“I’ll make coffee.”
She looked up, smiled at him. “You always know just what to say.”
He left the bedroom. A moment later, she heard the sound of the coffeemaker percolating in the kitchenette. The smell of coffee beans reached the bedroom and she took a deep breath, savoring it.
Returning her attention to the computer, she pulled up the second attachment. Like the first, it was a Pennsylvania case, reasonably recent, factually on-point, binding precedent. She almost couldn’t believe her good fortune. These documents would make her work for Snyder much easier. By leading Jessie to Professor Hazel Little, Vicki Briscoe had really come through.
What about my side of the bargain?
Leary returned to the bedroom with a mug of coffee in each hand. He held one out to her and she took it gratefully, cradling the hot cup in her hands. She breathed in the steam and then took a long sip.
“Perfect.”
“I don’t know if I’m perfect.” He grinned down at her. “But I have my moments.”
“Ha ha. I meant the coffee, but you’re not bad either.”
He drank from his own mug. “So you think you can win this case?”
“It’s just a motion at this stage. Two motions, actually. And it’s Noah Snyder who needs to win them, not me. But I think I can give him the legal ammunition he needs to do it.”
“Good.”
“You’re going to look into Vicki Briscoe’s malpractice case today, right?”
“You mind if I put on some clothes first?” He gestured at his mostly naked body.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to be pushy. I just want Vicki Briscoe to continue helping me. She already led me to Professor Hazel Little. But I’m really hoping she’ll lead me to Kelly’s killer.”
Leary’s body seemed to become tense. “Let’s hope she leads you to the identity of the killer. Not sure I want you and the killer actually coming face-to-face. Not that I don’t have total confidence in you—”
She smiled around the rim of her coffee mug. “It’s okay, Leary. I know what you meant. And I agree. I’m not looking for a showdown either.”
“Good.”
She rose from her chair. “I should take a shower. I’ll finish going through the files at the office.”
A buzzing noise drew both their attentions to Jessie’s phone, which she’d left on the desk beside her computer. She didn’t recognize the phone number of the incoming call, but Devon, Pennsylvania appeared on the screen. That was the town in which the Rowlands lived.
Jessie picked up. “Jessica Black.”
“This is Ken Rowland.” The man’s voice, raw and angry, made Jessie freeze. “You have a lot of nerve.”
“What’s wrong?” Jessie handed her coffee mug to Leary and stepped away from the desk.
“You said you were going to find us a new lawyer who would help us win our case. But this guy Snyder—”
Jessie closed her eyes, experiencing a feeling of dread only Snyder could instill. “Listen, I know he’s a little unconventional—crass, even rude sometimes—but underneath all that, Noah Snyder is an excellent lawyer. You have to trust me—”
“An excellent lawyer?” Ken Rowland barked out a laugh. “An excellent lawyer is supposed to have his clients’ best interests at heart, right? Not stab them in the back.”
The feeling of dread intensified. “Is it possible there was a … some kind of miscommunication? How do you feel that he stabbed you in the back?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Ken’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Maybe when he met with Douglas Shaw behind our backs and worked out a nice little deal to make our case go away in exchange for a payoff?”
“He discussed a possible settlement?” Jessie tried to keep her voice neutral. She knew the Rowlands had no interest in settling, and she thought she’d made that clear to Snyder, but it was still common practice. “I’m sure he only met with Shaw as a courtesy. He knows your position.”
“He showed up this morning with a ten page document!” Jessie heard the sound of rustling paper on the other end of the line. “Settlement and Release Agreement,” Ken Rowlands read. “It’s already signed by Shaw, and there are signature lines for Deanna and me. Snyder said the judge approved it, too. He told us to sign it!”
The dread turned to anger. Jessie felt her jaw tighten. “Did you?”
“Of course not! I threw the bastard out of our house!”
“Okay. Good. The contract isn’t valid without your signature.”
“No kidding. We want a new lawyer.”
