Suzy's Case: A Novel (41 page)

Toby’s still on the phone, presumably with the judge. When she finishes, she makes two more calls. Then, addressing us, she says, “Everyone who needs to be here is on their way.”

As the judge enters, she finishes zipping up her robe. “All parties please note their appearance for the record.” When she speaks, the mood of the room changes. The game is afoot.

Since I represent the plaintiff, and the plaintiff has the burden of proof, most anything that has to be done or said in the courtroom starts with me. I give my appearance as such in the appropriate dignified manner.

The Weasel places her appearance on the record and the appearances of the hospital’s independent attorney and the money person as well.

The judge addresses all of us. “Counsel for both sides, we’re going to go off the record for a moment.”

The reporter ostentatiously raises her hands after striking the last key. “Thank God,” she murmurs. Quite the complainer. I mean, we gave only our names. If she thinks this little exercise is painful, she wouldn’t exactly have cherished my last few days.

The Weasel and I approach the bench and step up on the little platform. “So, what do we have going on here that brought me from chambers at this late hour?”

The Weasel responds by addressing the bench. “Judge, we’re here to settle the case. By settling this case we are not admitting, conceding, or confirming anything was done wrong or that liability attaches. We’re settling it for reasons that may have no relation to the claims made by plaintiff’s counsel. Simply stated, we just want the case done, to eliminate the uncertain conclusion of a jury trial.”

“As long as it’s off my docket,” the judge informs us, “I don’t care why you’re settling the case—that is, as long as the child is fairly compensated. I won’t sign an Infant’s Compromise Order otherwise. So, what’s the settlement number? Present value, of course.”

It’s at this very moment I realize I’ve never given the Weasel a settlement demand, which is how such negotiations normally begin, but this is no normal case. “Counsel knows the value of this type of injury,” I state. “I’m listening.”

“We took the numbers from your Life Care Plan,” the Weasel says, “and intend to pay it to the penny, four-point-two million.”

“Perfect. Now Suzy’s future medical care and special needs will be covered and she can go off Medicaid. What are you adding for her past and future pain and suffering and loss of enjoyment of life?”

The Weasel sighs. “We’re prepared to offer another three million for the pain and suffering, for a package of seven-point-two.”

“You’re low and you know it,” I tell her.

“I’m here to close the case and save where I can. What were you thinking?”

“Five million, not a penny less, for her pain and suffering. It’s not negotiable. We close Suzy’s case at nine-point-two. I’d suggest your
structure guy can take this up-front lump sum, place it in a conservative annuity, and project a thirty-five-million-dollar payout over the course of her expected life. I’ll be using Brian Levine from Structure Solutions as my settlements consultant to check on Evergreen’s numbers. I also insist on having the payments guaranteed for thirty years in the event of Suzy’s premature death.”

“As tragic as this little girl’s condition is, that sounds awfully high,” Judge Schneider comments.

“Judge, my client seems to have some understanding of her unfortunate imprisonment and what’s going on around her. In a strange way that I cannot put into words, she has a jovial acceptance of her life predicament. She’s happy and excited and sad and down at just the right moments in response to her environment. The number’s nine-point-two without getting more into the specifics of this matter—and counsel knows what I mean.”

“Judge,” the defense now requests, “may I have a moment to confer with the hospital’s private counsel and the structured-settlement representative?”

“Go ahead.”

The Weasel walks away and begins her discussions. I turn and give June an affirmative nod and she responds with a smile.

“You may join your client, counselor.” That’s the judge’s way of saying go away. We sit and wait, and neither of us says anything. I see Dog’s little nose poking through June’s bag. After ten minutes of corner whispering, the henchmen break their huddle. We approach the bench.

“We have a settled case,” the Weasel declares. “I’ll forward you the appropriate closing documents and included in the package will be a nondisclosure agreement. This will be a sealed settlement, or no settlement at all. Let’s place this on the record.”

“I hate being a part of the medical community’s continued suppression of their malpracticing ways, but the interests of my client outweigh my personal beliefs, so fine, nondisclosure it will be.”

The judge bangs her gavel twice. In a loud clear voice, she pronounces, “Mazel tov, people. We have a settled case.”

“Judge,” I say, “I can’t step on the glass yet.”

“What do you mean?” McGillicuddy asks.

