Suzy's Case: A Novel (15 page)

“Go out and pick up some dog food.”

“Yes, dear.”

“And go plunge Penelope’s toilet.”

“Yes, dear.”

So much for comfort and security. And, “yes, dear” translated from
pussy-whipped
means “shove it.” But I have to keep in mind that it is Tuesday night.

When I’ve completed the list, I enter the kitchen, where my children are seated around our oversized farm table eating pizza. As I walk in, they abruptly stop whatever they were doing, but I make no mention of their suspicious conduct. I grab the back of a chair with the intention of sitting and the kids start laughing.

“What’s so funny, guys?” I ask.

“Nothing, Dad,” Brooks and Connor chime. Penelope continues to laugh even harder. I sit down and all three start cracking up uncontrollably.

“Come on, let me in on it. What’s so funny?”

All respond with greater hilarity. “Nothing, Dad.”

Just as I’m about to ask again, I feel something moist underneath me, so I pop myself up out of the chair. I look to the source and eyeball a pile of pizza sausage stuck to my butt. The kids are laughing hysterically.

“Very funny, guys,” I say, which amplifies their laughter. “Why was there a pile of sausage on this chair?”

Brooks, my nine-year-old and eldest, speaks for the group. “Mom ordered the pizza from a new place and we don’t like their sausage. It’s too chewy. So we were playing sausage basketball and using the chair as our hoop.”

“Nice. You know the Old Marcolina never would have let you get away with that.” Marcolina was our old housekeeper and our young children have chosen to call her recent replacement “the New Marcolina” for the time being.

“We know. That’s why we like the New Marcolina better,” Penelope, my six-year-old, explains.

As I’m cleaning the sausage off my pants, I hear my cell phone start to ring. I run to the mudroom dropping sausage on the floor, ensuring at least one more “yes, dear” if I don’t clean it up before she sees it. I can’t afford another “yes, dear,” because like I said, it’s Tuesday night, and based on how the day started with the Boca fiasco, I’m already behind the eight ball.

By the time I get to the charging station, the phone has stopped ringing. I look at the call history and it reads:
PRIVATE CALLER
, which can suck for me. I may’ve just lost a really big case and I’ll never know it. I begin to walk back into the kitchen and my phone rings again. I quick-turn. “Hello?”

“Hi. I’m sorry to bother you but this is really irritating me.”

I recognize the voice. “June? June Williams?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m really mad and upset.”

“How did you get my cell number?”

“I happened to see it posted above Lily’s desk when she was giving me the address where I have to meet you tomorrow for Suzy’s medical exam by the defendant’s doctor. The numbers were easy to remember, so I did.”

“Kudos to you for your resourcefulness and memory, but try only to call it for emergencies.”

“This is an emergency. I’ve been waiting years on this case and my lawyer’s telling me he may be deserting me.”

“I’m not deserting you. I told you I was going to investigate things further. Listen, June, now is not the time or place to be discussing this. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“You bet your ass we will,” June states heatedly. “The Fidge said if you don’t want to move forward on my case he’ll handle the situation, find me an attorney …”

I interrupt. “Who’s the Fidge? The guy who picked you up from court today?”

“No, that was Trace. He’s the Fidge’s driver, close personal friend, business associate, and right-hand man.”

“Okay. Well, is the Fidge a lawyer?”

“No, he’s not a lawyer, but he knows how to handle problems that come up in the community. You can always count on the Fidge. Anyway, you can’t go around handling fake cases like that Connie Cortez’s while dropping real cases involving little children like Suzy.”

“Listen, June,” I say in a firm tone. “I don’t know what to make of Connie Cortez. All the doctors agreed she has a brain lesion, and that fact takes it out of the realm of a fake case. I’m sorry, but I got to go now. I have to clean a sausage mess from the floor before my wife comes down. I’ll see you tomorrow and we’ll talk about everything, including the Fidge.” I hang up.

