Suzy's Case: A Novel Page 6

  He smiles. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Go right in. This is a minimum-wage gig anyway. They’re real stingy with the dollar around here.”

  “Thank you, officer,” I say, slipping him a twenty. To which he responds, “Nice dog you got there.”

  I take the elevator to the fourth floor. I walk down the hall to a set of metal doors that read SMITH PEDIATRIC HEMATOLOGY. On the other side is the reception area. I enter and approach. There to greet me, sitting in what looks like a specially built chair to elevate short people, is an unusual-looking man.

  The word achondroplasia pops into my head. That’s the medical term for a common form of dwarfism in which the trunk is of average stature while the limbs are disproportionately short. However, this guy’s definitely not a dwarf. What he is is too tall to be one, and yet too short for a normal person, so caught somewhere between these two worlds. There’s only a hint of extremity disproportion, with his most distinctive feature his egg-shaped body. Think Humpty Dumpty.

  His face is covered by a well-trimmed, prematurely gray beard and mustache. He wears those round Harry Potter glasses, only his are metal. With his bow tie and vest, he presents older than he is, but there’s no way, in fact, that he’s more than thirty-five.

  He looks like he’s expecting me. But not Otis. His name tag reads: STEVEN SMITH, DIRECTOR.

  “Good morning, Mr. Smith, I’m—”

  “You’re the attorney,” he cuts in. He extends his hand for what I assume is going to be a handshake. “Check, please.”

  “Yes, of course,” I say, handing it to him.

  He inspects it. “Would you mind dotting the i and crossing the t better?”

  “My bad. I flunked penmanship in third grade and never made it up.” He looks at me impatiently. I oblige without further comment. He inspects the check again, folds it in half, and places it in his shirt pocket just underneath the vest. “How did you get in here with that dog?”

  “The guard was throwing out some loud, unruly drifter when I entered and didn’t see me. He really takes his job seriously.”

  Smith throws me a suspicious look. “You’re early. Be mindful of your dog and take a seat in the waiting area.” I do exactly that.

  There are ten or so young children there, presumably with sickle cell disease. They run over and begin petting Otis before I can even sit down. A few of the parents belatedly yell, “Ask if you can pet the dog first!” as I signal it’s okay.

  “Kids, this is Otis,” I explain. “He loves little children.” The remark provokes grins. “He loves them so much he ate a little boy for breakfast this morning.”

  Two kids jump back. “No way! You’re lying!”

  “Yes, I am,” I admit. “You guys can pet him all you want. I’m going over there to make a phone call. Stay, Otis!” I command. Otis gives a “what are you doing to me?” look. He’s unhappy with his babysitting detail.

  I walk over to a row of windows, knowing it’s the only place I may get reception on the floor, to check in with Lily, my trusty paralegal, clerk, secretary, calendar person, and personal assistant. She’s been with me for ten years, ever since she was nineteen. She gets more beautiful every day, which is great. But she’s also a little abusive from time to time. Correction: most of the time, these days. Which isn’t so great. Like trick candy laced with cayenne.

  Lily answers. “Law Office. Please hold,” she says. I hate that. I’ve instructed her numerous times to find out if the caller is a new case prior to putting him on hold. If it’s a new case, then everything else has to hold—not the call. Would you hire a lawyer if you were put on hold at the instant of first contact? It’s even worse when the caller’s in serious pain and it’s taken a big effort to get to the phone to make the call in the first place. Christ, I’ve got to wait for some stupid doctor to malpractice somebody or for an inattentive driver to run somebody down to generate new business. I don’t want to risk losing a case over a rude greeting. “Please hold,” my ass. Full-service sympathy’s the name of the game. I hate having to correct Lily because she doesn’t take criticism well, but business is business. I’ll have to go back over with her what proper phone etiquette is composed of. She now comes on the line again.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. I thought we discussed—”

  “Hold, please.”

  Two minutes later, she’s there again.

  “What do you want?” she asks.

