Suzy's Case: A Novel (12 page)

“Of course not.”

“I
was,
Tug.” She hammered that statement. The tension’s thick. “I don’t know who or what, but somebody did something wrong. A mother knows these things. You got a mother?”

“Yes, June. I have a mother.”

“Ask her. She’ll tell you about a mother’s intuition. A mother knows when someone harms her baby … and somebody wronged my Suzy. I’m certain. I was there.”

“I understand you’re upset about this news, but that’s not going to change things. There’s no case. It was an act of God.”

June looks mulish. “I don’t have your education and I don’t have
your smarts, Tug, but I know what I know and I know what I don’t know and I know someone did something bad to my Suzy.”

June’s choice of words shocks me. The message is clear. I have to further investigate this case. June was there and she knows what she knows, and I can’t turn my back on that. That’s the principle guiding how I live my life. Besides, she’s calling me Tug now. Progress.

“June, I accept what you’ve just said. I don’t know what I can do with it at this point, but I definitely accept it. I’ll look into things further, only I’m not optimistic.”

“Just look further,” she encourages. “That’s all I’m asking. If there’s no case, then there’s no case, and I’ll accept responsibility for this.”

I knew it. I’d better address her guilt right now. “June, what are you talking about? Suzy’s condition is not your fault, not by any measure. Like I said, this would’ve happened in the best of medical hands.”

“No. I don’t believe that,” she says, softening like a wilting flower. Puddles gather in her expressive blue eyes. She takes a deep collecting breath. “Either they did something wrong or I didn’t act quickly enough when I saw my baby suffering that morning with her heart beating so fast.”

“That’s not true. You must believe me. It’s not uncommon for a mother to feel responsible for an outcome like this under such circumstances, but I assure you it’s just groundless guilt, not fact. Leave it alone, guilt is for the guilty.”

“It’s me or them,” she says, as if it’s a matter of fact. “So where do we go from here?”

“As you know, this Wednesday Suzy is scheduled to see a doctor designated by the attorneys for the people we sued to evaluate her condition. It’s called an independent medical exam, or IME, although there’s nothing independent about it. The doctor works for the defendants. This was arranged before they made their motion to dismiss. I was going to cancel the appointment, but now, you just go ahead and take her there. Besides, if I can somehow make a case, Suzy’d have to go for this exam anyway. If there’s no case, then no harm done. I’ll call the court and ask Judge Schneider for an adjournment on the motion. I should get some time since I can argue there was a change
of attorney and I just received the file. Hopefully, I’ll figure out some theory of recovery in the interim.”

“That’s a plan, Tug, old boy,” June says merrily, like we’re back on track. “What time are you meeting us at the doctor’s office?”

“June, that’s not necessary,” I say, repeating “old boy” in my head, damn. “You don’t need me there. In a case like this, defendants generally don’t dispute the severity of the injuries and I’m surprised they even asked for an exam. Just one look at Suzy tells the whole story. They’re disputing the liability, meaning that they didn’t do anything wrong to cause Suzy’s condition. Nothing’s going to happen at the IME that in any way relates to the issue of liability or fault so you don’t need me to accompany you.”

“See you there,” June says, ignoring me. “You’re the one telling me ‘no case,’ so you’re going to be there. It’s the least you can do under the circumstances.”

“But I’m in the middle of a trial right now,” I plead. “I was only able to meet you today because the judge told us he had an emergency special proceeding that came up. I’ll be back in court tomorrow and the case I’m litigating may last until the end of the week, so it’ll be impossible for me to get to Suzy’s IME on Wednesday.”

“If you’re as good as Henry Benson says, then your case will be over by Wednesday, I’m sure.”

“June—”

“No excuses. I’ll see you at the IME. Come on, Suzy. I need some lunch and you need your feeding tube filled.”

June gets up, unlocks the wheels, and spins Suzy around toward the door. “Sch-weet!” she blurts, stimulated by the motion, as Dog, the toy poodle, balances herself on Suzy’s lap. When June takes a few steps forward, I check out her smoking ass again. June’s perfectly shaped bottom moves in rhythmic form with each step. Foot plant right, wiggle left. Nice.

