Cookie's Case (17 page)

“Um,” she says to me, “the details are a little beyond my understanding. But are you really saying my tapping might be necessary for a different reason and not my surgery?”

“It's possible. How probable, I can't say. But it's definitely within the realm of medical possibility.”

“And do you think there could be a cure if we found out why this was happening?”

“That, too, is always possible.” A glimmer of hope flashes across her face—the prospect of freedom, no doubt. Major catches it and cuts in.

“Cookie, dear, I intend to send your fluid to the lab as a starting point, and then we'll begin to investigate things from there. I don't like feeling I've overlooked anything. It's only that I never would have considered alternate explanations, given what I know. Still, it's always good to get a fresh look at things, and so we are fortunate to have met Mr. Wyler. Nonetheless, I continue to have my reservations about an alternate explanation.”

Having delivered this little monologue, Major hands the floor back to me.

“All I wanted to do is bring the weak radiological evidence to your attention as soon as possible and ask you to consider that more may be going on here than we're aware of. Understood?”

They nod.

I continue. “From a legal strategic point of view, any attempts to discover an alternate explanation for the tapping should be undertaken on the down low. Meaning you should pay cash for the medical services. Don't put any medical costs associated with this undertaking on Cookie's insurance. If it becomes documented there, McElroy's attorney will see it and obtain the records. So, if we're able to come up with an alternate cause as to why this is happening to Cookie that's unrelated to McElroy's malpractice, I don't want his attorney to know about it. The insurance company will not consider or pay on our largest item of damages if it's unrelated to McElroy's care.”

Cookie's now listening carefully. I feel like a scumbag for saying any of this. But the truth is it's up to the defense attorneys to disprove our claim.

“They pay only for damages they are responsible for or cause,” I explain. “So you see, we're straddling the line here between getting Cookie cured, if that's possible, and at the same time keeping the insurance company out of the loop. I'm pretty sure that's legal. Anyway, that's about it for now. I'm sorry about their withdrawing the offer, though I'm expecting it to be only temporary once they view the video. I also apologize if I imposed myself on you two.”

“Not at all,” Major says.

“No, not at all,” echoes Cookie who, while still upset about the money, now has the unexpected hope of a cure to think about. I leave the apartment wishing I could hear the conversation after I'm gone.

On my way out of the building, Wilson sees me. “Well? What happened up there?” By his tone, I'm pretty sure he wants to share something. I slip him a twenty.

He leans toward me, “Major wasn't very happy when he heard you were upstairs.”

“And?”

“That's it.”

“That's it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That ain't no biggie, Wilson.” He looks around and leans in.

“You got another twenty?” I fork it over.

“Listen, I've known the guy for seven years,” he says. “Even when his mother died, he showed no emotion. But I will say it again—he was a very unhappy camper when he learned you were in his apartment. Very. Something's up.”

“Got ya.” I walk out the door, thinking if he says “something's up,” then something's up.

After all, he's a doorman.

Chapter Fifteen

S
ince dropping in on Cookie and Major two days ago, I can't get them to return a call. I've left a total of six messages—three each day—asking them to contact me. This is not a good sign. I take a deep breath and stretch, having slept late this morning, which almost never happens. My internal alarm clock hasn't gone off. It's 7:42, according to the digital one. My wife's up and out. I didn't even hear her leave.

Before getting out of bed, I note I feel a little lethargic. Maybe that's why I've dozed too long. My chest feels tight, too. I've felt this coming on over the last twenty-four. It's no time to get sick.

The kids are seated around the kitchen table. They're watching the birds on the feeder out on our patio. Why did it have to be imported bluestone? “Because.”

“Dad,” Penelope says, “how come the boy birds have so many colors, and the girl birds don't?” I follow her line of sight. There's a male rose-breasted grosbeak pecking for sunflower seeds. He's regal, with his black-and-white markings contrasted by his red-feathered chest. On the other side of the feeder is his mate. She's gray and could be mistaken for the female of about ten other types of birds.

“Well, Penelope …” I begin.

“It's Summer,” she corrects me, “and that's the last time I'm going to tell you.”

“Do you really want me to call you Summer?” Before she answers, Connor looks at me, trying to determine if, in fact, I mean my question. I show him a poker face.

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I'll respect your wishes and call you Summer until instructed otherwise.” She beams. I look to Connor. He can tell I'm not happy about giving in.

“Dad,” he says.

“Yes, Dirk,” I say, understanding I'm obliged to play along with his name change, too.

“You don't have to call me Dirk anymore. You can call me Connor again.”

“Okay, Connor.” Summer seems a little surprised at her brother but looks back at me, still waiting for an answer to the bird question. “It usually has to do with their mating or courtship, meaning how the female chooses the male as her partner.”

“You mean in the bird world the girl chooses the boy?”

“I'm pretty sure of that, yeah.”

“That's weird; it's just the opposite with people.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know,” she says, “the boy chooses the girl.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Yeah.”

