Suzy's Case: A Novel (27 page)

“Oh, I understood you just fine. Please don’t take that tone with me.”

“Listen, your wife is my expert. I have some new information that will help my client. I need to see the doctor to discuss privileged matters. I sense you’re being obstructive. Now, if there is a problem, just let me know and I’ll act accordingly.”

“It’s just that she’s had two looks at it, and I don’t like pushy lawyers trying to take advantage of her helpful nature,” Smith all but snarls.

“That’s completely understandable,” I say, keeping my temper. “But I assure you I just want to share the new information with her to see if it changes her opinion. That’s all.”

He takes a long pause. “Fine. She can see you tomorrow at five. Bring another check in the sum of one thousand seven hundred fifty dollars for the expedited appointment.”

“I need to see her today.”

“Are you saying it’s a rush?” Smith asks. I know this is a loaded question but have no choice.

“If needing to see her today is a rush,” I answer, “then yes, it’s a rush.”

“Hold on a second. Let me look in the book.” I detect a hint of glee in his voice. “Okay. You can see her today at noon, but I’ll have to charge you the rush fee.”

“Is that something different from the five hundred extra you tacked on for the expedited fee?”

“Oh yes.
Expedited
means twenty-four hours’ notice.
Rush
is a same-day appointment. That’s five hundred dollars more so it’s going to cost you one thousand for the rush, seven fifty for the hour of time, and another five hundred for my wife’s—I mean the doctor’s—time away from patients. That makes the total two thousand two hundred and fifty dollars for the hour. And just like an expedited appointment, that money is gone one minute into the meeting. If you’re not here before noon, I’ll consider you missed the appointment and you’ll be billed anyway since I’m setting the time aside. Those terms are nonnegotiable. Are they satisfactory?”

Absolutely not. No fucking way. “Pencil me in.”

“See you at noon, then. Bring a certified check, Mr. Wyler.”

“Certified check? Why do I have to get it certified?”

“Because this case has already been turned down once on initial review and then a second time when you came here before. I don’t want to chase you for the money when it gets turned down for a third time. So, a certified check or no appointment.”
Click.

“Greedy fuck,” I say aloud as I slam down my phone. I look up and see June standing within the frame of my office door. God, she looks amazing. “Hi. What’s up? I just told Lily to call you to bring in the wire and patch so I can take them to my expert in a little bit. I hope you have them.”

“I have them. Is my lawyer smoking weed? I can’t have you smoking weed while working on my case.”

“No, June, I’m not smoking weed. My subtenants are
TOKE,
the marijuana magazine, or should I say civil rights group. One of their people lit up in the entry. You probably passed the guy on the entry couch.”

“No one was on that couch when I came in, but as long as it’s not you, I’m fine. What time are we going?”

“There’s no need for you to come along. I can handle it.”

“You telling me you still don’t realize how important this is?”

“I know, June. I’m sorry. I’d love to have you come with me.”

“Now that’s a good lawyer.” She walks into my office, sits down, leans back, puts her boots up on my desk, folds her arms across her lean stomach, and smiles.

I nod at her feet. “Nice boots.”

“Thanks.” The conversation stops there.

It’s my turn to talk, but I’m looking to avoid an uncomfortable pause situation just now.

“Can I ask you something?” I say quickly. “Did you call my wife yesterday and tell her you were a new girl in my office and that I’d be coming home late?”

“Sure did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried, but you shushed me.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“I guess you won’t be shushing anyone again anytime soon now, will you?”

I shake my head in answer to her question. “Listen, at ten o’clock I have a witness coming here on another Henry Benson case. I need to take a statement, then we’ll go right after.”

“What kind of Benson case? Medical malpractice?”

“No. This one’s an eight-year-old who was struck by a cop car while riding his bicycle. The officer said in the police report that the child rode out between parked cars and into the passenger side of the squad car and that there was nothing he could do to avoid the accident. My
eight-year-old client says the officer went through a red light without any sirens on or lights flashing and hit him while he was in a crosswalk. I’m hoping this witness, who’s listed on the back of the police report, can corroborate my client’s version.”

“Did the officer who hit the kid also make out the police report?”

“That’s a very astute question. Yes, the officer who hit the kid also made out his own police report. I’m certain there must be some policy or procedure against such a practice.”

“You’re wasting your time. The officer wouldn’t have listed the witness if the witness wasn’t on his side.”

“You’re probably right, but I have to carry out my due diligence.”

“Can I sit in?”

“Sure, but please, just observe. Don’t say anything—and I mean it this time.”

June raises her right hand as if swearing an oath. “I’ll keep my mouth shut, I promise.”

“Good. I have a particular approach when I’m meeting with a nonparty witness who I believe is going to say something against my client’s interest.”

“What’s that?”

“I try to appeal to their human side.”

Lily buzzes. “The witness on the Taheem Thomas case just arrived. I put him in the conference room. He’s waiting for you.”

I look at June. “Time to work the witness. Come on.”

We enter and find an elderly black man sitting at the far end of the conference table. He has a well-groomed white beard and mustache, which alone give him a dignified presence. He’s in a three-piece suit I imagine he has worn to Sunday church for the last thirty years. A silver chain hangs flat against his vest ending in a pocket at the end of which no doubt is an antique watch that his father passed on to him. And he smells like the aftershave fragrance you smell when you walk the beauty aids aisle that runs through the center of Bloomingdale’s. My take on this guy: he is elegant and respectful.

He stands up and takes a derby off his head. I introduce myself, identifying June as one of my associates, and we take seats. “Thank
you for coming in, Mr. Jones,” I say. “I appreciate that your time is valuable, so I’ll get directly to the point. According to a police report I have here, you were a witness to an incident where a poor little boy riding his brand-new bicycle he got as his eighth birthday present was struck by a police car. Do you remember that?”