“Well, June Williams has a claim for the loss of Suzy’s services and she has just about given up her individual existence to take care of her daughter twenty-four/seven.”

Judge Schneider nods in agreement. “That’s very true. Toby tells me she designed her fabulous bag I admired so much last time she was here. She might well have made a career out of that.”

The Weasel is furious. “Why didn’t you bring up Ms. Williams’s claim for loss of services when we were negotiating?”

“Well, I was addressing Suzy’s claim first.” I pause, then motion for her to come a little closer for privacy. “You’re not going to take the position in front of the hospital’s lead counsel that you forgot about June’s claim, are you?” I whisper. “I mean, that’s the guy who hired you and your law firm to save them money. I would suggest that’d be a foolish position.”

The Weasel knows I’m right. I can see it in her face, along with her anger.

I glance back at the judge, who’s not paying attention. But then she says, unexpectedly, “It would look pretty bad if you took issue, like you forgot about her claim.”

The Weasel is pissed. “What do you need to close June’s case?” she demands.

I put my pinky up to the corner of my mouth in Dr. Evil style. “One million dollars.”

“Yeah, baby.” The judge can’t resist making an Austin Powers reference of her own. The Weasel is not entertained.

“The Appellate Division has never sustained more than five hundred thousand dollars for a loss-of-services claim,” the Weasel declares.

“We’re settling the case, not litigating it subject to appellate review. One million is fair under the circumstances.”

The Weasel shakes her head. “Give me a moment,” she mutters, stalking back to her cohorts.

I look back at June again, who mouths,
What’s going on?
I mouth back,
Sch-weet, Vegas, sch-weet.
She smiles.

The Weasel’s at my side again. “They won’t pay a penny more than seven hundred fifty thousand.”

The judge looks down at me like I’d be crazy not to take it. “Can I bang my gavel now?”

“Bang away, Your Honor.”

She does. “Mazel tov again, for sure, everybody. Who wants to place the settlement on the record?”

Whenever I settle a case that was hotly contested by defense counsel, big or small, I make them place the settlement on the record. It’s like rubbing their face in it so they should remember for the next time we meet. “Ms. McGillicuddy can place the settlement on the record,” I suggest.

“No, you can.”

“Oh no. You do it.”

The Weasel gives me her hundredth or so maddened look of the afternoon, then takes a step off the platform and looks at the court reporter. “You ready?”

“Ready,” the reporter replies.

“It is hereby stipulated, agreed, and consented to by and between the lawyers for the respective parties in the within action that this matter is hereby settled, with prejudice and without costs, in the sum of nine-point-two million dollars for the cause of action on behalf of the infant plaintiff, Suzy Williams, and in the sum of seven hundred fifty thousand dollars for the cause of action brought by the mother and natural guardian, June Williams, so stipulated, counsel?”

“So stipulated.” Right after, she takes a moment to whisper in my ear, off the record.
“Don’t forget to make a call to a certain crooked sergeant.”

“So stipulated,” I softly reply, although I have to question in my mind why she called Rosie “crooked.”

Just then, the courtroom doors burst open and an excited, sweaty little guy comes running in. “Hold it!” he yells, as I think,
Too late
sch-weaty boy.
He stops next to the Weasel and puts his iPhone in front of her face. She reaches for it, scanning the screen, then gasps.

“What’s up?” I ask, though I already know.

“Dr. Smith,” she says, then pauses, struggling to arrange her features. It doesn’t work. She looks like she’s just been flattened by the Brooklyn-bound 4 train, in this instance also known as the Wyler express.

“Dr. Smith what?” I ask. That’s right, I need her to say it for the same reason I just had her put the settlement on the record.

“Dead. She’s dead,” she mutters.

“Dead?” I repeat, putting on my most surprised expression. “Dead how?” I ask, loving now more than ever the binding and irreversible effect of open-court settlements. I’m not too sure she feels the same way.

“The headline reads, ‘suicide,’ ” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. I step toward her as she turns the screen so I can see. On it is a gruesome picture of Dr. Smith. She’s flat on her back sprawled on a tile floor, eyes rolled inside her head, but the telling part of the photo is her hair. It’s standing on end, spiked, the way you see in the movies when a person is electrocuted. Well lookie there—isn’t that fitting?

“How could that happen to a prisoner in custody?” she asks.

