Cookie's Case (8 page)

As I'm on my way to get a dirty-water dog on the far side of the square before I hop the subway, a guy in oversized black plastic sunglasses and a mini trench coat gets up from a bench and starts walking behind me. His lockstep maneuvers lead me to believe I'm his target. Great. What could this be?

I take five more steps, confirming that his gait's keeping pace with mine, then stop. He stops, too. Damn! He's maintaining distance. That confirms it. Let me head this one off. I turn and begin closing the twenty-foot gap between us by walking directly at him the way a catcher goes at a runner caught between bases. At the ten-foot mark, he turns and starts walking away. Yep, he's for me, and he's really bad at what he does. I bet Robert Killroy could keep cover better than he can.

“Hold on.” I say. “Let's get this over with.” He stops and turns. “I'm pretty sure, although not certain, my wife believes in our marriage these days and didn't hire you. So what's up?”

He maintains silence.

“Come on. Out with it. Well?”

He takes his shades off and assumes a threatening stance. “Cookie,” he says, “you know, the dancer. Stay away from her, Wyler. Seeeee.” I'm immediately reminded of some cartoon character, a gangster type, but just which one escapes me.

“I don't think so.”

He shoots me a nasty look.

I'm at least a foot taller, near double his weight, and can easily outrun him, but the real reason I don't feel threatened is because there's a cop fifty yards away.

“Listen, wise guy, you heard me. Just stay away from Cookie. Leave her case alone, that's all, seeeee. Got that? Walk away, and let Charles finish what he started. He's her attorney. That's all, seeeee.”

“This is a first,” I say in a tone of surprise. “I never had an outgoing attorney dispatch his investigator or whatever you are to warn me not to take the case.”

“Charles didn't send me, seeeee.”

“Of course Charles sent you. He's the only one with interest. So tell him to get over it. She just signed the Consent to Change Attorney. Tell him to back off, or I'll have to seek judicial intervention to deem his discharge for cause, and he'll wind up with nothing for the work he's done. And clearly his efforts so far entitle him to something. Now run along.”

His expression of contempt deepens. He's not ready to leave.

“If she signed the consent, then tear it up, seeeee. Tell her you can't handle her case, and then go about your business.” His smirk firms and hands tighten, almost as if he's ready to go at it. No doubt he's one of those little guys who needs to overcompensate by acting tough.

Fact is, I don't want to tangle with this fist-clenching, wee man. I can just hear some smart aleck now: “Hey, did you hear? Wyler got beat up by a twerp in front of the courthouse!” So it's not going to happen.

“Just take it easy,” I say. “I'm not going to tangle with you. Let's be civil. First, you obviously know who I am, so why don't you tell me who you are.”

“The name's Minotero, seeeee. My friends call me Mino. But you just stick with Minotero.”

Minnow
, I repeat in my head. That's an unusual name but very fitting. “Listen, Minnow,” I say, ignoring his instruction, “let's just try to keep the peace.”

“I'll keep the peace, seeeee. And you keep your distance from Cookie's case. You're through. You're out of the way. That's what you are. You got it, Wyler? Stay away or I'll beat you off!” His scowl transforms into a look of delayed realization.

He just threatened to beat me off.

“That didn't come out right, seeeee, but you know what I mean.”

“Yes Minnow, I know what you mean. Stay away from Cookie's case or you're going to beat me off.”

He flexes toward me. The cop who's been taking a mild interest in our exchange now shifts his stance. Minnow looks over, clenching his fists and then releasing before he stomps away angrily, looking like a kid when the barbershop's out of lollipops.

“Hey Minnow!” I call out. He stops and turns. “Tell Charles not to be such a sore sport. Every attorney gets substituted out of at least one case during his career. It's unavoidable. But I'll make sure he gets something fair out of this.”

“I told you, I don't work for Charles. Get that through your head, seeeee. And one last thing, this little meeting was between us. Got it?”

“No, I don't got it. You just threatened me with bodily harm—or maybe it was a hand job. I'm not certain. But, in either event, you're trying to scare me away from taking over a legal case. I'm pretty sure your tactics would get a thumbs-down from the bar association. You see that building over there?” I say, pointing. “I'm going in there to tell a guy named Henry Benson about our little exchange. He's going to be unhappy, and you know why? Because he has an interest in Cookie's case, and most of the people he affiliates with are either in jail, on their way to jail, or just out of jail. Are you drinking my sake, kemosabe?”

Minnow shakes his head. “Suit yourself,” he says. “You, Benson, whoever. You'll all go down for taking part in it.”

