Suzy's Case: A Novel (34 page)

“You’re right about the Fidge,” she admits, “but say you’re sorry or I will call your mom.”

“June, really—”

“Say it or I’m calling her right now. I’ve got her number, you know.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry I didn’t call you first thing after I was discharged.”

“Good. See, that didn’t hurt too much, now, did it?”

“No, June, the apology didn’t hurt too much, but that may be because the rest of my body is chock-full of throbbing pain.” I take a deep breath. “I have some updates for you I think you’re going to be happy about.” I spend the next half hour detailing the latest developments. I conclude, “A cover-up is what I think happened here, given the conflicting versions told by Toledo and the hospital.”

June looks shell-shocked. “You mean to tell me my baby was electrocuted because someone didn’t plug in a ten-cent adapter?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

June begins to cry uncontrollably, as expected. I start limping around my desk and go to comfort her. “Sit back down. I know you care,” June says. I take this as her way of saying I suck at the comfort thing. I comply with her demand.

“When you collect yourself, I suggest you go home and relax for the rest of the day. I’m going out to Dr. Laura’s office later to firm things up, and no, you’re not coming, so spare me the argument.”

“I won’t argue if we can do one thing. I want you to call up Winnie
McGillicuddy and probe her about her response where she claimed the hospital has no documents. Put her on speaker ’cause I want to hear every word she has to say.”

“There’s only one thing wrong with that idea, June.”

“What’s that?”

“That I didn’t think of it first,” I confess. “Tell me why you want me to do this.”

“Because I can tell when someone’s lying by the tone of their voice.”

I dial. “Goldman, Goldberg and McGillicuddy. Hold, please,” the receptionist sings. I need to take another painkiller, but I’ve taken three times the recommended dosage already.

The receptionist picks back up. “How may I direct your call?”

“The Weasel, please.”

“Excuse me?”

“Winnie McGillicuddy, please.”

She giggles with understanding. “One moment. I’ll transfer your call.”

A moment later, I hear, “Attorney McGillicuddy speaking.”

“How goes it, counselor?”

There’s a long pause, of the “I didn’t think I’d be hearing from this guy so soon” variety. “Oh, you took me by surprise,” she replies. “I thought you were in a coma and brain dead. Goldberg was getting nervous about his fee on the case he sent you. He was going to pull his client out of your office.”

“Please don’t get all gushy on me. I was comatose, not brain dead. Tell Goldberg to relax and feel free to spread the good word of my full recovery.”

“I see,” she sniffs. And she didn’t buy me a get-well card, either.

“Anyway, I got your response to my D and I. Frankly, I’m a little perplexed.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“Because in a major institution like the one you represent there are generally files and files of documentation maintained in the ordinary course of business concerning important equipment like cardiac-monitoring machines.”

“I went to the hospital and did the search myself with a member of the Engineering Department. We came up with nothing.”

“Nothing at all?” I question.

“Nothing at all.”

“Absolutely nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

If she were Pinocchio she’d be looking for rhinoplasty by now. “You know your response is verified, meaning it’s a sworn statement subject to the laws of perjury.”

Ms. McGillicuddy takes a tone. “I resent what you’re implying.”

“Okay, resent me. My feelings won’t be hurt. But why don’t you check one more time and maybe you’ll come up with something.”

“I tell you what,” she says, “I’ll check again and you arrange to have the wire and patch available for the hospital’s engineering expert to inspect.”

“That sounds reasonable. The wires will be available for you to inspect at my office with twenty-four hours’ notice.”

“Consider this your notice.”

I put my hand over the receiver and silently mouth words to June. “You good for tomorrow?” She nods. “Winnie,” I say, “June Williams and I will be here tomorrow and you can bring your engineering expert over. You can even do testing on the patch and wire if you want. I invite it. I’ll even tell you what kind of testing I think you should do.”

“I’ll be there in the morning with my expert at nine sharp. He’ll decide what testing, if any, is appropriate.”

“You got it. Will you have completed your recheck for records by that time?”

“Definitely. By the way, as per Judge Schneider’s instructions, I hope you notified the court you’re out of the hospital.”

