Suzy's Case: A Novel Read online

  She shakes her head in disbelief. “Then how did Suzy end up this way?”

  “I hate to use these words, but what happened to Suzy was a risk and complication of her sickle cell condition and it’s documented in her hospital records. This is the unanimous opinion of the subsequent treating doctors who have no connection to this lawsuit, the defendant’s expert, and also our reviewing expert. The event would have occurred even if the guy in House was her doctor.”

  “Who?” June asks.

  “Never mind. What I mean to say is that the outcome would have been the same in the best hands that modern medicine could have offered. Unfortunately, Suzy had numerous complications from her sickle cell crisis.”

  June pauses before she responds. I can’t identify the intent of the pause, but before I can figure it out she speaks. “I see you’re buying.”

  “Buying what?”

  “You’re buying their sell. They’re trying to convince you Suzy’s disease is the cause of this and you’ve bought it. Was our expert at the hospital when this happened?” June asks.

  “Of course not.”

  “I was, Tug.” She hammered that statement. The tension’s thick. “I don’t know who or what, but somebody did something wrong. A mother knows these things. You got a mother?”

  “Yes, June. I have a mother.”

  “Ask her. She’ll tell you about a mother’s intuition. A mother knows when someone harms her baby … and somebody wronged my Suzy. I’m certain. I was there.”

  “I understand you’re upset about this news, but that’s not going to change things. There’s no case. It was an act of God.”

  June looks mulish. “I don’t have your education and I don’t have your smarts, Tug, but I know what I know and I know what I don’t know and I know someone did something bad to my Suzy.”

  June’s choice of words shocks me. The message is clear. I have to further investigate this case. June was there and she knows what she knows, and I can’t turn my back on that. That’s the principle guiding how I live my life. Besides, she’s calling me Tug now. Progress.

  “June, I accept what you’ve just said. I don’t know what I can do with it at this point, but I definitely accept it. I’ll look into things further, only I’m not optimistic.”

  “Just look further,” she encourages. “That’s all I’m asking. If there’s no case, then there’s no case, and I’ll accept responsibility for this.”

  I knew it. I’d better address her guilt right now. “June, what are you talking about? Suzy’s condition is not your fault, not by any measure. Like I said, this would’ve happened in the best of medical hands.”

  “No. I don’t believe that,” she says, softening like a wilting flower. Puddles gather in her expressive blue eyes. She takes a deep collecting breath. “Either they did something wrong or I didn’t act quickly enough when I saw my baby suffering that morning with her heart beating so fast.”

  “That’s not true. You must believe me. It’s not uncommon for a mother to feel responsible for an outcome like this under such circumstances, but I assure you it’s just groundless guilt, not fact. Leave it alone, guilt is for the guilty.”

  “It’s me or them,” she says, as if it’s a matter of fact. “So where do we go from here?”

  “As you know, this Wednesday Suzy is scheduled to see a doctor designated by the attorneys for the people we sued to evaluate her condition. It’s called an independent medical exam, or IME, although there’s nothing independent about it. The doctor works for the defendants. This was arranged before they made their motion to dismiss. I was going to cancel the appointment, but now, you just go ahead and take her there. Besides, if I can somehow make a case, Suzy’d have to go for this exam anyway. If there’s no case, then no harm done. I’ll call the court and ask Judge Schneider for an adjournment on the motion. I should get some time since I can argue there was a change of attorney and I just received the file. Hopefully, I’ll figure out some theory of recovery in the interim.”

  “That’s a plan, Tug, old boy,” June says merrily, like we’re back on track. “What time are you meeting us at the doctor’s office?”

  “June, that’s not necessary,” I say, repeating “old boy” in my head, damn. “You don’t need me there. In a case like this, defendants generally don’t dispute the severity of the injuries and I’m surprised they even asked for an exam. Just one look at Suzy tells the whole story. They’re disputing the liability, meaning that they didn’t do anything wrong to cause Suzy’s condition. Nothing’s going to happen at the IME that in any way relates to the issue of liability or fault so you don’t need me to accompany you.”

