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He Said, She Said

Page 21

by John Decure


  “Why don’t you start by telling me who’s on the other side of that door, Malcolm.”

  “Uh, sure, sure, you betcha,” he said, followed by no explanation.

  I motioned him to sit down but stayed stuck by the door anyway. I leaned past him to have a peek myself, but saw nothing.

  “What, Malcolm?—is it the Big Bad Wolf?”

  “Huh! Oh, Wendy, you’re funny. No, no, no, may I just—level with you?”

  “I wish you would.”

  “So, ha! See, I’ve got this… this dependence and addiction conference in Vienna, and—”

  Sure. Of course he did. I thought of his bright orange Lamborghini parked downstairs in the underground lot, four slots over from my pockmarked Volvo wagon. Shrinks like Malcolm Flaherty do conferences in places like Vienna all the time. I get a prison board referral, I’m jumping for joy that the state will pay me fifty cents a gallon to drive up to San Luis Obispo and back. Guys like Malcolm sport snazzy caps and ascots tableside in the cafes of Europe while some cash-strapped medical department back home foots the bill.

  “I know the one, Malcolm.”

  “—you do?”

  “Sure. I saw the ads in the journals. You know, even though I don’t get out as much as I should, as you’re well aware, I do keep up with advancements in the profession.”

  “Right, Wendy. Yes, yes, of course you do!”

  “I’ve always wanted to see that part of the world. The beer gardens, alpine villages, concentration camps.”

  “Yes, yes….” Malcolm’s over-affability slowly ground its way down to a stunned silence.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Just a little gallows humor. My tribe tends to use it as a shield. But Vienna? Hey, that should be great. ‘Yoda-le-hi-hoo’ to you.”

  “Uh-what?”

  I gave him a tinny smile. “Little Sound of Music reference.”

  “Oh, right—right. Ah, Wendy. You are such a funny lady.” Had he not been stiffer than a wooden Indian when he said it, I’d have appreciated the compliment.

  Much as I shouldn’t have cared what Malcolm thought of me, my insecurity barked a plain message at me: You are bombing, girl! At least he decided, rather abruptly, to stick around, closing the door as we stepped further into my suite. Just as soon, there was a rap on the door. Malcolm dropped his gaze as if I’d put him on the spot, and put up a finger to signal a whisper.

  “I have a case. They thought it would settle, but the state’s prosecutor was, uh…”

  “Hello?”

  He leaned forward to whisper. “Apparently most unreasonable!”

  I may be no picnic to look at, but I’m far from stupid.

  “Let me guess,” I said in a plain, screw-this-whispering-nonsense voice. “That’s him outside.”

  Another knock thudded against the door. Flaherty nodded.

  “Uh, her.”

  I was disgusted by his cowardice.

  “Well, let her in. Maybe she can shed some light on this situation sooner rather than later.”

  Malcolm sank back against the nearest wall as if his charming-guy inner tube had sprung a leak. I looked at the digital clock that faced my side of the desk.

  “Wendy—dear Wendy.”

  “I don’t have time to play hide and seek, Malcolm. I’ve got another session in twenty minutes.”

  He swallowed and looked away, toward the window blinds. Outside, the faint roar of homeward-bound commuter traffic on Robertson rose and faded and rose again. I asked him to open the door, but he didn’t seem to hear me, so I did it myself.

  Oy vey—not what I was expecting. A woman in black who looked like she was all business—but not necessary the law business.

  “Hiya, Big Bad Wolf.”

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “I’m Wendy Glick.”

  “Bradlee Aames. May I come in?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  I told her to have a seat as we stared at each other with equal curiosity. She was younger-looking than I thought a state prosecutor would be, with black eyes that seemed to pulse when she spoke and a beautifully unkempt head of dark hair, but she was gripping at something unseen, or edging away from it, I couldn’t tell. Just… her look reminded me of a manic patient I’d treated some time ago who’d show up semi-glazed, as if she’d forgotten her appointment time but knew she was in the right place. This chick was a real looker, though, with very fine angles to her face, chin, jaw, and nose that were both soft and clean at once—the kind of face cold cream companies use to sell their products. As for her figure I will pause only to observe, for the millionth time in my life, that life ain’t fair—oy! Black mid-length dress, black sweater, black leggings and boots; it all went together nicely, adding a touch of formidability to her presence, and when she sized me up it was with a predatory cunning.

