Rabbi Gabrielle's Defiance (25 page)

The air was frigid. Counsel for Ohav Shalom
and its rabbi were not happy with the tone of the questioning.
Sutterfeld had established himself as a strong advocate who knew
how to convince a jury of negligence. As soon as the meeting
recessed, Sutterfeld and his associate immediately exited, heading
first for a bathroom, then a phone.

Gabby was waiting as Asa and the lawyers left
the conference room. She placed a hand on his shoulder for
encouragement and said,
hatzlachah
, for
success in Hebrew. "I'm sure you did beautifully; I'm very proud of
you."

Asa looked doubtful. "It was wretched. But
then I guess you know from personal experience on the witness
stand."

"Don't remind me. That was a catastrophe on
wheels."

He laughed a hollow laugh. "That's not what I
recall. The whole bloody country came to your support. But I'm
different. I'm the guy who destroyed two young lives."

"That's about as stupid a thing as I've heard
you say."

"My words will read back like a bad novel. I
walked squarely into Sutterfeld's trap."

Shirley Delinsky broke from a conversation
with Horace Corcoran to encourage Asa. "You did just fine, Rabbi
Folkman. Just remember when we resume that you can't win anything
in a deposition. But you can lose big time. Try to answer the
questions with a simple yes and no. As little explanation as
necessary."

Corcoran added over her shoulder
.
"Marc is wily. He likes to let you hang yourself. I
think he wants us to relax so he can come get something bigger than
what he's already got."

Asa shook his head to acknowledge that
Sutterfeld had him on the ropes and was pounding his ribs with
heavy blows. How much longer could he take such punishment before
collapsing?

At lunchtime, Gabby again waited outside the
conference room for Asa. Corcoran approached her. The lip of his
briefcase was secured by no more than his index finger. From under
it he withdrew a small ream of stapled papers. "Nelson MeKesson at
Dominion Mutual said that your secretary requested a copy of the
Fire Marshal's Report. The final draft arrived at company
headquarters yesterday. He asked if I would deliver this copy to
you personally."

Her eyes dropped over the papers entitled
Fire Incident Report, Office of the Fire Marshal
for the District of Columbia. 3414 Quebec Road, N.W. Family:
Morgenstern.

Personal Injury:
Yes.
Mortality: Yes
.

"Thanks," she said. "I don't suppose there's
anything here we don't already know. But I'd like to review the
details anyway."

She took Asa's arm, leading him to her study
for sandwiches and drinks from a local deli.

CHAPTER SEVEN

POLITICS EVERYWHERE

On Friday evening before calling an end to an
arduous week, Anina Norstrom's partner, Franklin Terkenoff M.D.
popped his head into her office to share an elaborate treatment
plan for Tybee Morgenstern's facial reconstruction. He was not the
Morgenstern's attending surgeon, but as a member of an
inter-hospital surgical ethics board was apprised of special
procedures in the region. Planning for Tybee had started two weeks
before to accommodate the tight schedules of specialists involved
in the first phase of her treatment. A pediatric dentist, child
orthopedist and an ear-nose-and throat specialist produced an array
of CT and MRI scans of Tybee's skull and soft-tissue organs. A
specialist in maxillo-facial prosthetics contributed a
three-dimensional model of Tybee's head, followed by four test
therapeutic masks for controlling facial scars. Plastic surgeon
Hank Rasnick, whom the family has elected to lead this team
endeavor, kept in close touch with all the specialists.

"I know Asa has an interest in Tybee
Morgenstern and I thought you might want to participate in one of
the planning sessions," Franklin Terkenoff addressed Anina.

On multiple occasions Asa had asked her how
surgeons would approach Tybee's injuries. Unfamiliar with specifics
of the case, Anina's response remained general. Without knowing the
depth of the burns and the extent of damage to the eyes, nose and
throat, she could only make calculated guesses. As a member of
Georgetown University's medical staff, she had been invited to
surgical boards meetings but, more often than not, declined to
attend. For years, her relationship with the Department Chief of
Plastics, Hank Rasnick, had been less than cordial. From the moment
she and Hank clashed over treatment methodologies of eye
reconstruction at a national conference of plastic surgeons in New
Orleans, they disliked one another. Old-timers in the field enjoyed
telling jokes about a battle of soap and brushes when two feral
cats, Drs. Norstrom and Rasnick, inadvertently met at the scrub
basin.

