Cookie's Case (13 page)

“I vant to check out Major.”

I think for a second. He's the tap-master. It couldn't hurt. “You're right.”

“I'm alvays right.”

I escort her to the door, thinking I should have come up with that. I must be off my game. She stops before walking out.

“I vant to thank you for your kind vords. I have low self-esteem, and that's vhy I use sex to get vhat I vant. I'm going to stop it.”

“I think that's a good idea. I'm glad you were able to hear what I was saying.”

“Thank you,” she responds. “Vun more thing.”

“What's that?”

“You know you vant to fuck me.”

Chapter Twelve

T
he next morning, I meet Robert and Ethel at nine sharp to prep Robert for his oral deposition. I've read the entire file, but it contains no answers to the adverse police report. Still, I haven't had the opportunity to discuss the matter with them. Now's the time.

I'm looking forward to questioning the van driver. The carrier sensibly realized they had no choice but to produce the guy. A court would have ordered it despite prior counsel's ridiculous waiver.

“How you feeling today?” I ask Ethel. She knows what I'm talking about.

“Oh, pretty good. That cancer ain't taking me yet. We got business to conduct.”

“You ready to pay your debt to Mr. Wang?” Robert wants to know.

“No, I told you I don't believe I owe him that money,” I reply courteously.

“Mr. Wang says you do. He's a really nice man.”

“Yes, Robert, but he ruined my new suit, and I'm just not going to pay him for that.”

“I'm gonna have to serve you with papers if you don't pay him his fourteen dollars and seventy-nine cents.”

“Oh, right, you're also a process server. I almost forgot that.”

“Yes, he is.” Ethel's pride is clear. “Bona fide, aren't you, boy?”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Well, Robert,” I say, “just as we agreed, business is business. If you have to sue me on behalf of Mr. Wang, I promise I won't dodge you.” He looks at me now a little confused.

“Dodgeball?”

“What your lawyer is saying,” Ethel explains, “is that he will take the court papers from you so you don't have to chase him around town. You won't have to use your investigation skills to find him.”

“But I like using my skills, Granny. That's the way I can get money to be independent.”

“Well, you'll have plenty of opportunity to use them, boy. Your lawyer here ain't the only one not paying his bills.”

Ho, ho. Granny likes her little dig.

Robert, I notice, is wearing a spy watch. It's one I've seen advertised in the back of some of my kids' magazines. A Bluetooth receiver is in his ear, and he's wearing a utility belt with various gadgets attached. Across his T-shirt is the message
Live Free or Spy
. A secret agent he isn't.

“It's time to discuss your case, Robert—the van accident. That's why you're here. Today, a lawyer for the driver of the van is coming. He is going to ask you a few questions about how the accident happened and about your injuries.”

He suddenly loses his look of aggressive confidence. Panic replaces it.

“There's no need to worry about anything,” I reassure him. “I'll be sitting right next to you, defending your rights. You can count on me, okay?”

“Ooh-dat! Ooh-dat! Ooh-dat!” Robert abruptly screams out. He begins to chop at his ankle—karate style, one hard slash after another. Like I'd heard on the phone.

“It's his pains,” Ethel explains. “They bona fide. When they come on, ain't nothing he can do but chop them pains away. You go at them, boy.”

“Has a doctor told you why he's suffering like this?”

“Oh, sure, it's his neuroma, like we spoke about. Nerves all caught up together.”

“Certainly,” I say, “that can be painful. Have they proposed any treatment?”

“They did one of those nerve blocks, but it didn't work.” I look at him and see he's vigorously rubbing the area. “The only other choice,” she says, lowering her voice, “is surgery.”

“No, Granny! No, Granny! I'm not taking no surgery!” he yells, hearing her.

“Don't worry, boy, I know that.” She looks at me. “No guarantees with surgery. Could make things worse.”

“I understand.” I ask Robert, “Is it better now?”

“Yeah, it passed.”

“Good.”

He's cradling his right hand. I know I need to proceed carefully. “You ready to talk about the van accident, Robert? Lawyers call this prepping the client, what we're about to do.”

He nods.

“I read your whole file, but why don't you tell me in your own words what happened?”

“He don't know what happened,” Ethel breaks in. “Thought I told you this grandson of mine is a little bit retarded.”