I can’t really blame June for feeling the way she feels, but I don’t have time to think about that now. I got to clean up the sausage stat or the night will be ruined.

You see, this evening is Tuesday Night Hand Job. It’s a regularly scheduled event just like
Monday Night Football
. But unlike football, Tuesday Night Hand Job only occurs on every
other
Tuesday, and is subject to cancellation for a variety of reasons, known and unknown, without prior notice. And I have to be on my best behavior for the rest of the evening, because just after we were married it was Tuesday Night Blow Job, and there’re no downgrades from here.

I wait until I know Tyler has changed, washed up, gotten into bed, played her iPad games, read her magazines, and is ready to reach for the light switch. If I enter our bedroom before that moment my longing gawk turns her off and can jeopardize things. Standing outside our door I hear some papers rustling, my signal it’s time to make a move. I enter and stand before her as she lies in bed. Tyler is absolutely beautiful. Big brown eyes, high cheekbones, luscious lips, strong jaw, and a body that could kill. I mean, why not, she works that five-foot-nine frame out six hours a day doing various activities. I have the one-two planned, and the one has to be executed before I get into bed.

“Hi, honey,” I say, in a kind tone despite my lame sweet-talking abilities. “I’m really sorry about this morning. I just want to say I’m looking forward to going to Boca for the holidays and seeing your parents. I even spoke with a man of religion on the train about it this morning.”

“Oh good,” she responds, “I’m glad you came around. It’ll be fun.”

“Yes. Fun. It’ll be fun,” I repeat mindlessly. I get into bed and slide near her. She turns toward me. We are face-to-face and she smiles. Time for the two punch in this evening’s foreplay repertoire.

“Honey, guess what? I settled a monster case today.”

“Oh, really. How big are we talking?”

“Nine hundred and fifty thousand.” I smile, beaming with achievement.

“Wow. That is big,” she responds enthusiastically. Cool, I’m getting the HJ. I feel the blood rushing to where it has to go. “Is the fee all yours?” The blood slows.

“Half, it’s an HIC case, one of Henry’s injured criminals.” I’d tell her about the fraud, but I don’t want to get involved in a diverting exchange.

“That’s still a big fee.” Blood flowing furiously again, my boy is on the rise. She turns away and reaches for her light switch. What the … what the …? It’s hand job first, light switch second. That’s the routine. I disrupt her reach.

“Honey!”

She halts, a bit startled, and turns back to me. “What’s up, Tug? Why’d you ‘honey’ me like that?” Maybe she doesn’t realize today is Tuesday Night Hand Job.

“I said I’m sorry about this morning … I’m going to Boca … I settled a big case today, and … it happens to be Tuesday night.”

“Oh, yes, I didn’t realize,” she says in an apologetic tone. “I must have lost track of the days. So it
is,
Tuesday. Give me a sec.” Departing from the normal custom, she turns away and reaches again as I roll onto my back. I prefer this in the dark anyway and Tyler’s the one who insists on lights to aid in her cleanup duties. She flicks the switch off and I reposition myself just right. I’m ready, but she’s stalling on the rollback.

“Honey,” I say, gently nudging, giving her sensual shoulder a soft touch. She motions, slightly, to start her rollback, then—

“I had to play two tiebreakers today. My opponent was one of those tennis players who kept hitting it to my backhand, every shot, over and over again, and we had long rallies, each and every point. I hit backhand after backhand after backhand, all afternoon.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m all stroked out. You’re on your own tonight, Tug.”

T
he sign on the door reads:
DR. LEONARD HARPER
. He’s a specialist in pediatric neurology. The best in the city, five years straight, according to
New York
magazine, which does an annual issue featuring the top doctors in town. He’s the guy doing the physical exam on Suzy, the so-called independent medical one. Most IME doctors are medical whores for the defense bar, who are handsomely paid to conclude that the injured plaintiff has made a complete recovery, but this guy’s a real doctor. I expect he’ll confirm Suzy’s pathetic condition without reservation and pin her disability on sickle cell complications.