“I don’t think you should switch lawyers.” Jessie glanced at Leary, who was watching her with a concerned expression. She touched his arm, rolled her eyes, and silently mouthed Snyder. He nodded with understanding and moved to the bathroom.
“Why not?”
Jessie didn’t want to admit that Snyder had been her last option after calling all of the other personal injury lawyers she knew. She also didn’t want to admit that she was personally doing the legal work. “Like I said, Noah is unconventional, but he’s good. I’ll talk to him and straighten this out. Do you trust me?”
Ken Rowland seemed to hesitate. Then he said, “Yes, we trust you.”
“Then please give me a chance to fix this.”
She ended the call and, still in her pajamas, called Noah Snyder. When he picked up, she heard noise on the line and assumed he’d answered in his car, probably heading away from the Rowlands’ house.
“They called you, huh?” Snyder said. “Fucking tattletales.”
The rage she’d bottled up finally let loose. “A settlement agreement, Noah? Really? What the hell were you thinking?”
She heard his calm, unconcerned laugh, a sound which only infuriated her more. “I was thinking my clients could obtain an excellent settlement, avoid a trial they’d probably lose—assuming the case even survives summary judgment and makes it to trial—and move on with their lives.”
“They don’t want to settle. You know that.”
“They’re idiots, Jessie. It’s my job to protect them from their own stupidity.”
“They’re not stupid. They’re angry and grieving. Can’t you understand that?”
“What I understand is that Judge Dax is going to deny the motion to certify a class—which leaves the Rowlands on their own—and then grant Boffo’s motion for summary judgment, which will throw what’s left of the case into the garbage can. Is that a result that’s going to help their anger and grief?”
“It doesn’t have to go that way. I’m working on the reply brief—like you asked me to—and I think I have some arguments that can help us prevail on both motions.”
“Oh yeah?” Instead of sounding relieved, Snyder sounded incredulous. Was the idea that they could win really so unfathomable to him?
“Yeah.” She threw the word back at him. “Unless you know something I don’t know—”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said, cutting her off. “I know that Judge Dax just put a hearing on the calendar for 2 PM this afternoon to hear arguments on both motions.”
“She can’t do that.”
“She did do that. So you have what? A few hours to research and draft your reply brief, and prepare me to argue both motions? You’re good, but I doubt you’re that good.”
Jessie felt the air go out of her lungs.
“You there?” Snyder said. His voice softened. “Look, I’m sorry. I know this sucks. The legal world is a dirty place. Let’s talk to the Rowlands together. We can convince them that a settlement makes sense.”
“No. I’ll get the work done this morning,” Jessie said. “I can do it.”
“Jessie, be reasonable.”
“Just show up at court at 2 PM. I’ll do the rest.”
But how she was going to do that, she had no idea.
32
Leary found Noah Snyder in the back room of a cigar lounge in Northeast Philly. At 11:00 AM on a weekday, the lawyer had the space to himself, but he’d managed
to fill the air with a smoky haze that made Leary’s eyes water. Making his way to the leather chair on which Snyder sat, puffing away, Leary hoped he wasn’t inhaling too many toxins.
If Snyder was surprised to see him, he hid it well. He blew out a stream of smoke, rested his cigar on the edge of an ashtray, and leaned back in the chair. The old leather creaked.
“How’d you find me here, Detective?”
“Your receptionist.”
Snyder smirked. “I don’t think so. Danielle knows better than that.”
“I told her it was an emergency.”
The silver-haired lawyer’s smirk only deepened. “She definitely knows better than that.”
“You’re right. She does. But when she opened her calendar to help me make an appointment, I peeked at her computer screen and saw your appointments for this morning.”
Snyder cursed under his breath. “I can’t talk. I have court in a few hours.”
“Yeah, I see you’re working really hard to prepare for the hearing.”
“Did Jessie send you here to bust my ass?”
“No. She can do that herself. I came here for legal advice.” Seeing Snyder perk up, he added, “Free legal advice.”
