Suzy's Case: A Novel (10 page)

Time to say hello to one of Henry’s injured criminals and my new HIC client.

“Bert Beecher?” I ask. He looks up for the first time.

“Yeah, that’s me.” He gives Mile High and pals an unfriendly stare—real unfriendly, like inciting-a-riot unfriendly. They huddle closer.

Bert looks at Otis. “Nice mutt,” he says, which is not intended as a compliment.

“Mr. Beecher,” I tell him, “I’ll be with you in a moment. Wait right here, please.” I turn to the trio. “You guys with me.”

I open what I call the “spy door” that separates reception from my internal office and walk five steps down the hall. “Now go in here,” I direct as I open the door to my conference room and put on the lights. “My paralegal, Lily, will be right in to take your information and have you sign some documents,” I say to Mile High. “She’s really good-looking and I expect you and these two to be on your best behavior. We cool?”

“We cool,” Mile High confirms, then pauses. I don’t like the feel of it. It’s the type of pause someone gives when they intend to do the reverse of what they just promised.

“What’s your name anyway?” I ask him, thinking I should apologize for not asking him sooner.

“I was wondering when you were going to ask. Barton Jackson the Third,” Mile High responds.

Oops. Too late. I restate my concern. “I mean it, now, Barton Jackson the Third—best behavior.”

“Yeah,” Mile High says too quickly.

I don’t like it. He’s playing with me. I need to keep this going until he reveals himself. “In a few moments,” I explain, “a twenty-nine-year-old dark-haired, dark-skinned, dark-eyed, saucy PR beauty who’s almost six feet tall, slender, with a ten body, who walks with grace, elegance, and a booty call is going to come through that door. If I’m not mistaken, Lily’s going to be wearing hip-hugging, wrinkle-free pants that showcase her smoking ass. Can you still be on your best behavior?”

“Yeah, yeah. We cool.” Mile High pauses significantly again. He doesn’t know it’s significant, but it is. I detect a lip quiver, like he’s not serious about what he said, then suddenly, he breaks out in laughter and gives in. “Okay, all right. I won’t play no games on your girl. You found me out. She’s gonna get all our respect. Now, how we gettin’ back to Brooklyn?”

I take a hundred out. “Lily will be instructed to give you this if she feels you respected her. It should be enough to get you home in a cab.”

Mile High grins. “Thanks.” We both know he’ll be pocketing the hundred and taking the number 4 train home and I’m fine with that. No harm in giving a little spending money to the recently discharged. “What’s with that psycho killer?” he asks me.

“I don’t know. I never met him before, but I’m pretty sure he’s an ignorant racist from the swamp. Pay no attention to guys like him. Nothing good can come from it.”

“Where can I get some of that cherry bud I’m smelling?” he asks. “That’s African Buzz. I know that scent. That air freshener ain’t throwing me off.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Deny, deny, deny.

I leave, closing the door behind me, and walk back toward the reception area to fetch Bert Beecher. Before I open I sneak a peak at Bert through the window panel, making sure he can’t see me. That’s why I call it the spy door. He’s dressed in a blue flannel work shirt, sleeves rolled up and unbuttoned and open to a stained white T-shirt. My guess would be all-you-can-eat ribs. His big stomach is hanging over his belt, resting on his thighs, and he’s got loosely laced work boots on, with the bottom of his grimy jeans tucked behind the tongue. He’s just sitting there slowly choking to death that handgrip exerciser, intently watching his hand motion with pleasure.

He’s got a full head of unkempt dirty brown hair, and that alone makes me hate this guy. What the hell does a monster like that need good hair for, anyway? Bert’s nose looks like it’s been smashed down a few times and he has thirty-six-hour scruff covering his face. Oddly, he’s carrying a men’s Gucci bag. It’s the classic tan color with the
G
insignia pattern and signature green-bordered red stripe. Maybe he’s their alligator skin supplier.

I open the door. “Mr. Beecher!” I call out.

He follows. As we pass Lily’s station, I say, “There’s a new sign-up waiting for you in the conference room. The kid got run over up in Harlem in front of the Apollo Theater.”

“Is it an HIC?”

“No, it’s a direct matter, no referring attorney. Sign it up.” I continue with Bert and Otis into my office.

