Suzy's Case: A Novel (9 page)

Now, whenever I hear the word
complication
spoken by a physician in a medical-legal setting, what I see right away in my mind’s eye is Pinocchio’s nose. In other words, the doctor’s fibbing. The term
complication
points a way out of his malpractice. The
C
word usually makes its appearance at doctors’ depositions under oath. Some of my favorites are: “Yes, I amputated the wrong foot. It was mismarked preoperatively. It’s a rare but known complication of the procedure.” Or “Yes, several lap pads were left inside your twenty-two-year-old client after her cesarean section. It’s true that she’ll never be able to get pregnant again because we had to remove her uterus, but as you know, these things are a risk and complication of the procedure.” And when the defendant doctor uses the word
risk
in conjunction with the word
complication,
it usually means the fuckup was of major proportions.

Here, however, Dr. Laura is
my
expert. She’s on
my
side—the side of truth and justice. The side of the injured malpractice victim, not the doctor or hospital that was sued. I rarely hear my expert use the
C
word because my cases are peppered with merit. Peppered, I tell you. That is, they were before I became an HIC attorney.

“Dr. Laura,” I ask, “are you saying that Suzy suffered from four different complications from her sickle cell condition?”

“The cardio and pulmonary arrests do have a relation to one another,” she avers, “but the septicemia and stroke are mutually exclusive. Technically, you could say there were four separate complications.”

“Is this a common occurrence?”

“The answer would have to be no, especially in a child this age.”

“Thank you for your time, doctor. I know now what I need to say to the mother to have her understand the situation. I’ll be preparing an affidavit for you to sign that memorializes your opinions, and will be part of my motion to the court to be relieved as counsel. I’ll need a copy of your CV so I can incorporate your qualifications into the affidavit.”

“Certainly. I’m sorry things couldn’t turn out better for you and that unfortunate little girl.”

“Thanks for your time, but I have to tell you the pricing was completely unreasonable.” I get up, as does Otis.

“You’ll have to speak to Steven about that. He’s the director and in charge of all matters financial in nature. I don’t even know what he charged you for these fifteen minutes we’ve spent together.”

“Would it surprise you if I told you close to eighteen hundred dollars?”

“I guess no, it wouldn’t surprise me,” she admits. “I agree it’s unreasonable, but unfortunately, I have no control over the situation.” I don’t like their clinic’s, or her husband’s, billing practices, but I do like her, maybe because I was addicted to Popeye growing up. “If you need anything else or if something new comes about that you believe may change my opinion, call me,” she offers. “But based on what we have here, I see no case.”

We shake hands good-bye. “Is that the steps of Borough Hall?” I ask, pointing to a photo of her and Steven showcased on her desk.

“Why, yes. Yes it is. That was our wedding day.”

“It’s a great photo of you two,” I say, mustering up every ounce of sincerity within my body.

“We eloped. That’s why we’re not wearing wedding attire.”

“Very romantic.” As I walk out of the door I belly-bump right into Steven Smith, knocking my large frame firmly into him. He begins to pitch backward with his feet stuck underneath.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say.

He sighs, looking aggrieved. I’m afraid he’s going to charge me a penalty.

“Were you standing out here the whole time?” I ask him.

“Of course not!” he snaps.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he responds, defensively. “What are you suggesting?”

“Me? I’m not suggesting anything, but the fact that your feet were planted squarely when we made contact was suggestive, that’s why I asked.”

I
pump and turn, sparking the Eldo to purr and the music to blast. I don’t know how or why, but a different song is playing.

I leave the lot, smoking another cigar to the blasting and repeated tune of “Play That Funky Music” by Wild Cherry. After driving a few miles, I find myself the first car at a red light on Clarkson Avenue, right in front of Kings County Hospital. Crossing the street before me is a black youth in a full leg cast, hip to toe. He’s got a mile-high Afro, seventies-style. I can tell his injury is fresh from the bright white color of his cast and the awkward way he’s negotiating his crutches. My bet is he was just discharged.