“It won't be long before you know otherwise,” I say, feeling an unpleasant sense of pressure in my chest.

“Dad?”

“Yes, Summer?” She gives a thanks-for-calling-me-Summer look.

“Nothing.”

I head out the door wondering why the kids are home on a school day and my phone goes off.
Private Caller
.

“Hi, Robert,” I answer.

“This is Robert Killroy, but I didn't kill no Roy, and I didn't kill nobody.”

“Thank you, Robert. I know that already. First let me ask, is this call in connection with your own case or is it a collection-related call?”

“I must advise you that I am calling to collect a debt.” His delivery is choppy. “This call may be recorded and anything you say—”

“Robert,” I cut in, “I know the drill by now. How can I help you? Please, make it quick. I'm late this morning. And I say that talking to you the bill collector, not you my client, since you wear two hats here.”

“I'm not wearing no hat, Mr. Wyler.”

“It's a figure of speech. But go on, just finish, please.”

“I must advise you that if payment isn't made within the next seven days, I will have no choice but to … I can't read this part; give me a second … Granny! Granny!” I hear him call out.

“Robert!” I yell. “Robert!”

“Yes, Mr. Wyler.”

“Is the next word spelled
I-N-S-T-I-T-U-T-E
?”

“How'd you know that? You done bill collecting before you started lawyering?”

“No, Robert, I just know. And the words after that are ‘formal legal proceedings,' correct?”

“Seems so. But I still got to check with Granny. Never got this far in bill collecting before. Everybody else done paid their debts, 'cepting you that is. That Mr. Wang sure is a nice man. I don't know why—”

“Robert, listen to me. If you were calling about your case, I'd stop what I was doing, but since you're not, I'm not. And I'm
not
paying that bill. I told you why. And tell Granny that I'm going to need you two to be present at a mediation that I was able to schedule. Got that?”

“Sure, I got that. But I never did no meditation before. I'll be seeing ya. I got to start this here lawsuit against you. I take my investigating seriously.”

Click.

YOU KNOW I'M IN HERE CRYING

I get to the office late. “Good morning, Lily,” I say in a cheery voice, then proceed to have a violent coughing fit into my hand. I give myself a chest pat and take a deep breath. I hear a wheeze. Not good.

“You sound sick. And you're not going to like what's on your chair.”

“What?” I say. “No ‘good morning, Mr. Wyler? How are you today?' That ain't right.”

“Go look on your chair. This is not a good morning for you.”

“Give me a hint.” I watch her consider this.

“Okay, one of the letters on your chair is an offer of settlement for two million dollars on Cookie's case.”

“That doesn't sound so bad to me. And that wasn't a hint, by the way.” She rolls her eyes, “as if it matters” being the clear message.

“It's the other letter you're gonna hate. It was hand-delivered by an attorney, Chris Charles.” No playful Lily there. She's right, I fear. I hustle to my office, wheezing all the way. I'm concerned about why Charles would be delivering me a letter. Really concerned. I didn't push Lily because I could see she didn't want to tell.

This is bad.

I pick both envelopes up off my chair and sit down in the same motion. The top letter is the offer. Perfect, two mil. I guess all my worrying about the spinal tapping being unrelated to Cookie's claim was wasted energy. Just trying to be a good lawyer. First Medical Liability, the insurance carrier, references the tap video as the basis for the offer. No fucking kidding. It's a chilling procedure to watch, and they'd have to be crazy to go to a jury when I have that in my front pocket.

They go on to say that they had provided insurance coverage to Dr. Major Dodd and his clinic for over thirty years and that they respect his opinion on the matter. I wonder if they'd feel the same way if they knew Cookie and he are an item. A peculiar one, but an item nonetheless.

I turn my attention to the envelope delivered by Chris Charles. It's actually three different correspondences. The top one is handwritten. It reads:

Please take no further action on my case. You are hereby discharged as my attorney. Do not attempt to contact me. Please arrange for the prompt transfer of my file back to Chris Charles.

Cookie

Holy shit! This can't be happening.

I turn to the next page. It's a formal Consent to Change Attorney, substituting me out and Chris Charles back in. Damn! There goes a large chunk of my share of the attorney fee. Just like that. In one mail delivery.

Lily was right. She's always right.

The last page is a cover letter from Chris Charles referencing Cookie's handwritten letter and the Consent to Change Attorney. He adds that I should call to arrange for the transfer of Cookie's file, reiterating that I am not to contact her. He was also nice enough to give me the reason for my discharge, something that's never done in letters like this. But he's putting me on notice that my discharge is ‘for cause.' Meaning, I get no fee, as I caused my discharge by conduct unbecoming an attorney.

Not this again.

The last and only other time a client claimed I was discharged for cause was the morning Cookie retained me. There, Josefina's dirtbag attorney, Wilbur, alleged I suborned perjury. In the hearing before Judge Brown, I preserved my fee by establishing Josefina's lack of credibility.

