Suzy's Case: A Novel (28 page)

It’s none other than Barton Jackson III—Mile High.

“Yo, yo, yo, it’s my lawyer,” he says, opening June’s door, to her surprise.

“Yo, scooch over, hurry, scooch over.” June reluctantly complies, the door slams shut, and Barton yells, “Go, go, go, the light’s green.” I make the getaway. The legal term is
aiding and abetting
.

“Hello, Barton Jackson the Third,” I say. He looks to June and his brows rise high.

“Yeah-ya,” I say, “she’s a great-looking woman.” June smiles. Mile High gives a nod of approval.

“I didn’t know you had a thing for the Nubian princess. This girl’s got it going on,” he says, looking at June with intentions, as if he had a chance. It’s clear she’s not into talk like that.

“Barton,” I say before June cuts him down, “remember that respect thing we discussed in my office concerning my paralegal, Lily?”

“Oh yeah, man. She has it going on, too. My lawyer’s a ladies’ man and smokes weed, too,” he says, laughing it up.

“I don’t smoke pot, Barton! I rent space to … oh, never mind. Anyway, the same respect rule applies here and with every girl you encounter, and you shouldn’t be using your cast as a walking boot. Why don’t you go back to the hospital orthopedic clinic and ask them to change it into one?”

“ ’Cause I got no ride,” he answers, suggesting. I look at my watch.

“You’re lucky, we’re heading near there anyway.”

It turns out Barton Jackson III is a really smart young man. That’s not an observation, that’s a cold hard fact that June surfaced. He’ll be going to college next year, the first in his family to attend, on full academic scholarship. He was running the monte game to raise funds for “uncovered expenses.” That kid, another product from Brownsville, is going to be somebody. He already is. And he and June are hitting it off well. It seems Barton’s little cousin has cerebral palsy and he’s well aware of and sensitive to June’s struggles, which she greatly appreciates. I pull up to his stop.

“Out you go, Barton.” He and June are exchanging numbers.

“Now, Barton,” June cautions, “don’t be abusing the privilege. I can’t be getting any late-night calls from an overzealous youth.”

“Oh, snap, June, nice try. Being the betting man that I am, I’d wager you’ll be the one calling my hotline before I’ll be calling your precious digits.”

We arrive at the Smith Pavilion at eleven-fifty-five. I park illegally right in front of the entrance in a space reserved for emergency vehicles instead of in the underground garage. The thirty-five-dollar
parking ticket will be a lot cheaper than the two-thousand-dollar-plus loss if we’re a minute late.

I close the Eldo’s weighty door. “Let’s go, June. We’ve got to roll.” We fast-walk into the building. I hit the button and again my elevator waiting time has potential consequences. The doors open to an empty compartment and I pull June in. She didn’t realize I was going to grab her so as a result loses her balance. She ends up falling into my arms. As she looks up into my eyes there’s what I believe to be a romantic pause, which is ranked way up there in the world of pauses. I lift her up and she shoves me backward.

“Don’t handle the merchandise,” she cautions. She smoothes out the imaginary wrinkles in her clothing caused by the dip. When she’s done, she looks back over and smiles.

“We’ll flirt later,” I tell her. “There’s no time for that now.” I hit the fourth-floor button.

The elevator door opens on four. Directly ahead is the
HEMATOLOGY DIVISION, SMITH SICKLE CELL PEDIATRIC CARE CENTER
sign with an arrow underneath pointing to the right. We hit the hall floor running. I gain the lead and come to a sliding halt at the entry doors to Hematology. I pull the right door open and we enter.

Humpty Dumpty is sitting behind the reception desk on his high chair again. “We’re here, Mr. Smith,” I announce.

He looks at his watch. He cocks his neck around 180 degrees to see the clock hanging on the wall behind him. It reads: 11:59. “You just made it.” Then he nods at June. “Who’s this?”

“This is my client, the child’s mother, June Williams.”

“She can’t go in. She’ll have to stay in the waiting area.”

“I don’t think so,” I tell him firmly. “It’s her case and she has a right to sit in. There’s a Court of Appeals decision on this point. It’s the matter of Homer Simpson, formally cited as 45 New York Supp. Second 419, affirmed 1978 by the Court of Appeals. I’ll have to charge you a hefty cancellation fee for violating June’s right to be present if you don’t let her in.”

