Suzy's Case: A Novel Read online

  “Is that your final word on this topic?”

  “Half.” We enter into a Mexican standoff pause.

  I give in first. Time to change direction. “Okay, since we can’t resolve things, let’s fully discuss the nature of your claim, just so there are no surprises during the course of the lawsuit or at trial.”

  “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

  “I represent both you and your wife since, again, you two were legally married at the time she was injured. My job is to get your wife fairly compensated for her injuries and you fairly compensated for your loss concerning how you were affected by her injuries. I have an obligation to both of you individually, as my clients—and I will never compromise one in favor of the other.”

  Beecher smiles. “I’m happy to hear that. Now you’re talking.” He takes the wrist strap off his hairy hand and places his Gucci bag on the floor. Good, harmonious conduct suggesting he’s going to stay a while.

  “As the husband of the injured person, you’re entitled to be compensated for the loss of your wife’s services for the time period measuring from the date of the incident up until the day that you two split. According to the file, that was six months. So I’ll argue to the jury that you sustained a loss for that period of time.”

  “Sounds fine to me.”

  “It might sound fine to you, but the type of injury your wife sustained is, in fact, not typically the kind of injury a husband would lose his wife’s services from.”

  Beecher gives me a quizzical look. “What do you mean by ‘services’?”

  “A claim for loss of services on behalf of the noninjured spouse,” I explain, “is for things the injured was prevented from doing around the home and the disruption of the quantity and quality of the intimate or sexual marital relationship.”

  Beecher grins broadly. “Then I have a big claim here. Sex sucked after this operation. I want half, like the law says, or we go to trial.”

  I refrain from correcting Bert on his continued misstatement of law, knowing it will get me nowhere. A Zen master would call it “accepting what is.” A good lawyer would call it “mistake of the law is no defense”—you do the crime, you do the time. “Mr. Beecher, your wife had a nose job, a chin implant, her lips enlarged, her brow lifted, and her eyelids done during the procedure. Basically, a facial rehab.”

  “Figures,” Bert cuts in, “I had to marry a piece of trash that cares about how she looks. That costs bucks, you know.”

  “Anyway,” I continue, “Betty was left with scratches to the corneas of her eyes. This compromises the ability for tears to spread evenly resulting in a condition known as dry eyes, which she successfully treats with eye lubricants. It’s my opinion—and I stress, it’s only my opinion—that a jury is going to struggle with giving you money for a compromise to your sex life because Betty’s eyes are dry. However, I could be wrong.”

  “I want half,” Beecher repeats, mantra-like.

  “I understand. So let’s continue with how this will play out in court. First of all, when you’re on the witness stand the judge is to your right and the jury is to your left, just like you see on television during a courtroom scene. Know what I mean?”

  “I don’t watch television.”

  “I’m sure sometime in your life you’ve seen a courtroom scene on TV.”

  “Like I said,” Beecher replies testily, “I don’t watch TV.”

  “Well, just like in the movies, then. Like the trial scene in My Cousin Vinny or A Few Good Men.”

  “I don’t go to the movies, either.”

  “Mr. Beecher, certainly at least one time in your life you’ve seen a courtroom drama play out on television or in the movies?”

  “Never.”

  “Never ever?”

  “Never ever, ever.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Interesting?” Beecher asks. “Why interesting?”

  “Whenever someone says ‘never’ to something, bells just go off in my head like an alarm, signaling to me someone’s being less than candid.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.

  “You calling me a liar?” Beecher threatens. No maybes about it.

  Otis, who’s been lying quietly to my left, jumps to his feet. I give him a “good boy” pat. “Down, Otis!” I command. He lies back again, but continues to keep a watchful eye on Bert.

  “Please settle down, you’re making Otis nervous. Of course I’m not calling you a liar. You’re my client and I believe everything you say. Just understand that the judge is to your right and the jury is to your left just like they were during your attempted murder trial.”

  “Oh, is that what you mean? Why didn’t you say so?” He grins at me as if I were his entertainment.