“Which list you want, the short or long?” I reply. She stares at me, not a kind one. “Gotta hop,” I say, cheery as a motherfucker. “Good doing business with ya, say hello to the boys back at the office for me, see ya on the flip-flop.”

“Clear the courtroom,” the judge declares, “and have a nice evening, counselors. We’re adjourned.”

I step off the platform and walk over to June and Suzy. They’re all smiles. “Sch-weet, sch-weet, Vegas, Vegas,” Suzy exclaims.

I bend down to her. “That’s right, sweet Suzy. You’re going to Vegas for the light show of your life.”

June embraces me. I return the favor. “Wow, now that’s how you hug with feeling!” she says.

“Yeah, I really felt that one.”

“That’s because you’ve changed our lives and you’re happy for us. What was that seven hundred fifty thousand dollars for?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“It’s for you, for all you’ve done for Suzy over the years.”

“I don’t want any money for that. She’s my daughter.”

“Okay, then you can use it on her if you want. It’s yours to do with what you want. I’d suggest you create your own line of handbags. Everybody loves your stuff—the judge and Toby are ready to be your first customers.”

We leave the courtroom and make our way out of the building, using the basement ramp. The settlement is just now hitting June. She can’t contain herself and is literally jumping for joy. I push Suzy up the ramp one labored and painful hobble at a time. I think I’ve popped a few more stitches from the effort as we make our way up, but it’s worth it to see the smile on Suzy’s face and to hear her exuberant cries of joy. “Sch-weet! Vegas!”

When we get outside, I begin to feel an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. My awareness of this great achievement doubles for every limping step I take farther away from that big, cold stone building. The open air fills my lungs, and I sense victory running through my vessels as my endorphins release. I’m superhappy about the humongous fee I’m going to make, but that happiness is dwarfed by the feelings associated with the good deed I’ve done. I just changed the lives of June and Suzy. I’ve made their daily struggles easier to manage, and that’s a big, big deal.

Not a word is said during the long walk from the back door exit to the roadway curb line. We are all silently and independently immersed in our victory.

I stop wheeling Suzy. “June, you got two calls to make. One to Rosie and one to Trace.”

“Done,” June says, then smiles.

“ ‘Done’ meaning you’re going to make the calls or ‘done’ meaning you made them already?”

“I called and left messages for both of them. Neither picked up.”

“When did you make the calls?”

Just as she’s about to respond, her cell rings a familiar song. June says hi and listens for a moment. “Uh-huh, uh-huh. Rosie wants to talk to you.” She hands me the phone.

The first thing I want to know is whether the Weasel contacted her, which would give credibility to our theory. I put the phone to my ear. “Hi, Rosie. What can you tell me, over.” I listen to what she has to say for the next several minutes without interrupting. “Okay. I’ll tell June, and yes, I’ll tell her to call you tomorrow. Bye.”
Click.

June tilts her head. “What’s up?”

“You ready for this? The Weasel herself called Rosie to confirm the existence of Statement Number Two. Fifteen minutes after her call, a lawyer affiliated with her office showed up to physically see the envelope, which Rosie only
showed
him through the guard window. Ten minutes after that, another guy arrived whom Rosie described as sweaty and nervous, most likely the guy who just ran into the courtroom. He offered Rosie ten thousand big ones for the envelope, which she declined. Then he upped it to twenty-five thou cash. Rosie jumped on the deal, taking the money for the envelope.”

“Rosie wouldn’t give us up like that. I heard you tell Barton to just put two blank pieces of paper in that ‘Statement Number Two’ envelope when you were instructing him on what to do. And if she gave them an envelope with blank papers in it, then why’d they pay? I can’t believe it.”

“You don’t have to.” June stares at me. “On her way out to make the exchange, she quickly scribbled a fake Statement Number Two envelope and stuffed some blank papers in it, leaving the real one—I mean the real fake—under her counter. She made the swap for the briefcase filled with the cash right then and there in the hall, handing him the fake-fake envelope, not realizing it wouldn’t have made a difference. After doing the exchange, she told the creep to wait a minute, that she had something else for him at her window. When she got back behind
it, she told him he was holding a fake envelope, flashing the real one, I mean the real fake. She explained to him that he’d been videotaped, pointing out the security cam in the ceiling. She told me she didn’t think a little extortion would hurt none, since we were in the process of a blackmail, fraud, forgery, and bribery anyway.”