Cookie's Case (15 page)

Chapter Fourteen

I
need to check in with Lily, make sure the office is still there. I'm also not too far from Cookie's part of town. No time like the present to discuss Ray's findings with them—or actually, with Major. As of this morning, by hand delivery, the tap video is in the hands of First Medical Liability, McElroy's carrier. So, no doubt, they're going to be reevaluating their two fifty offer while also mounting a defense based on what they see.

Anyway, I want to hear what Major has to say about this—the lack of objective MRI evidence that could be responsible for the accumulation of cerebral spinal fluid. After all, he's the tap-master. I'll need to have something up my sleeve when First Medical claims it's unrelated to the malpractice.

On the fifth ring, Lily picks up. “Law office. We're on the side of truth and justice. May I help you?”

“That's an interesting way to answer the phone.”

“What can I tell you? I'm bored.”

“I can think of a few things for you to be doing.”

“Never mind that. What do you want?”

“Pull up Cookie's phone and address, will you?”

“Yeah, but I think there's something you should know.”

“On Cookie's case?”

“That's who we're talking about, right?”

“Yes, Lily. But what should I know?”

“It's not good news. You got a letter from First Medical Liability today. They pulled the two hundred fifty thousand dollar offer off the table. It said the time period within which to accept the offer expired, so now you'll have to litigate the case.”

“You're right, that's not good news. When is the letter dated?”

“Two days ago.”

“No worries. You delivered the video this morning, right?”

“I did, along with a copy of Major's medical records, as instructed.”

“Good. They'll have a change in position. A big one.”

“Okay. Listen, I'll text you her contact information. I'm busy.”
Click.

Well, is she bored or busy? Whichever, Cookie's contact information magically appears on my phone. I give her a call, letting it ring off the hook. No answer. I hop in a cab uptown, thinking I might as well head over there, imaging studies in hand, in the event Major wants to review them himself after I share Ray's interpretation.

Within a few minutes, I arrive at the impressive high-rise building. One white-gloved guy opens the door for me. Another one's standing behind a black marble reception counter. Yet a third fellow, also white-gloved, is seeing a trio of women onto the elevator. “May I help you?”

“Yes, you may. I'm here to see Cookie and Major.”

“Really?” He's clearly surprised.

“Um, yes, really. If they're here, that is. Why?”

“Only because they don't entertain visitors.”

“I'm sure they've had guests occasionally.”

“Actually,” he says, “no.” Then for emphasis: “Not ever.”

He seems pretty confident about this. I could question how long he's worked here, his hours, point out the fact that maybe one person may have visited when he was off, or ask some other lawyer-type question aimed at trying to prove that it could be possible that someone once came when he wasn't on duty, but then I'd be just like the rest of the have-to-be-right lawyers I know. I take the high road. “Well, let's give them a buzz and see what happens. Wouldn't you be curious to know if they'll accept a visitor?”

“Now that you mention it,” he confesses, “I actually would.” He picks up the phone and rings their apartment. “I know Major's out,” he says, as he waits for a response, “and I think you got a better shot at getting upstairs without him there, anyway. In fact,” he continues reflectively, “since Cookie moved in, not even Jimmy the super has been in their apartment. The truth is, Major even comes down to pick up any deliveries.”

Remember what I said about doormen?

He's listening to the phone now. “Yes, Miss Cookie.” He nods at me. “There's a gentleman here to see you.” He listens to her response. “No,” he says, “I forgot to ask him. We were talking about something. Hold on.”

Taking my cue, I say, “Tell her it's Wyler. Tug Wyler, her lawyer. I was in the neighborhood and have something I need to discuss with her.”

“Miss Cookie,” he says, “Tug Wyler, your lawyer, wants to talk to you.”

He waits for a response. I can tell he's anxious. A few seconds pass. Time enough for her to have answered him. But nothing. A minute passes. Still nothing. The doorman's just holding the phone to his ear, giving an occasional wave to the tenants coming and going. At the ninety-second mark, he shrugs. At a minute forty-two, he responds, “Okay, Miss Cookie, I will.”

