Lucky Leonardo (13 page)

The minutes became hours for Leonardo as he returned from the Mutt and Jeff street scene to his office to face Michelle, like he returned to high-school math class and was staring at the motionless clock with spoken words drifting past him like ripples on the sea.
I wonder if it would help if I took notes
, he asked himself on both occasions.

Michelle was appeased by Leonardo's description of Jeff, gawky with button eyes and a colossal nose sticking out over his bushy mustache, that it wasn't her snookie-ookims, who would have been a bad snookie-ookims if he were checking up on her, not that she didn't plan to tell him she saw a shrink when the time was right, because she wasn't embarrassed about it for goodness sakes, like it didn't make her damaged goods, although it wasn't something she felt like sharing with every stranger either, the point being why the hell did he feel the need to follow her around, if he were following her around, which apparently he wasn't.

She gave Leonardo a long eyeball. “Are you sure my mother hasn't called you up to talk about my therapy?” she asked, like a nervous bride.

She departed when her time came, pausing in Leonardo's waiting room to reach under her bulky sweater to adjust her straps and breasts for more breathing space as David, Leonardo's next patient, last seen walking home with a gentle but potentially dominating German shepherd, averted his eyes.

“She looked different today,” David said to Leonardo, when it was his turn.

“How so?”

“Was she wearing new shoes?”

“What do you think?”

“Did she know I was in the waiting room, watching her?”

“What do you think?”

“By the way,” David continued after taking a pause and a breath to let the image of Michelle managing her big breasts settle, “do you know who the man was who was asking me questions after my last session, when I was walking to my car?”

“What?”

“The man who was asking me questions. On the street outside. Do you know who he was?”

“What kind of questions?”

“You don't know who he was?”

“Did he have a big nose?”

“What do you mean by big?”

“Like a baked potato.”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” said Leonardo, with the sinking feeling you get when you fishtail on an icy road, in the absence of a guard rail. “What did he ask?”

“He asked,” David said, “what I thought about you.”

“Yes.”

“He asked if I knew about your patient who fell out the window, and whether it bothered me.”

“Yes.”

“He asked how long I've been seeing you and whether I thought you were doing a good job.”

“Yes.” Leonardo struggled to stay between the dotted lines, like maybe David was spinning a yarn, or big-nosed Jeff had a benign purpose, like he worked for the census bureau or the cable company or the sidewalk improvement commission. Like maybe Stan was just giving tuba lessons to Barbara.

But as David returned to his planned portion for the balance of the session, involving the prospect of toxic microbes growing in his garden hose, which he had left in his yard for the winter with water still in it, still water that became a happy and supportive home for wandering and loitering germs, giving them a chance to fester and mutate in dangerous ways so that now he was afraid to touch the hose, afraid to go into his yard, afraid of the plague and of cholera, and wondering about early symptoms like the rash on his arm and his dry throat, as David slid down that slippery path Leonardo reached the grim and ineluctable conclusion that big-nosed Jeff was no garden hose.

Jeff was real, a threat, a clandestine operative stalking Leonardo, accosting and interrogating his vulnerable patients. Leonardo's arm started to itch. His throat went dry.
What the hell is this?
When David left, Leonardo hurriedly called Abigail.

“Oh, that old trick,” she said.

“Huh?”

“This happens in litigation, Leonardo. They hire an investigator to find dirt to…”

“Who does?”

“…Discredit you. Intimidate you. The usual.”

“Who?”

“The other side. In this case, DeltaTek or Eugene, or both.”

“Abigail, this isn't acceptable. They can't harass my patients on the street. They can't disrupt my practice. There's no justification. It's like terrorism, for God's sake.”

“Leonardo, you are definitely in a pissing contest.”

“I want to stop them. What can we do?”

“We can move for a restraining order.”

“Do it.”

“It will cost.”

“Whatever.”

So it came to pass, two days later, in the same airless courtroom where last week the motion to attach Leonardo's house was postponed amid hopes of rapprochement, that the emergency hearing on Abigail's motion for a restraining order began. She had rushed to put together and file her papers, and gave short notice to the other parties. She and Drunkmiller stepped onto the playing field wearing their game faces. Leonardo, in full sweat, watched from the stands. He wondered where his buddy Brockleman was.

“Good afternoon, your honor,” Abigail began with a full head of steam, addressing the judge on his podium in his black robe, “I represent the moving party Leonardo Cook…”

“Counselor, give me a minute to read through your papers,” said the judge. “This is the first chance I've had…”

“Of course,” said Abigail, taking a step back, like a sprinter after a false start. Leonardo could tell she was annoyed, as in
Your honor, I bust my chops to get you papers, which you don't bother to read.

Meanwhile, a tall, sharkish-looking man with sleeked-back hair and a mouth full of teeth emerged from the shadows, and approached the bench. He moved with confidence. “Your honor,” he said, “I am Paul E. Greene appearing on behalf of defendant DeltaTek Corporation, excuse me for being a moment late, I was on a call…” He spoke with authority.

“We haven't yet begun, Mr. Greene,” replied the judge.
Huh
, thought Leonardo,
who's this monkey wrench? Where's my guy Brockleman?

“May I bring the court's attention,” Mr. Greene continued, as he handed batches of paper to Abigail, to Drunkmiller, and to the clerk to hand to the judge, “to my memorandum in opposition to defendant Cook's motion which is included among these papers, along with my appearance, and DeltaTek's answer and counterclaims against the plaintiffs, and cross claims against defendant Cook.”

Hello?

“I haven't seen these papers before,” Abigail complained to the judge. “Is there some reason,” she said turning to Greene, “why you didn't show them to me during the hour we were sitting in this room waiting to be called? I saw you sitting there.”

