by Andy Siegel
“He don’t know what happened,” Ethel breaks in. “Thought I told you this grandson of mine is a little bit retarded.”
“Yeah, I’m a little bit retarded,” he confirms.
I’m not going to interfere with their coping strategies. The hand they’ve been dealt isn’t an easy one. Though I don’t agree with their terminology, if it works for them, then I’ll respect it. Besides, they’re using the phrase descriptively rather than as an insult.
“Ethel,” I say, “this poses a tough problem for us. If Robert doesn’t know what happened and can’t put fault on the van, it’ll be difficult to get more money because the police report tells us that the driver’s going to say Robert caused his own accident.”
“Well, I know what happened.”
“You?” I’m taken a bit off guard. How did I miss this? “I didn’t realize that. I didn’t see you listed as a witness in the file or the police report. What did happen?”
“Robert got hit by one of them Jew vans.”
“What?”
“I said he got hit by one of them Jew vans.”
That’s what I thought I heard. I do some quick mental stocktaking as they watch me patiently.
Okay, this pair is given to using words and phrases commonly viewed as offensive. What’s more, they live in Crown Heights, which is dense with West Indians and African Americans and is also the worldwide headquarters for the Chabad-Lubavitch Hasidic Jewish movement. So, there’s the remote possibility that they harbor ill feelings toward Jews. No black community member can forget Gavin Cato being struck and killed by a car in the motorcade of a Hasidic Jewish rabbi.
When Hatzolah, the Jewish ambulance service, arrived on the scene, they took the rabbi’s man away in the ambulance. Yet seven-year-old Gavin was still pinned under the vehicle that had jumped the sidewalk. Riots erupted in the neighborhood soon after, and a Jewish college student visiting from Australia, Yankel Rosenbaum, was murdered in retribution.
My take on it: Ethel and Robert have no agenda other than their own. This is simply the language they use, and what I need to do is listen, to get the facts of Robert’s accident.
“That’s horrible,” I say. “How would you describe this Jew van, Ethel?”
“It was one of them big white Jew vans, stuffed all full of Jews.”
“It was a white Jew van?” I ask. I am doing my job.
“Yes,” Ethel answers, “it was a white Jew van.”
“How many Jews would you say were stuffed in the Jew van?”
“’Bout fifteen, give or take.”
“There were fifteen people stuffed into a van? Was this one of those extra big Jew vans?”
“Nah, it was a normal size van. But all them Jews were just stuffed right in there, like sardines, with those little round targets on their heads.”
“Targets?”
“Yeah, you know, those little round cloth targets they all wear on they heads, so you got something to aim for.” I give her a serious look. She gives me one back, then she breaks into laughter.
“I’m just pulling on your leg there, Wyler. I know it’s called a yarmulke. I live in Crown Heights, for God’s sake.” We share a grin.
“Very funny. Anyway, what was this van doing at the moment Robert got hit?”
“It was turning left.”
“Turning left, you say?”
“Yeah, into one of them Jew driveways.” Here we go again.
“Into a Jew driveway?”
“Correctly so.”
“I see. Were there any witnesses?”
“Yeah, lots.”
“How many?”
“Maybe ’bout a thousand.”
“Ethel, are you telling me there were a thousand witnesses?”
“I’m not positive, maybe two.”
“Two thousand?” I repeat, in a tone of disbelief.
“That’s what I’m telling ya. Maybe more.”
“Um, they wouldn’t happen to be Jew witnesses, would they?”
“All of them. There were Jews crawling all over the place going every which way. Here, there, everywhere.” For some crazy reason, I believe her. Anyone else—not a chance.
What soon becomes clear is that Granny herself hadn’t actually witnessed the impact, but rather saw only the immediate aftermath. Therefore, the next two hours are spent on prepping Robert so he can make a case for himself.
In a personal injury lawsuit, it’s up to the injured party to set out the elements of what’s called a prima facie case. Meaning, he must say what the defendant did wrong that led to the accident and resultant injury. Despite what Ethel believes, Robert certainly does know what happened but is having problems putting the words together to describe the event in a coherent and comprehensible manner.
In short, the Jew van made a left turn into a Jew driveway as Robert was lawfully crossing the entrance to it on the pedestrian sidewalk—just like Ethel said. This version puts fault squarely on the driver.
All Robert has to say is the truth. That’s it. I think Rich Cohen has problems if Robert can get these few facts across. And I think he’s got problems even if Robert can’t.
YOU ALWAYS GOTS TO LOOK WHERE YOU BE GOING
We head toward my conference room for the deposition. We enter and join the court reporter, the driver of the van who struck Robert, and a young female associate attorney waiting there. The attorney has her brown hair up in a bun, and wears a blue pantsuit, a white shirt buttoned high, and a stern puckered look on her face, the kind she shouldn’t have at this early stage in her career. The moment Robert sees the driver, his eyes slide wide-open, his jaw drops, and he thrusts his finger out.
“Mister,” he says excitedly, “Granny told me it ain’t polite to point, but you the man who gave me the ooh-dats.” The guy looks at his attorney, confused.