“This is a first,” he states, shaking his head. He seems shocked, even. “Go on up to thirty-four B. I can hardly believe it. What kind of lawyer are you, anyway?”

“I'm an injury lawyer. You know, construction accidents, car accidents, slip-trip and falls, or strip-slip and falls as the case may be; people getting hurt when it's someone else's fault. But I specialize in brain damage injuries and medical malpractice.”

“Oh, man, my auntie got messed up in the hospital just yesterday.”

I hand him a card from my wallet. As he goes to tuck it away I say, “Hold on.” Taking out a pen, I hand it to Wilson (as his lapel tag reads). “Write your name, address, and phone number down on the back of the card,” I tell him. “Also write down the name, address, and phone number of the hospital your aunt's in. Give me the name and number of her closest relative, too.”

He complies and I take the card back from him. “I'll call ya tomorrow,” I say, returning it to my wallet. Thirty-four B, here I come.

“Thanks,” he says. He's trying to figure out why I didn't just give him a card. I leave him still wondering.

The reason I didn't simply give Wilson my card is because I'd never be certain what happened if no call ever came. By getting the information, if I don't lock up the case, I'll know the reason why. In the injury business, where you have to wait for an unfortunate mishap to occur, you never leave the signing to chance.

I step out of the elevator on her floor and mosey down the hallway to Major and Cookie's door. I press the buzzer and hear a faint yelp. The door opens a crack and Cookie looks out over the chain.

“Are you all right?” I ask. “I thought I heard a scream.”

She laughs.

“Yeah,” she says, giggling, “that was me. I'm fine. I just never heard the buzzer before. It startled me. Come in.” She shuts the door, undoes the chain, and reopens it.

I enter the apartment, which is gorgeous. “Let's sit over here,” she says. I follow her into an open-plan living room with breathtaking city views all around. It's wall-to-wall windows. Wow.

“Nice view,” I say, playing it cool. But I'm impressed.

“Thank you,” Cookie says. It's clear from her tone that she's a little embarrassed to be living in such an apartment. “Can I offer you anything to drink?”

“No, but thanks. I'm okay.”

She slowly moves closer and prepares to sit next to me on the oversized sofa. She bends at the knees, puts here rear down on the edge of the couch keeping her spine straight, then slowly shimmies back. She turns her stiff upper body toward me, scratches her head with a finger where one of the halo screws is penetrating her skull, and smiles encouragingly, prompting me to start.

“I came here to update you on your case. I hope I'm not imposing or interrupting anything, but I was in the neighborhood.”

She giggles again. “Um, I really don't know how to respond to that.” A hint of confusion crosses her face.

“Meaning?”

“Well, it's just that no one has ever come here before. Major's a private man and, although he's never said so, it's always been understood visitors aren't really welcome.”

“Not even your friends?”

“Not even my friends. When I first moved in, I'd ask about having people over, and Major would just tell me maybe another time. I kept trying until I realized another time was never going to come. I guess that's why the buzzer scared me. And when it buzzed, the truth is, I felt sad because I realized I've never had a visitor.” She takes a deep breath, then lets it out in what I'd call a reflective sigh.

“Anyway,” she continues, “I tried Major on his cell when Wilson said you were downstairs. When he didn't pick up, which is unusual, I just told Wilson to let you up. I hope Major doesn't get upset with me.”

“I don't know him that well,” I respond, “but I'm sure he'll be okay with this. Besides, it's in the interest of your case. So let me update you.”

As I say this, though, I realize she's uneasy. “What's wrong?” I ask.

“Could we wait 'til Major comes back before we go into my case? We shouldn't have to wait too long. He never leaves me alone for more than a little bit. That way you won't have to do it twice.”

“Sure. I'm good with that.”

“Thank you,” she says, and then the conversation stops. What follows is an uncomfortable lull. It's not that she's uncomfortable with me, or that I'm uncomfortable with her. What's obvious is that she can't stop being worried about what Major's reaction's going to be when he finds me here.

