Suzy's Case: A Novel Read online

  I hit my speed dial. On the tenth ring she picks up. “Don’t forget to take the dogs out!”

  “I won’t.”

  “Now, where the fuck are you and why didn’t you call?” she barks.

  “Honey, I’ll give you the details later, but in short, I was drugged, kidnapped, and locked in the trunk of my expert’s car, then was rescued by some unknown hero who disguised his voice and threatened to kill me.”

  She pauses. “You expect me to believe that? Just don’t forget to take the dogs out!” Click. I’ll deal with her later.

  Back to the decision of what now. I can call the police and get the authorities involved, which is the obvious option. I can go home and call the cops in the morning. I can go back upstairs and confront my abductor, in the spirit of a caped crusader. Or, as my rescuer advised, I can take my broken ass home, rest up, then go about my business like this shit never happened. This last option is against my nature and would be the most difficult thing for me to do.

  Before I get a chance to decide, my decision is made for me by the sound of a loud bang. A gunshot. From somewhere close by. I instinctually begin running, thinking maybe my rescuer has morphed into a killer. By the time I’ve run two blocks my ankle boot has completely crumbled to pieces under my foot and fallen off. The only piece left looks like a big plastic ankle bracelet. As I finish my third block, I feel like a criminal fleeing from a crime scene—from which flight a jury would be inclined to impute guilt. This, despite having done nothing wrong and, in fact, having been the victim of a crime myself. Blame my upbringing.

  I duck into the first open establishment I come by on block four. I sit, exhausted, on the first bar stool near the door and suck in air. I’m facing the street and watch as a police car races by the window, its siren blasting. “Bartender, two shots of tequila, please. One for me and one for my friend.” I point to the lost soul sitting next to me. Aside from us, the place is empty.

  “Coming right up,” the bartender replies.

  The guy beside me raises an almost empty glass in my direction. “Thanks for the drink, buddy. I wonder what the police activity is all about.”

  “Search me.”

  The bartender puts our shots down. “No last call tonight. We’re closing now. These are on the house.”

  I throw back my shot, ignore my craving for asparagus, pick myself up, and limp into the takeout next door with the immediate intention of getting home. There’s only one customer in here, too. He’s a sumo-sized Asian, just paying for whatever’s in his brown paper bag.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but is that your cab parked outside?”

  “Off duty,” he replies in a surly fashion.

  I’m not deterred. “I’ll pay you two hundred fifty dollars cash and pick up the tab you’ve got there if you take me to Westchester, how’s that sound?”

  “Good idea.” I like the way he likes my suggestion. I respect flexibility.

  16.

  After taking the dogs out, which was an event I had to cut short due to increasing ankle pain, I get three hours of sleep on the couch downstairs. I didn’t attempt sleeping in our bedroom and chancing waking Tyler. Plus, the stairway to my distorted heaven looked a mile long with my bum leg.

  All joy is lost when I put my foot down on the floor from a seated position. The minor pressure rockets the pain from my ankle throughout my body as I realize the fracture is now unstable. I guess the endorphins running through my body last night masked the seriousness of my situation. I dread standing up, so attempt it slowly. And unsuccessfully.

  Before I attempt to get up again I take an accounting of my mental state. I conclude I’m completely wasted, among other mental disabilities. But I already knew that. I’ll just have to suck it up, though, because I’ve got a lot of decisions to make this morning and need to stay focused.

  I gingerly walk through the kitchen toward the mudroom to let the dogs out for their morning business, only to see a large lump of poop front and center. Otis is the culprit by the size of it. He never does that. The prospect of bending down to clean it at this moment sends pain to my ankle, but I’ll have to get rid of the evidence before Tyler sees it or she’ll have it in for me. I turn the corner where the mudroom and kitchen intersect, I open the door, and the dogs, two Yorkies and Otis, escape into the beautiful morning. I stand there a few moments enjoying the gentle morning wind. Possibly there’ll be genuine calm to follow as the day proceeds. Frankly, however, I’m skeptical.