The lawyer scowled. “What do you want, Leary? Wait, let me guess. You proposed to Jessie and she wants you to sign a pre-nup. Smart girl.”
Snyder’s guess hit a little too close to home. Leary’s mind flashed on the engagement ring hiding in a drawer in their apartment. He forced away the thought. “I want to know more about medical malpractice.”
Snyder picked up his cigar and puffed thoughtfully. “If you’ve suffered from the incompetence of some quack, you’ve come to the right place. I have a team of lawyers specializing in—”
“This is just research. I’m working a case.”
“With Jessie?”
“Does that matter?”
Snyder pointed his cigar at Leary. “You’re even less fun than your girlfriend.”
Leary sighed. If Jessie could be patient with this clown, then so could he. “The case I’m working involves a doctor—a surgeon—who was the subject of a medical malpractice claim. The complaint alleged lack of informed consent.”
Snyder nodded. “Sure. I’ve used that one plenty of times.”
“What does it mean?”
The lawyer laughed. “Before he can slice you up, a doctor is required to give you information—side effects, complications, anything that could affect your decision to move ahead with the treatment. We call it a duty to disclose. For example, let’s say a guy needs surgery on his balls. In his zeal to save his patient, the doc neglects to mention that this surgery can sometimes result in a limp dick. Guy does the surgery, and sure enough, finds that he can no longer get it up. Now he’s got a claim against the doctor—maybe for hundreds of thousands of dollars. The beauty of it is that the doctor doesn’t even have to screw up the procedure. He can perform the surgery flawlessly—more carefully, more diligently, and more safely than any doctor has ever performed it in the history of medicine—but if he didn’t warn the guy about that complication, he’s liable. First question I ask every potential med mal client—did the doctor warn you this could happen?”
Leary considered Snyder’s explanation. On the one hand, it sounded like a gotcha, and didn’t seem particularly fair to the doctor, but on the other hand, he wouldn’t want to be rolled into an operating room without knowing the risks. In some ways, the rule reminded him of the Miranda warnings—you have the right to remain silent—viewed by cops as a loophole, but, in the bigger picture, a necessary protection against abuse by the state.
“How would you prove the patient wasn’t warned? Isn’t that proving a negative?”
Snyder shrugged. “Sure, but this is civil practice, not criminal. I don’t need to prove anything beyond a reasonable doubt, just tell the client’s story.”
“What if the client lies?”
“What if?” Snyder laughed. “Happens all the time. That’s why doctor’s offices and hospitals make you sign forms.”
“The form is evidence of informed consent?” Leary said.
“Sometimes. It depends. The rules are interpreted in favor of the patient. I’ve defeated forms before.”
“So it’s basically the patient’s word against the doctor’s.”
“Right. And most times, the insurance company will settle rather than roll the dice with a jury.”
Leary nodded. It made sense. He wondered if that was what had happened to Vicki Briscoe.
“Could a doctor lose his or her license for failing to get informed consent?”
Snyder puffed on his cigar, seeming to think about the question. “Possibly. It would be unusual though. I guess if the State Board of Medicine already had it in for someone and was looking for an excuse, they could cite the incident as unprofessional conduct, maybe even fraud or misrepresentation, unethical behavior, and use that to justify taking the guy’s license. Why are you asking me all these questions, Leary? Why would the DA’s Office care about med mal law?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
This time, Leary smirked. “Thanks for your help, Noah.”
Unlike Snyder’s hypothetical patient, the plaintiff that Kelly Lee had represented in the medical malpractice case against Vicki Briscoe had not suffered any damage to his private parts. According to the information Briscoe had given Jessie, the case involved complications from surgery to repair a ruptured biceps tendon.
Briscoe had given Jessie the patient’s name and address. Leary wasn’t sure if that was a HIPAA violation—did doctor-patient privacy laws apply after the patient sued the doctor?—and it wasn’t Leary’s job to know. The guy’s name was Alphonse Fulmer. Leary staked out his apartment in Society Hill, and, when he left, followed him to a local bar.