“I'm not here to engage in a he-said she-said,” Greene said to the judge with great gravity. “I simply want your honor to have the benefit of knowing the law, which is clear, that we're talking about a public sidewalk, and that the First Amendment to the United States Constitution hallows and protects this public sidewalk…”

“Your honor,” said Abigail, “I'm concerned we're starting in the wrong place…”

“Your honor,” said Greene, ignoring Abigail, “I hasten to add that I don't know whether the street interrogation alleged in my sister's motion occurred, or merely springs from the imagination of a disturbed person, or group of disturbed persons. Given the short notice for this hearing I haven't had an opportunity to fairly investigate the alleged facts other than to state my understanding that my client has
not
engaged any interrogator…”

“Your honor,” said Abigail, trying to get heard, like a schoolgirl waving her hand for attention after the teacher turned in a different direction.

“…But I urge the court to recognize,” Greene went on, relentlessly as a snow plow, “that for purposes of adjudication of the herein motion it doesn't matter whether the alleged sidewalk interrogations occurred, nor does it matter whether my client or somebody else's client caused such interrogations. Rather, all that matters here, your honor, is that the First Amendment guarantees the right of free speech on public property, and precludes the imposition of injunctive relief in this case even if all the facts alleged in this motion were true, which they are not…”

“Your honor,” said Abigail, squeezing to get a word in edgewise, “the issue here isn't freedom of speech, it's the harassment of patients on their way to and from meetings with their psychiatrist. Let's focus on…”

“Your honor,” Greene continued, “if the issue is harassment of patients, then where are the harassed patients? Let them come forward and seek protection of this court.” He paused, and cast a rhetorical wave across the courtroom as though offering all the harassed patients a fair chance to step to the front and tell their story. No one among the handful of spectators budged, including Leonardo who was squishy from sweat and did his best to look innocent as Greene's wave went by.

Greene turned back to the judge with an “I told you so” shrug, like he had proven his case, and kept talking: “My point is, your honor, that we're not here to debate theoretical or speculative issues about harassment of patients. No harm, no foul…”

“Your honor,” said Abigail, “interrogation of psychiatric patients has no place…”

Which is when Drunkmiller stepped to the speakers' table, on Abigail's left flank while Greene maintained his position to her right, creating the sandwich effect. “Excuse me, your honor,” Drunkmiller said, “I share with Attorney Greene a substantive concern regarding the shortness of notice. Simply put, we have not been given sufficient time to prepare and respond.”

“Your honor,” said Abigail, now as shrill as a parakeet, “what's the big mystery? Either they hired a private investigator to harass patients outside my client's office, or they didn't. Simple question. Simple answer. How much time do they need?”

“Your honor,” Drunkmiller continued, “we are entitled to a fair opportunity to gather facts and to fairly respond. These bullying tactics by my sister…”

“What?” Abigail squeaked.

“I concur in the characterization,” said Greene.

“…should not be permitted to interfere with substantial justice,” Drunkmiller continued. “My client, Mr. Binh, can't move his legs, can't move his arms, can't speak. He remains grievously injured, but fortunately he is not deprived of his right to fairly defend himself against charges which I fully expect will turn out to be utterly without merit…”

And so it went. The judge denied Abigail's motion on the grounds that she hadn't sufficiently established entitlement to injunctive relief, including that there did not appear to be irreparable harm suffered by her client, and it wasn't sufficiently clear whether and to what extent the alleged interrogation was occurring or had occurred, and if it was occurring or had occurred whether the other parties to the lawsuit had anything to do with it, giving due regard to the procedural considerations and constitutional concerns raised by opposing counsel, without prejudice for her to come back if things should change, or for the patients to move for relief on their own if they claim to be harmed, but with a caution that perhaps counsel should try to resolve this kind of dispute in a cooperative and constructive way without having to get the court involved every time somebody's nose gets tweaked. “Do you follow my drift, counselor?” he said to Abigail.

“You win some and lose some,” Abigail said to Leonardo as the elevator doors closed, and they began their descent.

“I was hoping for better, Abigail.”

“The abortion protest cases hurt us.”

“Abigail, this hurts. I don't think you understand. They're doing whatever they fucking please to me. They're killing me.”

“Leonardo, sorry for your disappointment, but you have to recognize that it's not a perfect system, and that it's a long war with many battles…”

“They were killing you too.”

“I don't think so…”

“They ate your lunch.”

“I don't think so, Leonardo.”

“They made you look silly and weak.”

“Leonardo, I think you are misperceiving the reality of what happened.”

“Like hell I am…”

“You are. You're talking childishly. The judge told me to come back when I have more evidence. That's all he said. Nobody ate my lunch. And to tell you the truth I think he probably made the right decision under the circumstances.”

They reached the ground floor. The doors opened onto a crowd of other persons seeking justice. “Listen,” Abigail added as they elbowed their way to the street, “we don't have time to sit around pointing fingers. There's a lot of work to be done. We have to prepare for your deposition. We have to answer these pleadings I was just handed…”

“Attorney Greene's pleadings?”

“Yes.”

“What a fuck he is.”

“He alleges,” she said as she stopped walking, and flipped through Greene's pages, “that you are liable to DeltaTek for negligence, fraud, misrepresentation of your qualifications, unfair and deceptive trade practices, and breach of contract, and that you should indemnify DeltaTek for any loss it may suffer from the Binhs' claims…And he's seeking to attach your house.”

“Sure. Why not?” said Leonardo, casually, dazedly, like the more the merrier, like sloppy seconds were welcome, like take another piece of my heart, boys. Take it. “Hey, where's my buddy Brockleman? Did they fire him? Are they suing him too?”

“I don't know.”

“And where's your lover buddy Drunkmiller? Does he still want to cut a deal?”

“Leonardo, he's not my lover buddy. You're offending me.”