  “First of all, how about a little respect for the boss?”

  “Don’t be so sensitive. What do you want? I’m busy.”

  “I’m not the sensitive one. Anyway, when you answer—”

  “Hold.”

  In one minute she picks back up.

  “Okay. What do you want?”

  “When a call comes in,” I begin, “and before you put the caller on hold—”

  “Hold again. Be right back.”

  Thirty-seven seconds later, she returns.

  “I’m back. What’s up?”

  “Please stop putting me on hold.”

  “Well, the phone keeps ringing and you always tell me to find out if it’s a new case before putting the caller on hold. What do you want from me? Do you want me to baby you or do you want me to pick up the phone and see if it’s a giant new case? Okay? If the answer’s pick up the phone, then what’s this ‘before you put the caller on hold’ stuff?”

  “Never mind. Were those other calls new cases?”

  “No. It was my babysitter calling me for my arroz con pollo recipe. She’s making dinner for the first time tonight. I told her she has to learn how to cook Latino or to find another job. I hate being a single parent sometimes. Now, what do you want before she calls back?”

  “Call up Bert Beecher and confirm my appointment with him for one o’clock today.”

  “Is that the HIC who’s trying to shake his wife down for half her settlement you sent me the email on?”

  “Yeah. That’s the guy.”

  “Scumbag. I want to know what criminal offense he committed before I talk to him. I hate Benson and I hate his injured criminals.”

  “Kindly direct your hatred elsewhere. We’re going to make a lot of money off his HICs. We already have.”

  “I’m sorry, there must be something wrong with the connection. I thought you used the word we when referring to money being made. I haven’t made anything. You have.”

  “I gave you a bonus, as I recall, on a few of the big ones, didn’t I?”

  “Big whoop. I deserved every penny for having to deal with all of those … criminales.”

  “Don’t start going native on me now. I know what that means. Just relax. Call Beecher up and make sure he comes in at one.”

  “Not until you tell me what he did.”

  “I recall Henry telling me that Bert Beecher was a violent guy. He was convicted for attempted murder, so don’t get into it with him. Just confirm the appointment I made over the weekend. Then call June Williams and confirm my three o’clock with her. Tell her to bring in Suzy. I want to meet that poor little girl before I throw her under the bus. We most likely will be rejecting her case, but don’t tell June. I’ll have to finesse it. Speak to you later.”

  “Before you hang up, I’m letting you know that I’m buying some air fresheners for this place, the expensive kind that you have to plug in, which you’ll have to reimburse me for. It’s finally beginning to reek in here. Now, what kind of criminal is June Williams?”

  “I don’t know. Henry’s verbal didn’t say.” Click. That was her click, not mine.

  I go back to where the kids are petting Otis and find him lying on his back with his paws up in the air. His new best friends are mauling him with love. “Look what I taught him,” one boy says. He starts scratching the dog’s belly, causing Otis’s right hind leg to twitch. “That’s a great trick,” I say. “Thanks for teaching him.”

  The C Word

  A moment later, Smith walks over. “The doctor will
see you now. Follow me.” Otis and I trail after him down the hall. In the office he ushers us into, the first thing I notice is a barren wall embedded with empty picture hooks. It’s an eyesore, especially for a guy whose mother is an art dealer, and who’s been taught never to leave an empty hook on the wall. The next thing I notice is Dr. Laura Smith, standing just a few feet away.

  She’s tall, skinny, and very ordinary-looking. Her hair’s up in a bun, which doesn’t seem to be such a good idea as it somehow accentuates her long, thin nose. Frankly, she’s nearly a dead ringer for Popeye’s beloved Olive Oyl, but in hospital whites.

  “Come in, come in,” she greets Otis and me in a hesitant tone. “I’m Dr. Smith. The kids call me Dr. Laura, so you can, too.” She speaks in what I’d describe as modified baby talk. I guess being around kids all day may have influenced her, but it’s no less annoying for it. “That’s an unusual-looking dog you’ve got there. What kind is it?”

