Suzy's Case: A Novel (35 page)

I
t’s impossible to elevate your leg while sitting on a bar stool, so the cab ride into Brooklyn is a welcome rest. Not coma restful, but restful enough.

The driver comes off the Manhattan Bridge and pulls up to the red light at the corner of Tillary Street. I hear the sound of basketballs spanking the pavement with authority coming from the courts just to my right. Men from the hard side, setting stiff picks and committing fouls with intent, and barking smack at one another so sharply I can feel the edge of competition a block away inside the cab. You win, you stay on, you lose, you sit, yelling “Next!” as you walk off the court, only to be corrected by the guys on the sideline in a challenging way. “We got next.”

The light turns green and I feel a sense of relief that we’re moving away from the conflict on the courts. I played one game there when I was a first-year law student and quickly realized I was out of my league and out of my element.

We pull up and the Smith Pavilion looks closed. I struggle out of the taxi and hobble toward the entrance, thinking how fortunate I am to have a walking boot instead of crutches. I enter the deserted building, noting for the first time the sting of a pressure blister on my heel.

The place looks completely different from the last time I was here, but I realize it’s the absence of human activity making the difference.
There’s no one around, not one single person, not even the security guard who appreciated I had to bring Otis because of my wife’s commitment to her Brazilian hair removal therapist. I find it odd in this part of Brooklyn not to have twenty-four-hour security, but that Smith is tight isn’t a matter for debate.

Before pushing the up button, a flickering light on the elevator tracking panel catches my eye. The light is marking the elevator’s progress down. But when the door opens in front of me there’s no one there. That’s weird. I always thought motion had to be initiated by the press of a button. I get in and press 4.

Stepping out into the dark hallway, I know the sign in front of me reads:
HEMATOLOGY DIVISION, SMITH SICKLE CELL PEDIATRIC CARE CENTER,
with an arrow underneath pointing to my right, but I can hardly make it out. I begin walking down the corridor toward the fluorescent light escaping from underneath the Hematology Division doors ahead of me. The iridescent time on my watch reads nine-thirty. Where is everybody? Anybody?

When I’m about twenty feet away, the right-hand door slowly opens outward. I see Smith’s silhouette image holding the door open. His shadow looks like a big black egg with a short arm popping out of the shell.

“Great. You’re right on time,” he greets me as I slowly move toward him.

“I know your rules. I can’t afford to be late.”

“Follow me,” he directs. “My wife’s waiting for you in her office.”

I follow, but he’s trotting faster than I can hobble. He stops at Dr. Laura’s office, then looks back at me. He seems annoyed the journey is taking me so long, but the stingy little control freak can go shove it, having me come out here at this time of night. I shamble past him and see the doctor is seated behind her desk. The next thing I notice is that all her diplomas are back on the wall, the name Laura Smith on each one.

She smiles. “Hi. I’m glad you could make it at this late hour.”

“No problem at all. This is an important case and an important meeting.”

“Yes, it is. Please have a seat.” She looks at me curiously. “What happened to you?”

“Car accident, but I’m okay.”

Before I can get my next word out, a loud throat-clearing is heard. I look over. “Let me guess. The check?”

“Yes, the check.” Smith confirms my hunch.

“Here it is,” I reply, plucking it from my wallet.

He examines it, wrinkling his nose but making no comment.

I turn back to Dr. Laura, sitting attentively behind her desk, as Smith voluntarily leaves without protesting to stay. A deviation from his normal behavior. Interesting.

“First order of business. I need your CV, or whatever you use as a summation of your medical education, training, board certifications, awards, hospital affiliations, and the like.”

“My husband mailed it to you per your request just after you left here last time.”

“I don’t doubt he did, but it’s just that I never got it. Do you have another?”

“I’ll have my husband get it for you before you leave.”

“Do you think I could have it now? I’m postcoma, and my short-term memory likes to play hide-and-seek. I don’t want to forget.”

“If you insist.” She looks out into the hall, calling in a loud but apologetic voice, “Dear, I’m sorry to trouble you!” She pauses, the type one employs when waiting for someone to turn around and respond. “Would you bring in a copy of my CV, please? He never received the one you mailed!” She sits back down. “He’ll bring it.”

