Free Fall (7 page)

Wherever somebody's strugglin' to be free

Look in their eyes Mom you'll see me
.

From the live version, of course—the one with Tom Morello from Rage Against The Machine wailing on the fuzz-box electric guitar solos; not Bruce's original acoustic version off the
Nebraska
album.

So, first thing Saturday morning, I text Christine to let her know Ceepak and I want to swing by and talk with her about the TRO, maybe even lend her a “helpin' hand.”

“DO YOU GUYS NEED A COPY?” she texts back.

“COULDN'T HURT,” I thumb to her.

“OK. C U IN A FEW.”

I swing by the Bagel Lagoon to pick up Ceepak.

He's sitting with Rita and their dog, Barkley, at the bottom of the attached staircase that leads up to their apartment.

“Hey, Danny,” says Rita.

“Hey.”

Barkley doesn't bark. He slumps to the ground. And farts. Barkley is old.

Ceepak fans the air in front of his face. “Sorry about that.”

“That's okay,” I say. “All I smell are the onions and garlic coming out of the kitchen's exhaust fan.”

Rita knuckle-punches Ceepak in his bulging arm muscle. “See? I told you not to let Barkley have a bite of your bagel.”

“My bad,” says Ceepak. He raises a brown paper sack. “Thought we'd take Christine and Dr. Rosen some fresh-baked bagels this morning.”

“Sounds like a plan. They're expecting us.”

“Then it's all good.”

Ceepak kisses Rita.

“This won't take too long,” he says when they finally break.

“Hurry home.”

“Roger that.”

And they kiss again. I look up and pretend like I'm fascinated by the Bagel Lagoon's gutter system or something. Ceepak and Rita? They don't need a Tunnel of Love. They smooch whenever and wherever they feel like smooching.

Even if Barkley cuts the cheese.

Which, of course, he does.

Onions and garlic, again.

With a hint of pumpernickel.

On the ride over to Dr. Rosen's house, Ceepak drifts into his super-serious analytical mode.

“You say Mrs. Oppenheimer was strangling Christine when you and Santucci entered her home?”

“That's what it looked like to me. The ligature bruises on Christine's neck were so bad, I made a photographic record for evidence—in case we ever needed it.”

“Good crime-scene technique, Danny.”

“Hey, don't forget, I was trained by the best.”

Ceepak, of course, totally ignores the compliment.

“Mrs. Oppenheimer was strangling Christine,” he muses, “yet she is the one requesting the restraining order? Curious.”

“She probably wants to beat Christine to the punch; stop Christine from requesting a restraining order against
her
.”

“It's a possibility, Danny.”

I can tell that this case, if we can call it that, intrigues him. Ceepak's a lot like Sherlock Holmes. He's not happy unless his big brain is busy noodling out a solution to a puzzling problem.

A very pretty African-American woman, about the same age as Christine, greets us at the door.

She's wearing royal blue nurse's scrubs and toting a plastic pill organizer; a big one with 28 compartments. I'm guessing Dr. Rosen's on a lot of medications—maybe one for every year of his life.

“Are you Danny?” she asks.

“That's right. And this is my partner, John Ceepak.”

“I'm Monae Dunn,” she says with a smile. She has a good one. Her long, straight hair is pulled back with a headband the same bright blue as the rest of her uniform.

“Is Christine here?” asks Ceepak. Probably because he isn't busy admiring Monae's body like some people I know.

“No. She ran over to Kinko's, so I'm covering. Trying to get Dr. Rosen's medicines organized. You ever know anybody to need so many pills? I bet this blue one is to prevent him from having side effects from this green one.” She sees Ceepak's brown paper bag. “Did you boys bring bagels?”

“Yes, ma'am,” says Ceepak. “Fresh-baked.”

“Uhm-hmm,” she says knowingly. “Well don't just stand there letting them go all cold. Come on in. Arnie's on the phone with his son Michael. Michael lives in Hollywood. He's a gay.”

Ceepak and I just nod.

“They're on speakerphone because Arnie refuses to put in his hearing aids when he knows company is coming.”

