Suzy's Case: A Novel (25 page)

“I appreciate that, but it’s quite possible I would’ve come to this very same conclusion without Fred’s involvement, isn’t it?”

“We’ll never know that, will we, counselor?”

“I disagree, June. You should have more faith in me.”

“You disagree?” June questions. “How will we ever know if you would’ve figured out what happened to Suzy if we hadn’t seen Fred?”

“Because I already figured it out,” I answer confidently.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.”

“How do I know that? How could you ever prove that?”

“You remember, I made a note in the backseat of the Impala on our ride over here?”

“Yes, I saw you writing something.”

“You also saw me fold up that note and put it in my shirt pocket, right?”

“You know I did.”

“So, take it out.” June opens my jacket lapel, reaches in, and pulls out the folded paper. “June, before you unfold that will you do me a favor?”

“Depends. What’s the favor?”

“All I ask is that you read what I’ve written out loud nice and clear for Trace to hear.”

“Why?”

“Since you questioned my commitment and ability in front of him, you should be the one to answer that question. Read for us, please.” June unfolds the paper and I follow her eyes as they glance across the page. A smile appears on her face. “Out loud. Like you promised,” I remind.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” She turns, faces her friend, and clears her throat before speaking. “Trace, the note authored by my lawyer over here, Tug, reads: ‘Suzy was electrocuted. Game on.’ ”

Trace throws the Impala into gear and does his signature peel-out. Fifteen very quiet minutes later, we arrive in front of a dilapidated
brownstone. June turns to Trace. “Thank you, baby. Now please take my lawyer home to Westchester so he can get some rest.” She nods back at me.

“On it,” Trace replies.

Before June opens the door, a thought occurs to me. “How’d you know I live in Westchester?”

“Oh, please,” she says sarcastically, then opens the door with body language that says “Give me a break.” June closes the door, turns, and leans down into the open window. “Counselor, you stay in the back. You’ll be more comfortable.”

Trace keeps his guarding eye on her as she walks toward her building. We both watch as she walks up seven entry steps to a landing, unlocks the exterior door to this five-story structure, enters into a vestibule, opens up an interior door, and begins walking up a flight of stairs that are clearly visible from our curbside position. As she disappears up, Trace puts the Impala in gear and races away in his standard fashion. The power of the low-gear torque throws me back into the red leather. As we cruise through the County of Kings, I’m uncomfortable being chauffeured, feeling as if I’m not worthy.

“Trace, can I ask you something?”

“Just did.”

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Just did again.”

“What floor does June live on?”

“Four.”

“Is there an elevator in the building?”

Trace only chuckles.

“How long has June lived there?”

“Since her baby born.”

“How does Suzy get up to the fourth floor?”

“June wheels her up to the front steps, then puts the brake on the chair. She takes Dog off of Suzy and walks Dog up the front steps and sets her down. She comes back down and lifts Suzy out and carries her up the front steps to the door and sets her down against the wall on the left side of the door. She walks back down to the street, folds
up the wheelchair, and carries that up to the front door. She leans the chair against the railing, unlocks the door, opens it, and holds it open with her right foot as she leans down and picks up Suzy. She carries Suzy inside to the next door, goes through that, and sets Suzy down at the foot of the steps. She comes back outside, picks up the wheelchair while keeping that door open with her foot again, and brings it inside. She carries Suzy up the three flights of steps—taking a rest at the landing between the second and third flight—then carries her the rest of the way and brings her into the apartment. She belts Suzy in a chair in the kitchen, then goes back down the three flights to get the wheelchair. She carries it up into the apartment and transfers Suzy back. Dog knows the routine and makes it on her own. That’s about it. I’m feeling her pain every time.”

I feel awful just hearing. “Trace, how do you know that with such great detail?”

“Seen June do it twice a day, sometimes three times, ever since Suzy got hurt. I live on the fifth floor.”

“Can’t she move down to the first floor or find a place to live at street level?”

Trace snorts. The translation being “White boy, you so naïve.” “Been on a waiting list for years.”

“Suzy must weigh close to a hundred pounds. June’s going to hurt herself if she keeps up that routine. I’ve seen it before.”

“Suzy weighs a hundred seven and June won’t let anybody help with the carrying. The good Lord and the Fidge both know I’ve tried. June says it’s her baby and she’s responsible. Never made one complaint, either. Just takes care of her motherly duties.”

The next hour of the ride is silent except for Trace’s GPS giving direction. The twenty-first-century technology in the ’62 Impala makes for a disjunctive combo. As we near my home in the deep wooded sticks, Trace breaks the silence. “Got werewolves out here?”

“No, just coyotes and vampires.”

Trace pulls into my driveway and I give him the gate code without thinking twice. My wife and I have an agreement never to give the code out to strangers for safety reasons, but Trace doesn’t feel like a
stranger. He feels more like the trusted sidekick of a mysterious superhero. I envision the Fidge as the superhero who makes an appearance only when the need to save the day is at hand. At all other times, his faithful Boy Wonder, Trace, lowrides around the neighborhood in the Impala-mobile, deterring evildoers by the mere fact of his immense visible presence.

In addition to Trace’s sidekick status, he’s also June’s personal guardian angel. I bet he keeps lots of other people safe, too. There’s something about him being on your side that fosters a feeling of security. Ever since I got my first threat of bodily harm from one of Benson’s HICs I’ve wished for a higher power watching over me. I never imagined it would be a guy like Trace.

Trace pulls up to my front door. “You can’t even see your neighbors. Why would you want to live like that?”

“That’s just the way it is in the country. That’s what people move out here for, the privacy.”