“Mr. Wyler …” the attorney says. “It is Mr. Wyler, isn’t it?” And I can tell from her intonation, along with her tight hair bun, she doesn’t play nice with others.
“Yes.”
“Could you direct your witness not to speak to my client? It’s inappropriate to do so in such a proceeding.”
“Um, may I ask your name, Counselor?”
“It’s Ms. Kaufman.”
“Ms. Kaufman, I agree. And I already instructed Robert not to speak unless he’s being questioned by you.”
“Well, he’s not following your instruction.”
“Yes. I have to agree with you on that, too.” Lawyers hate when you agree with them. It undermines their sense of purpose.
“Well, don’t you think you should—”
“Mr. Wyler,” Robert interrupts, “I don’t mean to bust in on you and Ms. Kaufman, but that’s the man who gave me the ooh-dats. Sorry, mister, I don’t mean to point, but you’re sittin’ right there.”
“Yes, Robert. He is. But like we discussed in my office, we have to play the quiet game until this attorney begins asking you questions.”
“Okay, but that’s him, the guy who hit me with the van. He’s sittin’ right there.” His tone is one of disbelief. And you can add three more finger points to the tally.
“Yes, he is, Robert. It’s okay,” I add, trying to sound comforting. At this moment, the full reality of a failure on my part hits me. Hard. I was so caught up in attempting to prep my client that I forgot to tell him the driver who gave him the ooh-dats would be here.
“Come, Robert,” I say, “let’s take our seats.” I pull out a chair and guide him into it. He sits, keeping his eye on the driver as if it were a safety measure. The court reporter sits at one end of the oval table. Otherwise, it’s us on one side, them on the other. Robert is sitting next to the court reporter facing Ms. Kaufman, and I’m next to Robert with the driver across from me.
“Mister,” Robert says to the driver. I look to Kaufman. She ain
’t happy. “I know you didn’t mean to run me over, but you always gots to look where you be going when you driving a vehicle.” Kaufman now has the opportunity for a directive.
“Mr. Wyler, would you tell your client—”
But Robert’s not done.
“It’s the same when you ride a bike. If I didn’t watch where I was riding, I could run into somebody, too.” The driver has no response, but Kaufman does.
“Mr. Wyler, are you going to instruct your witness to stop talking to my client?”
“Sure,” I respond, as if it makes a difference. “Robert,” I say, looking at him while he continues to mark the driver, “can you please not talk to the man who gave you the ooh-dats?” He hesitates, still looking across the table, then answers.
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Robert.”
“You know, mister,” Robert says leaning forward in his seat, “I know you must feel bad about hitting me and all, but don’t worry. Except for my ooh-dats that I can chop at, I’m okay. And I can ride like the wind.”
I look to Kaufman. By now this young lawyer should realize that Robert is a special kind of kid. But it’s clear from the maddened look on her face that she remains oblivious to this fact. She could be the greatest lawyer in the world, but she will never make it in this business—inside a courtroom—because she clearly cannot connect the dots. Trial work is about connecting the dots and connecting with jurors.
The deposition turns out to be an enlightening experience. By Ms. Kaufman’s line of questioning, it’s clear that, in addition to relying on the incorrect police report, defense counsel also intends to establish that there’s no way the accident could’ve happened in the manner Robert describes. He would have been hit on his uninjured leg had it occurred the way he’s claiming, given his route relative to the direction of the van.
I have to agree with her on that. He did make it seem like he got hit on his left side, which is highly unlikely given his right-leg injury extends from his knee, or bumper height, to his ankle. This clear inconsistency was something I could not have foreseen as it surfaced for the first time from Robert’s answers.
However, Robert got it out, just barely, that the van was making a turn, “left or right, I mean this way or that way,”—he points in different directions—when it hit him. He also said, about five times, “I don’t walk in no street. I walk on the sidewalk, correctly.” The first time was in response to the question, “What is your highest level of education?” I have to point out, this was a factor of my overprepping him.
In all, his testimony on how this accident happened was nearly incomprehensible. Bad for us—or is it?
What Robert did make completely clear was that New York Knick great Walt “Clyde” Frazier autographed his basketball when Granny took him to the game for his birthday. This basketball, which Robert was carrying en route to the park, went flying when he was struck. Where the ball came to rest is what’s important here.
Anyway, despite Robert’s shortcomings, he got the first question right. He answered, “My name is Robert Killroy, but I didn’t kill no Roy, and I didn’t kill nobody. That’s just my name.”
NOT ONE WORD
After Robert leaves the room to rejoin Ethel, I question the defendant. He’s come to New York from his home in Canada just for this deposition. He’s a Hasid in the usual long black jacket, with the usual long curly sideburns, and the usual little round target on his head. He’s also wearing glasses.