“Yeah, I'm a little bit retarded,” he confirms.

I'm not going to interfere with their coping strategies. The hand they've been dealt isn't an easy one. Though I don't agree with their terminology, if it works for them, then I'll respect it. Besides, they're using the phrase descriptively rather than as an insult.

“Ethel,” I say, “this poses a tough problem for us. If Robert doesn't know what happened and can't put fault on the van, it'll be difficult to get more money because the police report tells us that the driver's going to say Robert caused his own accident.”

“Well,
I
know what happened.”

“You?” I'm taken a bit off guard. How did I miss this? “I didn't realize that. I didn't see you listed as a witness in the file or the police report. What did happen?”

“Robert got hit by one of them Jew vans.”

“What?”

“I said he got hit by one of them Jew vans.”

That's what I thought I heard. I do some quick mental stocktaking as they watch me patiently.

Okay, this pair is given to using words and phrases commonly viewed as offensive. What's more, they live in Crown Heights, which is dense with West Indians and African Americans and is also the worldwide headquarters for the Chabad-Lubavitch Hasidic Jewish movement. So, there's the remote possibility that they harbor ill feelings toward Jews. No black community member can forget Gavin Cato being struck and killed by a car in the motorcade of a Hasidic Jewish rabbi.

When Hatzolah, the Jewish ambulance service, arrived on the scene, they took the rabbi's man away in the ambulance. Yet seven-year-old Gavin was still pinned under the vehicle that had jumped the sidewalk. Riots erupted in the neighborhood soon after, and a Jewish college student visiting from Australia, Yankel Rosenbaum, was murdered in retribution.

My take on it: Ethel and Robert have no agenda other than their own. This is simply the language they use, and what I need to do is listen, to get the facts of Robert's accident.

“That's horrible,” I say. “How would you describe this Jew van, Ethel?”

“It was one of them big white Jew vans, stuffed all full of Jews.”

“It was a white Jew van?” I ask. I am doing my job.

“Yes,” Ethel answers, “it was a white Jew van.”

“How many Jews would you say were stuffed in the Jew van?”

“'Bout fifteen, give or take.”

“There were fifteen people stuffed into a van? Was this one of those extra big Jew vans?”

“Nah, it was a normal size van. But all them Jews were just stuffed right in there, like sardines, with those little round targets on their heads.”

“Targets?”

“Yeah, you know, those little round cloth targets they all wear on they heads, so you got something to aim for.” I give her a serious look. She gives me one back, then she breaks into laughter.

“I'm just pulling on your leg there, Wyler. I know it's called a yarmulke. I live in Crown Heights, for God's sake.” We share a grin.

“Very funny. Anyway, what was this van doing at the moment Robert got hit?”

“It was turning left.”

“Turning left, you say?”

“Yeah, into one of them Jew driveways.” Here we go again.

“Into a Jew driveway?”

“Correctly so.”

“I see. Were there any witnesses?”

“Yeah, lots.”

“How many?”

“Maybe 'bout a thousand.”

“Ethel, are you telling me there were a thousand witnesses?”

“I'm not positive, maybe two.”

“Two thousand?” I repeat, in a tone of disbelief.

“That's what I'm telling ya. Maybe more.”

“Um, they wouldn't happen to be Jew witnesses, would they?”

“All of them. There were Jews crawling all over the place going every which way. Here, there, everywhere.” For some crazy reason, I believe her. Anyone else—not a chance.

What soon becomes clear is that Granny herself hadn't actually witnessed the impact, but rather saw only the immediate aftermath. Therefore, the next two hours are spent on prepping Robert so he can make a case for himself.

In a personal injury lawsuit, it's up to the injured party to set out the elements of what's called a
prima facie
case. Meaning, he must say what the defendant did wrong that led to the accident and resultant injury. Despite what Ethel believes, Robert certainly
does
know what happened but is having problems putting the words together to describe the event in a coherent and comprehensible manner.

In short, the Jew van made a left turn into a Jew driveway as Robert was lawfully crossing the entrance to it on the pedestrian sidewalk—just like Ethel said. This version puts fault squarely on the driver.

All Robert has to say is the truth. That's it. I think Rich Cohen has problems if Robert can get these few facts across. And I think he's got problems even if Robert can't.