"I don't think Hank would welcome my
presence," she answered by exaggerating the separation between each
word. "He suspects me of stealing his patients. Every time I speak
on television, he writes nasty memos to the Hospital Center medical
director accusing me of misleading the public and acting
unprofessional. At our monthly departmental meetings, he's out
rightly condescending."

"Hank hates to be upstaged and, more
importantly, he isn't as pretty as you, Anina," Terkenoff
responded, trying to both flatter and impress.

"No excuses, please. He's a
schmuck
and you know it. But if
you
happen to attend one of the meetings, I'd be
interested to know more. I can then give Asa informed answers."

Franklin thought long about the implications
of that. "I'll see if I can work it into my schedule. If I show up,
our colleagues will probably put two and two together. Since they
won't be fooled, you're better off going yourself."

"What? And listen to Hank pontificate? Spare
me, please. His good-old-boy club hates strong women."

"That sounds like a bad line from an
afternoon TV soap opera. Haven't you heard that doctors stopped
stereotyping female physicians long ago? And since I know you make
more money in our practice than ninety-percent of the male doctors
in Washington, you can't plead impoverishment. It's time for you
and Hank to bury the hatchet."

She threw a penetrating glance at him and
growled. "Thanks, pal. I'll keep that in mind next time you ask for
a favor."

"Aren't you usually at Georgetown on
Tuesdays?"
"Yes. But I'm already committed, unless I can get
Charles Daintree to move his operation back a few hours."

"I didn't know you work with Daintree. He's a
urologist, isn't he?"

"Generally, I don't. But he's doing an
orchectomy and prosthesis on a young man who's very sensitive about
the cosmetic result. Charles asked me to help restore a
scrotum."

Franklin Terkenoff curled his lips into a wry
expression. "Sounds right up your alley – like the ultimate
satisfaction for a ball-busting female. Next thing you know you'll
become the regional expert in adult circumcisions."

Her index finger targeted his groin in good
humor. "Don't knock it, pal. Somebody has to do them. If you'd take
the time to read our financial summaries, you know that I've done
four in the past year. Since there are only about a dozen performed
each year in the Washington area, I'm building the reputation.

From Gabby's feigned cheerfulness during
official duties, you would never suspect her battle with mild
depression. This affectation had become so much a part of her
persona that only an astute observer perceived the blackness
lurking inside. Yet the embrace with Kye Naah at Politicstoday had
done wonders for her mood. On several occasions, a question popped
into her mind whether Joel Fox would approve of her seeing Kye. It
was a silly question of no practical significance. Still, at
regular intervals it returned unanswered. She hoped that Kye would
communicate with her, yet she received neither emails nor voice
mails. For two days, she waited before placing a call to
Politicstoday
. A curt recorded message
from the phone company stated that the number was no longer in
service. Next, she typed an email message feeling there might be
more life in Kye's computer than his phone.

A final check of her electronic mail at the end of
the day revealed a message from a Bat Mitzvah youngster who wanted
to talk about the subject of homelessness for her Bat Mitzvah
speech. Another dealt with rescheduling a bi-weekly meeting on
urban affairs. Last on the log was a message from Kye in
abbreviated computer lingo.

Hi, gabby,

Great of you to come last nite.
total chaos here. still no power, but retrieved 50% of data.
Politicstoday no longer exists in previous form. sad news abt
staff. many preparing to leave the company. i'm devastated. love 2
take you 2 dinner tonite. nothing expensive, please. reply ASAP. no
phones operating here.

Kye

Hearing from him was heartening. Her fingers began
typing a response before her brain had worked out the
implications.