  I slowly snake my way back to the kitchen using the mudroom sidewall for balance, intending to clean the poop and sip some coffee. I grab my cell off its charging station as I turn the corner into the kitchen to see I have two missed calls from Dr. Mickey Mack, both within the last hour. Maybe he’s anxious to tell me he found an alternate expert for Dr. Laura, which expert will now be my primary one, given the events of last night. The only way I can defeat defendant’s motion to dismiss Suzy’s case is by getting a new expert on board immediately, so I’m happy to see his calls. I hit Mick’s speed dial and he picks up on ring two.

  “Crazy, huh?”

  “Crazy, huh, what, Mick?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Apparently not,” I say as the events of last night soar through my brain. “Out with it.”

  “Your expert, the one we spoke about yesterday, the one you were going to see, Dr. Smith—her husband was found shot dead.” Wonderful. Now I’m a suspect! Place, time, opportunity, and motive can all be clearly established by some young DA who wants to make a name for himself on his first murder prosecution. And I got no alibi! I was locked up in the trunk of a car. Did I say wonderful? “You still there?” Mick asks.

  “Yep, sure am. I think I should go, Mick. I’m considering calling the police. They may be looking for me and I don’t want them coming here. It would piss Tyler off.”

  “Why would they be looking for you?”

  “For questioning, I imagine.”

  “Why would they question you? This Dr. Laura of yours confessed to putting a bullet into her husband’s head.” He stops talking and waits for my response. I am numb, surprised, and yet not surprised all at the same time. I heard that gunshot but never would have concluded this. He continues in light of my silence. “She ended her marriage the easy way. No messy divorce, no asset allocation, no sale of home, no business valuation, and no mudslinging. Best of all, no scummy divorce lawyers. The one drawback—jail time.”

  The implications of all this flood my brain. “I got to go, Mick. I have to find out where she is and go talk to her.”

  “Easy does it,” Mick says, responding to the anxiousness in my voice, “she’s being held at Brooklyn House of Detention awaiting arraignment. Her attorney has suggested she may be a victim of battered wife syndrome, have suffered temporary insanity, and acted in self-defense.”

  “Thanks, Mick, I got to hop, literally. Oh, Jesus,” I say, having momentarily lost sight of the target, “any headway on finding me a new expert? That’s why I thought you were calling in the first place. This has to be a priority now. Find me an expert!” I say in a firm and desperate manner.

  “On this case? Forget it,” he responds in a tone of certainty. “No one’s gonna touch this thing. This is a major problem for you. I don’t think you’re getting it. This case is tainted with murder, so no one, and I mean no doctor in his right mind, is going to want to get involved once they find out who they’re replacing as the expert and why.”

  “I don’t see the reasoning, one thing has nothing to do with the other,” I say, not believing my own words. “Dr. Laura had a crappy marriage, that’s all.”

  “I’ll make more calls, but until this thing cools down I don’t know why any doctor would want to get involved. Give it six months, we’ll have a better chance then.”

  “I don’t have six months, Mick. I have a motion to dismiss pending now. Find me an expert!” I bark, inappropriately, at a friend who is doing me a favor. “I gotta go.” I hang up. I am
run-down. I’m not thinking straight. I’m in a state of disbelief. I need to pull it together before I crack.

  I realize it’s time to get ready for my nine o’clock meeting with June, Winnie the Weasel, and her engineer to inspect the patch and lead wire. I turn the corner into the mudroom, place my cell down, and let the dogs in. I hobble back toward the kitchen with intentions of cleaning that poop. I’ll have to sit down on the floor next to it to clean it up so as to take the pressure off my ankle, which is now throbbing with pain. I turn the corner into the kitchen and standing there over the poop, waiting to pounce, is Tyler. Uh-oh. And she’s up fifteen minutes before it’s time, too. Not good.

  “Morning, honey,” I say timidly.

  “Don’t ‘morning, honey’ me,” she rumbles. “Did you take the dogs out last night when you got home like I told you to?”