Just as she reaches the door, June whips around. She makes no mention of the level of my eyes, but definitely takes note. She points to a picture of a woman in a black party dress on the corner of my desk. “That your wife?”

“Yes, it is,” I reply proudly.

“She’s sexy. She treat you right?”

That’s a complicated question. “Yeah, she treats me all right.”

She slowly nods, the way one does when formulating judgment. “I hope you’re more convincing in court.”

She turns and wheels Suzy and Dog out.

My first thought once she’s gone is whether June is trying to use my obvious appreciation of her good looks as a lure to keep me plugging away at Suzy’s case. My second thought is who cares because I can’t remember the last time I felt so alive, the testosterone flowing through my vessels. Sch-weet.

Thirty seconds after June and Suzy’s departure, Lily marches in. “What kind of HIC was Mrs. Williams? A prostitute?”

“I don’t know who the criminal is affiliated with the Williams family, but based on my first impression, I highly doubt it’s her, and it’s ‘Ms.’ Williams.”

“She was gorgeous.”

“Yes, she was. I think I’m attracted to her.”

“Well, she’s definitely attracted to you.”

“How do you know?”

“On her way out, she was talking to her poor little girl. I heard her say ‘Suzy, your new lawyer’s got it going on, but he ain’t getting out of this case so fast.’ That’s what I came in to tell you.”

I need to collect my thoughts. It figures this would happen in the worst of possible scenarios, a child’s case with a massive injury I have to withdraw from. Yet with a single-parent hot mom. If I fool around with June, then drop Suzy’s case, the retaliation could be disastrous, both personally and professionally. Also, I remember there being something in The Rules about not humping your client and I don’t want to end up in front of the Disciplinary Committee for that. Last, I’m pretty sure there was a similar provision in my wedding vows.

My silence catches a look of disapproval from Lily. “You’re married, remember?”

“I’m aware of that, Lily, but I can fantasize, can’t I?”

“No,” she informs me. “That’s cheating.”

“Lily, that’s not cheating. That’s normal, or else the divorce rate would be near one hundred percent.”

Lily gives me the “you’re a cheater and I’m a loyal Puerto Rican” look. “Why do we have to get out of the case? Suzy’s as bad as we’ve ever had. Is someone lying or making something up to make a case where none exists?”

“Not this time, and one thing’s for sure: June and Suzy are as honest as honest can be. Besides, it’s a lot harder to fabricate a medical malpractice case than it is your typical slip-trip-and-fall injury case.”

“Why’s that?”

“In a malpractice case,” I explain, “the facts giving rise to the claim are generally documented in the medical records, eliminating the possibility of the patient creating a false set of circumstances. Besides, in this instance, Suzy was only six at the time of malpractice and too young to victimize herself in a fake case. It may be the first Benson case we’ve handled that has no twist to it.”

“Like you say, when you’re handling an HIC case, it ain’t over till your Fat Aunt Sandy sings. I got to go. My sitter burnt up our dinner, so I got to make a new one. Bye.”

“Travel safe, Lily,” I say as she runway turns and leaves my office. My first thought while finally having a moment alone, a selfish one: if I’m going to bone June, assuming she’d have me, and assuming I had it in me to act on such an opportunity, I better do it before I tell her there’s no case—if that’s how things turn out—because there’s no way she’ll bang after. I can’t believe how self-centered I can be, thinking about a sexual interlude at a time when I’m on the verge of possibly ruining someone’s life. I think I just turned myself off. At least I admit it.

As I gather my things to leave, one thought in particular keeps popping in and out of my head, which is June’s belief about Suzy’s brain-damaged condition. Having such a child is a sad enough situation, but if the mom wrongfully thinks she’s responsible for the damage, things are that much worse. Her individual existence is stifled by overriding and unjustified guilt, and she’s fixated on caregiving to the mutual exclusion of life around her. The family unit often breaks down and
what’s left is a brain-damaged child and a nonfunctional, emotionally damaged mother.

