Suzy's Case: A Novel (39 page)

Dr. Laura slowly brings her head up. “I appreciate your consideration,” she says, bit by bit, a syllable at a time, with the weight of the world on her. “What are you doing here?”

“The answer is that I still have a job to do. I have to get a little girl whose life has been ruined enough money so she won’t need to wait three years to get a new wheelchair from Medicaid when hers breaks down.”

“I hope my attorney’s as committed as you, but it wouldn’t make a difference. I already confessed to killing Steven.” She looks and sounds childlike, despite being in very adult circumstances.

“Just because you killed him doesn’t mean you did anything wrong—under the law, that is. This state recognizes justifications for murder, and your attorney is already putting those defenses forth.”

“My attorney?” Dr. Laura asks sarcastically. “You mean the guy who showed up here unsolicited and told me he’d represent me for free in exchange for the media attention?”

“I guess that would be him. If you’re not happy with that guy, I could find someone else for you.”

“No, that’s not necessary,” she says in a defeated tone. “I really don’t care anymore. What do you want from me?”

“I want you to connect the dots. To start, I’d appreciate if you’d explain the relation between your husband’s kidnapping of me and Suzy’s case.”

She looks at me. It’s the kind of look someone gives you when she is contemplating whether or not she should give you information. She begins pulling out the lashes of her top right eyelid. She grips them by the bunch, yanks, then her arm comes down, releasing them. They flutter to the floor, landing there by her government-issue laceless right shoe. After a few more grabs she runs the lid with her finger, then moves down to the bottom lid and starts the de-lashing process.

I put my voice into the empty space. “I mean, your husband kidnapped me and made a comment implying he was surprised I didn’t know why. That can only mean it relates to Suzy’s case in some manner.”

“I’m really sorry about that.” She begins working on the lashes of her top left lid. “We had an agreement that nobody else would get hurt and he broke his promise. That’s why I killed him. There are rare instances in life when a person has to kill the one they love to protect the innocent. No different from putting a beloved family pet down when the dog has become vicious.”

“Doctor,” I say, not really feeling her analogy, “I’m no psychiatrist, but there was a lot going on between the two of you from what I saw. I mean, it was like he controlled your every move.”

She agrees with me. “I had no life. I just did what I was told and
asked no questions.” Yet I remember clearly, brain damaged or not, that she had once pronounced herself grateful for his authority over her and the secure environment it created. His attention to all the details of their business affairs, along with his unabashed greed, meant she could devote her time to ministering medically to the young patients at their clinic. Still, I figured it might be rude to point this out now, so I change tack.

“Can you explain all this to me? I need you to tell me what I need to know to get Suzy Williams fairly compensated. That’s all I want to do here, get my client the money she needs to live her life more comfortably, to take care of her financially so that her future is assured. I truly believe you’re the key to my doing that, but only you know. I should also say that instead of going straight to the police last night after your husband kidnapped me, I went home after my escape—and I use that word loosely. I’d hoped that by not turning you in maybe you’d find it within yourself to help me out here. I heard you arguing with your husband after he drugged me. Was I wrong? It seemed to me you were struggling and wanted to help.”

Dr. Laura stares at me, her face now softened somewhat. She starts feeling the tips of her hair, searching for brittle ends as she continues to gaze at me. Every time she identifies one, she snaps it off and drops it on top of the pile of lashes. After seven or so split-end snaps, she yanks a handful of hair out by the root.

“Doctor,” I urge, “stay with me here. You’re pulling your hair right out of your head.”

She looks startled. “Am I? I’m sorry. What was it you were asking me?” She returns to the hair-ripping routine.

“I need to know your connection to my case. Tell me, please.”

All of a sudden she stops and focuses. “My connection—okay, I’ll tell you. It all began a long time ago. I was never very popular growing up. I guess you’d say I never really fit in. I only ever wanted two things for myself as I struggled through high school like many other unpopular kids. I wanted a boyfriend and I wanted to be a physician.”

“Listen, Doc, we don’t need to start back in high school—”

“You said you wanted to know my connection. This is all part of it.
Do you wish to know or not?” Given we’re pressed for time, I quickly apologize.