  I had a delicious thought: now here’s a gal who could really eat Malcolm Flaherty for lunch.

  I offered her an ice water, which she declined. Then I turned to my first surprise guest of the afternoon. Poor Malcolm was standing half hidden behind a vertical brown file cabinet in the corner of the room, looking deflated because he’d failed to locate a trap door as yet.

  “And this is—”

  “—the enigmatic, ever-elusive Doctor Flaherty,” Bradlee Aames said.

  Malcolm was as flat and pale as the paint-by-numbers duck pond sunset hanging on my wall.

  “I’m s-sorry, young lady. But I told you on the phone—”

  “Hung up on me, is more like it, Doctor—”

  “I must attend a conference in—”

  “Vienna, yes, I know—”

  “Y-you’ve heard? Why, I—”

  “My spineless excuse for a supervisor told me.”

  “—wouldn’t know who you’re referring—”

  “Don’t make me laugh,” she said. “You guys are all in bed together on this.”

  “Ms. Aames?” I said. “I only work in the building with Doctor Flaherty.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to implicate you, Doctor. Or to barge in on your practice.”

  “No, no, you’re welcome here.” I grinned at Malcolm to leave no doubt about how much fun I was having. Bradlee Aames took her time to breathe—in, out, in, out—though her black eyes reflected a mind on hyperdrive.

  “You wouldn’t believe the week I’ve had,” she said. “Everybody hiding out, ducking me. No one returning my calls.” She glared at Malcolm. “Gotta give you credit where credit is due, because—”

  “Young lady, as I tried to explain—”

  “Vienna? You’re easily this case’s most ambitious sell-out yet. I mean, one witness is just saying no, another’s talking Louisiana, but doctor, you take the prize.”

  She went into a black leather purse and came out with a white envelope with a government seal on it, flipped the thing at Malcolm, who caught it belatedly.

  “What’s this?”

  “The prize!” I piped in, unable to resist. I was loving every minute of this.

  “Most people only leave the state to avoid my subpoenas,” she said. “But you went global. You’ve got a special flair for shirking your public duty.”

  “This could not be avoided,” Malcolm said as if he was lecturing her. “I assure you. I want nothing more—”

  “Stop with the transparent little justifications about why you’ve gotta go. You filled in the expert questionnaire? Funny you—”

  “—nothing more, I tell you, than to aid the medical board in its efforts to—”

  “—didn’t say boo about being unavailable this month.”

  “—protect the public! I… I’m truly sorry, but the scheduling of this conference—”

  “Stop it already.”

  “—wholly precludes me from—”

  “Stop!”

  Using her palm, she’d rubbed her forehead as if his words had smacked her just above the eyes. Without knowing this young woman enough to truly care about her yet, I was nonetheless concerned f
or her general well-being and felt a pang of protectiveness—just like when Lady Jane, my Chihuahua, comes unhinged at the sight of that German shepherd from across the street when he bounds up to our front porch for a peek through our screen door.

  “You won’t do it,” she said quietly. “So there. Whatever. Just don’t lie to me, I can’t stand the lying.”

  Malcolm fumbled with his big veiny hands, which failed to conjure a convincing gesture of reasonableness.

  “Miss, I assure you—”

  “No! Let me assure you, your assurances are worthless, Doctor. Worthless!”

  One of the big veiny hands pointed at her face as he huffed, his loafers creaking on my carpet.

  “Now… just a minute, young lady, I have been a medical board expert for going on twenty years and I have never, ever—”

  I barely heard Malcolm’s bluster, so fixed was my attention on the way Bradlee Aames was now using her hands as earmuffs, as if she wanted to tear the sound of the offending words back out of her head.

  “Quit lying, you’re going two weeks early,” she said. Two weeks!”

  She’d stopped him cold. Malcolm looked at me beseechingly, as if I might rescue him somehow. I had to work hard to keep a delighted grin from forming.

  “Well, now…. H-how… how did you—”

  “You’re ditching your responsibilities. You’re ditching the patient.”

  “Former patient.”