“Don’t know why anyone would want to live out here when they could have a castle in Brooklyn for the kind of dough you musta paid for this place.”

“To each his own, Trace.”

“Heard that.”

Trace now walks around to the passenger side, opens the door, lifts the lever, folds the seat forward, and takes my bag from my hand as I’m stepping out. I shake the pant leg that’s caught behind my shoelace and stand up straight, face-to-chest with Trace. He’s half a foot taller than I am and I’m six one.

I begin to offer a good-bye handshake. Trace steps past my outstretched arm and gives me a firm hug, forcing the air up and out from my lung base. He takes a step away while sliding his giant-sized hands from around my back onto the sides of both my shoulders, which disappear into his palms. If he wanted to, he could squeeze his hands together and crumple me like an accordion. Instead, he gives me a little shoulder massage. “You got to win this shit for June and Suzy.”

I nod. “I will.”

Trace releases me, turns around, and gets back into the purring Impala. He grabs the brake release under the dash with his left hand, takes hold of the white shifter knob with his right, and puts the car into gear. Oh man! He’s going to wake my wife with his spinout! Trace surprises me as he quietly pulls away using minimum gas feed. I didn’t know he could move forward from a standstill without popping the clutch.

As I walk up to my front door, I realize Trace never took off those dark plastic wraparound sunglasses, not one time all evening. Yet I felt he and I saw eye to eye on everything, that we would be friends in another place and at another time. We’re from different worlds—or should I say hoods?—brought together for the good of one cause.

A worthy cause, a cause of a wrong that needs to be put right so a loving mother can begin to recover. So a warm wonderful woman who has had more than her share of hardship can then move forward and live her life again. So June can be freed from the bondage of feeling responsible for something she has no accountability for. A horrible event that left her child severely brain damaged that she mistakenly allowed to become the core of her existence. This is the power of a mother’s guilt.

Now that I know the truth about this circumstance, that little Suzy Williams was senselessly electrocuted, I can’t fail June, and a money recovery, her share, my share, has nothing to do with it.

If I lose this case now, bad lawyering will be the cause of June’s continued suffering and desolation, and
that
is something I just can’t live with.

T
oday will be a breakthrough day. I can feel it. I have awakened with purpose and passion because of yesterday’s developments.

Almost every case in my office has something about it that sparks me to win, including the HIC cases. Sometimes the fervor is obvious, like when you have to win enough money to take care of a catastrophically injured client who can no longer provide for his family. Sometimes the passion is hidden and must be flushed out until you find that one motivating factor.

In Suzy’s case, I’m in a rage because they electrocuted her. I’m even thinking a cover-up’s in play, but though I have the tingle, I’m not certain.

You’d think
someone
must know Suzy was electrocuted. On the other hand, Nurse Braithwait is the sole witness and doesn’t even know what she herself has done. Furthermore, neither the doctor involved nor his attorneys have ever seen the wire and patch, which are the keys to the case.

The tingle I mention is real. I know it may sound crazy, but my anus has a way of tingling when I’m on the verge of exposing a cover-up. I don’t yet know who it is this time or what they know, but my asshole’s signaling suspicion. Someone knows something, or else I must be developing hemorrhoids.

I open my eyes and turn to look over at my wife. She’s wearing a
stack of two pillows signifying my snoring was heavy. That plus the fact I woke her after midnight will no doubt contribute to her kitchen disposition. I gotta make a preemptive strike to get even for what’s to come. I have no choice. I’m gonna feel her wrath anyway so I might as well make the best of the situation and start one up. After taking a quick shower I ready myself to leave. But before I do, I reset her digital clock, advancing the time from 6:28 to 7:25, ten minutes after her wake-up time.

“Honey,” I say, standing in the place I stood on Tuesday night, begging for the HJ. “Honey,” I call out nice and loud, waking her.

“What? What’s the matter?” she asks, removing the pillows off her head.

“You overslept and I know you time your morning schedule tight to the minute so you don’t lose a second’s sleep.”

“What? What time is it?” I look toward her clock and back at her, theatrics. I turn the digital to face her so she can see for herself.

“Seven twenty-six! Oh no, the kids are going to miss their bus. Oh damn, I’ll just have to drive them today.”

“Sorry about that. Have a good night’s sleep?” I ask, wishing I hadn’t before finishing my question.

“Yes,” she answers, which surprises me, “I did, but I had a weird dream about your mom working as an electrician at a junkyard.”

“That sounds nutty,” I respond, giggling to myself.

She changes topics and adopts a pleasant tone. “I really appreciate you having the new girl call me to say you’d be home late. That was so thoughtful of you.”

“No problem,” I say, searching my mind. “I got to go. Have a nice day.”

“You too, honey.”

Since I don’t have any new girl working for me and since June was the only person who knew I was going to be home late, I conclude she took the liberty of calling my wife. That’s probably why she tried to interrupt my call home in the Impala on the way to Fred’s, when I shushed her. I wonder how she got my home number, since it’s unobtainable from any source. Maybe she asked one of the Fidge’s peeps to
find out somehow. Whatever her method, she continually proves her resourcefulness.

I start up the Eldo. The music begins blasting so I follow the instructions Fred gave me last night before leaving him. I disconnect the power to the receiver, hit a reset button I never knew existed, then I reconnect the unit. It responds and my problem is fixed. I hit the off button to enjoy a quiet ride, after which I say out loud, “Thanks, Fred,” just as my wife opens the garage door. Oh crap, she found me out and came down to give it to me. Deny, deny, deny.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Uh, just myself, honey.”

“I think you’ve been working a little too hard lately. That’s one of the signs.”