Lucky Leonardo (4 page)

It was difficult for the spouse to read news off the surgeon's face as he crossed the waiting room toward her. He was square-jawed, masculine, darkly handsome, and free of information leaks. She stood up. He greeted her by name, and bent down to her worried face. He spoke in a low, clear voice: “I think your husband will be fine. The leg will be in a cast for a while, but it should heal as good as new. The ribs will be painful, but will mend. The arm will require intensive therapy, and possibly additional procedures, but I am optimistic.”

Tears poured from the spouse's eyes. She shook uncontrollably at this great relief. This man was the closest thing to God she had ever seen. Capable of miracles. She looked up to him and said, “Doctor, thank you. Doctor, thank you.”

An hour later they allowed her to see her husband in post-op. He was bandaged from head to toe, and still groggy from the anesthesia, but he smiled the biggest smile ever when he saw her face, and in the most delicate way, barely touching a bandage, she embraced him. “Ben,” she said, “I love you.”

Meanwhile at a hospital across town things were not so optimistic for Eugene Binh. He was unconscious, in intensive care, in critical condition. He was bizarrely lucky to be alive. When he smashed through the glass wall, on his way to sure death upon impact with concrete seven floors below, his right foot caught one of the window-washer straps that hung from the roof and supported Ben Grevere's clandestine observation post. Instead of flying out from the building, Eugene's body was pulled back to the building by his stuck foot, like a door slamming on its hinge. He slammed into Ben, and then through the window on the floor below, ending up in a bleeding, broken heap on the plush carpet of the office of General Counsel Janet Casey.

“If I knew he wanted to see me that badly,” Janet quipped later that night in a wrap-up phone call to her boss Mulverne, “I would have left my window open.” She was sitting atop her desk in the study of her stylish waterfront condominium, wagging a leg. Brockleman sat with her, finishing his pizza. The room was crowded with the boxes and gear they had lugged from DeltaTek in response to Mulverne's order, delivered while the shit which hit the fan was still airborne, that they establish a secure off-site storage facility.

“Obviously I don't want to impede anybody's lawful investigation,” Mulverne said, “but I think we can keep Code B out of this.”

He had called Eugene's wife immediately after the ambulances were loaded and on their way, and after he verified that Eugene's doomsday connection was unplugged, and after he had Eugene's computers and software paraphernalia boxed and removed, and after he took video interviews of Johnny Angelo and Dr. Cook, and after he spoke to his close friend Police Chief Simmons, who agreed to take personal charge of the investigation, and after he approved an evasive press release. News of Eugene's dire situation did not warm Eugene's wife's heart or change her mind. “Mr. Mulverne,” she said, “I can't stand him living or dead.”

Back in the cool, shaded room. Some weeks later. A man spoke to the man.

“I'm sorry I'm late.”

“Yes.”

“Really, I'm sorry.”

“Yes.”

“Why are you making such a big deal about it? I said I was sorry. Why don't you just say, ‘Fine, not a problem,' and we'll move on?”

No response.

“It wasn't my fault. When I was ready to leave I couldn't find my keys. I couldn't find them. I had my jacket on. I had my wallet. I had my appointment book. I was all ready, but I couldn't find my keys. I had them this morning 'cause I was driving the car. So I knew they were around, but they like disappeared. What? You don't believe me? I looked in all my pockets. I looked on all the countertops. I looked under the bed. I looked through the wastebasket because I threw out some papers and I thought I might have dropped the keys into the wastebasket. I looked down the garbage disposal. I looked in the car, and outside the car. I started getting very…”

“Where were they?”

“In the door.”

“The door to your apartment?”

“The door to my fucking apartment.”

“What do you make of that?”

“I left them in the door. What's the big deal? You've never lost your keys? You never did anything stupid in your whole fucking perfect life? I'm sorry I'm late. I'm sorry I lost my keys. I'm sorry for every fucking thing. But can we please start? I'm paying for the therapy, not for you to tell me to wear dry socks and not to lose my fucking keys…”

Leonardo glanced over his patient's shoulder to the clock. Past the clock was the window, through which he could see his side yard, which in season was riotous with roses, but which now, on the day before Thanksgiving, was barren and dull. Still satisfying in its way, he observed. Unexpected movement caught his eye.

Generally speaking, Leonardo made light of his occupational safety. “It's not like I'm running an abortion clinic,” he wise-acred to the old lady who lived next door when she asked him whether he thought any of his patients posed a danger to the neighborhood.

“It only happens on television,” he reassured his son Harvey who worried out loud as they watched a criminal psychopath attack his lovely brunette psychiatrist with an AIDS-infected needle on one of the prime-time, big-city hospital dramas. “Besides,” Leonardo added, “she shouldn't have called the psychopath's mother without telling him first.”

