing pretty badly.”

  She nods distractedly.

  A moment later, I hear Smith’s approaching footsteps. He enters with a sheet of paper in hand and places it on the desk in front of her.

  Dr. Laura looks up at her husband. “Dear, it’s confirmed. Suzy Williams apparently was electrocuted. According to these documents, one can conclude the hospital knew of the danger and failed to place an adapter on the monitor that would’ve prevented the occurrence of this unfortunate tragedy.”

  “That’s horrible,” he responds. “Can I see those papers?” He points to the documents in her hand.

  Dr. Laura looks to me for permission. “Is it okay?”

  “Sure. Meanwhile, why don’t you hand me your CV so I can look it over while your husband is reading that stuff?”

  Dr. Laura looks to him for approval. “Is that okay, dear?”

  He hesitates. “Fine.” She hands her husband my documents and me her CV. What a weak person she is, having to ask permission before making almost any move. It sure seems odd for someone in the medical profession, since they daily must make life-or-death decisions. I gaze over her CV without absorbing any of it because I’m too distracted thinking about Smith’s reaction to what I handed him. He controls Dr. Laura’s every move. He’s the one who has to be convinced about Suzy’s case, not her. Besides, I’m also too beat up, drugged, and exhausted right now to examine the minutiae of Dr. Laura’s life anyway. I fold it up into a neat little rectangle and submerge it in the inside pocket of my suit jacket for safekeeping.

  As it disappears from view, I realize something seemed familiar on that quick glance I gave it, but I can’t place what. I hate my head-trauma-acquired inability to access information from my brain in the snap of a synapse. It’s frustrating in the extreme. Smith motions toward the desk, setting down my documents in front of his wife. They look at each other with a strangely complicitous air. What’s that all about?

  “Well?”

  “This is sad,” he says. I have to note, though, he doesn’t look convincingly affected.

  “V-v-very sad,” Dr. Laura chimes in.

  “It’s more than sad, it’s criminal,” I tell them. “The hospital had nearly three years to plug a ten-cent adapter into that machine and failed to do so. There’s no reasonable excuse for such gross misconduct. Someone’s going to go down for this criminal act of neglect, and the hospital’s going to pay big-time.”

  Instead of responding to what I thought was a rather impassioned statement, Smith chooses to gaze at the diplomas on the wall. “Laura, the end one’s a little off. Did someone touch it?”

  “No it’s not. It’s perfectly even,” I say, confirming what I saw earlier.

  On the word even, he makes a quick move at me.

  “Steven, no! You promised!” Dr. Laura screams.

  He kills the bee that just stung my shoulder with a hand smack. Only there’s no bee, I wasn’t stung, and that was no hand smack. As he withdraws his arm I see a needle attached to a syringe.

  I know the answer given how I’m feeling—unable to rise—but I ask him anyway, “Did you just stick me with that after distracting me to look away?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I can’t believe I fell for that. That’s the maneuver I use to steal food off my kids’ pla
tes. What the hell? Why did you inject me?”

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “No, I don’t know why the husband of my expert has apparently drugged me.”

  “Huh. I gave you too much credit. How are you feeling?”

  “Queasy, just about to pass out. What did you stick me with?”

  “A narcotic. You’ll be asleep in a few moments, but at least it should take care of the pain from your injuries.”

  As I descend into this new coma, I think how this will give rise to another story line for Margo. If I live. The thought brings a smile to my face, which I quickly lose as my walking boot slides off the edge of the desk. I watch helplessly as it crashes to the floor, shattering the heel into a few large pieces. Meanwhile, I’m dimly aware they’re arguing and that they stop to see what the bang was, then pick up where they left off.

  It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her speak to him sharply, but I can hardly make out what the dispute is about as I fall deeper and deeper into an unconscious state. The one thing I distinctly hear her say, because of its repetition and distinct tone of disappointment, is, “You promised nobody would get hurt.”

  The room begins to swirl around me. The medical term would be vertigo. I must admit, though, I feel no ankle pain, like Smith promised.