We follow Ms. Dunn into the house, which looks like it hasn't been redecorated since 1960-something. Except for the walls. Those looks like an art museum dedicated to a single subject: the life and times of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy with a fantastic smile. There must be over two dozen framed photographs of the same shaggy-haired kid. Blowing out birthday candles. Playing baseball. Riding a BMX bike. At Disney World. Sea World. The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. LEGOLAND.

I have a feeling the blonde boy is Dr. Rosen's grandson, even though he's so good-looking that he could also be the kid who came with the picture frames.

We move into what I'm guessing used to be the dining room. Now there is a hospital bed set up where the table used to be—a look that doesn't really fit in with the whole New England seaside cottage style of the rest of the house. I notice a couple Dentist figurines set up on a sideboard. Most have to do with yanking teeth out of mouths with pliers.

Dr. Rosen is sitting in a wheelchair near the hospital bed and talking into a cordless phone.

“Arnie?” blurts Monae. “Visitors. Christine's police officer friends.” She reaches for Ceepak's bagel bag. “Let me put those in the kitchen …”

She leaves and Dr. Rosen raises a hand to let us know he'll be with us shortly.

The former dentist looks a little weary and shrunken as he slumps forward in his wheelchair. He's wearing a navy blue Adidas jogging suit and Velcroed running shoes. His hair is white and neatly combed to the side. His upper lip sports a trim and very dignified mustache. There is an oxygen tank strapped into a hand trolley next to his wheelchair. Clear plastic tubing runs from the canister's regulator valve up to a thin nosepiece jammed up into his nostrils.

“Michael?” Dr. Rosen says to the phone. “I have visitors. Exalted members of the local constabulary.”

He shoots us a wink. And I can tell, the guy might be ninety-four, but he's still sharp, with it, and kind of funny.

“Okay, Dad,” says the voice on the speakerphone. “But seriously, call the guys at Best Buy. They'll come over and install it for you.”

My eyes drift over to an adjoining room where I see the unopened cardboard carton for a Panasonic TC-P55ST50—their 3-D, high-def TV with a 55-inch-wide plasma screen. I also see unopened Amazon and Barnes and Noble boxes stacked on the couch. And on the floor.

“It's a very generous gift, Michael,” says Dr. Rosen. “But …”

“No buts. I gave Best Buy my credit card number. They'll hook up the satellite dish, too.”

Okay. Now I'm drooling like Homer Simpson in a doughnut factory.

“But,” says son Michael on the speakerphone, “the guys from Best Buy can't do your exercises for you. Did Monae set up the recumbent bike?”

“Yes, Michael. She and Christine put it in my bedroom.”

“Good. It's a Monark. Excellent for rehab patients.”

“Michael?”

“Yeah?”

“The girls did a Google on the bike. Did it really cost you twenty-six hundred dollars?”

“I don't know. I'll have to ask my accountant. I just told my people to get you the best low-impact exercise machine on the market because your doctors want you exercising.”

“But twenty-six hundred dollars …”

“Call it an early Father's Day gift. Oh, here's another one: I'm flying home to New Jersey next weekend!”

The expression on Dr. Rosen's face?

I don't think he's looking forward to his son's visit.

14

D
R
. R
OSEN LOOKS UP FROM THE PHONE WITH AN EMBARRASSED
smile, then raises his hand to let us know he won't be on the phone very much longer.

“Well, that's terrific, Michael. It'll be great to see you again.”

“We wrapped our final episode last night. Thought it might be fun to spend some time with you. Whip those gals of yours into shape.”

“Hiya, Michael!” This from Monae, who has come back into the dining room with a raisin bagel slathered with peanut butter.

“Hiya, sweetheart. You taking good care of my pops?”

“
Your
pops? Sorry, Michael. Christine and me? We're adopting him.”

Michael laughs. Dr. Rosen laughs. Ceepak and I smile. It's a regular Hallmark moment.

“And Dad?” says Michael. “Andrew and I have some exciting news to share with you.”

“Oh, really? What is it?”

“Uh, uh, uh. No cheating. I need to tell you this news in person.”

“Very well. Will Andrew be coming with you?”

There is a long pause.

“No, Dad. Andrew is busy.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Well, give him my best. I'm sorry we won't get the chance to see him this trip, but I understand—professional commitments come first.”

“Yes, Dad.”