“My stalkers only stalk their ex-girlfriends,” he thought about telling Chrissie when they heard a late-night thump in the backyard, and she jumped out of bed and ran to the window wild-eyed. But Leonardo wasn't reckless. He locked his doors at night. He listened for threats. He paid attention to unusual occurrences. When he saw unexpected movement in his side yard he investigated.

“Excuse me,” he said to his patient. “I'll be back in a minute.”

He walked outside into the cool air. A large man in a trench coat, whom Leonardo didn't recognize, was standing there. “May I help you?” Leonardo asked.

“Are you Leonardo Cook?”

“Yes I am. Who are you?”

The man reached deep into his coat, ominously deep, and after a chilling pause pulled out…papers. “What the…?” Leonardo yelped as the man touched his arm with the papers. “I'm a process server,” the man said. “You're served.”

“What happened?” his patient asked Leonardo when he returned.

“Nothing,” Leonardo answered. He had stuffed the papers into the back pocket of his pants. He hadn't read them. He figured it was Barbara trying to bust him for something or other. “I apologize.”

“Did you have to go to the bathroom?”

“No.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No, I'm not mad at you. Let's pick up with where we were.”

“We hadn't started...”

“Right…”

When the hour was done, and he had a few minutes before his next appointment, Leonardo spread out the papers. They were court papers, but not Barbara's. The plaintiffs were Eugene Binh and Susan H. Binh, husband and wife. Eugene Binh? Susan H. Binh? The defendants were DeltaTek and a list of others including, in black and white for all the world to see, Leonardo Cook, MD. He felt a shiver down his back. “Oh, boy,” he said. “What's this about?”

Great pain and suffering is what caught his eye as he flipped through the papers. This happened and that happened, causing Eugene Binh and Susan H. Binh great pain and suffering. And then other bad things happened, causing more great pain and suffering. There was great pain and suffering on every page, like the saddest novel ever written. A world of great pain and suffering. “Why me?” Leonardo wanted to know. “What did I do to deserve this?”

He was interrupted in his self-commiseration by the arrival sounds of his next patient, Michelle, with the breasts, who contemplated reduction surgery. He collected the papers and folded them back together, noticing a quiver in his left hand.

Michelle entered and started talking right away about her mother and her plans for Thanksgiving dinner at her mother's house, and how her mother was jealous of her breasts. The breasts came to the session bra-less and restless, in a loose and low-cut tank top. They were half-way out to start with, and after a few close calls as Michelle's sobs bent her farther and farther forward they managed to flop themselves completely out. “Oops,” Michelle said, allowing them a few seconds to bask in the open air, like they were award-winning watermelons, before she tucked them back in as best she could.

This showing did not distract Leonardo. “Why the fuck are they suing me?” he asked in silent outrage, over and over until the end of the session.

When Michelle stood to leave she said, “Dr. Cook, today I felt for the first time that you really cared about me. That we bonded. That means a lot to me. I hope you have a nice Thanksgiving.”

Leonardo located Brockleman's business card in his desk drawer. Big Brockleman was a lawyer in a big firm in the financial district downtown. Leonardo had been to his fancy offices to prepare testimony in connection with the case of the May/December—July/December?—romance, and once for lunch with Brockleman in the firm's tie-and-jacket dining room to discuss cross-marketing, and one other time at Brockleman's request to help a business mediator figure out how two brothers who refused to talk to each other could continue as partners in their lucrative family business. The mediation included field trips to the brothers' childhood home and to their parents' graves, and at Leonardo's suggestion detailed interviews with their wives and mothers-in-law. The mothers-in-law came up big, and earned Leonardo a bonus.

The card listed Brockleman's direct line, which Leonardo dialed. Brockleman's secretary, Selma Floyd (whom we last saw leaning over Brockleman's casket, with her skirt riding up her thighs), answered: “Mr. Brockleman's office.”

“Is he in?”

“Yes, may I tell him who's calling?”

“Leonardo Cook.”

“Oh, Dr. Cook. Hold on please.”

Leonardo got classic rock for more than a minute before Selma returned. “I'm sorry, Dr. Cook. Mr. Brockleman asks if he may call you back?”

“I'd like to hold. Would you tell him it's important?”

“Yes, of course. Please hold.”

Leonardo got more classic rock, nearly a lifetime supply, before Brockleman finally picked up. “Lenny, how are you?”

“Bad. I just got served with a million dollar lawsuit.”

“Right. I meant to give you a heads up, but things have been hectic.”

“They have all these lies and distortions…”

“Did you see they've scheduled a hearing on their motion to attach your house for, let me see, a week from tomorrow at 2:00 pm. Did you see that?”