YOU ALWAYS GOTS TO LOOK WHERE YOU BE GOING

We head toward my conference room for the deposition. We enter and join the court reporter, the driver of the van who struck Robert, and a young female associate attorney waiting there. The attorney has her brown hair up in a bun, and wears a blue pantsuit, a white shirt buttoned high, and a stern puckered look on her face, the kind she shouldn't have at this early stage in her career. The moment Robert sees the driver, his eyes slide wide-open, his jaw drops, and he thrusts his finger out.

“Mister,” he says excitedly, “Granny told me it ain't polite to point, but you the man who gave me the ooh-dats.” The guy looks at his attorney, confused.

“Mr. Wyler …” the attorney says. “It is Mr. Wyler, isn't it?” And I can tell from her intonation, along with her tight hair bun, she doesn't play nice with others.

“Yes.”

“Could you direct your witness not to speak to my client? It's inappropriate to do so in such a proceeding.”

“Um, may I ask your name, Counselor?”

“It's Ms. Kaufman.”

“Ms. Kaufman, I agree. And I already instructed Robert not to speak unless he's being questioned by you.”

“Well, he's not following your instruction.”

“Yes. I have to agree with you on that, too.” Lawyers hate when you agree with them. It undermines their sense of purpose.

“Well, don't you think you should—”

“Mr. Wyler,” Robert interrupts, “I don't mean to bust in on you and Ms. Kaufman, but that's the man who gave me the ooh-dats. Sorry, mister, I don't mean to point, but you're sittin' right there.”

“Yes, Robert. He is. But like we discussed in my office, we have to play the quiet game until this attorney begins asking you questions.”

“Okay, but that's him, the guy who hit me with the van. He's sittin' right there.” His tone is one of disbelief. And you can add three more finger points to the tally.

“Yes, he is, Robert. It's okay,” I add, trying to sound comforting. At this moment, the full reality of a failure on my part hits me. Hard. I was so caught up in attempting to prep my client that I forgot to tell him the driver who gave him the ooh-dats would be here.

“Come, Robert,” I say, “let's take our seats.” I pull out a chair and guide him into it. He sits, keeping his eye on the driver as if it were a safety measure. The court reporter sits at one end of the oval table. Otherwise, it's us on one side, them on the other. Robert is sitting next to the court reporter facing Ms. Kaufman, and I'm next to Robert with the driver across from me.

“Mister,” Robert says to the driver. I look to Kaufman. She ain't happy. “I know you didn't mean to run me over, but you always gots to look where you be going when you driving a vehicle.” Kaufman now has the opportunity for a directive.

“Mr. Wyler, would you tell your client—”

But Robert's not done.

“It's the same when you ride a bike. If I didn't watch where I was riding, I could run into somebody, too.” The driver has no response, but Kaufman does.

“Mr. Wyler, are you going to instruct your witness to stop talking to my client?”

“Sure,” I respond, as if it makes a difference. “Robert,” I say, looking at him while he continues to mark the driver, “can you please not talk to the man who gave you the ooh-dats?” He hesitates, still looking across the table, then answers.

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Robert.”

“You know, mister,” Robert says leaning forward in his seat, “I know you must feel bad about hitting me and all, but don't worry. Except for my ooh-dats that I can chop at, I'm okay. And I can ride like the wind.”

I look to Kaufman. By now this young lawyer should realize that Robert is a special kind of kid. But it's clear from the maddened look on her face that she remains oblivious to this fact. She could be the greatest lawyer in the world, but she will never make it in this business—inside a courtroom—because she clearly cannot connect the dots. Trial work is about connecting the dots and connecting with jurors.

The deposition turns out to be an enlightening experience. By Ms. Kaufman's line of questioning, it's clear that, in addition to relying on the incorrect police report, defense counsel also intends to establish that there's no way the accident could've happened in the manner Robert describes. He would have been hit on his uninjured leg had it occurred the way he's claiming, given his route relative to the direction of the van.

I have to agree with her on that. He did make it seem like he got hit on his left side, which is highly unlikely given his right-leg injury extends from his knee, or bumper height, to his ankle. This clear inconsistency was something I could not have foreseen as it surfaced for the first time from Robert's answers.