Cookie's Case (10 page)

Major now moves in to insert the big needle in her lower back, a tad left of center. I zoom in for a close-up.

“Easy, my dear,” he says, “just a pinch, that's all.”

He inserts the needle. Then, all of the sudden, without notice, bam! Cookie's left leg rockets back, kicking Major squarely in the gut. And I mean, her leg exploded backward in some form of hyperreflex with a force like I've never witnessed before. It sends him flying as if he were a rag doll.

Major's flight ends when he slams into the base of my desk four feet away. Oh, shit! He's motionless. I'm thinking mild concussion and massive internal bleeding. Wait a minute. He shakes his head, the way boxers do after taking a hook to the temple. Slowly, he regains his composure and, with a confused expression, looks up.

Boy, is this crazy! But I've got it videoed and can't wait to share it with Mick and Henry.

“Cookie, don't move!” Major yells, fixated on her back.

“What's going on?” she asks. “What was that bang I heard?” She obviously has no idea what just happened.

I help him up with one hand, keeping the camera steady with the other and still aimed at Cookie. I don't want to miss one frame of this bizarre, highly unnatural moment. I zoom in. The large needle is hanging out of her spine. It's stuck in there.

Major straightens himself out in exactly the way anyone might after being mule-kicked during a spinal tap gone wrong. “Over here,” he says, directing me to return the camera focus to him, as he grasps the syringe.

“What you just witnessed,” he continues, earnestly eager for audience understanding, “is one of the risks and complications of a spinal tap. You see, this is a blind procedure, and as I was entering the needle to access the subarachnoid space, the tip penetrated a nerve root. These exit the spinal canal at each vertebral level and branch out to different parts of our body, hence the term peripheral nervous system. These nerves have two aspects, with one of those controlling sensory perception, or what our brain interprets from external stimuli. For instance, when Cookie kicked me, that was the stimulus causing the nerves in my abdomen to send a message of pain to my brain. The other aspect of the nerve controls motor coordination or movement. I obviously stuck the needle into the motor centers of Cookie's nerve, as evidenced by her violent kick.”

“Major! Major! Please!” Cookie is losing her remaining composure. And justifiably so. “I'm at six, approaching seven. And,
what
kick? I didn't kick you! Did I?”

“Yes, in fact, you did. It was a reflex induced by my contacting your nerve, and, since your lower back is numbed, it's not surprising you didn't know about it. I realize it wasn't intentional.”

“I really kicked you?”

“Yes.”

“Oops.” She frowns, suddenly more concerned about Major than her own increasing discomfort. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” I marvel at her solicitude. She's the one with the needle jutting hideously out of her back, a hair away from her spinal cord.

“I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Remember,” I interrupt, “we're still on camera here. I think we need to focus on the task at hand.”

Cookie starts to say something, when a rictus of pain freezes her.

“Now, Major! It's got to be now!” she commands.

He resumes the procedure and completes it without further incident. Whew. When he's finished, he explains that the meter on the device is a gauge for measuring spinal-fluid pressure. The fact that her fluid is clear means there's no evidence of infection.

I've learned a lot in the past few minutes. And seen things I never imagined. Speaking of which, Cookie is still topless. I've never been near a woman so comfortable with her nakedness. She gives me one of her innocent smiles, and Major catches it.

Man, what's going on here? She's such a babe, and he's this old dude who seems to command her total devotion. He appears resigned to the fact that my watching her get dressed is unavoidable at this point. However, I'm particular to keep a very professional look on my face. (I think.)

INCOMPLETE AND FILTERED

Once we're all seated again, I clear my throat. “I have to say, I can't believe you've been doing that all this time. I've never heard of such an intervention. Isn't there another form of treatment?”

“Well, Cookie could have a shunt surgically sewn into her brain that would drain the excess CSF into a tiny tube implanted just underneath her skin running down her neck and around her shoulder with its spout ending in the peritoneal cavity in her abdomen, the most common site for fluid diversion. The fluid would drain through the tube and drip into her abdomen, then be reabsorbed naturally by her body. But she's against it.”

“Why are you against it?” I ask her, thinking, Shit, yeah, I would be too.

“I'm against it because I could end up like a vegetable. The risks are off the charts. No way. Not for me. I'd rather be doing this than wind up brain damaged or worse. Besides, the shunt can fail, clog up, need adjustments, and worst of all, I'd have to totally give up dancing with one of those implanted in my brain.” She pauses. “No way,” she repeats. It's all I got left in my life. Oh yeah, and you, Major. Sorry.”

She reaches over and takes his hand. But I can tell it's a guilty gesture and not a sincere one by the way she quickly lets go.