  “Now, let’s turn to the testimony forming the basis of your claim. I read your prelawsuit deposition under oath and I also read Betty’s medical records. I found direct conflicts between the two.”

  “There you go again, calling me a liar.”

  “No I’m not,” I quickly retort.

  “Yes you are!” he yells in a firm voice, hand exerciser closed, popping up from the chair with intent to cause serious bodily harm. I instinctively jump up from my seat as Otis whips to his feet and lets out a serious warning growl. Bert looks to the dog, then back at me. A moment ago he put his Gucci bag down in peace and now we’re up and ready to brawl. I got beads of sweat collecting on my shiny dome, knowing it’s near impossible for me to look tough given the pattern of my baldness. It’s moments like this I wish I had gone skinhead instead of buzz cut.

  Something’s got to give.

  He looks back at Otis, whose lips are now retracted, showing his teeth, giving a low-pitched snarl. “I’ve had enough of this legal mumbo jumbo.” Bert picks up his Gucci, turns, and leaves, stomping out, going back to the swamp.

  I plop to my chair in relief. I look over at man’s best friend. He’s licking his balls like nothing happened. I wish I could do that. Not lick my balls, but move past a conflict like it never happened.

  4.

  A minute after Bert Beecher leaves, I get a buzz from Lily. “Your three o’clock is here early. What do you want me to do with them?”

  “Once Bert Beecher clears the office, send in the Williams family. How did things go with the sign-up and his friends?”

  “They were nice boys. Very respectful.”

  I like that Mile High. I can see him as a community leader one day. Good thing I’m getting in on the ground floor. Guys like him were born to be a good source of referrals for lawyers like me.

  When I’m about to meet a client for the first time, I usually want to look my best. So right about now I should be wiping the moisture off my scalp to dull the shine. Flossing, too, and taking a swig of mouthwash. On the other hand, I’m rejecting this case, so I don’t really care about how I present. Instead, I embrace my balding status by whisking the moisture away by running my hand over my head; tongue-suck the processed beef particles from my uppers like an unfortunate soul trying to dislodge secondhand chicken parts scored from the KFC parking lot garbage bin; cup my hands together while orally delivering and nasally inhaling a hot breath, making a mental note not to breathe on Mrs. Williams. This taken care of, I relax in a slouch, like the rest of the schlubs in my profession.

  Yes, now I’m ready to throw Little Suzy Williams farther under the bus.

  Sch-weet, Dog, and Vegas

  A moment later, Mrs. Williams looks around my door and leans in. “Be right there!” she calls, then disappears just as quickly.

  Holy shit! She’s fucking gorgeous! Like, the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.

  She’s a light-skinned black woman with large, round, expressive blue eyes and bottomless dimples between her high cheekbones and low, soft jawline. If I saw it correctly, her tiny nose is ever so slightly turned up and it’s adorable. And the shape of her face, it’s like a gently curving heart that comes to a natural point at her lovely chin.

  I scramble around searching
for my plastic floss picks. Shit! The bag’s empty, so I slam the drawer shut and open the one above it. I fish around and pull out a large paper clip that’s most likely been a bottom dweller since I got the desk eighteen years ago. I bend the metal arm out, then hold the mirror up and quickly pick out the jerky particles stuck between my teeth, hoping the new object of my carnal desires doesn’t walk in on me. Next I grab a tiny bottle of Listerine for a quick freshen. After spitting into my wastebasket, I strike my favorite new-client pose. Crap! My shiny head! I take the arm of my suit and buff it dry, then reassume the pose. I twine my fingers together, resting the fleshy butt of my hands on my desk and making sure my cuff is riding high, to call attention to my gold watch. Okay, I stop to acknowledge how insecure and superficial I am for needing to have my watch show. I sit up straight and suck in my gut.

  Mrs. Williams is so good-looking I feel I got to take the pose to a higher level, so I suck in my cheeks and push out my jaw, hoping to highlight my facial bone structure. I take a deep breath and say to myself, Loser.