Smith gives way. “She can go in, if my wife does not object, but I need your check before either of you take another step.”

“Sure.” I pull the check out from my wallet and hand it to him.

He grabs it like a four-year-old getting a lollipop and inspects it for spelling, grammar, and punctuation. He looks up. “Two thousand two hundred fifty. Very good.”

He takes leave of us now, clutching the check and scooting down the corridor to his wife’s office.

June laughs. “Homer Simpson? You got to be kidding me. You could’ve blown the whole thing.”

“There’s no way a guy like that would know of
The Simpsons
. He’s too busy counting his nickels.”

The patient waiting area to our right is filled with little kids presumably with sickle cell. The place does a good business. Smith comes out of his wife’s office and waves us over. “It’s great that your wife is helping all these children,” I say. “And I bet you’re not doing too badly on the receivables, either, judging by the crowd in your waiting area.”

“We’re the most profitable sickle cell center in the nation,” Smith tells us smugly. “People come from all over to consult with my wife. We have numerous contracts with major institutions to provide hematological services related to sickle cell disease. Plus, we receive grants for the research we do here.”

“Dr. Laura must be quite a good physician.”

“Yes, that’s true, but she owes all this to me. I’m her business partner. We own this building. This whole operation, including its high profitability, was my brainchild. Medicine is a business just like anything else, and, done right, it can be a lucrative one.”

“I see. You’re quite the entrepreneur. I bet you’re the one who developed the distinction between the expedited fee and the rush fee.”

He beams proudly.

From inside her room I hear Dr. Laura’s voice. You have to wonder why she settled for this character. Opening her door, she stands there waiting for us. They must have had a fight over something because she looks visibly upset.

I do the introductions. “Dr. Laura Smith, June Williams.”

“Please, call me Dr. Laura. Everybody else does.” She extends her hand. As they shake, she places her other hand over June’s and holds it
there. “I’m so sorry about the terrible injury your little girl sustained. Sickle cell can be crippling when a crisis gets out of control. If I understand correctly what my husband has told me, your attorney has something new for me to consider that may change my opinion. I hope it does. I want to help.”

Dr. Laura slowly lets go of June’s hand. “Please, be seated, and let’s get to work. My husband has carved out an hour for us and I mustn’t run over.” She turns to him. “Dear, will you be good enough to close the door, please?”

He follows her instruction, but to my displeasure remains on the wrong side of the door. “Mr. Smith, please take no offense, but I’ll be divulging confidential communications to your wife. If a third person is present, husband or otherwise, it’ll be considered publishing, which, in effect, makes it lose its privileged status, so I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“I thought I told you my wife tells me everything.”

“You did, but her telling you something and you hearing it come from my mouth are two different things.”

“I don’t see any difference. I don’t want anybody intimidating her into changing her opinions. I think it best I stay.”

“I can assure you we’re not here to do that. Again, I must ask you to leave.”

I peek over at Dr. Laura. She knows I’m right but doesn’t dare call her husband wrong. He’s got her number, that’s for sure. Just as I’m about to cave, June, who has been looking intently at Dr. Laura, turns to Smith and speaks up. “Mr. Smith, you’re obviously a very important person around here, and I appreciate the concern you have for your wife. Men as devoted to the marital bond as you are hard to come by. I understand that by leaving the room you feel that you are giving up your ability to care for your wife, so I’m going to promise to keep watch over her. In addition, my lawyer’s going to give you an extra three hundred dollars to compensate you for what you feel you’ll be giving up. Would cash be acceptable?”

“I’d feel better about it if the compensation were four hundred.” Smith sniffs. “I feel I’m really giving up a lot here.”

June turns to me. “Give him the money.”

“June,” I say quietly, “can I talk to you outside for a moment?”

“Sure, after you give him the money.”

“Fine,” I reply. I reach for my wallet and pull out whatever bills are in there. They add up to three hundred eighty-two dollars. I look at Smith. “Give me a moment. I always keep some emergency funds in my bag.” I search six different compartments and come up with another six dollars and forty-seven cents. I turn back to him. “Would you accept three hundred eighty-eight dollars and forty-seven cents as payment in full?”

