So we head back to Pier Two.
When we walk up to the towering ride, it’s still idle.
But there is a new sign dangling off that chain barrier: “Opening next weekend!”
Bob, the manager guy, comes strolling over when he sees us checking out the ride.
“Howdy, guys. Been meaning to call you two. We’ve hired an operator who fulfills all your requirements. He’s a carnie from up north. He’ll be here next weekend.”
“Has he been trained and certified by the manufacturer?”
“Yep. Trained at their factory in Sandusky, Ohio. He faxed us a copy of his license and the factory certification.”
“We’ll need a copy of it.”
“Sure. I’ll fax it over first thing Monday. You’ll get a kick out of it, too.”
“How so?”
“Guy has the same last name as you.”
“Come again?”
“Our new operator. His name is Joseph Ceepak. Any relation?”
Ceepak’s face goes ghostly white.
“Yes. He is my father.”
17
CEEPAK SPENDS EVERY FREE HOUR THE NEXT WEEK PREPARING for “the imminent invasion” of Joseph Ceepak.
“I knew this day would come the moment Mother made the decision to move to Sea Haven. The money she inherited is simply too tempting a target for my father to ignore.”
True. With Adele’s millions, Joe “Six Pack” Ceepak could buy his own beer distributorship.
The last time his father was in town, Ceepak had an Emergency Restraining Order issued to keep his father away from his immediate family—him, his wife Rita, and his adopted son T.J. Mrs. Adele Ceepak was never listed on that order because she wasn’t even in New Jersey at the time. Plus, as Honest Abe Ceepak reminds me, there never was a judicial hearing to turn his ERO into an FRO, a Final Restraining Order.
“Sadly,” he says when we discuss it over a beer one night, “due to my lack of follow-through on the matter, my father has every right to seek gainful employment here in Sea Haven.”
“But he promised us,” I say. “When you saved his sorry life after that nutjob shot him. He said he’d never darken your door again. He gave us his solemn word he’d leave your mother alone.”
“So he did, Danny,” says Ceepak grimly. “So he did.”
I guess Ceepak knows that every vow his father has ever made to him was nothing but hot, boozy air.
Meanwhile, I’m served a subpoena to appear in Judge Ken Guarnery’s courtroom on Friday morning at 8:30 A.M. to give testimony in the matter of Shona Oppenheimer v. Christine Lemonopolous.
Thursday night, a little after 8 P.M., I swing by the Rosen house to see how Christine is holding up.
The first thing I notice in the driveway is a brand-new electric wheelchair with a reinforced metal frame and big balloon tires like on a dune buggy.
“Nice, hunh?” says Monae Dunn, as she comes out to the porch. “Michael sent it. You are looking at a ten-thousand-dollar motorized beach wheelchair.”
“Seriously? It looks like a moon rover.”
“Uhm-hmm. You need tires that size on account of all the sand. And you steer it with that joystick thing right there. Michael wants to go ‘walking on the beach’ with his father to tell him his and Andrew’s ‘big news.’ He’s flying in from Hollywood first thing tomorrow morning. Taking the redeye.”
“Michael bought that high-def TV for his dad, too, right?”
“Uhm-hmm. And the satellite dish. And the exercise bike. He even sent a box of those Omaha steaks last week. Michael is extremely generous. But, between you and me, I think it’s because he feels so guilty.”
“About what?”
“Not being here like his brother.”
“Maybe,” I say because I find it helps to be noncommittal when listening to gossip. “Is Christine around?”
“Uhm-hmm.” She nods toward the door.
I head inside. I walk even though I’m half-tempted to test out Dr. Rosen’s brand-new moon rover, see if those balloon tires could haul me up the steps like an ATV.
Dr. Rosen is in his regular wheelchair, spooning a bowl of thick soup out of a bowl resting on a table attached to its armrests. Christine is sitting beside him with a cloth napkin, ready to mop up any spills.
“Ah, Officer Boyle!” Dr. Rosen says when he sees me. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”
“I just wanted to see how Christine was holding up. Tomorrow’s the big day.”
“I’m good, Danny,” she says. “Thanks.”