“Understood,” I respond.

They look at me, waiting to hear what's next. I pick up the file. “Major, is there any reason why your medical records aren't in here? Or, for that matter, why Chris Charles didn't list your name as a witness or as a treating physician? You're obviously both, not to mention key to proving the tapping, which clearly is the largest element of damages.”

Okay, Major, let's hear it, the voice in my head says.

“Early on,” he begins, “I told Chris to try to keep me out of this, given the nature of my relationship with McElroy.”

And this guy denied appreciating conflicts, I think to myself. Jeez.

“But, seeing how things are turning out, if you need to identify me as a witness or treating physician, please do so. Anything to help at this point.”

“Good. I'll also need to provide defense counsel a copy of your medical records to go with the video.”

“What about the clinic records, then?” Cookie adds. “From the day you saved my life.” She's smiling again now.

“Clinic records?” I repeat, interested to know.

“Oh, he's so shy. When the headaches first came on, Major took me to his old medical clinic for evaluation. Two days of testing. It was there that he made the diagnosis and performed my first tap.” She says it as if remembering a first kiss.

“Then I'll need the name and address of that facility, too,” I point out. “Anyway, best now to finish the remainder of the agenda I had planned for our meeting today. Sound okay to you guys?”

“Sounds good,” Major answers for both of them.

“Cookie, I've read your records and have seen for myself what you have to endure. Now I'd like to hear from your own lips how this injury has compromised your enjoyment of life, which is an item of noneconomic damage in the New York Pattern Jury Instructions. This will be important during negotiations. So I need you to proceed without holding anything back.”

I can tell by the way she's looking at me that a gut spill is on the horizon. At the same time, Major's sitting next to her. She's going to tread carefully because of him. It's obvious by the way she's subtly just repositioned herself, adding a hint of distance. The inch tells the whole story.

Her eyes are filling with tears, but she won't let them run. It's Major, for sure: she doesn't want to worry him. Or hurt his feelings, either. Whatever she's about to say will be incomplete and filtered because of his presence, I realize. I'll have to speak with her alone to get it all.

She lets out a long, slow breath. “First of all,” she plunges in, “I always wanted to be a mother, but because of this I can't have kids. The way I understand it is, if the pressure in my head increases too much during pregnancy or at childbirth, I could become brain damaged, die—or worse—compromise the health of my child from oxygen deprivation. Right, Major? I don't want to be brain damaged—I already said that—but more horrible would be having to live with myself if I caused any harm to my unborn child. No way.”

She stops to compose herself. “So I'll never be a mother, and that's a pretty big loss, especially because I don't have any family of my own. Except for Major, that is.” Time for another guilty hand pat.

“I grew up the only child of a single mother who died when I was twelve. I always hoped to start my own family, a big one with lots of children, but now that's never going to happen.”

I say nothing, but it's a sympathetic nothing. Major clears his throat but also remains silent.

Cookie's eyes tear up again. “I can't do anything alone. I have to stay close to Major because I never know when my head pressure's going to get out of control. The normal tap cycle is every three to six days, but I've needed repeat taps as soon as twelve hours later. It's just not predictable. I had a tap the evening I met you, and that was two days ahead of schedule. And then there are times after the tap where I suffer from spinal headaches with nausea. They're awful. Besides, I've taken Major's life away from him, which I feel terrible about. He's got to stick around me, be close by at all times without any breaks, because … you just never know. I'm a big burden on him, and I hate myself for that. He deserves better.”

Hand touch number three.

She's looking at him, wearing a sad smile and blinking back tears. “Then there's dancing. I don't care what any doctors say, I need to dance. It defines me. I won't give it up. No matter what. You have no idea what it's like doing the thing you love most in the world and having to do it in agony. But I can't disappoint all those guys who love me, 'cause I love them back. We're like family. And I won't give it up. Even though it hurts. It's who I am.” Now she's got a defiant expression.

“Okay. I think I'm understanding the essence of this now,” I tell her. “You've done a fine job of explaining your history and the toll it's extracted from you. I'm sorry I had to put you through it, but it was necessary. I'm going to start setting things up for settlement. This case demands it—from what I read in the file, from what I've now witnessed, and from what you've just said. I want to set the wheels in motion. You can consider the video we made today a big first step forward toward our goal.”

I stand up, indicating our meeting's now come to its end. But what I'm thinking is: of course there's only a two fifty offer. The insurance carrier never even considered the tapping. They had no records, nor the chance to question Cookie about it before she took ill at her oral deposition.

