Suzy's Case: A Novel (46 page)

I know there are rows of people behind the front line, but I can’t see them because of my fixed position. My body is secured on a restraining board and my neck is in a plastic brace. My head is wrapped in what I’m certain is a red-soaked bandage. From his movements and the soft sound of cloth sliding against cloth, I decide the paramedic must’ve just finished tying and securing my head to the board for immobilization.

After a good-luck last tug, ensuring the knot is taut and my head fixed, the paramedic moves his face over mine and we lock eyes. He has a kind and familiar face, perfect for a lifesaver. “I’m paramedic Jim Henson. You were shot in your head. The bullet went in the back on an angle and out the side, tearing part of your right ear off, but you’re going to be fine. You’re a lucky man.”

I ignore the great news and instead ask a question. “Did you say your name was Jim Henson?”

“Yes, I did.” I can tell by his apprehensive expression he knows I
know that’s the name of the guy who invented the Muppets. Maybe that’s why he looks familiar; the Muppet guy has joined the celebrity-turned-paramedic fad. Wait a second. Jim Henson’s dead. I somehow recall seeing a tribute show to his life and genius. My paramedic just looks like the real Jim Henson and shares his name, that’s all.

Jim Henson responds to my thank-you. “Just doing my job.” Then he speaks to one of several other paramedics that have crossed my view. “This one’s alert, stable, and ready for transport.”

Now I hear another paramedic, who by the sound of things is only a few feet away, say something startling. “This other one’s gone. I’m calling his unofficial time of death at nineteen-twenty-four. We should bag him.”

“We can’t,” Jim Henson replies. “This is now a crime scene for a murder investigation. I don’t know what’s taking the detectives so long, but they have work to do before you can take your transport to the morgue.”

Oh, man. Some poor unfortunate bystander took the bullet that went through my head and was killed. Damn you, Henry!

Two more paramedics come over. By the angle of their approach I know they are neither Jim nor the guy he just spoke to. They kneel in the same spot Jim kneeled. One of them moves his face directly over mine. “We’re gonna take you to Bellevue. You need medical care.”

“If I need medical care, then why would you take me to Bellevue? No city hospitals for me! You’re taking me to NYU Langone Medical Center on Thirty-Fourth Street or you can just leave me here.” He moves out of my face. He conferences with his colleague, then leans over me again. “No can do. Gunshot to the head requires a level-1 trauma center.”

I start yelling. “Get Jim Henson over here! I want to speak to Henson now!” The paramedic who said “No can do” looks at me questioningly. “Jim Henson? The Muppet guy?”

“No, not that Jim Henson. That Jim Henson is dead. I want to speak to Jim Henson the paramedic. The guy who fixed me up and restrained my head.”

“That’s me,” he states. “I’m the guy who fixed you up. My name’s Steve Bruckner. There’s no paramedic here named Jim Henson. Listen, you sustained severe head trauma. Take it easy. We’ll take you to NYU Langone. Just calm yourself down, or we’ll do it for you.”

Now I’m really scared. I hallucinated the guy who invented the Muppets was the paramedic who fixed me up. I’m not sure how Margo’s gonna take this. Maybe Bellevue’s the right destination after all.

“I’m sorry. I’m just a little stressed out. It’s been a tough couple of weeks, even without getting shot in the head.”

“Understandable. Just take it easy. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

“Okay, but tell me something. Is there a dead guy next to me? Or did I hallucinate that, too?”

“No, you didn’t hallucinate that. There’s a dead guy three feet from you. He took one in the head, too.”

“The bullet that left my head caught the guy?”

“Separate shooting,” Bruckner responds. “According to the crime scene detectives—”

“I thought the detectives didn’t get here yet,” I interrupt.

“The detectives were here before we arrived and our response time was six minutes.”

“Sorry, I thought I overheard Jim … I mean, uh … never mind. Go on.”

“Anyway, according to the crime scene detectives, five people heard two separate and distinct gunshots.” That explains the gunshot echo I heard, which was no echo at all. But who’s the dead guy? I guess Carlton silenced a nearby eyewitness who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

An instant later, a mobile stretcher is parked between me and the dead guy. Paramedic Bruckner puts his face over mine again. “We’re gonna pick you up and put you on this stretcher on the count of three.”

“Fine, but I want to see who the dead guy is lying next to me.”

“No can do,” he responds in knee-jerk fashion. He apparently likes that phrase.

“Listen, Bruckner,” I plead, “if, God forbid, you were the survivor of an attempted double homicide, you’d want to see who the actual dead guy was before being taken away, wouldn’t you?”

“Let me ask the detectives,” he says, then moves out of my sight.

A moment later, Bruckner’s face is above mine again. Next to him is a detective. You could tell this guy’s a cop from a mile away, and here he is, about six inches from the tip of my nose. “We were gonna talk to you at the hospital, Mr. Wyler,” the detective tells me, “but since you and I want the same question answered, we’re gonna accommodate your request.”

“Thanks, detective,” I respond, “but please, call me Tug.” He nods.

“Okay,” Bruckner informs me, “we’re going to pick you up by the board and tilt you to your left so you can get a glimpse. Then we’re gonna set you on the stretcher for transport. Listen, I’ve got to warn you. The guy’s a mess. A large-caliber bullet came out the front.”