  “Yes, honey.”

  “I said don’t ‘honey’ me. Then why is there a big pile of dried-up shit on the floor? Otis never poops inside. You didn’t take the dogs out, did you?”

  “No, I did take the dogs out.”

  “Then why is there poop on the floor?” I look to Otis sitting there. He knows I’m taking one for him. He gets up and leaves the kitchen knowing he’s done bad. Thanks, buddy.

  “I don’t know why,” I say, thinking I didn’t let them stay out long enough.

  “Because you didn’t take them out like I asked, that’s why. And why didn’t you clean it up when you saw it this morning?” Choice A, I was just about to, or choice B. Neither will fly. I go with B.

  “Because I didn’t see it, that’s why.”

  “Bologna,” she screeches. “You saw it. It’s in the middle of the kitchen. You were just leaving it there for me to clean up.” She places her hands on her hips for emphasis. This is the last thing I need right now. “You look terrible,” she adds.

  “I know. What I’d like for you to consider is that I’m lucky to be alive. You might even want to think again about your warm greeting. According to the morning news, the guy who drugged and kidnapped me last night was shot in the head by his wife. His wife is, or was, my medical expert, so I’m rather certain I just lost said expert in the face of a pending motion to dismiss. I’m sure it’s on all the news stations, so if you have any doubts, please go see for yourself.”

  “Don’t you think you’re taking this lie a little too far?” she questions. “What I see for myself is poop on the floor that you left for me to clean up. Now stop with your stories. Save it for your jurors.”

  I can’t deal with this now. Take the path of least resistance. “I’ll explain everything in detail to you later,” I say in surrender. “I got to get out of here and be in my office by nine. When this case is over I’ll guarantee you two more years of prepaid tennis lessons with any pro you want.”

  “Really? Can I increase my lessons from two to four times per week?”

  “Would you settle on three if—and only if—I can set June Williams free?”

  “I met June in the hospital. Why didn’t you tell me about her?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Because she’s gorgeous,” my wife replies.

  “So you only want me to tell you about my cases if the client involved is a babe?”

  She ignores the question. “I’m reserving that extra day now. Just win your case.”

  “I’ll try, I gotta get going.”

  “What happened to your ankle boot?”

  “Got destroyed during my kidnapping.”

  “Kidnapping,” she repeats in a sarcastic tone, “please,” as in “Give me a break.”

  “Really, I got to go get ready.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Clean the poop up first.”

  She Thinks I’m Bluffing

  I arrive at my office at ten after nine. Sitting in my reception area is Winnie the Weasel and her expert engineer. I don’t recognize the expert, which means he’s not on the circuit and may actually give an honest evaluation, although I doubt it.

  “You look terrible,” she says as I approach.

  “Thanks. We have a consensus on the issue. Good morning to you, too. We’ll get started once I settle myself and all are present and accounted for.”

  I move past them, doing the best I can to pretend I’m not hobbling. “Morning, Lily,” I say as I pass her.

  “You look horrible.”

  “Is that better or worse than terrible?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” I say, in an effort to conserve energy.

  “Did you see the news?”

  “Yes, I saw the news. We’ll discuss it later. Come into my office with a steno pad, please. I have to dictate something to you.”

  “Are we going down that road again?”

  “It’s one sentence. Just come in.”

  “Give me a minute. I got my sitter on hold.” I have a witty smart-ass reply in mind but just don’t have the strength to voice it. I make it down the hall and into my office, one faltering step at a time. I have my eyes closed because it somehow helps me bear the pain. I drag my head up, level my chin, and open my eyes to see June sitting in my desk chair. Nearby, Suzy with Dog on her lap. Dog gives a little yap.

  “I know, Dog. I look terrible. Good morning, June,” I say, then turn to her daughter. “Good morning, Suzy.”

  “Not sch-weet, not sch-weet, no Vegas, not sch-weet,” Suzy says. June hushes her, but Suzy continues with her “not sch-weets” until June hands her the light-up plastic globe.