  A moment later, a pair of red leather boots secured in the leg braces of an old-style wheelchair comes rolling around my doorframe. Inside the boots are thin light brown legs, and from what I can see they are atrophied and contorted. This lower extremity mess belongs to Suzy Williams. The cinnamon-colored toy poodle resting on her bony little lap is adorable, somehow giving balance to the visual.

  As her mother wheels Suzy forward, I realize I forgot to move one of my chairs out of the way as I customarily do when I know a client is going to be wheeled into my office. The obstructive chair causes Mrs. Williams to slow down, so I break my unseen pose and leap from my seat. I pull one of the two chairs to the side and she wheels Suzy forward a few more feet, then locks the wheels.

  “Sch-weet,” Suzy says as the motion ceases and she’s parked.

  Mrs. Williams and I are two feet from each other, and she smells vanilla delicious. She’s near six feet, has Halle Berry’s perfect complexion, and yes, I saw correctly that tiny little nose is slightly turned up. Her superlong eyelashes are covered with gobs of that stuff women use to make them appear thicker and longer. On someone else such excess would look ridiculous, but on June it’s merely glamorous. Her eyes open and close like shutters, and each slow blink suggests innocence in a carnal kind of way, if that makes any sense. “I truly apologize,” I say. “It was insensitive of me not to have moved this chair out of the way in anticipation of your arrival.”

  She looks into my eyes, melting me with her dreamy baby blues. I make a mental note to myself that blue eyes on a light-skinned black woman are one hot combo. “That’s not a problem, it happens all the time,” she says in a soft sexy voice.

  Now I really feel horrible, having been told I’m just as insensitive as the rest of society, even if I know that wasn’t her intent. I wonder if I would’ve forgotten to move the chair if I were keeping Suzy’s case or knew how sexy June Williams was beforehand. On second thought, I definitely wouldn’t have forgotten.

  Otis gets up and walks around from behind my desk to see what’s happening. “Sch-weet Dog, sch-weet Dog, sch-weet Dog,” Suzy says excitedly, and begins swaying her upper body back and forth with minimal trunk control. Otis moves toward Suzy and her little poodle, his tail wagging. He rests his funnel head on Suzy’s bony lap and the poodle starts licking his big black nose. Suzy seems entertained. “Sch-weet.”

  “Mrs. Williams …” I start.

  “It’s Ms.,” she cuts in, “but please call me June.”

  I nod, and after the appropriate postcorrection pause time, start again. “June, what does ‘sch-weet’ mean?”

  “Sch-weet,” she explains, “is Suzy’s way of saying she’s good, happy, or, basically, that things are sweet with her.”

  “How much speech does she have?”

  “Three words: sch-weet, Dog with a capital D because that’s her dog’s name”—she gives the little pup a gentle pat on its head—“and Vegas.”

  “Sch-weet, Dog, and Vegas? As in Las Vegas?”

  “Exactly. There’s a component to her brain damage affecting certain ocular centers that are stimulated by bright flashing lights. To you and me, flashing lights are a distracting alert signal, but in Suzy’s case, they make her feel calm and relaxed. She likes to watch television in the dark and the Las Vegas tourism commercials show lots of flashing neon lights in them, which she loves, so, somehow, she learned the word Vegas.”

  “Incredible.”

  “Yes, it is. Watch.” She opens her extralarge red leather bag, which matches her own red boots, and reaches in. She comes out with a plastic toy. It’s a round, clear globe attached to a red plastic handle with a black button. She leans over, butt out, and puts it in front of Suzy, who’s staring up at the ceiling. “Suzy, look,” June says. “Suzy, look here. Suzy, look.”

  Suzy moves her unfocused gaze to the toy. “Vegas, Vegas, sch-weet, Vegas.” June presses the button and multicolored lights start spinning around and around inside the globe. Suzy stares and is mesmerized by the spinning lights almost to the level of a conscious sedation. Me, I’m mesmerized by June Williams’s perfect little bottom, hanging out there just right. As I look at June, I imagine all the ways I could take advantage of her vulnerable position.

  I hear “Excuse me, excuse me” and realize I’ve spent the last few moments in a state of conscious sedation of my own. I didn’t even realize June leaned back up, now looking at me.