“Have a seat,” I tell him, patting the back of one of my guest chairs with an inviting gesture. I take a seat on the other side of my large bird’s-eye maple desk.

Before I get a word out, Bert Beecher speaks. “What’s an HIC?”

I respond with a lie. “Heavy Injury Case,” I say, accompanying it with the kind of smile that surfaces on your face when you’ve entertained yourself with the lie you’ve just spoken.

“Then why’d you tell her it was a direct matter without an attorney referring the kid to you the way Benson sent Betty over here?”

My smile disappears.

“No reason,” I say, skirting the issue. I make note of his acumen. Henry did warn me. Swamp Thing leaves it alone, after a pause. Or maybe he just filed it away. “Mr. Beecher, as you know, your wife formally changed attorneys from Henry Benson and I’m now her trial counsel.”

“Yeah?”

“As you also already know, her case was conditionally settled by Mr. Benson for six hundred thousand dollars for both claims, hers and yours.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, we can’t effectuate the settlement without your cooperation.”

“That I know. And—”

“And your wife, who was the injured party, has authorized me to offer you five percent of the client’s share, in order to get this case resolved. It’s the standard amount for a claim like yours.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve asked you here today hoping to obtain your cooperation so we can finalize the settlement.”

“Yeah?” Beecher repeats.

“That’s about it. I need you to sign a general release reflecting your consent to accept five percent, which I would suggest is reasonable under the circumstances.”

“Fine, but tack a zero on after the five. I want half the money just like the law says.” I pause.
Just like the law says,
I repeat in my mind. What is this guy talking about? I tilt my head and look him in the face, seeking a clue.

His nose is smashed down and to his right. That must have been some punch. Bert’s upper lip, with its blood-filled cracks, is irregular near the center where a tiny scar crawls up to under his nose, evidencing a surgically repaired cleft palate. Dirt fills the creases coming off the corners of his eyes, which are squinting in emphasis of his point. He’s giving me the mean face, with his head cocked to the side. I look down at his hand and he has that exerciser vise-gripped closed.

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Then there’s nothing left to talk about. I’m leaving.”

“Mr. Beecher, please don’t go. I think we should play this out a little more and see if we can resolve things favorably for everyone.”

“What’s there to resolve? My ex can’t get the money unless I sign off, and I’m not signing off unless I get half. I know Betty needs the money and she’s gonna get desperate, so I’ll wait her out. Besides, I know the divorce law says each person gets half the money, right? Why should I take less?”

I nod in understanding of his misunderstanding. “I see where you’re coming from now, Mr. Beecher. I think you may have a mix-up about the law here.”

“Yeah? How so?” Get ready for a dose of reality, Bert. It’s back to the swamp for you.

“Despite you two being legally married at the time she was malpracticed, money from an injury lawsuit is not marital property subject to the equitable-distribution divorce laws of New York. You’re not
entitled to half of that money. In fact, you’re not entitled to a penny of it. That money is for the injury Betty sustained to her corneas as a result of the surgeon forgetting to remove the eye shields at the end of her surgery. The law sees it as compensation to make the injured party whole again. It’s not viewed as income that would be subject to a split like you’re suggesting. Your wife doesn’t even have to pay taxes on it for that very same reason.”

“Tell that to someone else. I want half. That’s what the law says. Half. Especially now that I know she don’t have to pay no taxes on it, even though she don’t pay no taxes anyway.”

“Is that your final word on this topic?”

“Half.” We enter into a Mexican standoff pause.

I give in first. Time to change direction. “Okay, since we can’t resolve things, let’s fully discuss the nature of your claim, just so there are no surprises during the course of the lawsuit or at trial.”

“Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“I represent both you and your wife since, again, you two were legally married at the time she was injured. My job is to get your wife fairly compensated for her injuries and you fairly compensated for your loss concerning how you were affected by her injuries. I have an obligation to both of you individually, as my clients—and I will never compromise one in favor of the other.”

Beecher smiles. “I’m happy to hear that. Now you’re talking.” He takes the wrist strap off his hairy hand and places his Gucci bag on the floor. Good, harmonious conduct suggesting he’s going to stay a while.