“Don’t worry, I did. You should be getting a CC of the letter for your files.”

“Good. In two weeks this case will be dismissed.”

“We’ll just see about that.”
Click.
I look at June and she’s got a smirk on her face. “Why the grin?”

“She’s not even a good liar. We need to call Trace.”

June puts the call through on my phone. She hits speaker and on the second ring a deep voice answers. “Trace.”

“Hey, Trace,” June says.

“Hey, baby. Things secure?”

“All is well. Trace, do we have peeps in the Brooklyn Catholic Hospital?”

“The Fidge got peeps everywhere in seven-one-eight. What do you need?”

“I’m gonna give you a copy of a letter from the Toledo Company addressed to the hospital. I want you to find out if the hospital got it, responded to it, knows of it, or any which other way. Have the Fidge’s people start looking in the Engineering Department, then in Risk Management.”

“On it.”

She hangs up. I smile. “This should be interesting.”

June walks around the desk, bends down, and gives me a heartfelt hug. “I’m glad to see you out of that hospital,” she says, sighing while holding me.

“Me, too.” I enjoy the comforting hug, which I didn’t realize until this exact moment I so desperately needed.

She lets go and stands back up. “I got to be going now.”

“Okay. On your way out, ask Lily for a copy of the Toledo letter to give to Fidge’s peeps. Travel safely, and by the way,” I add, “I really enjoyed that sponge bath.”

She gives me a quizzical eye. “What are you talking about?”

I nod at her. “You know. The dripping-water bit in the hospital.”

“Really. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You know, the cream? Come on, June, don’t embarrass me by making me say it.”

She shakes her head. “You were pretty much out of it. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I was out of it, heavily medicated, but wasn’t that too good to have imagined?

“You know. When you told Trace, Fred, Suzy, and Dog to leave the room?”

She shakes her head again. “Suzy and Fred weren’t at the hospital,”
June informs me. “Only Trace was with me, and we left together.” I thought it was too good to be true.

I have about an hour to burn before I have to hail a cab to Brooklyn. I’m not in good shape, having worked a full day against medical advice. I’m also a little stressed about seeing Dr. Laura, and without good reason because if she’s not on board, I’m confident Dr. Mickey Mack will get me another expert.

I leave my building and cross the street to the Gansevoort Park Avenue Hotel on Twenty-Ninth and Park Avenue South. It has a really nice bar, and I know the kitchen does special orders. I go in, sit on the only open stool, and catch the attention of the sexy bartender. From experience, I know Ginger is truly dedicated to getting me the drink she knows I need in an expeditious manner.

Ginger comes over. “What can I get ya?”

“Tequila and asparagus, please.” She looks confused. “I’ll have a shot of Patrón Silver with an order of grilled asparagus, lightly salted with kosher salt, if you have it.”

Ginger shrugs. “I’ll put the order in. What happened to your ankle?”

“Broke it in a car accident. Had surgery.”

“Sorry to hear it. That sounds pretty bad.”

“Not as bad as my coma.”

The coma comment causes her eyebrows to raise. Ginger’s interest is clearly piqued. “Were you
really
in a coma?”

“Yep. For ten days. Caught a glimpse of the other side.”

“Wow. I never met anybody who was in a coma before. That’s really cool. What was it like?”

“Very peaceful. Like the kind of peace you’d expect when you’re between the universes of here and there.”

“Way cool. Can I tell Margo?”

“Sure, if you think she’ll care.”

“Oh, she’ll care. She’s
into
the coma thing. First it was tarot cards, then it was the Ouija board, now it’s coma victims.”

“I didn’t know we had a following.”

Ginger turns to her right and makes a bullhorn with her hands. “Hey, Margo! Margo!”

The hottest woman I’ve ever seen is filling mixed nuts dishes at the other end of the bar. “What? I’m nutting bowls over here,” she says without looking up.

“This guy was in a coma,” Ginger yells as she points at me.

The entire bar crowd is now looking at yours truly as she continues her pointing gesture. “A true-to-life real coma or, like, a semicoma?” Margo yells back, as if screening me for participation in some coma study group.