  “You’re an ass for even saying that. And her name is Rue Loberg. She’s a person. A victim.”

  “W-who told you I was going?”

  “Nobody told me.”

  “But—”

  “I’m a lawyer. I’m very good at looking things up, Doctor. That’s what competent lawyers do. You’re ditching me.”

  The exchange seemed over. The lawyer seemed to be mildly hyperventilating, and I wished I could reach out and give her a big mama-bear hug, but I hardly knew her and didn’t want to take that risk. Yet my contempt for Malcolm was red-hot, and even though he seemed seriously diminished, I had an impulse to take him down a notch.

  So—what the hay? I piled on a little.

  “Skipping out on a trial, Doctor?”

  Malcolm had never been on the receiving end of criticism from me; in fact, he’d always been smugly superior in every respect. He was somebody; I was… not. As if to correct such a cosmic imbalance that had found him eye-to-eye with fat, moley Wendy Glick, the office joke, he growlingly revved up a comeback or two.

  “N-now you—”

  “Like the young lady said, save it.”

  “Listen to me! It’s not—”

  All he could do was mumble on like a cartoon of a real man.

  “Sit,” I ordered him, motioning at the cracked leather couch. To my astonishment he obeyed. The attorney was still agitated but had brought her shaky hands down from her face. She told me in so many words that she was screwed, as trial was only a few days away. The whole thing had gone like this, she said, no one standing up against this Dr. Don, people taking the easy way out, leaving town as if they’d been bought off. Even the victim, a shaky, vulnerable middle-aged divorcee Dr. Don had easily exploited, was now failing to return phone calls. The case was looking like a total loss.

  “I’m sorry,” Malcolm said, checking his watch. “But I’ve got a supervision meeting with an intern, and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, please, just go,” Bradlee Aames told him. “In five minutes’ time I’ve gone from desperate to see you, to desperate to get you the hell out of my sight.”

  “Give my regards to the Von Trapps,” I said as Malcolm shuffled to the door. The joke wasn’t funny but it made Bradlee Aames smile.

  “Right. And don’t choke on those teenie weenies while you’re there.”

  “The big weenie,” I said under my breath. We shared a chuckle as the door closed behind him.

  Her hands continued to quiver, and I had a therapist’s instinct to make a commiserative gesture. Not to mention, I still felt dirtied by the oily manipulations of my compromised colleague. Sliding open my desk drawer, I found the box of See’s Candies, the finest chocolates in town, which I keep for emergencies.

  “Here. It’s pick-me-up time.”

  Bradlee Aames seemed grateful. I watched her select a cherry cordial, which half-exploded as she bit into it. I handed her a napkin as she sopped up the rest. For my part I went right for the mocha truffle in the corner.

  “Oh, God,” I mumbled. “I’m in heaven. Have another.”

  “I probably shouldn’t.”

  “With that body? Please, girl, do not patronize me.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “So, who’s this putz, Dr. Don?” I held out the box again like a tray.

  Bradlee Aames made the safe choice by going for the pair of English toffee sticks.

  “He’s an exploiter.”

  “Banged a patient?”

  “Right in his office.”

  “Oy!”

  “Some of the things the victim’s told me… I dunno. He may be a sadomasochist.”

  We ate two more candies apiece. My next patient was less than five minutes away when, following an impulse, I told her I wanted to help. Sex with patients was an overt no-no, and I knew the standard of practice on therapist/patient boundaries inside out.

  “The money sucks,” she warned me. “One-fifty an hour.”

  “This doesn’t strike me as like the kind of thing one would do for the money. I mean, primarily.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Course, I’ve never testified.”

  “I can help you with that. Prep you.”

  “It’ll be good,” I said.

  “Well, challenging is more like it. He’s got three lawyers. Between them, they have no morals.”

  “Well hey, they’re lawyers, what did you expect?”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “I’m just sayin’…”

  “There are plenty of good guys in the law.”

  “And good girls. I can tell you’re one of them.”

  She shook her head. “I’m just trying to put a case together with a decent shot at winning.”

  I was enjoying the candy—a dark chocolate caramel marshmallow, to be precise—and the company with equal pleasure.

  “Anyway,” I said. “It’ll be good to test myself.”