“I see you got your reissued diplomas.”

“Yes, we put them up just yesterday.”

I briefly admire them, complimenting her on the presentation and framing, then get to the point of my visit. “Let me bring you up to speed. I’ve confirmed that what happened to Suzy was indeed an electrocution.”

“Oh?” At least she doesn’t turn white this time.

“Yes. What was a strong theory supported by physical evidence when I last met with you is now a certainty.”

“How so?” Dr. Laura looks interested. Just not as interested as I’d like.

“I received a letter from a representative of a company named Toledo, which manufactured and supplied heart monitors to the defendant hospital. He told me a patient had been electrocuted in the same exact manner three years before Suzy’s event. More important, he said Brooklyn Catholic Hospital had been informed of this event by written letter. Toledo, in fact, sent the hospital an adapter that would have wholly prevented Suzy’s electrocution, but obviously the hospital never placed it on the defective machine.”

Dr. Laura still doesn’t look as excited as I thought she would. Maybe Horatio Cohen and Dr. Mickey Mack were right.

“I brought for your review a copy of the Toledo letter, together with a statement made by the hospital attorney saying in effect they don’t have the Toledo letter. This is despite a certified return receipt establishing otherwise. I also brought my expert engineer’s affidavit, and crafted a proposed affidavit for you to read—and, I hope sign—which will likely defeat the hospital’s dismissal motion. You might note certain contents in your affidavit are also in support of my cross-motion to add a new claim, which basically states the hospital was negligent by failing to utilize the adapter. I am also making a claim for punitive damages.”

Dr. Laura once again has suddenly lost all color. “Can I see the Toledo letter and everything else?” she requests.

“Sure. That’s why I brought it.” I hand her the documents, and she begins to read.

A few minutes in I interrupt her reading. “Doctor, would you mind if I elevated my broken leg on the edge of your desk? It’s throbbing pretty badly.”

She nods distractedly.

A moment later, I hear Smith’s approaching footsteps. He enters with a sheet of paper in hand and places it on the desk in front of her.

Dr. Laura looks up at her husband. “Dear, it’s confirmed. Suzy Williams apparently
was
electrocuted. According to these documents,
one can conclude the hospital knew of the danger and failed to place an adapter on the monitor that would’ve prevented the occurrence of this unfortunate tragedy.”

“That’s horrible,” he responds. “Can I see those papers?” He points to the documents in her hand.

Dr. Laura looks to me for permission. “Is it okay?”

“Sure. Meanwhile, why don’t you hand me your CV so I can look it over while your husband is reading that stuff?”

Dr. Laura looks to him for approval. “Is that okay, dear?”

He hesitates. “Fine.” She hands her husband my documents and me her CV. What a weak person she is, having to ask permission before making almost any move. It sure seems odd for someone in the medical profession, since they daily must make life-or-death decisions. I gaze over her CV without absorbing any of it because I’m too distracted thinking about Smith’s reaction to what I handed him. He controls Dr. Laura’s every move. He’s the one who has to be convinced about Suzy’s case, not her. Besides, I’m also too beat up, drugged, and exhausted right now to examine the minutiae of Dr. Laura’s life anyway. I fold it up into a neat little rectangle and submerge it in the inside pocket of my suit jacket for safekeeping.

As it disappears from view, I realize something seemed familiar on that quick glance I gave it, but I can’t place what. I hate my head-trauma-acquired inability to access information from my brain in the snap of a synapse. It’s frustrating in the extreme. Smith motions toward the desk, setting down my documents in front of his wife. They look at each other with a strangely complicitous air. What’s that all about?

“Well?”

“This is sad,” he says. I have to note, though, he doesn’t look convincingly affected.

“V-v-very sad,” Dr. Laura chimes in.

“It’s more than sad, it’s criminal,” I tell them. “The hospital had nearly three years to plug a ten-cent adapter into that machine and failed to do so. There’s no reasonable excuse for such gross
misconduct. Someone’s going to go down for this criminal act of neglect, and the hospital’s going to pay big-time.”