He resumes his departure while I watch intently, committing to memory every single aspect of him. Even so, I have to wonder: go down for taking part in what?

Before taking another step, I call Henry.

“Benson here,” he answers—on the third ring, as always.

“I think we may have a problem with Cookie's outgoing attorney.”

“Who? Charles? Nice guy. What gives you that impression?”

I didn't anticipate this response. “You mean you spoke to him already?”

“Just after Cookie and Major left. I reached him and explained the conflict, and he understood fully. I'm having the file picked up in the morning. He says most of the work's done, except that Cookie needs to be produced again for further oral deposition. She apparently took ill during her previous questioning. A bad headache. Charles also confirmed everything Major said regarding the defendant's position and offer. I told him we'd resolve the fee issue when the case concludes, and he agreed. Anything else?”

“You sure he wasn't harboring any bad feelings?”

“I have to say that, yes, he did, initially. As you know, Cookie spoke to him first thing this morning and told him she was coming here. She explained that she thought it was only fair that he knew because she didn't want to feel like she was doing anything behind his back. He tried to talk her out of it, persuading her to some degree. Then Major insisted they come see us. Why are you asking?”

“No reason, just curious. Charles told you all that?”

“That's right.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked.”

“Got ya. Let me know when you get the file.”

“You'll know on your own. I'm having it delivered to your office.”
Click.

On the subway uptown, I think about why I didn't tell Henry about Minnow. He likes to be informed. On the other hand, he can also go overboard, and I guess I don't want to yell fire unless I'm sure there's smoke. The only way I may have compromised him by holding back was denying him the opportunity to decline the case. But I know Henry would never do that. Never.

Besides, we're not taking part in anything unscrupulous, so there's nothing for us to “go down for” as Minnow quaintly put it.

I will say, though, it's all a bit too mysterious for my liking.

Chapter Seven

A
s I come out of the train at 28th Street, my phone vibrates. Please don't be Robert. Good, it's not. It's a message from my trusty paralegal, Lily. It reads,
Ethel and Robert Killroy are here waiting for you. When will you be back?

I reply, feeling just a bit out of sorts, that I'm downstairs near the office on the way up. I quick-step it to my building, run for the elevator, though the door is closing, and thrust my arm in.

Just in time. It slides back open, revealing two super-tall models. There's an agency in my building, and the girls are in and out all day long on Tuesdays. That's the open call day, which is a perfect stimulus for my occasional Tuesday night event at home. When it's not cancelled that is.

I enter, gladly.

“Sorry about that, ladies,” I say in my cheeriest voice. One responds with a polite smile. That's enough for me. The rule of thumb with models is: never try. They're obliged to fight off the dogs all day, so why set yourself up for rejection? But this one, she did acknowledge the acknowledging thing. So I gotta explore.

“Are you a model, too?” I ask.

“Yes.
You're
a model?” She's surprised. Why wouldn't she be?

“You bet ya.” I look up at the floor numbers, straight-faced.

“What kind of model are you?” the other girl wonders, looking at me with an expression of disbelief.

“Fat-ass,” I answer in a confident tone.

“Fat-ass?” she repeats.

“Yes. It's my niche.” They look to each other, bewildered. An instant later the door opens. I go, giving my well-formed caboose an open-handed slap. Cookie and Major pop into my head as I think never in a million years would girls like that be interested in a guy like me.

At least I admit it.

I enter my reception area to find Ethel sitting right in front of me. She's in her midseventies with silver-blue hair. It's an interesting look, a black woman with blue hair. She's wearing glasses, is plainly dressed, and basically makes you think of a grandma—the kind you'd see sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch of a house somewhere down south where they still use a hand pump to access well water. When she smiles, I can tell instantly we're going to hit it off.

I step in and shut the door. This reveals what's hidden behind it: Robert. He's on the floor, looks about eighteen, and is heavy-set. He's wearing shorts, and his legs look like tree trunks. Overall, the vibe he gives off is definitely that of a young man who's mentally challenged. What he's doing is concentrating on a stack of magazines he obviously brought with him. He takes no notice of me.

“You must be Ethel Killroy,” I say, extending my hand. She gets up with the energy of a young woman.

“I don't like lawyers,” she says as we shake, “but I like you.” Her grip is strong, just like she is.

“The feeling is mutual, Mrs. Killroy, the feeling is mutual. And I love your hair color.” At this, she whips the wig she's wearing right off of her head and inspects it, turning the piece from side to side.

“This old thing?”