  “See you there,” June says, ignoring me. “You’re the one telling me ‘no case,’ so you’re going to be there. It’s the least you can do under the circumstances.”

  “But I’m in the middle of a trial right now,” I plead. “I was only able to meet you today because the judge told us he had an emergency special proceeding that came up. I’ll be back in court tomorrow and the case I’m litigating may last until the end of the week, so it’ll be impossible for me to get to Suzy’s IME on Wednesday.”

  “If you’re as good as Henry Benson says, then your case will be over by Wednesday, I’m sure.”

  “June—”

  “No excuses. I’ll see you at the IME. Come on, Suzy. I need some lunch and you need your feeding tube filled.”

  June gets up, unlocks the wheels, and spins Suzy around toward the door. “Sch-weet!” she blurts, stimulated by the motion, as Dog, the toy poodle, balances herself on Suzy’s lap. When June takes a few steps forward, I check out her smoking ass again. June’s perfectly shaped bottom moves in rhythmic form with each step. Foot plant right, wiggle left. Nice.

  Just as she reaches the door, June whips around. She makes no mention of the level of my eyes, but definitely takes note. She points to a picture of a woman in a black party dress on the corner of my desk. “That your wife?”

  “Yes, it is,” I reply proudly.

  “She’s sexy. She treat you right?”

  That’s a complicated question. “Yeah, she treats me all right.”

  She slowly nods, the way one does when formulating judgment. “I hope you’re more convincing in court.”

  She turns and wheels Suzy and Dog out.

  My first thought once she’s gone is whether June is trying to use my obvious appreciation of her good looks as a lure to keep me plugging away at Suzy’s case. My second thought is who cares because I can’t remember the last time I felt so alive, the testosterone flowing through my vessels. Sch-weet.

  Thirty seconds after June and Suzy’s departure, Lily marches in. “What kind of HIC was Mrs. Williams? A prostitute?”

  “I don’t know who the criminal is affiliated with the Williams family, but based on my first impression, I highly doubt it’s her, and it’s ‘Ms.’ Williams.”

  “She was gorgeous.”

  “Yes, she was. I think I’m attracted to her.”

  “Well, she’s definitely attracted to you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “On her way out, she was talking to her poor little girl. I heard her say ‘Suzy, your new lawyer’s got it going on, but he ain’t getting out of this case so fast.’ That’s what I came in to tell you.”

  I need to collect my thoughts. It figures this would happen in the worst of possible scenarios, a child’s case with a massive injury I have to withdraw from. Yet with a single-parent hot mom. If I fool around with June, then drop Suzy’s case, the retaliation could be disastrous, both personally and professionally. Also, I remember there being something in The Rules about not humping your client and I don’t want to end up in front of the Disciplinary Committee for that. Last, I’m pretty sure there was a similar provision in my wedding vows.

  My silence catches a look of disapproval from Lily. “You’re married, remember?”

  “I’m aware of that, Lily, but I can fantasize, can’t I?”

&nb
sp; “No,” she informs me. “That’s cheating.”

  “Lily, that’s not cheating. That’s normal, or else the divorce rate would be near one hundred percent.”

  Lily gives me the “you’re a cheater and I’m a loyal Puerto Rican” look. “Why do we have to get out of the case? Suzy’s as bad as we’ve ever had. Is someone lying or making something up to make a case where none exists?”

  “Not this time, and one thing’s for sure: June and Suzy are as honest as honest can be. Besides, it’s a lot harder to fabricate a medical malpractice case than it is your typical slip-trip-and-fall injury case.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “In a malpractice case,” I explain, “the facts giving rise to the claim are generally documented in the medical records, eliminating the possibility of the patient creating a false set of circumstances. Besides, in this instance, Suzy was only six at the time of malpractice and too young to victimize herself in a fake case. It may be the first Benson case we’ve handled that has no twist to it.”