As they make their way toward the door, I realize one other thing I need to ask. “Listen, I know this is going to sound strange.” They both stare at me curiously. I hesitate. Out with it. It's just that I don't want to sound like an idiot. Okay, here I go. “But do either of you know any reason why some person might not want me to handle this case?”

They give each other puzzled looks. “No,” answers Cookie. I can tell she's confused by the question.

“What do you mean?” Major wants to know.

“What I mean is, would there be any reason why representing Cookie might make me unpopular? You know, like Chris Charles being pissed that he was substituted out or anything like that?”

Major studies me. I've thrown him a curve ball. “No,” he answers. “I spoke to Chris, and he understood the conflict. He wasn't happy, but he wants what's best for Cookie. We all want what's best for Cookie. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious, that's all. No reason really. It's just when you take a case over from another attorney they can get a little resentful, even start to act out. That's all.”

“What's happened to arouse your concern?” It's reasonable that he should want to know.

“Nothing.” I hate withholding information from a client, but I see no sense in sharing my Minnow encounter. Yet.

“All right then. If you say so.” He resumes his solicitous escorting of Cookie from my office. Moments later, Lily buzzes.

“What's up?”

“Some guy called three times while you were in conference. He seemed real anxious. He's probably an HIC. But I couldn't get any info from him. He said just to tell you he called.”

“So are you going to tell me his name or not?”

“Minotero. That's a strange name. Sounds like one of those masked Mexican wrestlers.”

Speak of the devil. “Wonderful.”

“Wonderful what?”

“Wonderful, nothing.”

“Well, you said ‘wonderful.' Did you mean it in a good way or a bad way?”

“I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure it can't be good. Listen, I've got to catch up on some paper, so try not to disturb me.”

“Okay, I'll give you the envelope later.”

“Lily, what envelope?”

“The envelope someone dropped off on our reception counter.”

“Who dropped it off?”

“I don't know. I went into the supply closet, and when I came back there was an envelope sitting on the entry counter with your name on it.”

“Bring it in, please.”

“Now?”

“Yes, Lily, now.”

She brings it in, flips it on my desk, and huffs out, sighing ostentatiously. Like you'd think
I
was bothering
her
.

It has one word on it:
Wyler
.

Chapter Nine

W
hat's with this Minnow character? The note Lily tossed on my desk an hour ago was a one-sentence warning:
Drop the case or you'll be sorry
. Highly imaginative. But it's hard not to be insulted by something so formulaic. I pick up the phone.

“Chris Charles,” I hear a real person answer, not the voicemail.

“Hi Chris. This is Tug Wyler, Cookie's new attorney. Do me a favor. Get over it! Can you call your guy off? I mean, I'm working this case for Henry Benson,” I say, as if it were a mob threat. “And he's one guy you don't want to cross, believe me.”

“I'm sorry, but what are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about Minotero, your investigator.”

“Minotero?”

“Yes, Minotero, your investigator. He just delivered a note here, which I'm sure you're aware of.”

“Really, I don't know any Minotero, and I don't know what you're talking about.” He almost sounds convincing. “I can't afford an investigator. I work out of my basement, for God's sake. That was my big case you took, but I understand. I know who you are. She's in more experienced hands. I appreciate that.”

End of conversation.

So if I believe him—and for some reason I do—then what school is this Minnow swimming with?

Tactic-switching time.

I pick up the phone and call Pusska, my private investigator. She took a course over the Internet and in less than a week became a licensed PI. The vibe she gives off is keep-your-distance. You could call her cold, but the better term would be
hardened
. On the plus side, when she decides to make an approach, she's always successful. She's thirty-three and gorgeous—tall, blonde, with killer blue eyes and full lips. She's skilled at connecting with guys, making her way in with the lure of sex, which, according to her, can be used to get anything, at any time, from any man. A useful skill set for an investigator.

She picks up on the second ring. “Vhat?”

“Hi, Pusska. How's it going?”

“Vhat do you vant? Don't bother me vith small talk. I busy.”

“Sorry. I took over a case from another attorney and, not long after, this little turd started warning me to stay away—which, of course, I don't intend to. But I don't actually understand yet why I'm being threatened. I spoke to the lawyer I'm replacing, and he's adamant he didn't sic anyone on me. So I really don't know who else would have a stake in or be concerned with a run-of-the-mill personal injury case.”

Then I remember little Suzy. And all the cut-throat stakeholders in that case.

“Put down and push
send
. Bye.” The line goes dead.

That's how Pusska works. You just gotta accept it.

After I dispatch a detailed e-mail to her, I gather up my stuff and head for Grand Central. I walk uptown slowly, looking around for Minnow. I guess he's slithering around in other ponds.