So the question now arises. Can June Williams be liberated from her emotional jailing or am I about to take away her chances of freedom? June’s belief that the hospital wronged her daughter has given her hope of vindication over all these years. June will never be the same if she has to accept that the hospital did nothing wrong. Her hope will be lost and her guilt will be permanent. If the hospital didn’t cause Suzy’s brain damage, ipso facto, she did.

O
f course we’re coming to Boca for the holidays,” I hear my wife say as I step down the back staircase into our upscale country-style kitchen.

“I’m not going to Boca!” I holler. So much for having a peaceful morning.

“Shut up, you idiot,” she scolds as I pull a chair out from our “antique” farm table that cost me double for its custom manufacture. “My mother’s on speaker.”

“Why didn’t you say so,” I respond. “I—am—not—going—to—Boca!”

“Is that Tug I hear?” my mother-in-law screams, mistakenly thinking you have to yell to be heard on speaker.

“Yes, Mom,” answers my wife. “Don’t listen to him.”

“Why not? I’m happy he wants to come to Boca.”

“No! I’m not going to Boca!”

“Wonderful, see you soon. I have to go. I don’t want to be late for mah-jongg.” Tyler clicks the phone off, then turns to me, angered. “What’s your problem?”

“Me, I got no problem. I just don’t want to go to Boca and stay with your parents. I paid my dues. Fifteen years straight. It’s time for a change. Why don’t we go to some Arabic-speaking country for the Jewish holidays, that’s got to be less torturing than Boca.”

“Well, I’m going, and so are the kids. And my parents expect to see you, so you’re going, too. It would be embarrassing for them to explain to everybody at the club why you’re not there. People will talk.”

“I’m not interested in appearances. I’m not going.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“Nope.”

“Yep.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Uh-huh. Yes you are!”

“I are not!”

“Bet?” she says, breaking up the back-and-forth childishness, but only slightly.

“Yeah, I’ll bet.”

She puts her hands on her hips, the way a woman does when she’s about to make things conclusive. “You’re going to Boca for the holidays. And that’s final!”

On my Metro-North train ride to Grand Central I ponder my wife’s parting words. The last time she said, “That’s final,” I had to resolve five cases before getting any play. That took six weeks, and every time I told her about a settlement, she asked me how much the fee was as if keeping a tally to some fixed amount she had set in her mind before she would let me in. And I can’t believe I started a fight with her on a Tuesday, I must be going crazy. Boca, here I come.

I take the 4 train from Grand Central and my destination is the Borough Hall stop in downtown Brooklyn. Standing in the center of
the car is a homeless subway preacher orating his holy beliefs. He’s an unkempt, rumpled, messy black man in his midforties. His mission is clear.

“It’s the woman that has the fruit that tempts the man,” he says in a nasal high-pitched voice. “If they had no fruit, there’d be no temptation. That sweet, succulent fruit of temptation is juicy on the outside, but seeded with evil on the inside. Can I have an amen from the congregation, yeah-ya.”

“Amen,” responds a guy who looks down on his luck. He glances around to notice that eyes are now on him, embarrassed for being the only one of thirty riders to speak out. The women in the car are dispersing away from the center, making sure their pocketbooks are closed and shirts buttoned high.

“Be careful, my fellow men,” the reverend continues, in gospel form, “for no good can come from tasting the sweet fruit of temptation, the fruit from the vines of the punany no-no bush. The sweet fruit women use to tempt their mens, to influence their mens, to manipulate their mens, and to rule their mens. Stay away from the punany no-no bush, stay away from the forbidden fruit of temptation. It will control your life, yeah-ya.”

An instant later, we come out of the tunnel that runs under the East River, brakes screech the train to a jolting stop, and the subway doors open. The crowd hustles out as New Yorkers do, and I slip the orator a fiver, saying, “Amen, my brother. Would you consider sermonizing a group of worshippers in need of your words for the holidays down in Boca?”