  “I’m sorry, I was just thinking of something.” I move back around the desk and slowly sit down, thinking she just busted me checking her out. It’s time to turn my attention to Suzy.

  A Mother Knows These Things

  June Williams’s daughter’s formal diagnoses are vast and diverse. The main one that covers everything I see sitting before me is severe cerebral palsy and spastic quadriplegia. Cerebral palsy is essentially damage to the motor control centers of the brain, compromising voluntary movement. It has also seriously compromised her intellectual development, keeping her functioning at a two-year-old level. Spastic quadriplegia means Suzy is nonfunctional from her neck down, but she has a significant amount of nerve sparing that allows her to flap her arms about in a spastic manner. Suzy can hardly swallow and her head rocks, and since this makes eating a problem, she has a gastric tube sewed into her stomach for nutrition as Henry had mentioned. Her arms are skin-and-bone appendages contorted and twisted into flipper-like shapes from tendon contractures. I could go on and on but …

  If Suzy’s case had merit, I’d make millions with this injury, and that appalling thought is what separates attorneys in my business from the rest of society. I disgust even myself for thinking it, but that’s just the work I happen to do. The bigger the injury, the bigger the attorney fee, the better my marriage. At least I admit it.

  “Ms. Williams …”

  She interrupts again. “Please, please, I asked that you call me June.”

  “Okay, June. And you can call me Tug.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she responds, like I said something naughty. “I’ll call you Mr. Wyler.”

  “No, please, that’s too formal, please, call me Tug.”

  “I can’t do that, call my lawyer Tug. I tell you what,” she says, looking like she’s got a bright idea, “I’ll just call you Wyler, with no Mr.”

  Anyone else, no, but … “Sounds great to me.”

  “Good. Now let’s get busy. I have a lot on my plate and I’m counting on you to help me clear it.” She smiles. I melt.

  I like June Williams. She’s gorgeous, intelligent, and witty. She calls things the way she sees them without a filter, which is a complete turn-on. I hope she has an interest in me, too, but I have to break it to her.

  “I have some bad news.”

  “I’m listening. Give it to me straight.”

  “There’s no case.”

  “No case where?”

  “No case here. Suzy’s got no case.”

  June knits her brow
. “You must be mistaken. This lawsuit’s been going on six years already. Look at her and tell me there’s no case.”

  “I understand how long this case has been pending, and sometimes in this business that can happen for a reason or for none at all. I just don’t know the explanation in this case yet. And I see the unfortunate condition of your daughter right before my eyes, but that doesn’t change anything. You’ve got no case.”

  There’s a long pause. The kind of pause used to think things over. The pause, I have to tell you, is definitely underexamined as a communication tool.

  “Explain it to me,” June demands. “Explain how this lawsuit came to be started and why it’s been around for so long if there was no case to begin with.” Sarcastically, she continues. “I’m listening. I can’t wait to hear about it. Go ahead, Wyler.”

  I take advantage of a pause myself. “In a case like this you need a doctor, a medical expert, to come forward and say another doctor committed malpractice. Without imputing any wrongdoing to Mr. Benson, I’ll say he started this suit in your best interest, thinking that the case had merit and that he would be able to pick up an expert along the way. It’s not uncommon for attorneys to do that. Recently, the attorneys for the defendants asked the court to throw Suzy’s case out. It’s called—”

  “I know what it’s called,” June interrupts. “A motion to dismiss. A motion for summary judgment. I’m familiar with legal procedure. So, are you saying that Henry had the case reviewed by an expert for the first time only after they made their motion to dismiss and it was at this time he first came to realize Suzy has no case?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” After waiting for a few moments to pass, to allow June the dignity of her anger, I continue. “Our options are either you voluntarily discontinue the lawsuit with the judge’s permission or else I make a cross-motion to have Henry Benson and myself relieved as counsel since there’s no good-faith basis on which to go forward. Otherwise, the defendant’s motion to dismiss goes in unopposed and the judge throws out the case. The outcome is the same, regardless.”