Interesting.

Mile High is with two friends. Both have dreads like Otis, neither with funnel. They’re making fun of their injured friend as he struggles with the sticks. The three stop near the front of the Eldo. “Yo, cool ride,” Mile High yells to me.

“Thanks. Who fucked you up?” I point to his leg.

Mile High hobbles over to the driver’s side as I put down my window. “Yo, check out the Rasta dog,” he calls to his friends.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Got taken out by a limo up in Harlem in front of the Apollo the other night.”

“Who’s your lawyer?”

“Got five cards in my pocket. One of them.”

“Get in the car. I’m your lawyer. I’ll take you to my office.”

“You Jewish?” he asks.

I respond to his question with a question, like any normal Jewish lawyer would. “What do you think?”

He smiles. “Cool.”

By this time the light has changed to green and the traffic behind is honking as Mile High hobbles around the front of my car to get in on the passenger side. “In the back, Otis,” I command. This time he obeys, knowing we’re going to have company.

“Yo, I’m coming,” one of his buddies says as he opens the passenger door. “Me, too,” chimes in the second. They both get in the back, forcing Otis behind me. Otis doesn’t like the seating arrangement so he jumps over the guy next to him and takes the center seat. Mile High gets in the front and shuts the door. Otis jumps back into the front between us, startling Mile High.

I make the introduction. “This is Otis. He’s friendly and been a victim of black dog discrimination his whole life.” The boys laugh.

“What’s up, my man Otis?” Mile High says. It’s amazing how many people say that when they meet him.

I start driving to my office on Park Avenue South at Twenty-Ninth Street with my new crew loudly singing, “Play that funky music, white boy …” They’re attempting to draw public attention and succeed. I weave the Eldo in and out of traffic, as best the Eldo can weave, attempting to make all the greens. I’m trying to avoid the spectacle of waiting at a red light with my attention-hungry passengers. Luckily, no other car in the world can cause traffic to divide like the Eldo and I make it all the way into Manhattan without stopping.

Just before we enter the garage, my crew is putting the finishing touches on their new gangsta-style sample of “White Boy.”

I enter the underground garage and resourcefully pull up to the sign that says
PULL TO HERE
. “Play that funky music, white boy” is echoing throughout the garage, yet is actually outdone by the screams of my trio. They’ve completely transformed this classic into a catchy sample, beat box and all.

Oscar, my garage guy, appears entertained by my entourage. He opens my door and Otis vaults over my lap and out, causing Oscar to jump back. Otis shakes his funnel head and sneezes. “Hey there, easy, boy,” Oscar says, his hands making a “no closer” gesture. “I don’t like big black dogs,” he remarks.

I look over to my crew. “There you go,” I say. “Black dog discrimination.” I turn back to my garage guy. “Oscar, meet Otis. He’s a licker not a biter.”

Oscar gives Otis a cautious pet. “What’s up, my man Otis?”

The boys and I walk out of the garage and begin our slow journey to my office, two blocks away. Going up the ramp, I realize it was insensitive of me not to drop Mile High off in front of my building, but truth be told, I didn’t want him out of my watchful eye and risk losing the case after getting him this far. At least I admit it.

As we approach my building, there’s an old lady with three dogs coming from the other direction. Otis sees them and gives a slight tug. “Okay, Otis,” I tell him. “You can meet some city dogs if you want. But I got to warn you, they’re much more advanced and sophisticated than your typical canine from the boonies.”

As we hit the entrance to my building, I turn and say, “Yo, go up to the seventh floor and wait in my reception area. My dog needs to take care of some business.” I realize at this moment I didn’t even ask that kid or his companions their names. All I saw was a bright white cast, dollar signs, and a mile-high ’fro. More insensitivity. They enter and I continue past, with Otis tugging forward.