She continues. “My mother was so supportive. She often told me the story about the ugly duckling that grew up to be a beautiful swan, but I always knew there was no swan inside of me. I’m ugly. I’ve always been ugly. Only one person in the world ever made me feel beautiful and that was my husband, Steven.”

I cut in and try to speak with sincerity. “Doctor, you’re not ugly.”

She ignores me. “Steven and I met on Valentine’s Day when I was a first-year resident. We met early one morning and he swept me off my feet by noon. Did I say we met on Valentine’s Day?”

“Yes, Doctor, you did. Valentine’s Day. Very romantic.”

“On that Valentine’s Day we bonded on every human level, emotional and otherwise. We realized we both had tormented childhoods because of our appearances. Steven was the victim of vicious teasing as a child. You met him, so you know he had an unusual body type. He was bottom-heavy—buoy-shaped, I guess you’d call it. Children can be cruel, and they teased him about it.” She pauses. The pause of someone fast losing touch with reality. “They called him ‘the Weeble’ after a child’s toy.”

I now realize I have no choice but to play along, to encourage her to keep going until the story reaches the conclusion she’s building toward.

“Steven and I spent hours together that Valentine’s Day. By three in the afternoon, we realized we were a match made in heaven and had to get married. It was not that we merely had to get married, but that we had to get married that day, Valentine’s Day …” She trails off, and I clear my throat.

She gets the hint. “Anyway, that very afternoon we rushed to Borough Hall so we could get married. On the way, we went into a cheap jewelry store to pick up our wedding bands because, you know, you can’t get married without a wedding band. We made it there with time enough to get our license, and our civil service was the last one of that afternoon. I recall you making a comment about the picture on my desk when we first met. Our wedding photo, on the steps.”

She stops again, but despite feeling panicky now, with the hourglass running out, I make myself nod kindly.

Suddenly, her expression changes. Looking at me, she says, “I need to go to the bathroom. I need to tell the guard.”

I get up and knock on the door. The pretty officer opens it. “Done?”

“Not yet. She’s just getting to the heart of it all. But she needs to pee.”

The officer walks past me. “Come on, Doctor.”

The officer gently takes her by the elbow. On their way out, the officer turns to me. “Be right back. You stay here. I’m not allowed to leave anybody unattended, so lie low.”

So now I’m sitting alone in the middle of the tiny room with my ankle swollen like a melon. I can feel that a stitch or two has come loose inside my jockeys and my head hurts and the walls are spinning around me. All this, and I still don’t have any fucking answers, despite listening to the most boring tale of ugly love I’ve ever heard.

I spend the next seven minutes resting my foot up on Dr. Laura’s chair and readjusting my stitch-popped balls. Each time I withdraw my hand I run my finger under my nose to whiff my nut juice for any tinge of infection. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to win for June, but I draw the line at partial testicular resection from uncontrolled infection. On my last dip and whiff I look up to discover I’m on
Candid Camera,
the mother of modern-day reality shows. Great. The next thing I know, bells and sirens go off. Real loud bells and sirens.

Fire alarm. What the …

I get up to hobble to the door to see what’s going on.
Wham!
All of a sudden I’m staring up at the ceiling wondering why I’m lying on my back. I’ve gone down, and gone down
hard
. My balance isn’t that good, but somehow I can’t remember that. My ankle’s throbbing beyond belief and I’m too scared to check inside my pants. I manage to get up, stumble over to the door, and slowly open it. The deafening sound of the alarm rushes in.

I limp out of the room and head toward where I came from, knowing it’s the fire escape route. Everyone else in the hall is rushing past me in the opposite direction in plain violation of the
IN CASE OF FIRE
guidance sign up on the wall. I make it to the door that leads to the
hall where I left June and Suzy without one corrections officer stopping me. I push the button on the wall. I hear a buzz and a click, then hobble out.

June’s talking to Rosie through the little vents in the security window. Suzy seems entertained by the alarms and bells, although Dog is shaking with fright. I drag my leg over to them. “Don’t we have to get out of here, or is this just a fire drill?”