“By the way, sir—I like your new wheelchair out front.”
Dr. Rosen shakes his head. “I told Monae to put that thing in the garage. Frivolous waste of money. But that, I’m afraid, is my youngest son, Michael. Never very frugal or practical. You’ll see.”
I just nod.
Hey, I have my own family crap to deal with. I don’t need any extra from the Rosens. So, I change the subject.
“Is that your grandson?” I ask, gesturing at the closest jumbo sized portrait of the shaggy-haired boy.
“Indeed. That’s Little Arnie.”
“They named him after you?”
“Yes, Officer Boyle. He is my living legacy. Quite a smile, don’t you think? All natural. Didn’t even need braces or a retainer like his father did when he was a boy.”
“Good-looking kid.”
“Quite the athlete-scholar, as well. I suspect he has the smarts to get into my old alma mater, U Penn Dental School.” Dr. Rosen shakes his head, remembering something unpleasant. “His father, on the other hand, did not.”
“Well, like I said, I, uh, just wanted to drop by and wish Christine good luck. Can’t really do it tomorrow when I’m in uniform, in court …”
“Officer Boyle,” says Dr. Rosen, “I wonder if you might convey a message to your friend, Detective Ceepak?”
“Sure.”
“Kindly inform him that what his mother has done, rushing in to assist Christine, a woman she barely knows, has inspired me.”
“She’ll be happy to hear it, sir.”
“In fact, I hope to, one day, replicate her generosity with some spontaneous act of kindness of my own.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now then, are you prepared for tomorrow, Officer Boyle?”
“I think so. My job in court is pretty easy. I just have to recite the facts as I recall them.”
“Take care, Officer Boyle. I have received top-secret intelligence from the enemy camp: according to Judith, her sister has engaged a young gun by the name of Stan Trybulski to plead her case to the court.”
“I’m not worried. Christine has Harvey Nussbaum.”
“Indeed she does. However, Mr. Trybulski, who is perhaps half Mr. Nussbaum’s age, already commands four hundred dollars per billable hour.”
18
FRIDAY MORNING, I’M IN COURT, FEELING LIKE A MARINATED pork butt because I’m just waiting to be grilled by Stan Trybulski, Shona Oppenheimer’s high-priced young attorney.
I appear to be the only witness waiting to testify. I don’t see Shona’s son, Samuel, or anybody else.
Harvey Nussbaum and Christine Lemonopolous are seated at the defendant’s table. He’s in a snazzy suit with a bright red handkerchief tucked into the chest pocket. Christine is wearing her nurse’s scrubs.
Shona Oppenheimer and her attorney, whose suit looks even more expensive than Harvey’s, are at the plaintiff’s table. Judge Ken Guarnery is perched up on the bench, looking very imposing in his black robes.
The Plaintiff gets to go first.
“Your honor,” says Trybulski. “My client, Mrs. Shona Blumenfeld Oppenheimer, a well respected member of this community …”
The judge actually nods and smiles at Shona Oppenheimer. She smiles back. It’s like they’re at a champagne reception raising money for Judge Guarnery’s next political campaign.
Christine doesn’t stand a chance.
“… Mrs. Oppenheimer not only
employed the defendant, Christine Lemonopolous, as a home health aide to care for her son, she also provided Ms. Lemonopolous with room and board, making her a de facto member of the Oppenheimer household.”
Nussbaum looks like he’s about to object, but he doesn’t.
“On the evening of June 7th, Ms. Lemonopolous attacked Mrs. Oppenheimer.”
This time, Nussbaum pops up. “Objection. Does the plaintiff have any proof to substantiate her assertion?”
“Of course, your honor,” says Trybulski. “It is all spelled out, right there in the Restraining Order form as specified …”
“That’s not proof. That’s just her side of the story.”
“We also have the police report.”
Harvey flips open a file folder on the table in front of him. “You mean this police report? The one with the photographs?”
“The photographs are irrelevant,” says Trybulski. “The responding officers failed to document Mrs. Oppenheimer’s shin injuries and limited their intake of evidence to dramatized depictions of Ms. Lemonopolous’s bruised neck.”