  “It’s not a test. You’d just tell the truth. Review the evidence, and give your professional opinion.”

  “No, dear,” I said. “You heard enough bullshit from my esteemed colleague for one day; the least I can do is be straight with you.”

  “You don’t have a medical license?”

  “No, I’m licensed. My resume’s solid, too. SC undergrad, UCLA med school. Internship and residency at Cedar Sinai. I know my stuff.”

  “Great. So, what? You’re a convicted felon? An axe-murderer?”

  Not quite believing my good luck, I found a milk chocolate almond cluster, lying upside-down and lonely in the corner of the box. Rescued it posthaste.

  “I’ve been off my antianxiety meds for two years and—no, no, it’s okay. Don’t look at me that way.”

  “Sorry,” Bradlee Aames said. “I just wouldn’t want you to wind up in a bad place. I mean, this trial’s gonna be a fight, and you could—”

  “I’m fine without them, I swear. It’s just a thing I had, a problem I had about accepting my personal appearance. Actually, it was more about other people not accepting how I looked, and about me learning how not to care.”

  “What comes out of your mouth is all that matters. No posturing or preplanning. Just the truth. That’s the only way you’ll be judged.”

  The way she said it gave me chills. The way the young lady cut to the chase. Thrilled as I was, at the same time, in my mind, a voice was cautioning me.

  Hey, Wendy, fat girl, anxiety-prone fat girl Wendy? Are you bonkers? Stoned? ’Cause you probably will be stoned—that is, pummeled with big, fat rocks—when you walk into court. One look
at you, fat girl Wendy, and the rocks will surely fly…

  “So, may I see the case file?” I said.

  “Don’t you want to check your schedule first?”

  “Nah—Vienna can wait, right?”

  Bradlee Aames laughed. I lifted the box of See’s one last time, balancing it like an hors d’oeuvres tray.

  “But first! One more for the road.”

  “God,” she said, successfully persuaded. “If chocolate isn’t the best drug on the planet—”

  16

  RAUL MENDIBLES

  The Major knows just how to push my buttons. Though he was on the phone, I could easily picture his self-satisfied smirk as he drew out the vowels in my name.

  “So, Raw-ool, you’ll be there to watch the trial, to monitor the little wild thing, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “She’ll not prevail, I dare say.”

  “No, she will not.”

  “That’s my boy.”

  But his oily cloak of superiority could not hide a mistimed, nervous chuckle he let slip as the general unpredictability of courtroom confrontations was assessed. Then he made a too-strenuous complaint about the unfairly heavy-handed effect of subpoenas on witness availability, to which I politely listened, expertly hiding my incredulity. Jesus, I was thinking, we’re the government—what did he expect laypeople to do when the Department of Justice issued them a personal love letter? Blow it off?

  What I sensed about the Major was that, despite his usual big-dog pretensions, his air of control was not absolute. As a master manipulator, he’d lost some traction, and he was deeply bugged that the Dr. Don case was going to trial.

  So was I.

  Yet, what else could we have done? Bradlee Aames was lawyering this thing relentlessly, like a zombie, the unkillable, undead prosecutor, and try as we might, we couldn’t keep her from putting on her damned case. According to the Major’s well-placed—yet to me, unnamed—sources, the state’s witnesses had been vigorously discouraged from testifying, persuaded that in this instance, the performance of civic duty was not an act of honor or good conscience, but an invitation to chaos and pointlessness. Private favors had been granted, secret benefits conferred. Nevertheless, Bradlee’s subpoenas had been issued, a fact I’d verified personally by fishing through her master file while she was out in the field, hoofing it. Made me feel like a sneak, a loser, having to slink past the secretaries outside Bradlee’s door with a cheesy grin and a wobbly, concocted tale about a mislaid attendance sheet that needed retrieving. Had I simply waited till five, they’d have all been gone home, but the Major had called twice and I couldn’t stand his insinuations about the case turning into a train wreck. Rooting against Bradlee, wishing and hoping she hadn’t done her job, I’d leafed through a file which did nothing but hammer home the fact that we’d failed to dissuade her from her purpose. By all appearances, she seemed ready to go forward, and all I could hope for now was that she’d not be in her right mind to pull off a win.

 

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