First a cigar lounge, and then a bar, all before noon. Just a day in the life of a DA’s Office detective.
Fulmer walked with a pronounced limp, which made Leary question his own knowledge of anatomy terms. The biceps tendon was in the arm, right? When the guy slid onto a bar stool and greeted the bartender with a wave, both of his arms seemed to be working fine.
Other than Fulmer, the bar was empty. Leary chose a seat two stools away from him.
The bartender brought Fulmer his drink without bothering to take an order, which told Leary he was a regular. The drink was bottom shelf gin, straight, before noon, which told Leary the man probably had a drinking problem.
Leary ordered a beer. He drank it slowly, biding his time as Fulmer worked his way through several fresh gins. He hoped the alcohol would make the man more receptive to conversation with a stranger. Waiting also gave Leary a chance to get a good look at the man. He was short, with thinning gray hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed in days. His body was skinny, and the wrinkled shirt and old, dirty jeans he wore seemed to hang off his frame. He stared at nothing. His movements were languid, sleepy.
Leary picked up his beer and moved to the stool next to him. “I guess you like gin. Always been a beer man myself.”
“I don’t even taste it anymore.” Fulmer stared down at his now empty glass, then turned his watery gaze on Leary. His pupils were constricted. He scratched at his neck, where the skin was red and irritated.
Leary’s cop brain catalogued these details. The pinpoint pupils, itchy skin, slow breathing, and skinny body were all signs of opiate abuse.
“You hurt your leg?” Leary said.
Fulmer shrugged. “Nothing serious.”
Leary nodded. “I ask because I have surgery tomorrow. On my back. I’m pretty nervous about it.”
Fulmer turned slightly on his stool. For the first time, the man’s eyes seemed to show interest. “What’s wrong with it?”
“I get back pain a lot. Doc thinks some surgery will make it better.”
Fulmer seemed to hesitate for a second, then said, “I’d think twice about that surgery, if I were you
.”
“Bad experience?”
“You see this arm?” Fulmer patted his right arm. “Looks normal, but there’s nerve damage you can’t see. I need to take five Vicodins a day just to stand it.”
“How’d that happen?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Surgery.”
“You had surgery that went wrong?”
The bartender refilled Fulmer’s drink. He emptied the glass into his mouth. “What the doctors call a complication. You know what the complications are for your surgery?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You better find out.” He studied his arm. “Actually, I take that back. Don’t find out. That way, anything bad happens, you can sue.”
“Is that what you did?”
Fulmer nodded slowly. “You bet I did. Go to the doctor with a hurt tendon, come out with permanent nerve damage? You bet I sued.”
“Your doctor didn’t warn you that the procedure might cause nerve damage?”
Fulmer opened his mouth to answer, then paused. His eyes narrowed. Leary realized he’d slipped up, used words that were too specific. He’d made Fulmer suspicious.
To the bartender, Fulmer said, “Give me the tab, Jim.”
“Settling up already?” The bartender looked surprised, but brought over the check. Fulmer paid in cash, from a thick wad of bills.
Fulmer lowered himself carefully from the stool and started to limp away.
“Did the nerve damage affect your leg?” Leary said.
Fulmer stopped. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“Sorry. I’m just nervous about my surgery, especially after what you told me happened to you.”
Fulmer shook his head and limped out of the bar without looking back.
“Poor guy,” the bartender—Jim—said from behind Leary.
Leary turned to him. “Yeah. Sad story.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” Jim cleared Fulmer’s glass and wiped down the bar with a rag. “The surgery messed up his arm, like he told you, but then he got a lawyer. He got a big payout from the hospital’s insurance company—not enough to make up for the chronic pain he’ll suffer for the rest of his life, but it’s better to suffer with money than without it, right?”
False Justice Page 14