  “What’s happening to you? Where’s your ankle boot? You need to be more together than that to lawyer for Suzy and me. Come on now.”

  “June, a lot went down last night. By any chance did you see the morning news?”

  “Had no time, with getting Suzy ready and coming here and all. Why? What’s in the news that concerns us?”

  “June, we got a boatload to discuss, but not right now. The Weasel’s out there with her expert forensic engineer to look at the wire and patch, which I assume you’ve brought with you, correct?”

  “Correct. But you’re not hearing me. I like to be well informed, so out with it. Now!”

  “After their inspection, I’ll bring you up to snuff. Right now I need a moment to put something into the works. Just sit tight.”

  By the look on her face I can tell she’s not happy. Suzy senses it, too. “Not sch-weet, not sch-weet, no Vegas,” she resumes saying. June hushes her into stillness, as I note for the second time now that Suzy can say the words not and no in proper context to sch-weet and Vegas to voice her displeasure.

  I hit my intercom. “Lily, where are you?”

  “Right here,” Lily replies as she walks through the door. “Oh, hi, June. I didn’t know you were here. When did you come in?”

  I speak before June can. “Lily, how could you not know June and Suzy and Dog were here? They have to walk right past you.”

  “Well, they didn’t!”

  June joins in. “She’s right. We didn’t.”

  “I don’t get it. Can someone please explain?”

  “Me, Suzy, and Dog got here before Lily, so we let ourselves in and came into your office to make ourselves comfortable.”

  “Let yourselves in? How did you let yourselves in past a double-locked door?”

  “I unlocked it.”

  “Who gave you the keys?”

  “Um, no one.”

  “Then how’d you get in?”

  “If you must know,” she says, as if offended, “I picked the locks with one of the Fidge’s lock-picking sets. The kind the police and fire department have. What’s the problem? I didn’t think you’d mind. You’re my lawyer.”

  “Picked them? June, I’m too tired to deal with this right now. Just resist breaking in and entering the next time you get here early, okay?”

  I switch my focus back to Lily. “Take this down.”

  “Slow,” Lily cautions, “and it wouldn’t hurt to say please.”
>
  “I’m in a slow mode. Don’t worry. Ready? Uh, please.”

  “Ready,” Lily replies, flashing her steno pad and pencil.

  “Put the lawsuit caption of the Suzy Williams case on this document and title it ‘Exchange of Nonparty Witness.’ The body of the document should read as follows and I’ll go slowly: ‘Dear Sirs: In response to defendants’ continuing demand for the names of witnesses, please be advised that the plaintiff intends to call Dr. Laura Smith at the time of trial as a nonparty witness to give testimony on behalf of and in support of the plaintiff, Suzy Williams. Very truly yours,’ etc., etc., etc.”

  “Nonparty witness?” Lily questions. “I thought she was your expert witness. For that matter, she’s not going to be any kind of witness, since she’ll be in jail for killing her husband.”

  “What!” June exclaims, startling Suzy into a litany of “not sch-weets.” “What are you talking about, killing her husband?”

  “It’s on all the news,” Lily tells her.

  “June,” I say, “Dr. Laura committed mariticide last night. I was there, kind of.”

  “You were there? Kind of?” Lily asks.

  I look at her. “I’ll tell you all about it, both of you, just not right this second.” They both look at me in exactly the same demanding way. “The bottom line is, she and her husband didn’t want this case to go forward for some reason. Reason enough to kill, although I would’ve expected Smith to have been the killer, not Dr. Laura. I don’t know why yet, but right now that doesn’t matter. All I can assume is they were somehow aligned or connected with the hospital, which I’ll remind you is only three blocks away from the Smith Pavilion. If my assumption is right and I get the Weasel to think Dr. Laura’s a turncoat on murderers’ row with nothing left to lose, it may change things. But this is just based on deductive reasoning. However, when we go into the conference room, just keep quiet about it. You got that?”