“I’ll accept that now as partial payment,” he says in an officious manner, “but you’ll have to promise to promptly make up the difference.”

“I promise.”

He takes the money out of my hand and looks at his wife. “Laura, I’ll be back at reception if you need me. Remember, don’t go over the hour, or should I say the fifty minutes you have left.”

Dr. Laura looks back at him affectionately. “I won’t, dear. Thank you for your concern.” Smith departs, still reluctant but clutching my money. During their exchange I note that her diplomas are still on the floor leaning against the wall face forward. As I’m thus prevented from ascertaining her medical training, I remind myself to ask for her CV again.

“I must apologize,” she tells us. “My husband is very protective of me. Sometimes I feel honored, and sometimes I feel like he’s protecting his investment. Either way, I wouldn’t be where I am today without his business skills and the way Steven manages my life so I can concentrate on my patients.”

“He manages your life?” I ask. That she admits this seems a little odd.

“Actually, it’s okay with me. It’s best for both of us. Anyway, we’re not here to talk about me. Let’s get to your case. What’s this new information you have for me?”

“Before we start, would you like me to hang your diplomas back on the wall?” I offer. “I’m the product of generations of art dealers, and I enjoy the exercise of hanging a picture in a perfectly even manner.”

“Oh no. Thank you. I’m having them reissued in my married name. The new ones should be here soon. These are going to storage. Steven thought it would be a good idea for them to read Smith instead of my maiden name. Since this is the Smith Sickle Cell Pediatric Care Center in the Smith Pavilion, it seemed fitting the diplomas of the doctor-in-chief should read Smith. Now, shall we begin?”

I ask June for the wire and patch. She removes them from her bag and hands them to me. “Dr. Laura,” I begin, “these are the actual lead wire and patch that were connected to Suzy Williams at the moment she went into her cardiopulmonary arrest. The nurse who hooked her up to the cardiac monitor had them in her possession all this time and just recently gave them to us. We had them analyzed by a well-qualified electrical expert and they told an unbelievable story. Suzy Williams was electrocuted. We believe the inch-long prong end of the lead wire was mistakenly plugged into an extension cord near the monitor that must have been connected to a wall outlet at the other end instead of the appropriate heart monitor cable connected to the machine, and a charge was sent through the wire, causing Suzy to sustain a nonlethal electrocution.” I pause because of what I see. Dr. Laura has a look of fright on her face. She goes completely white, ghost white, and looks like she’s going to faint.

“Dr. Laura, are you all right?” I ask. “You don’t look too good. Is something the matter?”

“No, no, I’m okay,” she assures me. “I just need a moment. That’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard happen to a child. How do you know this? Did the nurse confess to doing such a horrible thing?”

“The nurse has no idea what she did,” I say. “As far as I know, nobody except our electrical expert and we three in this room knows what really happened. And I believe that includes the hospital and its attorney. Our electrical expert established that the charring seen inside the wire could only have been caused by the high voltage of a wall outlet, and there were traces of burned skin on the electrode patch. I should also tell you, since you never had the opportunity to examine Suzy, that she has a round scar on her chest just left of midline in the exact shape and size of this patch, conclusively establishing
the event. Here, take this wire and patch and see for yourself.” As I move toward her she jumps back the way a vampire does when a crucifix is displayed. “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to see for yourself?”

“No, please,” Dr. Laura’s voice cracks. “I, I … Things like that I’m not good with. Please. Move it away from me!”

She is turning even whiter, so I move my hand back. “Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would have such an effect on you.” My compliance seems to help, as she immediately looks less agitated. Still, she’s not completely regained her composure. So I pause—the kind where you allow someone to collect themselves. “Doctor, if you accept this as being the truth of the matter, isn’t it possible Suzy’s cardiopulmonary arrest was induced by electric shock rather than her sickle cell crisis?”

“Yes, that’s a possibility, but this scenario seems highly unlikely.”

“Why is that, Doctor?” I ask.

“For one, who would lack the common sense enough to plug a child into a wall outlet?”