Okay, I'm not a voice analysis expert, but Michael Rosen doesn't sound as happy as he did two minutes ago.

“Love you, son,” says Dr. Rosen.

“See you next Friday,” says Michael. And then he must jab a button on his phone because we're hearing nothing but dial tone.

Dr. Rosen holds out the telephone. Monae takes it.

“It's this button here, sir. The red one with the little phone picture on it. That turns it off.”

“Thank you, Monae.” Dr. Rosen wheels a couple inches closer to Ceepak and me. “So sorry to keep you fellows waiting. That was my youngest son, Michael. A very important television producer out in Hollywood. Very successful. Six Emmy Awards. Several other professional citations. You're Adele Ceepak's son John, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She's shown me photographs. And let me just say, she is
extremely
proud of you.”

“And I of her, sir.”

“Attaboy. Good for you. Monae?”

“Yes, Arnie?”

“Have you offered our guests a glass of lemonade or, perhaps, a Stewart's root beer?”

She turns to us. “You want a root beer or lemonade?”

“No, thank you,” says Ceepak.

I hold up my hand. “I'm good.”

“You want a bagel, Arnie?”

“We have bagels?”

“The policemen brought 'em. They're warm.”

“Yes, dear. A bagel would be nice.”

Monae leaves again. She has a sassy way of walking out a door. Reminds me of the motion of the ocean.

“So, gentlemen,” says Dr. Rosen, “you are conversant with Christine's unfortunate situation, I take it?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“However,” says Ceepak, “to be clear, we are here this morning only as concerned individuals. We are not operating in our official law-enforcement capacities.”

“Of course, of course.” Dr. Rosen shakes his head. “I can't believe Judge Guarnery signed the TRO. He used to be a patient of mine. Worst overbite I ever saw.”

“Well, sir, the TRO is only the first step in the process. Even when a Temporary Restraining Order is issued under a judge's signature, there must be a hearing on the complaint within ten days.”

“And do you gentlemen have any suggestions as to how Christine can best prepare for this hearing?”

“It might be advisable for her lawyer to subpoena the police report for the incident in question. Request any and all available evidence gathered at the scene.”

I grin. Ceepak's hinting at those neck photos I took.

Dr. Rosen sighs. “Her lawyer. Unfortunately, young Miss Lemonopolous is not in a financial position to retain competent counsel. She simply can't match Mrs. Oppenheimer's monetary resources. And I can't loan her the money, as I can't be seen as taking her side in this matter—not if I wish to keep the peace with my daughter-in-law, Judith.”

“Who's Mrs. Oppenheimer's sister,” I say.

“Ah. I see you are aware of my predicament. I do, of course, have several friends at temple who are lawyers, highly respected members of the bar. I myself work with Steven Robins, a senior partner at Bernhardt, Hutchens, and Catherman. However, as I stated, I can't really assist Christine without incurring the justified wrath of my son's wife, Judith.”

“We're thinking about hiring Harvey Nussbaum,” says Ceepak.

Dr. Rosen nods. “An excellent if prohibitively expensive idea.”

“My mother has offered to pay Ms. Lemonopolous's legal bills.”

“Really? That's extremely generous. But if I may, why would she be willing to do such a thing?”

I almost say “
Because of this antique needlepoint thing her dead aunt gave her,
” but I don't.

“Because,” says Ceepak, “what Mrs. Oppenheimer is attempting to do offends my mother's innate sense of justice. Mrs. Oppenheimer has to know that if this restraining order sticks, if Christine cannot have it expunged from her record, it will be impossible for her to ever return to her former job at Mainland Medical.”

“You are correct,” says Dr. Rosen. “If Christine loses this fight, her career and, quite possibly, her life will be ruined. It is a mitzvah, what your mother is doing.”

According to my friend, Joe Getzler, a mitzvah is a good deed done from religious duty. And according to Joe, it doesn't matter which religion, either.

The front door opens.

Christine, smiling brightly, comes into the dining room.

“Ah, Christine!” says Dr. Rosen. “Good news. It seems, my dear, that you have found your guardian angel!”

15

T
URNS OUT THAT THE LAW OFFICES OF
H
ARVEY
N
USSBAUM AND
Associates are open Saturdays for “your convenience.”