Now Charles is stating that I violated several codes of conduct by advising Cookie the two hundred and fifty thousand would never be pulled off the table. I don't know about “several,” but he has a good argument on at least one—that's all he needs. It was the two
agreeds
Henry prompted out of me that are coming back to bite me. Still, I did it, albeit reluctantly, so I own this conduct.

At least I admit it.

The letter goes on to further state that Cookie directed me to accept the two fifty, and I refused to communicate her acceptance to the insurance carrier against her wishes. That part is an outright lie. But he'd written it believing that the money offer was gone, in order to set up a claim against me for legal malpractice. My, my.

But what I can see from here and he can't is now the circumstances have changed with two million on the table. I wonder how it's all going to play out. I'm discharged for alleged cause with two fifty on the table. However my efforts after the money is withdrawn yielded two million. I'd like to suggest it's a novel legal question. One that's going to be decided in my favor because Charles committed his basis for discharge to paper. The guy is a novice.

Lily buzzes.

“What's up? You know I'm in here crying.”
Cough, cough
.

“I guess now would be a bad time to ask for a raise then.”

“That's not funny, Lily.”

“I guess you're right. Sorry.”
Click.
My click, not hers.

Lily appears at my door and enters cautiously, knowing how upset I'm certain to be about losing Cookie's case. But I'm not going down without a fee-fight. It was my video and sending them Major's medical records, after all, that sparked the big offer. Charles handled it for years and snagged only the paltry two fifty. Me—I get it, do the one obvious thing that needs to be done so the largest item of damages can be properly evaluated, and two mil is thrown at me without even giving a settlement demand.

Dammit, he's going to have to fight it out in court for our respective shares. It's not necessarily the quantity of work performed; the court also considers the quality and who was instrumental in getting the case done—and that would be me.

“Hello? Hello? Hello?” Lily says, standing in front of me. “Anybody in there?”

“Oh, sorry. I was just thinking about something.” She tosses an unopened box of tissues on my desk.

“Let me guess,” she says. She doesn't even have to spend time thinking. “How much of the fee you think you can keep on Cookie's case?” That's my Lily.

“You know me as well as I know myself. What are the tissues for?”

“Your fee-loss bereavement, your cold, either/or.”

I'm feeling terrible right at this moment, emotionally and physically. “Listen, I've got to get outta here for some fresh air. I'm going down for tea. Want some?”
Cough, cough
.

“No, thanks. You better take care of that. I don't want you getting me sick.”

“I appreciate the concern. That's what the tea is for.”

KAU CIM

I enter Chicken-Wing Deli and smile as I always do, because the name brings up some nice childhood memories. “Ain't no big thing, chicken wing.” I approach the register girl who doubles as the coffee girl.

“Usual?” she inquires.

“No. I need a tea.”
Cough, cough
. “Feeling under the weather. How about a green tea with peppermint?”

She studies my face, mixes my brew.

“Thanks,” I say, giving her the same good-bye smile I've flashed for a decade. But this time, it takes an effort. I'm not used to feeling sick, so I'm not very good at it. Plus, there's this Cookie business.

“What your problem?” she asks.

“What do you mean, Chi Chi?”

“Just asking, what problem? You got problem face.”

“Just business, Chi Chi, just business.”

“No. Chi Chi know you long time. You need see Betty.” I admire her stripped-down, highly focused English, I must say. It'd cut my workday in half if I could talk like Chi Chi in court.

“Who's Betty?”

“Betty my mom. She have parlor on second floor. You see Betty.” I know exactly who Betty is and what she does. Every Wednesday through Friday, there's a line running halfway down the street that forms at the entrance door to the second floor. They wait all day to see Betty, the Chinese psychic, whose neon sign blinks in one of the second-floor windows.

“Betty's your mom?”

“Betty Chi Chi mom. Call me Chi Chi after fortune sticks. You go see. Give advice, so you no worry. Maybe though, you worry more.”

“I'll wait in line Wednesday, thanks.”

“You go now.”

“But today is Monday.”

“Moment.” She yells out, “Walter! Walter!” The deli order-taking counter guys all lean back, creating an unobstructed channel of communication. Standing at the end, watching over the operations, is an old guy who's worked at Chicken-Wing since the day it opened.

He screams something back. Chi Chi goes into overdrive, speaking a mile a minute. Eventually, after a great deal of excited back and forth, he pulls his phone out.

“What was that all about?”

“I ask Dad if Mom upstairs. He say yes.”

“That's what your whole conversation was? Come on, Chi Chi. What else did you say?”
Cough, cough
.

“Nothing. You go upstairs. Take two apples. Give to Betty. No say from me. From you. Go.”

“But the neon sign isn't lit.”

“You go. She in.” How can I refuse this? I always wanted a Chinese psychic reading and now's as good a time as any. Maybe she can tell me if I'm going to get a fee on Cookie's case.