  The Smiths finally stop their heated bickering, the content of which I am unable to fully register, but the argument is far from over. Now he moves in front of me, peering into my face in an evaluating kind of way. His own looks are distorted, fun-house-style, and suddenly Dr. Laura appears next to him. She bends down to see if I’m still awake by checking the reactivity of my pupils with a beam of light. I’m still awake, Dr. Laura, but paralyzed from the drug your motherfucking husband stuck me with. If she were doing a Glasgow Coma Scale evaluation, I’d score a 12, but in serious rapid decline. Margo, Margo, Margo!

  I have enough strength to say something. I want to say something. I want to appeal to Dr. Laura’s sense of reason. I know she’s good at heart. I don’t know why that evil husband of hers did this, but it’s definitely not worth it. She feels my carotid for a pulse, then flashes her penlight into my eyes again, back and forth, back and forth. I always wanted one of those lights when I was a kid, but never got one.

  “He’s still awake, but his pupil reaction is very sluggish. What did you give him and how much?” Dr. Laura says in a slow and garbled voice.

  I muster enough strength to raise my chin off my chest. I can tell Dr. Laura is surprised by my neck control. I want to appeal to her better nature and good sense. But I can’t even stay upright. Next thing I know I’ve hit the floor and something’s moving my feet around. Moments later, I sense Smith dragging me down the dark hall. He’s pulling a rope tied to my ankles and dragging me one wobbly backward step at a time. He has the other end of the rope tied around his waist, with some four feet of slack between us. As we reach the elevator he gives one last strong tug on the rope, sliding my heavy structure a good two feet. By the nature of that dehumanizing last yank, I feel like a body heading for disposal.

  This Shit Never Happened. Understood?

  I somehow sense I am about to awaken, but before I regain consciousness I want to acknowledge how much I hate Henry Benson. I don’t want to waste a single wakeful thought on that arrogant ass, so I’m gonna get it done now as I climb the Glasgow Coma Scale back into consciousness.

  Life before Benson started referring his HICs to me was quiet and safe. Life after Benson has been a big fucking hassle. Now I’m drugged, tied up, dragged on my ass down a very long corridor by a psychopathic midget, and locked up in what feels like the trunk of a car. Kidnapped! For what or why I have no idea. I’m a lawyer, goddamn it. What could I possibly have done to land myself in this predicament?

  There, that’s better. Bitching about your circumstance can do that. It’s time to wake up and attempt escape. I open my eyes to darkness. The nonmedical term would be pitch-black. My ankles are still tied together, and my hands are secured in back of me. The hair is being ripped out of my wrists, leading me to believe that some form of adhesive tape has been used to bind me. Most likely medical tape, but definitely not ouchless. It’s obvious I’m not escaping from this easily, if at all. Time to pray for another divine intervention. I’m definitely in the trunk of a car—and it’s akin to a soundproof chamber. I can’t hear a thing. Maybe my ears are taped, although I don’t recall seeing anyone’s ears taped in any of the kidnap movies I’ve ever seen. Maybe I’m just parked in some desolate area only to be found as a cadaver years from now when the car is towed to a junkyard for crushing. News of my finding solves “The Case of the Missing Lawyer.” The insurance companies will have to pay my wife the proceeds of my life policies since the rumor I ran away to Bali with an underage girl has by now been disproved. With the money, she purchases our local tennis club and ups her court hours from five a day to seven, and hires two more handsome pros from Argentina. The unsuspecting junkyard owner will get his fifteen minutes of fame. I hope it’s not Fred Sanford, because he’ll be traumatized if he is the one to find me.

  Wait. I hear something. It sounds like footsteps, thereby demonstrating the trunk’s not as soundproof as I thought. Someone is approaching. I’m able to move my legs into position, and I kick the trunk lid hard three times. Bam! Bam! Bam! The sound echoes as I nail it with what’s left of my walking boot. The footsteps continue and stop behind the trunk. I’m not sure if I should kick again. If it’s Smith coming to finish the job, I’ll want him to think I’m still out cold.