Robert looks over for an instant. Have I mentioned he's wearing a very large and shiny red bike helmet? “Granny's got the cancer. Granny's got the cancer,” he chants.

“Hush, boy,” she says, as she places the wig back on her head, adjusting it by feel. “Just a little setback, that's all.” I nod toward my new pro bono client, recognizing her dogged courage.

Next, I squat down by her grandson so we can talk better. “You must be Robert.” He nods without looking at me, absorbed in what he's doing. I note that on the floor beside him is a miniature recording device next to the magazines. One, I see, is titled
Investigator Weekly
.

“You owe Mr. Wang fourteen dollars and seventy-nine cents,” he says suddenly, looking up at me. “He's a really nice man.”

“You're all business, Robert.” It's a compliment.

“Mister?” he continues.

“Yes?”

“It smells funny in here.”

I straighten up and take a whiff. Nothing. My subtenants are
Toke
magazine, a competitor of
High Times
. They've got their weed-reeking runners coming in and out, but they're far and away the best tenants I've ever had. They always pay on time, prefer no signage on the door, and can be very entertaining. They also never mention a thing about my HIC clients, who might seem a little threatening should you happen to run into one unexpectedly.

“I'll look into it, Robert.”

“I've smelled that smell before, mister.” Oh man, Robert. Don't bring it to Granny's attention, please.

“Like I said, I'll look into it.”

“I know what that smell is, mister.”

I look at Ethel.

“Good, then you have it covered. Be right back.”

I turn to go, but he's not done yet.

“Want to know what that smell is, mister?”

“Sure, I do,” I answer, having no option. This kid has the nose of a bloodhound, because I can't even smell a hint of it today, unlike some other days when delivery is made.

“It's Glade Lavender Plug-in.” He points to the electrical socket on the wall behind him.

“So it is,” I respond, “so it is.”

Whew. He has, in fact, recognized Lily's solution to the olfactory consequence of renting to
Toke
.

“They gots the same flavor down at the collection agency. Where I had my interview. But I work from home—for now, that is. Until I proves that I can do the job.”

“Listen, if you don't mind, could you give me a minute? I'll be right back out to get you.” I'm a little annoyed at Lily for not telling me about this appointment sooner. When I close the door to the reception area and find her at her desk, she's just staring up at the ceiling.

“Hi, Lily.”

“Give me a moment.”

“Okay. But you're not doing anything.”

“I'm doing something, I'm thinking. Just give me a minute.” I wait ten or so seconds. Nothing.

“Lily, I have clients waiting. Please.”

“Yes. They've been waiting for you. But you can see I'm busy, so just another second.”

“I can see you're
not
busy.”

“Was I doing anything?”

“Not that I could see.”

“That's because you can't see thinking. Just like I told you. Just another second … There, I'm done. What do you want?”

“First,” I inquire, as any boss would, “what were you thinking about?”

“If I wanted you to know, I would've been talking. Now, what do you want?”

“Why didn't you tell me sooner that the Killroys were going to be here?”

“Did you ask me to contact them?”

“Yes.”

“Did you say to set up an appointment ASAP?”

“Yes.”

“Did I set up that appointment ASAP?”

“Yes.”

“Could I have set it up any sooner?”

“No.”

“So you admit my ASAP was ASAP as ASAP could be?”

“Yes, I admit it. But why didn't you tell me about the appointment ASAP?”

“Did you not tell Ethel Killroy that you were going back to the office?”

“Yes, I told her that.”

“And did you come back to the office by subway?”

“Yes.”

“And can we agree that your phone doesn't receive service on the subway?”

“Yes, I get your point, Lily. Sorry. Remind me to stop bringing you to court to observe my trials. You're picking up some bad habits.”

“What is it you say when you're done filling up the courtroom with your hot air? Oh, yes: I rest my case. Now your clients are waiting for you. They're not HICs, are they?”

“No, Lily, they're not.”

“I didn't think so. That Ethel seems nice. But I think the boy has problems.”

“He just might, Lily. He just might.”

I head out to get them, feeling like one of my own cross-examination victims. Before opening the door that separates my internal office from reception—a door I call my spy door, because I can see in, but given the angle, it's difficult for anyone on the other side to see me—I pause to regard Robert Killroy in greater detail.

He has moderate skin folds at the corners of his small eye openings, a short nasal bridge and a short nose, a small midface, and thin upper lip—all the classic signs of the syndrome. The only thing off is his head circumference. It's large—not small as one would expect—although it's difficult to assess because of the helmet. He's wearing Nike high-top basketball sneakers with his tube socks pulled all the way up just under his kneecaps.