Ginger turns to me for the answer. I say, “Full coma with complete unconsciousness and no responsiveness to painful stimuli.”

Ginger shouts in reply, “Real full-blown coma with no stimuli to painful responsiveness.” I smile.

Margo makes a gesture with her hand that (although there is no generally recognized international signal for it) would seem to indicate “Tell him to stay right there.” Moments later, she’s standing next to me at the bar. As soon as we connect, her right eye flashes a sparkle, bursting like a shooting star. I’ve never seen that before absent some reflection, but this lighting is inadequate for that. I’d describe the twinkle as a distinctive flicker of radiant beauty. Fitting, too, for this dark-skinned, dark-eyed, heart-shaped-faced girl. She looks like a Brazilian beauty queen.

“So, did they scale you?”

A more traditional hi would’ve been nice, but given her gorgeousness I overlook the omission. “You mean Glasgow Coma Scale?” I ask.

“What other kind of scale is there?” she quips.

The Glasgow Coma Scale—which I also use to rate my experts—designed and intended to be used to objectively evaluate the level of consciousness of head trauma victims. It ranges from 3—complete unconsciousness—to 15, or full consciousness. “Yes, I had a GCS.”

“What was it?”

I think I’m going to like this inquisition. “The ER doctor initially scored me a seven.” Her jaw drops. “The repeat evaluation ten minutes later was a fiver.” She’s in awe. She’s about as turned on as any woman I’ve ever met, and I haven’t even touched her.

“Wow! I never met anybody below an eight before. You’re the worst coma victim I’ve ever had contact with!” She gives me a look of excitement mixed with concern. “Do you mind talking about it, or is it still too fresh?”

I give her my best sincere look. “No. I can talk about it. I think it would even be healthy if I did.”

“Don’t make a move,” Margo commands. “I’m putting in for a break right now.”

“How far could I get with this boot on my leg? Would you mind checking on my order of tequila and asparagus?”

“No problemo. But a quick question—say the first thing that pops into your mind. How would you describe your coma experience in one sentence?”

“Like I told Ginger, in between the universes of here and there.” She nods with satisfaction and disappears again, this time behind the kitchen’s swinging doors. A moment later, they’re flung open like a new sheriff is in town and Margo puts a plate of perfectly grilled asparagus down in front of me. Next she heads to the rows of bottles behind the bar and stretches prettily to reach the Patrón tequila. Pouring a double-sized shot, she places the glass in front of me.

I spend the next forty-five minutes making up all kinds of coma fantasies for the sole benefit and entertainment of Margo. The more bizarre the twist I come up with, the more worked up she gets. For the last ten minutes my testicular stitches have been badly itching, but I can’t think of a clever way to connect a scrotal scratch to a coma chronicle. I want to parlay this coma foreplay into something more but it’s getting late and I have to get out to Brooklyn. Besides, it seems the furthest I ever get is fantasizing, or dreaming, about extramarital adventures, but I can live with that.

“Listen, Margo, I’ve told you about, I don’t know, maybe five
percent of my coma experience. Unfortunately, I just don’t have enough time now to get to the good stuff.”

“Having coma sex with Marilyn Monroe wasn’t the good stuff?”

“Just the beginning.” I look at her earnestly. “You’ve been a great audience. I mean, I can’t imagine a better. We’ll just have to have a rain check.”

“When?”

“Sometime soon.”

“That’s not good enough. I need a place and a time,” she says, pouting.

“Look, I appreciate how important this is to you. At the end of the week I’ll be back to share all the little-known facts and high excitement of coma living. But unfortunately, right now I got to go.”

“See you at the end of the week, then.”

“Yes, see you then.” I push my empty plate forward.

Margo looks at me, then down at my dish. “Tequila and asparagus. Coma food. I like that. I think I’ll have an order myself.”

“You do that,” I say, when all of a sudden I feel like a knife was jabbed into my gut. It was no blade, however, just the prospect of venturing into Brooklyn, in pain, groggy from drugs, physically injured, handicapped, if you will, and alone. And why? To see my resisting expert and her greed-driven husband, strangely, way after hours, in the face of an all-hotted-up Margo, so I can prove to my expert the merits of Suzy’s case.