“Well, that’s what I would have done, too,” says Harvey. “If I was a cop and saw someone getting strangled …”
“Enough,” says the judge. “Objection overruled. The defendant will be given ample opportunity to present evidence supporting her version of events later in this proceeding.”
“Yes, your honor. And I promise, when it’s our turn, we won’t just do a read-aloud of some form we filled out.”
“Harvey?”
“I’m just saying, your honor.” He sits back down.
The judge turns to the plaintiff’s table. Smiles again. “Please proceed, counselor.”
“Thank you, your honor. Now, as you know, what is most important in a hearing such as this, is establishing that my client is in immediate need of the protection that would be provided by the permanent restraining order.”
Here the lawyer turns to her client.
“Mrs. Oppenheimer, can you tell us why you fear further violence from Ms. Lemonopolous?”
“Certainly,” says Shona, sitting up straight in her chair, just like they probably rehearsed it. “Because Christine is a ticking time bomb. She has what they call ‘PTSD.’ Post Traumatic Stress Disease.”
“Do you mean Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?” coaches her lawyer.
“Yes. Christine is extremely prone to angry outbursts and crazy flashbacks.”
Harvey stands. “Objection, your honor.”
Judge Guarnery gets a squeamish look on his face and says, oh so politely, “Mrs. Oppenheimer, this is a very serious accusation. Do you have evidence to substantiate your claim?”
“Sure. I talked to a doctor friend and he told me …”
“Hearsay, your honor,” says Harvey, tossing up both his arms.
“Yes. I’m afraid we can’t admit hearsay evidence, Shona. Objection sustained.”
“Your honor,” says Trybulski, her lawyer, “those with PTSD engage in self-destructive behavior such as alcohol abuse and …”
“Whoa,” says Harvey. “Again with the PTSD?”
“Did you have difficulty understanding my ruling, Mr. Trybulski?” asks the judge, sounding like a kindly old uncle. “If so, I would be happy to elucidate …”
“No, that’s okay,” says Trybulski. “Allow me to rephrase.”
“Kindly do.”
“My client desperately needs the protection this restraining order will provide because she is currently living her life in constant fear of what Ms. Lemonopolous might do next. Need I remind you: Ms. Lemonopolous is a highly trained medical professional. She understands the pharmacology of drugs. She knows how to hurt people. She is a menace to my client.”
Trybulski strides to his chair. Sits down.
“Is that it?” asks the judge.
“Yes, your honor. For now.”
“Would the defense care to cross-examine the plaintiff?”
“Well, let’s see,” Harvey says sarcastically. “They presented so much evidence. Where to start? Oh, how about the police report. Nothing much in there. She said one thing, my client said another. The plaintiff’s son couldn’t tell who started what. Oh, right. The pictures. But you can look at those yourself, your honor.”
“I already have.”
“So, okay, this PTSD thing.”
“You don’t have to go there, Mr. Nussbaum. I have already stricken Ms. Oppenheimer’s unsubstantiated remarks from the record.”
“Thanks. But let’s say, hypothetically, an emergency-room nurse did wind up with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder right after her best friend in the world was horribly murdered. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that this same hypothetical nurse realized what was happening to her and went to her employers to ask for a long-term leave of absence.
“Furthermore, let’s say the folks at, oh, let’s call the hypothetical hospital Mainland Medical, thought so highly of this young trauma nurse that they helped her find a in-house treatment program, which everyone agreed would be kept strictly confidential, thereby putting it under the protection of the federal government’s HIPAA Privacy Rules.
“How could anybody but the hypothetical nurse and her hypothetical doctors even know about this hypothetical incident? Unless, of course, somebody, let’s say another hypothetical doctor, maybe a hypothetical plastic surgeon, whose favorite customer was a hypothetical woman named Mrs. Oppenheimer, violated the young nurse’s privacy rights as stipulated under the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996.”
Harvey stops.
The courtroom is stone cold quiet.
“I’m just sayin’, your honor,” he adds with a shrug. “Hypothetically.”
I never take the stand.