  “His father was an apricot poodle and his mother was a yellow Labrador retriever.”

  “Yellow Lab, you say?”

  “Yes, yellow Lab.” The information strikes her for some reason.

  “But he’s black except for his red beard.”

  “You never can predict what Mother Nature’s going to do genetically.”

  “That’s not entirely true. The case you happen to be here on is a prime example. Sickle cell disease is inherited from parents in much the same way as eye color.”

  “I stand corrected, Doctor,” I reply in the spirit of a courtroom litigator, and we share a smile.

  “Let’s have a seat, shall we?” Dr. Laura says. I take my customary position on the opposite side of my expert’s desk. She turns toward the door. “Steven, if it’s okay with you, you can go now. I can handle this.”

  I turn my head toward the entry and conclude Smith has stationed himself just outside the door. I would’ve never realized this if his wife hadn’t addressed him. He takes a step in. “Why don’t I stay and listen?”

  “You’re the director,” Dr. Laura tells him. “If you want to stay, then stay. It’s your prerogative.”

  He looks over at me and then down at Otis. “No, I’ve got some billing to do. That’s all right.”

  Dr. Laura begins to respond, but what she’s saying to her husband is going right by me. I’m distracted by what I see on the floor underneath the picture hooks.

  Leaning face against the wall are what I assume to be her medical diplomas, which obviously were taken down for some reason. This reminds me that I’ll have to get a copy of her résumé, something doctors seem to prefer calling their curriculum vitae. Her CV will contain a detailed description of her medical education, training, and background. I’ll need to attach it to my papers as an exhibit to be relieved as Suzy’s lawyer if I can’t salvage things here.

  “I’ll be up front,” I hear Smith announce.

  Dr. Laura turns to me. “How can I help you? I thought I was pretty clear to Mr. Benson concerning my feelings about this case.”

  “The reason I insisted on seeing you is because before I tell this family they have no case, I want to be sure you’re sure there is no case.”

  “I see, but I can assure you there is no case.”

  “For whatever reason, this lawsuit has been pending for nearly six years. That means for six years the Williams family has been of the belief that there is, in fact, a case—that malpractice caused this little girl’s injuries.”

  “Why has the case been going on for so long?” she asks.

  “I can’t answer that right now. All I can tell you is I only got involved recently and I’m certain shit’s going to hit the fan when I tell the mother there’s no case.” I notice Dr. Laura grimace when I say “shit,” and so I look repentant. “What I’ve learned in this business is that mothers of injured kids are more concerned with righting a wrong than with the financial aspects, although both are important. Subconsciously, they want vindication that what happened to their child was not their fault, and that can only occur if fault is established as someone else’s. Acts of God are generally not good enough because mothers still feel responsible for the genetic basis for the injury. Mrs. Williams is going to want to hear what she’s been led to believe with the institution of this lawsuit, which is that something else is at fault for Suzy’s condition besides her own DNA. Why don’t you tell me in the strongest of ways why there’s no case, so I can overcome the mother’s expected resistance.”

  She gives me a firm and understanding nod, the way one does when they know exactly what they’re going to say. “In simple terms, this unfortunate little girl was admitted to the hospital in an early stage of acute chest syndrome. Her red blood cells began forming clumps in her lungs and one of these clots broke off, making its way into the vessels of her brain. Once the tiny vessel in her head became blocked, that area of her brain was deprived of oxygenated blood and she stroked out. Her acute chest syndrome also took its natural progression, preventing her sickle cell clot–filled lungs from getting air—and so they stopped functioning. Once her lungs stopped functioning, the rest of the organs in her body couldn’t get oxygen, either, inclusive of her heart, and that suffered arrest, too. It was a terrible tragedy, but not the fault of any doctor.”

  “She had been in the hospital for three days. Couldn’t anything have been done to prevent this?”