“As the husband of the injured person, you’re entitled to be compensated for the loss of your wife’s services for the time period measuring from the date of the incident up until the day that you two split. According to the file, that was six months. So I’ll argue to the jury that you sustained a loss for that period of time.”

“Sounds fine to me.”

“It might sound fine to you, but the type of injury your wife sustained is, in fact, not typically the kind of injury a husband would lose his wife’s services from.”

Beecher gives me a quizzical look. “What do you mean by ‘services’?”

“A claim for loss of services on behalf of the noninjured spouse,” I explain, “is for things the injured was prevented from doing around the home and the disruption of the quantity and quality of the intimate or sexual marital relationship.”

Beecher grins broadly. “Then I have a big claim here. Sex sucked after this operation. I want half, like the law says, or we go to trial.”

I refrain from correcting Bert on his continued misstatement of law, knowing it will get me nowhere. A Zen master would call it “accepting what is.” A good lawyer would call it “mistake of the law is no defense”—you do the crime, you do the time. “Mr. Beecher, your wife had a nose job, a chin implant, her lips enlarged, her brow lifted, and her eyelids done during the procedure. Basically, a facial rehab.”

“Figures,” Bert cuts in, “I had to marry a piece of trash that cares about how she looks. That costs bucks, you know.”

“Anyway,” I continue, “Betty was left with scratches to the corneas of her eyes. This compromises the ability for tears to spread evenly resulting in a condition known as dry eyes, which she successfully treats with eye lubricants. It’s my opinion—and I stress, it’s only my opinion—that a jury is going to struggle with giving you money for a compromise to your sex life because Betty’s eyes are dry. However, I could be wrong.”

“I want half,” Beecher repeats, mantra-like.

“I understand. So let’s continue with how this will play out in court. First of all, when you’re on the witness stand the judge is to your right and the jury is to your left, just like you see on television during a courtroom scene. Know what I mean?”

“I don’t watch television.”

“I’m sure sometime in your life you’ve seen a courtroom scene on TV.”

“Like I said,” Beecher replies testily, “I don’t watch TV.”

“Well, just like in the movies, then. Like the trial scene in
My Cousin Vinny
or
A Few Good Men
.”

“I don’t go to the movies, either.”

“Mr. Beecher, certainly at least one time in your life you’ve seen a courtroom drama play out on television or in the movies?”

“Never.”

“Never ever?”

“Never ever, ever.”

“Interesting.”

“Interesting?” Beecher asks. “Why interesting?”

“Whenever someone says ‘never’ to something, bells just go off in my head like an alarm, signaling to me someone’s being less than candid.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.

“You calling me a liar?” Beecher threatens. No maybes about it.

Otis, who’s been lying quietly to my left, jumps to his feet. I give him a “good boy” pat. “Down, Otis!” I command. He lies back again, but continues to keep a watchful eye on Bert.

“Please settle down, you’re making Otis nervous. Of course I’m not calling you a liar. You’re my client and I believe everything you say. Just understand that the judge is to your right and the jury is to your left just like they were during your attempted murder trial.”

“Oh, is that what you mean? Why didn’t you say so?” He grins at me as if I were his entertainment.

“Now, let’s turn to the testimony forming the basis of your claim. I read your prelawsuit deposition under oath and I also read Betty’s medical records. I found direct conflicts between the two.”

“There you go again, calling me a liar.”

“No I’m not,” I quickly retort.

“Yes you are!” he yells in a firm voice, hand exerciser closed, popping up from the chair with intent to cause serious bodily harm. I instinctively jump up from my seat as Otis whips to his feet and lets out a serious warning growl. Bert looks to the dog, then back at me. A moment ago he put his Gucci bag down in peace and now we’re up and ready to brawl. I got beads of sweat collecting on my shiny dome, knowing it’s near impossible for me to look tough given the pattern of my baldness. It’s moments like this I wish I had gone skinhead instead of buzz cut.

Something’s got to give.

He looks back at Otis, whose lips are now retracted, showing his teeth, giving a low-pitched snarl. “I’ve had enough of this legal mumbo jumbo.” Bert picks up his Gucci, turns, and leaves, stomping out, going back to the swamp.

I plop to my chair in relief. I look over at man’s best friend. He’s licking his balls like nothing happened. I wish I could do that. Not lick my balls, but move past a conflict like it never happened.