Judge Guarnery has no choice but to toss out the temporary restraining order. He totally expunges its existence from Christine’s record. He even suggests that Mrs. Oppenheimer “have a little chat” with her “hypothetical” plastic surgeon friend and advise him to obtain legal counsel, as he could be brought up on charges for his “flagrant violation” of HIPAA regulations.
I guess the whole PTSD deal was one of the things Christine and Harvey Nussbaum chatted about last Saturday after Ceepak and I left the room. Ceepak could relate. When he first came home from the horror show over in Iraq, my partner had been prone to nightmares. Especially when he was awake and someone set off fireworks, like an M-80 tossed into a dumpster.
The second we’re outside the courtroom, Christine jumps into my arms to give me a big hug. Full disclosure? She does, indeed, have a great bod.
“Where’s Mr. Ceepak and his mom? I want to thank them, too!”
“Um, they’re both kind of busy. The Free Fall opens tomorrow.”
“Huh?”
Christine is confused. Can’t blame her. What I just said makes absolutely no sense.
Unless, of course, you know that skeevy Joe Ceepak is coming to town.
19
SATURDAY MORNING, CEEPAK AND I ARE OFF DUTY BUT BOTH of us are carrying our sidearms.
We meet in the parking lot that fronts Pier Two, home of the StratosFEAR Free Fall.
“Thank you for doing this with me, Danny,” says Ceepak.
“No problem.” Ceepak doesn’t trust himself to stay calm, cool, and in control when confronting his horrible excuse for a father for the first time in nearly a year. Today, being restrained and dispassionate will be my job.
It’s about 10:30 A.M.
The rides usually open around eleven. Ceepak figures his father, a Sandusky Amusements certified ride operator, will already be on the job, going through his pre-flight checklist.
We walk up the pier, which resembles a carnival midway thirty minutes before they let the suckers in. Blinking signs are flickering to life. Baskets of Oreos and Snickers bars dripping pancake batter are being dunked into bubbling vats of French fryer oil. Fluffy stuffed animals are being hung on pegs—prizes not too many basketball shooters, frog bog bo
ppers, softball-into-a-basket tossers, or balloon poppers will actually take home.
Up ahead, I see the NASA-blue StratosFEAR car rising up its bright white tower. It slips behind the electronic sign spelling out S-t-r-a-t-o-s-FEAR that rings the ride. It creeps, like an extremely slow elevator on a high-rise crane tower, toward the top. Fortunately, the seats are all empty.
When we reach the ride entrance, the car comes sliding down like a shot. The brakes slam on. Fog puffs out. The car glides to the bottom.
“Looking good, Joe!” we hear Bob the manager holler.
“Thanks, Bob.”
And there, sitting in the control booth, is none other than Joseph Ceepak.
I almost don’t recognize him. His wild tangle of greasy hair is neatly trimmed, parted, and combed to one side. His face is shaved clean of the salt-and-pepper stubble I remember. Instead of a sloppy Hawaiian shirt with food stains dribbled down the front, he’s wearing a clean and pressed polo shirt and crisp khaki shorts.
“Johnny?” he says when he sees us staring up at him. “Boyle? Hey, great to see you two.” He squirms around on his stool. “Hey, Bob? Is it okay if I take my five-minute break a little early?”
“Sure, Joe!” Bob calls back. Then he gives us a cheery wave, the kind suburban guys give each other when they’re out mowing their lawns.
Joe Ceepak flicks some switches and hurries down to greet us.
His son’s jaw joint is doing that popping in and out thing it does near his ear whenever he’s trying not to explode.
“My goodness, Johnny. Good to see you, son. Been too long. You too, Boyle. I would’ve called you, but, well, I just got into town last night. They’re putting me up in a motel till I can find an apartment. Had to punch in bright and early this morning.”
And then he stands there, hands on hips, smiling proudly at his son.
Whose eyes are narrowing into slits tighter than window blinds yanked all the way up.
“Why are you here?” Ceepak finally says.
“Didn’t they tell you, Johnny? I’m a factory-trained and certified operator. See, the plant that manufactures these American steel rides is located up in Sandusky, not too far from where I was living after, you know, last summer when, well, I would’ve died if it wasn’t for my jarhead son!”
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