  Suddenly there’s a male saying, “I know you’re in there. I’m here to get you out. Move to the back of the trunk. I’m going to bust it open.” I shimmy as far back as I can, which is about seven inches. I hear the clanking of metal hitting metal, strike after strike. After the sixth wallop, I hear the sound of metal being wedged between metal. A metal bending sound picks up where the wedging left off, then the trunk bursts open with the energy of a cork popping out of champagne.

  The first thing I realize is that I can’t see a thing: I’m blindfolded. The next thing I realize is how good it is to take in fresh air. Nice. I take three deep breaths in through my nose and out through my nose. I have no other option. I hear the voice again. “I’m going to take the tape off your mouth, but keep quiet.”

  I feel him trying to peel the edge of the tape. He finally gets the corner up and rips it off with one swift pull, the way my mom used to take off my Band-Aids. I take in a huge gasp of air. I realize I can inhale twice the volume of air through my mouth than I can through my nose. Even nicer.

  “Let me help you out of there,” my rescuer firmly states, “but like I said, keep quiet. No questions.” Somehow I take his meaning as “I want to help you, but I’ll hurt you if you don’t comply.” I feel him curl one arm underneath my knees and the other under my back, the way a groom carries a bride. How romantic. I note his arm and hand size are tiny and wonder if he’s really strong enough to lift out my two-hundred-thirty-four-pound body. I am lifted up and out and stood against the car in one swift efficient motion. He’s strong. I feel myself being steadied with hands at my shoulders.

  “You good?”

  “I’m good,” I reply. He lets go. I realize from the direction of his voice I must be much taller than him. I also realize at this moment that my rescuer’s disguising his voice. “Thanks,” I say in his direction. “Can you take my blindfold off now, please?”

  “I told you, no questions! Can’t do that.”

  “For the same reason you’re disguising your voice and ordering me to keep quiet?”

  “Exactly.”

  Despite my instructions otherwise, I pose another question. “What now?”

  To my surprise, he answers me. “What now? I’ll tell you what now. I’m gonna cut your hands and ankles free, then I’m walking out of here. You’re gonna count down from a hundred so I can hear you. If I see you take that rag off your eyes before you’re done, you’re gonna get capped, making th
is rescue shit very counterproductive.” He sticks what feels like, and what I imagine tastes like, the barrel of a gun into my mouth. “Got it?”

  “Got it.” I garble. He withdraws the gun, leaving my mouth filled with a grimy metal residue and oily aftertaste. “Then?” I ask.

  “Then? Then you’re gonna take your rescued, broken ass home, rest up, and after that go about your business. This shit never happened. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “So start counting.”

  I commence counting backward as I hear his footsteps vanish into the distance. I realize as I make my way down through the eighties that it’s difficult to think of other things while in the midst of a countdown, or maybe my recent experiences have compromised my ability to mentally multitask. As soon as I hit zero, I know exactly what my first thought’s going to be, even if I lack the ability to think it while counting down.

  I get to three … two … one, and here’s what my first thought is: I bet I’m the first person in history to be rescued and threatened with death by my rescuer simultaneously. I take off the blindfold and see I’m in a parking garage leaning on the back of a silver Mercedes-Benz with a mangled trunk lid and MD plates that read HCT HGB. Those are the abbreviations for hematocrit and hemoglobin. No doubt it belongs to my friends, the Smiths. I recognize the garage as the one where I parked that first time, with Otis.

  I gimp for the brightly lit EXIT sign and feel anxious, like I’m not going to make it. I walk up the stairs, trying not to bear weight on my bad ankle, and out onto the street. I experience an immediate rush of freedom. It quickly dissipates when I see the Smith Pavilion directly in front of me.

  I have a decision to make, but before I do, I better call home. I reach into my suit jacket pocket and my cell phone is exactly where it’s supposed to be. I look at the date and time and realize I’ve been kidnapped for only about three hours. It’s one in the morning. According to my call log I’ve missed three calls, all from my wife, five minutes apart. Tyler also sent me a text message and an email, which I read, then I listen to my three voice mails, also from Tyler. They all communicate the same thing: don’t forget to take the dogs out when you get home and, second, where are you?