Now, I open the door. “Let's go inside.” I motion to them. “Please.”

I watch as Robert gets up. He has some problems with that right ankle. Once he's standing, I note his foot has an obvious valgus deformity, meaning it's twisted outward. The odd thing is his muscularity. You'd expect some wasting or atrophy with his injury, but his legs are freakishly muscular. Not unlike a rhino. At roughly five foot nine, he's a wide, sturdy kid.

I watch as he drags his right foot behind him. It's a bad injury. Too bad I'm working this one for free.

At least I admit it.

“Robert, has walking been this difficult since the accident,” I ask, “or is it getting worse?”

“I got no problems walking, mister. And I can ride my bike really, really fast.”

Ethel, listening to us, now offers her opinion. “Been about the same, that ankle has.” But she adds, “Robert loves riding his bike, took it up first in rehab. You know, a stationary bike. And ever since, he's been riding his own all around town. Like the wind, too.”

WHAT ROBERT DOES HAVE

Once we take our positions in my office, Ethel begins. “First of all, Robert just got his collections job, and you happen to be one of a handful of debts they gave the boy. I want a promise that if you take over his case, it won't interfere one iota with Robert doing his job.” Ethel, as we already know, is a woman of principle.

“As long as you understand that I do not intend to pay Mr. Wang that fourteen dollars and seventy-nine cents, we're cool.”

“I understand all too well about the disputes in the world of debt collecting. So what's fair is fair. I just wanted to make sure you weren't going to try to use this to get out of what ya owe. Now, the next thing you should know is, I'm Robert's grandmother and court-appointed guardian. His drug-addicted mother died during childbirth, and my good-for-nothin' son never was much of a father.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Now, I like you and I also like that picture of you shaking President Clinton's hand up on your shelf. He a friend of yours?”

“No. I just met him at a fundraiser.”

“Oh, okay. It's a shame they tried to hogtie him for doing what comes natural to a man. Shoulda been enough having to deal with Hillary. That's a woman who's got a whole lot of patience. Smart, too. Anyway, maybe you can make a copy of that for me, and I could display it in my home. I'd feel honored other people knowing Robert's got a bona fide lawyer who shook hands with the best president this country ever had.”

“No problem. I'll have Lily, my paralegal, make you a copy.”

“I thank you for that. Now, enough politicking,” she says, continuing to take charge. “I fired Robert's last lawyer and was gonna do his case on my own as you know. But the truth is, I'm getting tired of schooling myself in the law. Seems you come along at just the right time. I got his whole file here for ya.” She removes a legal file folder from her double-layered plastic grocery bag.

“May I take a quick peek?” I ask politely.

“That's why I brought it.” She hands it to me.

I open it up and go right to the police report. I want to see what their prior lawyer was talking about. Yep, there it is. Not good for the good guys. It puts blame squarely on Robert. And it's a double whammy—an unfavorable accident description and a skillfully penned diagram to corroborate it. But I've learned over the years that police reports may be less than accurate.

After a few more minutes of flipping through the file, inclusive of the medicals, I can see it's a big case, given Robert's injury. Unfortunately, there's only a hundred thousand in coverage from the Canadian insurer. Plus, there's no indication of activity in this file for over a year. A bad sign.

“Ethel,” I say, putting the file down, “why don't we make a call on Robert's case now? There's only a hundred thousand in insurance, and they've offered near half. There's no doubt that Robert's injury has a value way in excess of that sum, but you can't get water from a stone. Do you understand what I mean by this?”

“Certainly, I do.”

“Right. So maybe we can get this done on a call for the full extent of the policy. Sound like a plan?”

“Sounds like a plan, Wyler. Make the call.” She looks over at Robert and gives him a warm smile. He returns hers with one of his own. They have a rich and loving relationship. If not for her, who knows where this kid would've wound up.

I dial up Cohen's office, the lawyer for the van driver. I don't know him, but maybe I can be persuasive enough. I put the call on speaker so Ethel can hear. It will foster trust.

“Ethel, listen carefully to our conversation,” I say. I want to make her feel involved.

“Law offices of Rich Cohen. How may I direct your call?”

“Rich Cohen, please.”

“Who may I say is calling?”

“Wyler, Tug Wyler.”

“On what matter, Mr. Wyler?”

“The matter of one Robert Killroy, who didn't kill no Roy, and in fact, he didn't kill nobody. That's just his name.” Robert and Ethel both smile.

“One moment. Transferring.”

“Rich Cohen, here.”

“Hi Rich, I'm the new counsel on the Robert Killroy case. How are you today?”