“Don't worry,” I reassure her. “I'll make him understand why I dropped in. It'll be fine.”

“No, I know, it's just that … oh nothing, forget it.” She has something she wants to tell me. The incomplete and filtered stuff I sensed she was leaving out at my office is my guess. Should I make it easy? Or should I let her come out with it on her own, hoping she'll be able to muster the strength to do so.

I'm sensing she wants to spill her guts, but that's my trial lawyer's intuition. I could always be wrong. It might just be the fact that she's never been alone with anyone long enough to share how she really feels about what's happened to her.

“It's just,” she continues, “having a visitor here, even though it's only you, no offense …” She pauses. I wait encouragingly.

“Well, Wilson calling to say someone's here, my own doorbell scaring me, having a real live person in my living room, and being nervous about Major's reaction, well … I just have no life!” Cookie exclaims. The tears make a bursting arrival. Holy crap. I didn't expect this.

“Easy, Cookie,” I say, thinking under normal circumstances I'd move to comfort her, despite lacking skills in that department. But under these circumstances, such an act is definitely a bad move. I could just imagine Major entering, only to find his first-ever visitor in an embrace with his prized jewel. Better to keep her talking. She wants to vent, anyway.

“Cookie,” I say, “what do you mean you have no life?”

“Look at me!” she exclaims. Everything about her suddenly radiates an intensity I didn't know she had in her.

“I'm looking. You're a beautiful, wonderful woman who met with an unfortunate accident. Remember, I was at the club the night you made your comeback, and I saw how well loved you are. You're the queen of the place. They love Cookie the person, not just Cookie the exotic dancer. You'll get past this situation. I'm sure you will. And Major's …”

As soon as I say his name, she falls apart further.

That's it. It's Major she's talking about when she says she has no life.

“Things are good with you and Major, right?” What she's harboring is a repression I need to understand.

“Major's a wonderful man. I'm lucky to have him in my life.” Her weeping now intensifies, a behavior inconsistent with her assertion.

I say nothing, preferring to wait to see where she's going with this.

“I love him. But I'm a prisoner. He's too old for me. Don't you think I know that? Don't you think I know that every person who sees us together thinks the same thing? That I'm a kept woman. I mean, why else would a girl like me be with a man his age? Right? Why else? For the money. And then there's the fact of what I do—the stripper with the rich old guy! I know what people think.”

Then, suddenly, she's spent from the shock of saying all that aloud. I can see it. But her crying continues. It's the first time I've ever seen her other than cheerful, accepting, excessively polite.

She swallows hard. There's more to come.

“Are you going to tell me you didn't think that the night you met Major and me?” Man, oh man.

I'm going with the truth. She deserves it, and anything less just isn't going to be believable. I don't want her thinking her lawyer's a liar.

“I have to admit, that's what crossed my mind when I first saw you two together.”

“See. I told you!” She bursts out, “But, that's not it!” It's so loud that if Major had been outside the door, he certainly would've heard.

“Of course, that's not it,” I say consolingly.

“But if that's not it, then aren't you wondering why I'm with him?”

“Um, well, now that we're into this conversation, yes, I do wonder, actually. So, tell me, why are you with him?” She looks at me. It's the look one person gives another when they're about to confess something deep and dark, something sinful.

The suspense is killing me, but I need to give her a way out. “Listen,” I say, “you don't have to do this. We hardly know each other and—”

“Because he taps me!”

“Because he taps you?” I repeat.

Why am I not surprised? Maybe because my instincts had locked onto this already. “Time for tap.” It makes perfect sense.

“Because he does it when I need it. And that's, like, all the time. Do you know what my life would be like if I had to run to a hospital every time? And hope to get there before my brain bursts? That's what keeps me here. Not his money, not this apartment, and even though he's a lovely man, I'm not with him because of that. And the thing is, I'm my own prisoner. It's my condition. I'm a slave to it, yet I resent Major because I'm so dependent on him. It's twisted, I know.”