  “Like you say, when you’re handling an HIC case, it ain’t over till your Fat Aunt Sandy sings. I got to go. My sitter burnt up our dinner, so I got to make a new one. Bye.”

  “Travel safe, Lily,” I say as she runway turns and leaves my office. My first thought while finally having a moment alone, a selfish one: if I’m going to bone June, assuming she’d have me, and assuming I had it in me to act on such an opportunity, I better do it before I tell her there’s no case—if that’s how things turn out—because there’s no way she’ll bang after. I can’t believe how self-centered I can be, thinking about a sexual interlude at a time when I’m on the verge of possibly ruining someone’s life. I think I just turned myself off. At least I admit it.

  As I gather my things to leave, one thought in particular keeps popping in and out of my head, which is June’s belief about Suzy’s brain-damaged condition. Having such a child is a sad enough situation, but if the mom wrongfully thinks she’s responsible for the damage, things are that much worse. Her individual existence is stifled by overriding and unjustified guilt, and she’s fixated on caregiving to the mutual exclusion of life around her. The family unit often breaks down and what’s left is a brain-damaged child and a nonfunctional, emotionally damaged mother.

  So the question now arises. Can June Williams be liberated from her emotional jailing or am I about to take away her chances of freedom? June’s belief that the hospital wronged her daughter has given her hope of vindication over all these years. June will never be the same if she has to accept that the hospital did nothing wrong. Her hope will be lost and her guilt will be permanent. If the hospital didn’t cause Suzy’s brain damage, ipso facto, she did.

  5.

  Of course we’re coming to Boca for the holidays,” I hear my wife say as I step down the back staircase into our upscale country-style kitchen.

  “I’m not going to Boca!” I holler. So much for having a peaceful morning.

  “Shut up, you idiot,” she scolds as I pull a chair out from our “antique” farm table that cost me double for its custom manufacture. “My mother’s on speaker.”

  “Why didn’t you say so,” I respond. “I—am—not—going—to—Boca!”

  “Is that Tug I hear?” my mother-in-law screams, mistakenly thinking you have to yell to be heard on speaker.

  “Yes, Mom,” answers my wife. “Don’t listen to him.”

  “Why not? I’m happy he wants to come to Boca.”

  “No! I’m not going to Boca!”

  “Wonderful, see you soon. I have to go. I don’t want to be late for mah-jongg.” Tyler clicks the phone off, then turns to me, angered. “What’s your problem?”

  “Me, I got no problem. I just don’t want to go to Boca and stay with your parents. I paid my dues. Fifteen years straight. It’s time for a change. Why don’t we go to some Arabic-speaking country for the Jewish holidays, that’s got to be less torturing than Boca.”

  “Well, I’m going, and so are the kids. And my parents expect to see you, so you’re going, too. It would be embarrassing for them to explain to everybody at the club why you’re not there. People will talk.”

  “I’m not interested in appearances. I’m not going.”

  “Yes you are.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “Yes you are.”

  “Nope.”

  “Yep.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Uh-huh. Yes you are!”

  “I are not!”

  “Bet?” she says, breaking up the back-and-forth childishness, but only slightly.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  She puts her hands on her hips, the way a woman does when she’s about to make things conclusive. “You’re going to Boca for the holidays. And that’s final!”

  Cornbread Connie

  On my Metro-North train ride to Grand Central I ponder my wife’s parting words. The last time she said, “That’s final,” I had to resolve five cases before getting any play. That took six weeks, and every time I told her about a settlement, she asked me how much the fee was as if keeping a tally to some fixed amount she had set in her mind before she would let me in. And I can’t believe I started a fight with her on a Tuesday, I must be going crazy. Boca, here I come.

  I take the 4 train from Grand Central and my destination is the Borough Hall stop in downtown Brooklyn. Standing in the center of the car is a homeless subway preacher orating his holy beliefs. He’s an unkempt, rumpled, messy black man in his midforties. His mission is clear.