Before getting on the train, I call home. The two troublemakers pick up at the same time. I say, “Hi, Penelope. Hi, Connor. Is Mommy there?”

“Hi,” Penelope returns. “I told you I changed my name to Summer, Daddy. Now please respect my decision.”

“Yeah, Dad, and I'm Dirk.”

“Now both of you just stop it. You're going to get me into real trouble with your mother if you continue with that.”

“No, we're not.” This from Penelope. “Mom changed her name, too.”

“Really?” I question. “What are you talking about?”

My son explains. “Well, Dad, you see, Mom always loved the name Amber, so she decided to change her name, too. Her new name is Amber Sizzle.”

“Amber Sizzle? What kind of name is that?”

Summer—I mean Penelope—enlightens me. “Well, Dad, Mom was making bacon this morning and Brooks came up with it.”

This is just great. I have a wife named Amber Sizzle, a daughter named Summer, a son named Dirk, and a new client named Cookie. My life sounds like it's turning into a low-budget porn flick.

“Okay,” I say, sighing just the tiniest bit. “Just tell Ms. Sizzle I'm on my way home.”
Click.

My train ride, happily, is uneventful. My daily commute has comprised the only peaceful moments of the last seven days. I close my eyes and take in the multiple happenings since last Tuesday. The strange vision of seeing Cookie cartwheeling in a halo; meeting her unlikely boyfriend, Major; two of my children, and now apparently my wife, changing their names; having to defend my integrity and my law license in court after being accused of suborning perjury by a client who fired me after I procured a million dollars for her; little Minnow, the mystery man; videoing a soft-porn spinal tap in my office; and finally, Robert Killroy and Ethel, the ray off sunshine in my week.

I look forward to working hard for them and contributing toward Robert's financial independence. Helping and protecting the rights of people with fewer benefits in life—including those who might be shorted by the legal process, even by their own attorneys—are the reasons I became a seeker of justice.

The money ain't bad either. But I'm not taking a fee on Robert's case. It was clear from my interaction with Granny that there was no other way to gain her trust so her grandson could have proper representation. Good thing too because, among other issues, the case was just days away from final dismissal. I'd rather represent Robert for free than allow him to be another innocent victim of the miscarriage of justice. Don't get me wrong, though. If I had a choice here, I'd take a fee.

At least I admit it.

As I step off the train, I realize I never asked Ethel or Robert how the accident happened. But since Ethel is certain the police report is wrong, that's good enough for now.

As I walk to my car, I think how justice is something you shouldn't have to shop for, but it is. Meaning, different personal injury lawyers have different abilities. It could happen that Lawyer A resolves a case for one hundred thousand dollars while Lawyer B, a more able and skilled attorney, resolves that very same case for five hundred thousand. So choose your lawyer wisely.

When I walk in the door, my family's seated in the kitchen around our oversized round farm table made from antique wood planks. The day we bought it, I said, “Honey, why do we need such a big kitchen table?” I was expecting her standard irrational answer. Instead, she finally made sense with her explanation—“to keep the proper aesthetic proportion with our big teak island.”

But Amber Sizzle didn't disappoint me when I asked my next question. “Why do we need to spend double the money for an antique table when a new one is half the price?”

“Because we do.” It's her stock reply whenever I ask why we have to pay more for everything than seems necessary.

“What's up, everybody?”

No answer. Penelope is intently watching TV, tightly holding the remote in her hand for safekeeping. Connor is checking the sports scores on Tyler's laptop, and Brooks is doing something on his iPhone, the one I was against getting him for this exact reason.

I turn to Tyler. “What's up, honey?”

“The name's Amber Sizzle, remember? Until theirs change back. Everything's on hold until that happens.” Crap. She's not gonna let this go.

“I'll have a talk with them.” I offer a reassuring nod.

“That's a mighty fine idea you got there, Mr. Wyler,” she says archly. Right. Then, in a change of tone, she sternly informs, “Your dinner's in the warmer.”

I take out my plate and walk back to the table. Once I remove the tin foil I see my dinner: three burnt mini lamb chops, two string beans. I look up for an explanation. But I'm not going to make a big deal about it.

“Sorry, the kids were hungry.” I nod. Connor looks up.

“Dad,” he says, “when did you get home?” Brooks looks up from his device, “Yeah, when did you get home?”

“Just a few minutes ago. How was school today, boys?” Before I finish my question their heads are back down into their devices. Something needs to be done about this technological home invasion before it gets out of hand. At the very least I'd expect my kids to notice when I arrive home.