“No, no, no,” Rosie says. “It’s no fire alarm. Something’s going down back where you came from, a prisoner fight or some other type of disruption. Don’t give it no attention. Did you get what you came for from Dr. Smith? I’ve been a notary for two years, I do some private investigations on the side, but nobody needs to know that. Anyway, the point is I never got a chance to use my stamp. Can I notarize her written statement for you?” She holds up her self-inking notary public stamp. “Got it right here,” she says with delight.

At that instant her walkie-talkie interrupts and a staticky female voice starts blaring out. “Come in, Budding Rose, come in, Budding Rose. This is Man Eater, over.”

“Budding Rose, over.”

“We got us a situation here, over,” Man Eater reports.

“Open ears, over.”

“It’s Dr. Smith,” Man Eater says. “Suicide.”

June, Rosie, and I look at one another in disbelief. Before that moment I’d have said it was physically impossible for three people to look into one another’s eyes all at the same time. “No!” I yell.

Suzy reacts to my scream. “Not sch-weet, not sch-weet, no Vegas, no Vegas.”

I kneel down next to her. “Don’t worry, little one. We’ll figure this out.” I stand back up. “How could this happen?” I ask Rosie.

“Which list you want, the short or long?”

I nod, understanding that if someone wants to check out, they find a way to get the deed done.

“How you gonna
figure
this one out, counselor?” June asks. “She’s dead.”

“I don’t know for sure, but I have an idea. Just keep the faith.” The
enemy right now is time. I turn to Rosie. “What kind of control do you have here?”

“I’m second in command.”

“Really? No offense, but why are you working the window like a ticket taker at the movies, then?”

“I’m covering, we’re shorthanded today. No offense taken.”

“I see. Listen, can you keep Smith’s suicide quiet for twenty-four hours?”

“Affirmative. That’s a maybe affirmative. The trouble is it’s the age of the iPhone, counselor. Mega pix could already be out there going viral on YouTube. The opportunists get slipped fast cash from the vultures at the tabs for those kinds of shots. And I said I was second in command, so the number one guy calls the shots. But if her death warrants investigation, and suicides always do, I could keep it quiet until the internal is done. That could be as little as twelve hours, but I’ll try to stretch things out. Lucky for you, Smith don’t have no next of kin to notify.”

“Well do your best to keep it on the down-low for twenty-four, and give me your stamp.”

“My stamp?” Rosie asks nervously. “Why do you want my notary stamp?”

“Just trust me, it’s all for the cause, Rosie. All for the cause.” She reluctantly slides it under the glass window.

I take a legal pad from my bag. “Rosie, may I have your autograph, please? Press down firmly on the paper.” She gives me an inquiring look, but I’d never tell her it’s to trace it onto the notary line of the sworn statement Dr. Laura Smith gave me just prior to killing herself. Of course, there is no such statement. But when a notary puts his or her signature on the line next to the words that read “Sworn before me on this day,”
poof,
like magic, one can be created. She may conclude this, though, after I give her instructions.

“Here ya go.” She slides the pad back to me.

“One last thing.”

“Ears still open,” she replies in her walkie-talkie lingo.

“I’ll be giving your cell number out. To the attorney we all hate, the
one defending the hospital against Suzy’s case. All you have to do is tell her you have an envelope in your possession with the inscription ‘Statement Number Two’ on the outside of it, and that Dr. Smith gave it to you after you notarized two separate things for her, and that she instructed you to give it to the press here in the building tonight at seven unless you are directed otherwise from me. Got it?”

“Got it, but let me repeat that. I’m holding an envelope labeled ‘Statement Number Two’ that came from Dr. Smith. I’m to give it to the media people in the basement here at seven tonight unless I hear from you.”

“Perfect. I’ll have the envelope delivered here within the hour.” I turn to June and Suzy. “Let’s go, guys. We got things to do.”

When everybody’s buckled in to the Impala, I say, “June, get Barton Jackson the Third on the phone for me right now. I need him to do something for us.” I give Barton his marching orders to be carried out stat and Mile High couldn’t be happier to help. We screech away and head back to Manhattan as I tell June about Dr. Laura’s peculiar love story.