  “It’s the woman that has the fruit that tempts the man,” he says in a nasal high-pitched voice. “If they had no fruit, there’d be no temptation. That sweet, succulent fruit of temptation is juicy on the outside, but seeded with evil on the inside. Can I have an amen from the congregation, yeah-ya.”

  “Amen,” responds a guy who looks down on his luck. He glances around to notice that eyes are now on him, embarrassed for being the only one of thirty riders to speak out. The women in the car are dispersing away from the center, making sure their pocketbooks are closed and shirts buttoned high.

  “Be careful, my fellow men,” the reverend continues, in gospel form, “for no good can come from tasting the sweet fruit of temptation, the fruit from the vines of the punany no-no bush. The sweet fruit women use to tempt their mens, to influence their mens, to manipulate their mens, and to rule their mens. Stay away from the punany no-no bush, stay away from the forbidden fruit of temptation. It will control your life, yeah-ya.”

  An instant later, we come out of the tunnel that runs under the East River, brakes screech the train to a jolting stop, and the subway doors open. The crowd hustles out as New Yorkers do, and I slip the orator a fiver, saying, “Amen, my brother. Would you consider sermonizing a group of worshippers in need of your words for the holidays down in Boca?”

  I step off the train, then negotiate an underground maze with the other rat racers and come up the stairs into a large, open square. In front of me is another building from the 1800s with columns supporting a triangular pediment. I can’t get away from these structures. Borough Hall was built as Brooklyn’s city hall containing the offices of the mayor, the city council, and it had a courtroom and a jail—an all-in-one building of city government. Now it houses the borough president, but I’ve never seen anyone go into that place. What I often see is exactly what I saw on Dr. Laura’s desk—newly married couples photographing their special moment on the impressive entry steps, memorializing the day that will forever change their lives.

  To my right is my destination, Brooklyn’s Supreme Court, the building I drove by the other day on my way to meet my soon-to-be ex-expert. I’m in the middle of a trial and the defendants are putting on their expert radiologist this morning. This witness will make or break my case.

  I arrive at court early and go up to the fourth floor to wait for things to heat up. With any luck, I’ll settle this case today afte
r cross-examining the radiologist, who also is the last witness in the case. I sit on one of the hard wooden benches that line the corridor just outside Judge Dixon’s courtroom.

  I open my bag and take out what I’ve prepared, my outline for my cross-examination. It’s headed “CROSS-ASSASSINATION: RADIOLOGIST FOR THE BAD GUYS.”

  As a rule, there’s no way to effectively cross-examine radiologists on what they say they see on X-rays. They come to court and say, “This film is a picture, and this is what I see.” End of story. The more you try to get a radiologist to change his interpretation, the worse the testimony gets for you. It gives them the opportunity to repeatedly pound their findings into the jury’s head. Thus, you have to embrace what they say they see, lulling them into a false sense of security, then proceed with the execution you have planned.

  The case on trial is the Connie Cortez matter, another HIC case. It’s the first Henry Benson referral I’ve actually had to take to trial. It’s a hit-in-the-rear automobile accident that took place four years ago, where Connie sustained a brain injury resulting in the loss of her senses of smell and taste. In Supreme Court, Kings County, such a case is litigated in two separate phases. In the first half of a bifurcated trial, the jury decides who’s at fault for causing the accident. If the defendant is found responsible in whole or in part, then a second trial is held with the same jury to determine the extent of monetary damages for the injuries claimed.

  In the first part of the trial, the defendant, who’s the spoiled-brat daughter of a federal court judge, contended that at the time of the accident, my client, Connie Cortez, was not a passenger in the car being driven by her husband but rather a “jump-in” extortionist attempting to perpetrate a fraud upon the court. The term has its roots in the realm of bus accidents, where a person claiming injuries was not on the bus at the time of the accident but rather “jumped in” after the accident occurred.