The old woman has two bulldogs and a boxer, all with stubby tails wagging in excitement. Our dogs make contact in front of Deli-De-Lite, and it’s an ass-sniffing bonanza. Their owner’s a cross between a bag lady and a Rockefeller. Disheveled with ratty old clothing and poor oral hygiene, she nonetheless sports diamond earrings, a big diamond ring, and chunky diamond bracelets.

I recognize all of the pieces as contemporary Tiffany, having seen them in the catalog my wife likes to leave in our bathroom magazine rack. Every time she dog-ears a page for something she intends to buy,
I rip it out ultracarefully so its absence can’t be detected. I check out the way-too-expensive price of whatever item she’s taken a fancy to, then fold the page and wipe my ass with it. I accept the discomfort inflicted by the sharp paper edge as preferable to the ache induced by the diminishment of my bank account, finding extra joy in the flush.

I smile at Mrs. Bagafeller as our animals get acquainted. She smiles back. I can tell she’s real hip. We watch them sniff away. “Nothing like the smell of fresh doggy ass,” I observe.

She widens her smile. “So true, young man. So true. Wouldn’t life be easier if it was socially acceptable to approach a nice young woman you found attractive and go right to the sniff without all the discomfort involved in initiating conversation?”

I widen my smile, too. “That’s the way it should be. It would take the awkwardness right out of the equation.”

“Yes,” she replies. “Talking only gets in the way. If things don’t smell right, why waste time?”

“I can see you have a lot of wisdom stored up in that head of yours.”

“As you get older, you realize what’s important.”

“So share some of that wisdom before we go our separate ways.”

“That’s easy. If you can’t sniff the duff of the one you love, then sniff the one you’re with.”

“Would it be all right if I quoted you someday?”

Her dogs pull her toward an approaching mixed breed. “Please be my guest, young man.”

After eating two beef jerkies in front of Deli-De-Lite, I make my way up to my office. I have a Park Avenue address, but my space is no grand digs. I’m a solo practitioner so my needs are one giant impressive windowed corner office for me, a secretarial station for Lily, and a conference room where I can conduct depositions of all the friendly people I’ve sued.

I’ve occupied this space since I hung my shingle, first as a tenant of some fading law firm in a windowless closet-sized office and now as the leaseholder. At three thousand square feet, it’s way too big for my practice, yet too run-down for lawyers of any worth to share. So, my current subtenants, who occupy most of the space, are a small group of individuals in the publishing and e-commerce industries. They publish a newsmagazine for the medical marijuana community called
TOKE
. They are a direct competitor of
HIGH TIMES
and a perfect fit for me.

I tolerate their herb-smelling runners that float in and out for apparent transactional purposes and they tolerate my HICs. Kind of a mutual admiration society of killers and deadheads. Besides, where else could you find tenants who pay most of the rent and insist on the anonymity of not having their name on the front door? As I reach for the knob I take in the new scent in the hall, fresh blooming roses. Lily. The paralegal, not the flower.

I enter to see my new crew is huddled in the corner of my reception, seeming uneasy. I look to the opposite corner and see a behemoth from the bayou occupying half the entry couch. If I had to venture a guess on professions, I’d say Swamp Thing wrestler. Conservatively, six foot five and three hundred pounds.

It takes no longer than an instant to notice he’s acting strange, murderously strange. It’s what he is doing with his right hand. In it is a handgrip exerciser. It’s the kind with a metal coiled spring resistance mechanism atop black plastic handgrips that you squeeze together. Only, this one is special. It’s custom-made.

The extralarge handgrips are pitted steel and have lucky charms affixed to the ends of each one. Jutting off one side is a shiny dagger. The other handgrip has a hollow-eyed steel skull with a vertical slot where its nose should be. With a large bayou beast hand covered with thick tufts of hair, Swamp Thing slowly squeezes the handgrips together, causing the dagger to move toward and pierce the skull through the slot with the pointed tip shooting out the back. He holds it together for six, seven, maybe eight seconds, then releases. We watch as he does another rep with his forearm swelling into full flex. He’s fixated on it as the dagger penetrates, fantasizing, I suspect.