Before going in, I have to shake off my salty feelings from the cancellation of TNHJ last evening. I mean, it wasn’t like I was going for the forbidden fruit from the punany no-no bush, we’re talking hand job. I take a deep breath and say to myself,
Accept what is
.

I enter and find June waiting in reception with Little Suzy and Dog. They’re wearing matching off-white pants with tan and red plaid tops. I realize they were dressed identically on Monday, too. How’d I miss that one? June stands and approaches. She’s got another big leather bag, this time tan-colored, which matches her hot boots. I guess that’s her look.

She seems annoyed. “ ’Bout time.”

I look at my fancy stainless and realize I should’ve worn my gold watch with this shirt-and-tie combo. What a loser I am. Not for
wearing the wrong watch, but for giving it one second of thought. “June, I’m five minutes early.”

“It’s common courtesy to arrive fifteen minutes prior to a scheduled medical appointment.”

“Says who?”

“Says every single medical receptionist I’ve ever had contact with and that would be quite a few. So you’re ten minutes late.”

“Sorry. Let’s try to move past this.”

“Oh, I’m past it, yo.”

“June,” I point out, “that’s the first time you’ve used slang.”

“Well, you better hope you don’t hear it again. When I get mad I can’t control the ghetto in me.”

“Then don’t get mad.”

“I know this is just another case for you, Mr. Big-Time Lawyer, but this is my life and Suzy’s life, and you’re about to turn them upside down.” She gives me the stare. The emotions are love and hate. I’d love to get some of her, and maybe she hates me.

We’re in a bad place and we’re only two days in. I’m pretty sure it’s my fault, so I need to change things. “You know something? You’re right,” I tell her. “I’ve been insensitive to your situation and I promise it won’t happen again. I can’t promise you I’ll continue with Suzy’s case, but I do promise to handle whatever time I have left in this matter with compassion and sensitivity.”

“That’s acceptable. Now check in. We’re being rude.” I feel good about this interaction but question my own integrity. Was I taking the path of least resistance, or did I really mean what I said?

We quickly find ourselves in an exam room. A moment later, a very distinguished elderly man walks in and looks at us. “Hello, I’m Dr. Leonard Harper and this must be Suzy,” he says, caressing her face with his soft old hand.

The tactile stimulation brings a smile to Suzy’s face. “Sch-weet,” she says.

“You’re the sweet one, darling,” Dr. Harper responds. He turns to June. “I’ll need you to disrobe this adorable little girl and put her in the gown hanging behind the door. I’ll be back in five minutes.” He leaves the room.

When Dr. Harper refers to Suzy as “adorable” I realize I don’t even know what she looks like, the particulars of her appearance. I thought I was going to get out of the case, so registering her appearance in my office never crossed my mind. I hadn’t even realized she and June had been wearing matching outfits, for God’s sake. All I saw was a mangled little girl with a bad brain injury. I assessed her for value and felt what a waste of a catastrophic injury it was not to make any money from. There was no humanity involved. June’s clearly justified in feeling the way she does and I realize my attitude was the cause. I now know I really didn’t mean what I said to June a few moments ago about compassion and sensitivity. The way Dr. Harper interacted with Suzy as a person rather than as an income source made me see my insincerity. From this point forward I pledge commitment to this cause in the most sensitive of ways, case or no case. I look to June.

“I’ll wait outside, June.”

“No, you stay. You need to see what they did to my baby.”

June picks up the pup. “Here, hold Dog,” she says to me. “She needs to be on somebody’s lap.” I pet Dog as June takes off Suzy’s clothing in that wheelchair, with the child seemingly unaware of her environment. I say seemingly because there’s no real medical way to verify how much children like her are aware of something lawyers like me would love to know when assessing monetary damages. And something I’d like to know just from a human perspective. Suzy’s shoes and pants came off easily, but June has to struggle to get her shirt off with her contorted arms flapping. “Come on now, Suzy,” June coaxes. “Mommy has to take it off.”