“Just let me see.”

The two paramedics lift and tilt as the detective pulls the tarp off the dead guy in a way so as to curtain him off from the surrounding crowd. I see Carlton Williams Jr. sprawled out in a twisted and very unnatural position with a giant hole in the side of his head. I’m confused. Why would someone try to kill both him and me?

“Had enough?” Bruckner asks. “You’re kind of heavy.”

“Not so fast,” the detective interjects. “You know the guy?”

“Yeah, I know him,” I confirm.

“Name?”

“Carlton Williams Junior.”

“Relation to you?”

“He’s the father of one of my clients. I’m a lawyer.”

“Do you know why he tried to kill you?” the detective asks.

Now I am more confused. “How do you know he tried to kill me? It seems like someone tried to kill us both.”

“No. He was your shooter.”

“How do you know?”

The detective pauses—the kind when someone’s trying to decide whether to tell someone something or how much of that something
to tell someone—then gives a small sigh. “By his positioning relative to yours, by the discharged gun found in his hand, by the rough field ballistics match between his gun and your wound, and by the witness standing right over there who told us he saw the whole thing.”

“That sounds reliable,” I conclude. After using a pause of my own to collect myself, I take a deep breath. “What did the witness say?”

“The witness said your Carlton Williams Junior got the trigger pulled on him just as he was pulling the trigger on you; like someone was trying to protect you. Why’d he want you dead?”

“Because I was going to tell his wife that he was going to kill their daughter.”

“That’s a different motive,” the detective comments. “Usually, it’s money.”

“Did the witness say anything about Carlton’s shooter?” I ask.

“Black male, average height, fast runner. That narrows things down,” the detective answers in a sarcastic tone. He looks to Bruckner. “You can take him now.” He looks back at me as if to finish a thought. “We’re going to have more questions for you, Tug,” he apprises me as if I didn’t know, then walks away.

The stretcher pops up and they begin wheeling me toward the flashing lights. The bystanders are all vying for position to get their glimpses of me. I can see them jockeying their heads up, down, back, and forth to grab a good look. Everybody in the crowd—black, white, Hispanic, Asian—meshes into a sea of bobbleheads as they move in all directions to catch a glance. All I see is head motion except for two people whose stillness sets them apart from the throng.

One flashes a twinkle out of her right eye, a distinctive flicker of radiant beauty. Margo. She’s standing motionless with her arms at her sides. When we approach, she gives me a sympathetic smile and slowly waves. I smile back as I’m being rolled past her and closer to the other motionless person whom I definitely don’t know.

He’s a black guy wearing a black baseball cap, which somehow accentuates his stillness. He has an unobstructed view from three rows deep, and that seems odd since everyone else is jockeying for position. I’m wheeled toward him and observe the slow swivel of his head as he
follows the path of my stretcher. As we pass him I can see the raised embroidery gold lettering of the insignia on his baseball cap. It reads:
THE FIDGE
.

I’m surprised. But I should’ve figured it out. I mean, given what’s been happening and all. I’m just not that smart, I guess.

At least I admit it.

Michele Slung, thank you for everything—for changing the course of my life. Colin Harrison, my editor, I thank you for embracing
Suzy’s Case
and taking the time to teach me how to bring it to a higher level. Sterling Lord, my agent, my favorite movie growing up was
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,
and while I sat in remedial reading class, I never would have imagined that one day I would share the same literary agent as Ken Kesey. In fact, I didn’t even know they made the movie into a book.

Victor Greco, thank you for beating me at trial. That defense verdict was the best defeat that was ever handed to me. From it, you have become a referring attorney, a writing instructor, a book reviewer, and, most important, a trusted friend. My cousin Danny Green, thank you for taking the time to read my book and sharing your wisdom and insights. Deborah Purcell, thank you for telling me to write thirty-five pages, the start of it all. Kim White, thank you for directing me to look at a picture frame and to describe what I saw.

There are many other people who have influenced my creation in some way, shape, or form, even if only through support. Sanford Preizler, Holly Singer, Scott Mesnick, Brian Schachter, Davena Levine, Simon Sinek, Maura Cohen, Josh Silber, Matthew Weiss, and James LePore, to name a few.

On a personal note, I would like to thank my lifelong best friend, Evan Davis. Your support, encouragement, and guidance are valued and cherished. To my cousin Andres,
¿Qué pasa, primo?
Dad, I love
you. And to my mother, Adele, rest in peace, finally. No one ever could have taken on cancer in a braver manner than you did.

To my children, Blake, Cooper, and Phoebe: Thank you for loving me, inspiring me, and entertaining me. I love you guys so much. And to my wife, Randi: I knew it would piss you off to be the last person acknowledged. That’s why I did it. Consider it foreplay. You inspire me, incite me, annoy me, put up with me, and everything else that provokes the intense energy that makes our marriage work. I love you dearly.

Andrew W. Siegel is a personal injury and medical malpractice lawyer in New York City and serves on the board of directors of the New York State Trial Lawyers Association. He lives with his wife, Randi, and three children, Blake, Cooper, and Phoebe, in Bedford Hills, New York.

We hope you enjoyed reading this Scribner eBook.

Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest new releases and other great eBooks from Scribner and Simon & Schuster.

or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com