Hello, Kye,

Sorry to learn about troubles, but
delighted you have saved some of your data. I'd love to learn the
details, if they are not too painful. Sorry, can't make a greasy
spoon. Lyle has sent me a veritable library of information I must
study if I have any intention of running. Been so busy I haven't
had a moment for homework. But if you're willing to risk a meal at
my home, you're welcome to come by. Nothing fancy. Be forewarned,
cooking is not one of my talents. I'm leaving the office now, but
let me know by email. I'll pick it up at home.

Gabby

Driving home, she wondered about the wisdom of
inviting Kye for dinner. To do so broke a solemn pledge she had
made to herself. After three promising romances had ended short of
marriage and motherhood, she vowed never again to get involved with
an improbable mate. Yet despite a voice that counseled for control
of her feelings, she could not shake her fascination with Kye –
perhaps because of his dedication to cyberspace and his commitment
to improving the electoral process. Politicians often spoke about a
more equitable political process but in practice concentrated on
their own return to office. Kye's dream excited her. Or, she had to
ask herself, was she just a run-of-the-mill sucker for the
underdog, struggling in a perennial war to upset the established
seats of power? All this, she knew, to be food for the mind,
bypassing a more primordial physical attraction to Kye.

While behind the wheel, she discovered answers to
none of her questions, but was amused how fast she moved to boot up
her computer once at home. Kye's response was the first of seven
messages.

There's a good korean
restaurant a mile from here. I'll stop and get a few things I doubt
you've ever tasted. we eat spicy foods, but i'll have the chef take
it easy on the chilly peppers. promise not to disrupt your studies.
i have work to do on my laptop. Send me your address and i'll come
as soon as possible.

Kye

Her eyes dropped over three volumes of Democratic
policies on the desk. How much she would be able to read this
evening was doubtful. Yet, it didn't seem to matter. Her skin felt
flushed with excitement. A rush of chores came to mind, beginning
with a need to freshen up in the bathroom, set the table and put a
bottle of white Riesling in the freezer for instant chilling. Beer?
Plenty in the fridge. Candles? No. Definitely no candles. To her
personal chagrin, she found herself speeding. Perhaps before he
arrived there might be time to browse through DNC policy papers.
Valuable time was lost experimenting with three different place
settings and two sets of placemats and their matching cloth
napkins.

When Kye arrived with cartons of Korean
foods, he planted a friendly kiss upon her cheek, which she
acknowledged by canting her head to accept it. In the vestibule, he
apologized for looking like the unwashed homeless vagrant he was.
Straight black hair matted against his skull looked as though
combed with a stiff hairbrush. Dark whiskers remained unshaven.

"The surviving remnants of Politics… live
like animals," he explained as she squired him toward the kitchen.
"We've got two temporary generators working, but PEPCO still won't
provide electricity. There's a block on our account and the local
representatives won't tell me who's responsible for putting it
there. No doubt somebody in high places who doesn't want us back on
our feet. We've scaled down from fast foods to canned beans. What
we need now is another pizza angel. I can't tell you what your gift
meant. We were in the doldrums, sinking into despair. Cold,
isolated, and alone. Then, unexpectedly, a delivery of hot,
wonderful pizza arrived. The kids knighted you with a name that
seems to have stuck; they refer to you as
The
Pizza Angel. Somebody
outside Politics cares about us! You
know how cruel Washington can be. When you're on top everybody
wants to be associated with you. Now people won't even answer my
phone calls. For the time being, Politics has slipped off
everybody's radar screen. What is it they say on the Hill? When in
office you're Mr. or Ms. Jones. When you leave the post you're Mr.
or Ms. Who?"

She regarded him with a combination of
admiration and pity, helping to settle the food cartons on her
black Egyptian granite countertop, then took his hand in hers,
rubbing cold fingers. "This must be a nightmare for you, Kye. When
I think of you guys working in the dark and living in the cold, it
makes me humble. Whoever did this to you is a skunk. That you've
retrieved a portion of your data is the only encouraging thing I've
heard so far."

"It isn't enough to do the job we
anticipated. We're now a far smaller operation. Our competitors
will use the opportunity to grab my clients."