“Oh,” Tyler says, “I have my OB-GYN appointment next month. I made it the same day as Penelope's dance audition. It's near your office, so I'm going to drop her off with you, go to my appointment, and then you're going to take her for her audition. By the time I'm done, you'll be done, and I'll pick her back up at your office.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

“Well, then you better not forget this plan the way you have a habit of doing. I'm going to text and e-mail you the specifics to make sure you keep that morning free.”

“I will. Not a problem.” I briefly consider asking why she insists on going to her gynecologist in the city, given that we moved out over a decade ago. Oh, well.

The phone rings—once, twice—and nobody's making a move for it. On ring three, I say to the royal family of the round plank table, “Can someone answer the phone? I just sat down to eat.”

“Dad.” Brooks is using that specific tone denoting my having asked a stupid question. “It's not for me. I have an iPhone.”

“Yeah,” Connor chimes in, “it's not for me. But can you buy me an iPhone?”

Penelope is absorbed with the remote and SpongeBob. I don't even look at Tyler because it's clear she ain't making a move for it.

The answering machine intervenes, and the caller leaves a message. “Hi, this is Robert Killroy …”

Not long after this, I find myself brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed. I spit a swoosh of toothpaste-filled water, turn the faucet off, and enter my bedroom. Tyler's leaning on her pillows, strategically propped behind her at the perfect angle to comfortably play with her iPad. No surprise there. Once they install a vibrating mechanism into those, my marriage is over. But for now I have to contend with her current iPad game fixation:
Candy Crush Saga.

“S'up, honey?”

“Quiet, I'm playing.”

“I can see you're playing, but why do I have to be quiet? It's
Candy Crush
.”

“I said quiet; this is important.”

“What could be so important about
Candy Crush
?”

“I'll tell you what's so important,” she says vehemently. “I turned Irma onto it last week, and now she's three levels higher than me, that's what's so important. She hasn't stopped playing for one minute. She's an animal.”

“So what? She's three levels higher than you. Big deal.” Tyler turns her head away from the game only for an instant. But it was way long enough to give me her crazy eyes. They have a tendency to slightly bulge when she's about to blow.

“Are you kidding me?” She fumes with her fingers moving a mile a minute, tapping her iPad. “There's no way I can let Irma beat me. We're competitive cousins. We've been competing about everything since we were kids. You know that.”

“I guess I do.”

Tyler believes everyone understands about competitive cousins.

“Shit.” Man, she's really ticked.

“Shit what? Fail to get to the next level?”

“Yep. And I ran out of lives, so now I have to wait before attempting this level again.” She puts her iPad down, required to wait the designated time period before the geniuses who designed
Candy Crush
will allow her to play this level again. She shakes out her hand a few times, up and down.

“What's the matter?”

“I've been playing awhile.” Then she mumbles like some addicted computer gamer, “I need more lives.”

“You know, while we're on the topic of
Candy Crush
lives, you have to stop sending friend requests to my Facebook friends who don't even know you.”

“Why?” But not a warm and fuzzy, wifely concerned
why
. It's a hard, flat syllable.

“Well, I imagine the only reason you're sending them friend requests is in the hopes that they'll accept so you can then invite them to play
Candy Crush
, giving you a larger pool of people to send you lives, right?”

“Maybe.”

“I'll take that as a yes. Can you stop that please?”

“No. I need more lives. This is an Irma thing. You don't understand.”

I take a deep breath, then exhale in surrender.

“Can I ask you about something I think may be related, then?”

“What?”

“Yesterday I got several Facebook friend requests from a bunch of guys who were on my lacrosse team in college. I haven't heard from them in over twenty years. Then all in one day, seven teammates reach out to me. Do you know anything about that?”

“No. Maybe.”

“I'm listening. Tell me about this no-maybe.”

“I needed lives yesterday, badly. Irma was still one level behind me, and I didn't want her to pass me. I was desperate but had exhausted all my resources. I'd gone through all your Facebook friends, so I had to find a new pool. So I went down to the basement … which reminds me: you have to clean out the storage area this weekend. Anyway, I went through a few boxes until I found your Tulane yearbook, went to the athletics section, identified the names of your teammates, found some of them on Facebook, and then I blasted them.”

“You're crazy. Stop that.”

“You don't get this. Irma is sabotaging my resource of lifelines. We know all the same people, and they know she's my competitive cousin, and they're sending her lives and not me.”

“Why would they do that?”

“She may have been a bit nicer than me when we were younger. I don't know.”

“A bit?”

“Okay, a lot. But I wasn't going to be phony-nice to people decades ago in the hopes that when I needed
Candy Crush
lives from them in the future they would be there for me.”