Instead of responding to what I thought was a rather impassioned statement, Smith chooses to gaze at the diplomas on the wall. “Laura, the end one’s a little off. Did someone touch it?”

“No it’s not. It’s perfectly even,” I say, confirming what I saw earlier.

On the word
even,
he makes a quick move at me.

“Steven, no! You promised!” Dr. Laura screams.

He kills the bee that just stung my shoulder with a hand smack. Only there’s no bee, I wasn’t stung, and that was no hand smack. As he withdraws his arm I see a needle attached to a syringe.

I know the answer given how I’m feeling—unable to rise—but I ask him anyway, “Did you just stick me with that after distracting me to look away?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I can’t believe I fell for that. That’s the maneuver I use to steal food off my kids’ plates. What the hell? Why did you inject me?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“No, I
don’t
know why the husband of my expert has apparently drugged me.”

“Huh. I gave you too much credit. How are you feeling?”

“Queasy, just about to pass out. What did you stick me with?”

“A narcotic. You’ll be asleep in a few moments, but at least it should take care of the pain from your injuries.”

As I descend into this new coma, I think how this will give rise to another story line for Margo. If I live. The thought brings a smile to my face, which I quickly lose as my walking boot slides off the edge of the desk. I watch helplessly as it crashes to the floor, shattering the heel into a few large pieces. Meanwhile, I’m dimly aware they’re arguing and that they stop to see what the bang was, then pick up where they left off.

It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her speak to him sharply, but I can hardly make out what the dispute is about as I fall deeper and deeper into an unconscious state. The one thing I distinctly hear her say,
because of its repetition and distinct tone of disappointment, is, “You promised nobody would get hurt.”

The room begins to swirl around me. The medical term would be
vertigo
. I must admit, though, I feel no ankle pain, like Smith promised.

The Smiths finally stop their heated bickering, the content of which I am unable to fully register, but the argument is far from over. Now he moves in front of me, peering into my face in an evaluating kind of way. His own looks are distorted, fun-house-style, and suddenly Dr. Laura appears next to him. She bends down to see if I’m still awake by checking the reactivity of my pupils with a beam of light. I’m still awake, Dr. Laura, but paralyzed from the drug your motherfucking husband stuck me with. If she were doing a Glasgow Coma Scale evaluation, I’d score a 12, but in serious rapid decline. Margo, Margo,
Margo
!

I have enough strength to say something. I want to say something. I want to appeal to Dr. Laura’s sense of reason. I know she’s good at heart. I don’t know why that evil husband of hers did this, but it’s definitely not worth it. She feels my carotid for a pulse, then flashes her penlight into my eyes again, back and forth, back and forth. I always wanted one of those lights when I was a kid, but never got one.

“He’s still awake, but his pupil reaction is very sluggish. What did you give him and how much?” Dr. Laura says in a slow and garbled voice.

I muster enough strength to raise my chin off my chest. I can tell Dr. Laura is surprised by my neck control. I want to appeal to her better nature and good sense. But I can’t even stay upright. Next thing I know I’ve hit the floor and something’s moving my feet around. Moments later, I sense Smith dragging me down the dark hall. He’s pulling a rope tied to my ankles and dragging me one wobbly backward step at a time. He has the other end of the rope tied around his waist, with some four feet of slack between us. As we reach the elevator he gives one last strong tug on the rope, sliding my heavy structure a good two feet. By the nature of that dehumanizing last yank, I feel like a body heading for disposal.

I somehow sense I am about to awaken, but before I regain consciousness I want to acknowledge how much I hate Henry Benson. I don’t want to waste a single wakeful thought on that arrogant ass, so I’m gonna get it done now as I climb the Glasgow Coma Scale back into consciousness.

Life before Benson started referring his HICs to me was quiet and safe. Life after Benson has been a big fucking hassle. Now I’m drugged, tied up, dragged on my ass down a very long corridor by a psychopathic midget, and locked up in what feels like the trunk of a car. Kidnapped! For what or why I have no idea. I’m a
lawyer,
goddamn it. What could I possibly have done to land myself in this predicament?