“I certainly do,” Mr. Jones states.

“Great. My client is the unfortunate little boy, who sustained a bad injury to his leg. He may never fully recover, and I’m advised by his mother that the children at school make fun of his limp so much he comes home crying a few times a week. I can only get money for the child’s life-changing and permanent injury if I can show the officer driving the police car did something wrong, like speeding, failing to yield the right of way, going through a red light without his sirens on, or failing to apply his brake mechanism in a timely manner. If he did nothing wrong, then I can’t get this little boy, who happens to live in your community, any money. Do you understand me, Mr. Jones?”

“I sure do.”

“Great. So what did the driver of the police car do wrong? Was he speeding, did he beat the red, or what?”

“Nothing. That boy caused the whole accident. He just rode right out into the street and into the passenger side of the police car as it was driving by.”

“I see. I guess we really have nothing further to discuss, and I do appreciate you coming here. May I ask, did you tell the lawyers for the police department the same thing?”

“Yes, I did,” he answers. “I also told them what someone at the accident scene yelled out.”

“What was that?”

“After the boy rode into the side of the police car, the officer jumped out to see if he was all right. The boy looked at his mangled bike, then took a boxer’s stance, saying he was going to kick the officer’s f-ing ass for totaling his new bike. That’s when someone at the scene screamed out something, causing the boy to fall to the ground and grab his leg.”

“I’m following. What did the person scream out?”

“The man knew the boy by his first name,” Mr. Jones says, “and he screamed out, ‘Hey, Taheem, lay down, you just hit the jackpot!’ ”

I thank him politely, he makes a comment about the weed smell, then departs, leaving June and me in the conference room. “It appears Taheem isn’t much different from Cornbread Connie,” June comments.

“I guess not. What’s worse is he’s just a kid.” I shake my head in disgust. “Before taking over these HICs, I never had to deal with this kind of bullshit.”

“What’s an HIC?”

“Did I just use the term
HIC
?”

“Yes, you did. What’s an HIC?”

“An HIC is a client that was referred to me from Henry Benson. I call them Henry’s Injured Criminals, or HICs.”

She looks hurt. “So that’s what I am to you? An HIC?”

“No, June. Your dead husband with the lengthy criminal record would’ve been the HIC. All I’m saying here is that with HICs I have to investigate my own clients to make sure they have legitimate cases. That’s not why I became an attorney. Besides, it’s frustrating and burdensome, and the worst of it is I’m continually doing a conflict shadow dance. I’m supposed to represent them zealously, but how can I do that when I confirm fraud, then am told by a judge I can’t be relieved as counsel? In effect, I become an enabler for these clients. And then there’s your case, June.”

“I see what you’re saying about the conflict, but why is my case different for you?”

“The verbal report from Henry on your case was, and I’ll quote, ‘There is no case.’ Remember this is coming from the guy who goes forward on fraudulent cases. So what am I supposed to believe or do?”

“You want the answer?” she asks.

“Sure. What’s the answer?”

“The answer is you’re a good man at heart. As each situation presents itself, you’ll somehow end up doing the right thing, just the way
you’ve agreed to further investigate Suzy’s case. So give it no more thought.”

“Thank you, June. Now it’s time to see if Dr. Laura, our expert, is going to do the right thing. Come on. We’ve got to get to Brooklyn before noon or we’re going to have a problem.”

J
une and I enter my garage, and I wave down Oscar. “Yo, I got to fly. How ’bout it?”

“Oye, amigo, momentito,”
he replies. “The keys are in the visor.” He points back behind us. We turn around and see that the Eldo has its own private parking spot with no cars next to it, an unusual visual for a city garage.

“Oh my God, that car is beautiful!” exclaims June. “Trace and the Fidge would love to cruise that.”

“Thanks, June. It takes a particular kind of person to appreciate it.”

Making good time, we cross the Manhattan Bridge, right onto Flatbush Avenue, the most direct route. A little bit down, the traffic is backed up, way congested for this time of day. “Damn,” I say as we come to a stop for a red light. I realize this is the first word spoken since we turned out of my garage.

“What’s the matter?” June asks. I look to her. She has a wide smile, ear to ear, the same one she has been wearing this whole trip.

“Traffic,” I answer. “What’s the big smile for?”

“This is my first time in a convertible. I love it. Suzy would love it, too. Look around, everybody is staring at us, pointing and smiling. I’m not used to that—the smiling, that is. With Suzy, everybody stares and points, but nobody smiles, ever. It’s just the opposite. This is a nice change.”

“I can appreciate that, June.” The light turns green and we slowly
cruise down Flatbush toward increasing congestion. Storefront after storefront lines the avenue, with a bodega on every other corner. People are moving in the street, on the sidewalk, everywhere, none of them in a suit, other than me, the bald guy in the Eldo with a sweet cup of hot chocolate in the passenger seat. We stop at another red and the obvious source of the traffic jam is the commotion on the corner. Not a disorderly one—rather it has the type of energy you feel in a casino, where people surround a player who’s hot at a gambling table.

“A big game of three-card monte,” June says, looking over.

“What?”

“Those boys over there got a game of three-card monte going on—you know, a money scam, a short con, where a plant pretends to buddy up with a guy they’ve marked to cheat the dealer while really conspiring with the dealer to cheat the mark.”

“Thanks for the definition, June. I’m familiar with the card game. I just couldn’t see the box from my vantage point.” I pull up a few feet more to catch a better look.

“Check the boy with the bills slipped between his fingers. That’s done to cover up his hand tricks with the cards.” I look over and as I do, nothing short of a police raid breaks out initiated by two uniformed cops who snuck around the corner. The kids running the game go flying, as does the dispersing crowd, and the one with the money in his hand heads in our direction, hobbling on a cast.