“What?”

“One of the top papers. The notice of hearing?”

“How can they do that? What are they even suing me for? All I did was try to help the guy. I never met his wife. I haven't even been paid yet by DeltaTek for my time.”

“Right. I heard there was some dissatisfaction with your bill.”

“What?”

“I guess they were expecting a…better job.”

“What? You know it wasn't my fault. Nobody told me a guy was going to sneak in and pounce on Eugene and scare him to death. That was the stupidest thing I've ever seen. We talked about all that at the post mortem.”

“I'm told the whole matter is being reviewed.”

“That doesn't sound good to me, Bill.”

“Right.”

“How's Eugene?”

“Last I heard he was alive and in rehab, but that was before his lawyers put a black-out on the medicals.”

“I'm assuming you're going to defend me in this.”

“You mean on your bill? Of course I'll try to get you paid.”

“No, I mean in the lawsuit.”

“Oh, well I don't know. There may be conflicts. There may be, uh, other claims. The company may not be, uh, obligated. We're still in a very early stage here. Keep in mind you're not the only defendant, and you're a small fry defendant anyway. Take a look at the ugly allegations they're making against DeltaTek….”

“I…”

“I only saw these papers yesterday, Lenny. I don't even know what role I'll be playing. More to the point, you have malpractice insurance.”

“Huh?”

“Malpractice insurance. You carry a million underlying and a million umbrella.”

“How do you…”

“I asked you for a certificate.”

“Oh…”

“I think you should call your insurer right away. My guess is at least some of the claims are covered including cost of defense, up to the policy limits. I don't know about coverage on the conspiracy claims, or what kind of exclusion your policy has for intentional deceit. You know insurance policies, they insure against all claims except the ones made against you. Hah, hah, hah.”

“What intentional deceit?”

“Well, Count XIV says you intended to deceive Eugene into thinking you were his psychiatrist. Did you see that one?”

“No, I haven't really...”

“Count XV gets into breach of fiduciary duties…”

“What?”

“They say you knew or should have known about Johnny Angelo sneaking in…”

“What?”

“Take a look at Count XVI. It says you aided and abetted violation of the Americans with Disabilities Act. How's that one grab you? Very ingenious pleading. His lawyers are nobody's fools.”

“What disability?”

“They say his disability was that he was crazy.”

“Does that work? I mean, you don't think that's bullshit?”

“Lenny, this is civil litigation. If a jury buys it, it stops being bullshit.”

“But…”

“And Lenny?

“Yes?”

“This is business. Don't think of me as your friend.”

The call ended. Not a good call. Leonardo downed the receiver and paced his office. He felt warm. He started to sweat. He peeled off his sweater.
I did nothing wrong,
he said to himself.
I'm sure I did nothing wrong. I calmed Eugene down. I got him talking, about his wife, his job, his life. I got him in touch with—maybe within sight of—generally accepted reality. How could I anticipate the insanity of the final seconds? But apparently it doesn't matter that I was careful and sensitive and professional. Apparently it doesn't matter that I did nothing wrong. Apparently the only thing that matters is whether they can twist the facts to make it look like I did something wrong. Which means...

Leonardo dabbed his brow, and made himself drink a cup of water and call his malpractice carrier. They took his information, and told him they would call him back. “When?” he asked. “As soon as possible,” they answered. “There's a hearing next Thursday,” he said. “Yes, we wrote that down,” they answered. He hung up, and dabbed some more and paced some more. The afternoon was darkening and slipping away.

“Who else can I can talk to?” he asked his framed photograph of Sigmund Freud. “Or in the alternative, what's on the shelf in my medicine cabinet?”

He called Mark Seltz, his divorce attorney. A receptionist answered: “Law offices.” Leonardo introduced himself, and asked for Mark.

“Mr. Seltz is on vacation.”

“Until when?”

“Until next week.”

“Is he reachable?”

“He's climbing a mountain in Colorado.”

“Oh.”

“Can somebody else help you?”

“There's an attorney there named Albert, who works with Mark?”

“We don't have an Albert. We have an Alfred.”

“Did you used to have an Albert?”

“I'm new. I don't know.”

“Well, is Alfred there?”

“He's left for the day.”

“Oh. Is there some other attorney I can talk to? I don't really care who. I have an emergency.”

“Hold on please.”

Leonardo spent hard time in Mark Seltz' office during the divorce. Old building. Nothing fancy. A few lawyers. Economy class. Pleasant enough. Crappy results. The receptionist returned. “Nobody seems to be available right now, Dr. Cook…”

Leonardo disconnected and stared into the enveloping darkness. “What now?” he asked himself. “Maybe I'll go for a drive. Where are my fucking keys…”