  “Things were done. In this situation, you give supportive care and hope the crisis will pass, as most do in patients her age. The morning of the event, her condition took a turn for the worse and a Dr. Valenti ordered the appropriate care. There’s some issue having to do with why oxygen wasn’t ordered earlier, but it would’ve made no difference. She also had a positive blood culture on admission showing she was suffering from septicemia, which I’m sure you know is a blood infection. I guess she could have been placed on IV antibiotics instead of oral, but that’s a judgment call, not malpractice. Nothing could have prevented this unfortunate complication. Suzy had an acute attack that was unpreventable. Yes, a terrible complication.”

  Now, whenever I hear the word complication spoken by a physician in a medical-legal setting, what I see right away in my mind’s eye is Pinocchio’s nose. In other words, the doctor’s fibbing. The term complication points a way out of his malpractice. The C word usually makes its appearance at doctors’ depositions under oath. Some of my favorites are: “Yes, I amputated the wrong foot. It was mismarked preoperatively. It’s a rare but known complication of the procedure.” Or “Yes, several lap pads were left inside your twenty-two-year-old client after her cesarean section. It’s true that she’ll never be able to get pregnant again because we had to remove her uterus, but as you know, these things are a risk and complication of the procedure.” And when the defendant doctor uses the word risk in conjunction with the word complication, it usually means the fuckup was of major proportions.

  Here, however, Dr. Laura is my expert. She’s on my side—the side of truth and justice. The side of the injured malpractice victim, not the doctor or hospital that was sued. I rarely hear my expert use the C word because my cases are peppered with merit. Peppered, I tell you. That is, they were before I became an HIC attorney.

  “Dr. Laura,” I ask, “are you saying that Suzy suffered from four different complications from her sickle cell condition?”

  “The cardio and pulmonary arrests do have a relation to one another,” she avers, “but the septicemia and stroke are mutually exclusive. Technically, you could say there were four separate complications.”

  “Is this a common occurrence?”

  “The answer would have to be no, especially in a child this age.”

  “Thank you for your time, doctor. I know now what I need to say to the mother to have her understand the situation. I’ll be preparing an affidavit for you to sign that memorializes your opinions, and will be part of my motion to the court to be relieved as counsel. I’ll need a copy of your CV so I can incorporate your qualifications into the affidavit.
”

  “Certainly. I’m sorry things couldn’t turn out better for you and that unfortunate little girl.”

  “Thanks for your time, but I have to tell you the pricing was completely unreasonable.” I get up, as does Otis.

  “You’ll have to speak to Steven about that. He’s the director and in charge of all matters financial in nature. I don’t even know what he charged you for these fifteen minutes we’ve spent together.”

  “Would it surprise you if I told you close to eighteen hundred dollars?”

  “I guess no, it wouldn’t surprise me,” she admits. “I agree it’s unreasonable, but unfortunately, I have no control over the situation.” I don’t like their clinic’s, or her husband’s, billing practices, but I do like her, maybe because I was addicted to Popeye growing up. “If you need anything else or if something new comes about that you believe may change my opinion, call me,” she offers. “But based on what we have here, I see no case.”

  We shake hands good-bye. “Is that the steps of Borough Hall?” I ask, pointing to a photo of her and Steven showcased on her desk.

  “Why, yes. Yes it is. That was our wedding day.”

  “It’s a great photo of you two,” I say, mustering up every ounce of sincerity within my body.

  “We eloped. That’s why we’re not wearing wedding attire.”

  “Very romantic.” As I walk out of the door I belly-bump right into Steven Smith, knocking my large frame firmly into him. He begins to pitch backward with his feet stuck underneath.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say.

  He sighs, looking aggrieved. I’m afraid he’s going to charge me a penalty.

  “Were you standing out here the whole time?” I ask him.

  “Of course not!” he snaps.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” he responds, defensively. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Me? I’m not suggesting anything, but the fact that your feet were planted squarely when we made contact was suggestive, that’s why I asked.”