He states that the first time he saw my client was at the moment of impact when Robert’s cheek was, “smooshed, oy vey,” against his windshield. Good for us. He testified that there’d been eighteen people from two different families stuffed into his van and that he was making a left turn into the temple parking lot at the moment of impact. There had been thousands of Jews roaming the streets that day having come to Crown Heights to celebrate the Rebbe’s hundredth birthday.
Granny—of whom I am more than fond—has been proven right: a Jew-stuffed van, a Jew driveway, and a whole lot of Jew witnesses.
On another note, the driver testified that he never spoke to the police. That’s right, not one word. Rather, it was the father of the family he was traveling with, dressed in the same traditional garb, that did so. A clear case of mistaken Hasidic Jew identity.
I told the defense attorney it was time to settle the case. But she wasn’t fazed, despite witnessing two bouts of Robert’s ooh-dats. These people just don’t know what’s good for them. Given Robert’s condition—and I’m not even talking about his ankle—I definitely have a jury charge on the law that will take them down. And the way Rich Cohen’s young associate, Ms. Kaufman, found joy in relentlessly confusing Robert makes me believe she’s missing a big point here.
My challenge is to convince Cohen to bring his insurance adjuster to the mediation table so I can detonate this legal land mine in his face. Since Ms. Kaufman’s ignorant about what’s important, Rich Cohen will have to remain unaware too.
Lastly, I don’t think I like Ms. Kaufman too much. Maybe it’s because I dislike those who take advantage of others, even if it’s their job. And especially so in Robert’s case.
Chapter Thirteen
After Ethel and Robert leave, I take out my phone. I’m looking for two e-mails in particular. I scroll down and find the one from Pusska. It reads, Thanks for the other day. I haven’t used sex since our talk. I vanted to, but I didn’t.
I scroll until I find the other I’m looking for. It’s from Ray. It reads, I’ll be home all day, as usual. Come on by if you want. She’s my radiology expert—the doctor who reviews or “Ray-diates” imaging studies for me. Jurors love her quirky manner, and her credentials are unmatched. She’s Yale-trained and board-certified in radiology.
Her real name is Dr. Reina Godfrey, but everybody calls her Ray. Short for X-ray, rather than Reina. The only drawback to using Ray is her insistence on doing her reviews from home. That means four flights of stairs. I grab the imaging studies and off I go.
She lives on 51st Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues, smack in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen, which is on the western edge of Midtown and has a colorful history to justify its colorful name. Once the turf of a variety of urban gangs—the Irish being the best known—it’s now all about restaurants, block after block, plus the usual gentrifying redevelopment.
I hit the rusted door buzzer of her brownstone, take three steps back, and look up to the top left window. Ray’s fighting to get it open. Finally, she succeeds and sticks her head out.
“Be right down.”
Ray reviews fifty imaging studies a day at a charge of two hundred fifty dollars per read. That’s twelve thousand five hundred dollars per day, and she’s on the job six days per week, fifty-two weeks a year.
Yet, despite her sizeable income, her brownstone is dilapidated and unsightly. To illustrate how cheap she is, she struggles with her window and walks down four flights to get the door, instead of spending a few bucks to have the buzzer fixed. I could go on, detailing the broken handrail, the peeling paint, the cracked window panels, etc., etc., etc., but I think you get the picture.
As she opens the door, she steps out past me, looking down the street first one way, then the other. Surveillance. Like someone’s out to get her.
“What’s up, Ray?”
“You never know. Come on.”
Whatever.
Once we’re inside, she slams the door. The only upgrade she’s ever made involved giant-sized Master Locks and deadbolts. I smile at her as she secures her territory.
She smiles back. Her teeth are telling. She had a Spanish omelet with toasted, buttered seven-grain bread for breakfast, a ham sandwich with spicy brown mustard and tomato for lunch, and she snacked on a granola bar—my guess would be peanut-butter flavored—seventeen minutes ago. I can’t wait to look at the films up close with her.
“Come on,” she says, starting up the creaky staircase. I follow. The back of her bathrobe is hiked up. It’s caught, somehow. Exposed are her legs, ghost-white from lack of sun exposure, and a hint of her droopy bottom. I mean, what’s the protocol here? Do I say something?
At the first-floor landing, she stops. “Let’s work here today.”
“Okay, I’ve never been on this floor. We always work up top.”
“I know,” she responds, “but I got involved in some reviews and forgot to feed the cats on this floor.”
“You have cats on this floor, too? Don’t you have, like, seven cats upstairs?”
“Yeah. Well, I actually have twelve upstairs. On this floor I only have nine.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Nope, nine more on this floor.” She takes a ring of keys out, and the jingle incites a chorus of meows. We walk into a hungry pride.
“Why do you keep nine cats on this floor and twelve upstairs?”
“Because the Jets don’t get along with the Sharks. It’s your typical West Side Story.”
“How did you discover which nine didn’t get along with which twelve?”
She looks at me pityingly. “I asked them.”
She begins filling dishes with cat food and setting them on the floor.
“Ready to start?” she wants to know, once the lower nine are locked onto their bowls.
“Sure,” I answer, thinking I like Mick’s workspace a heck of a lot better. The wide-open area, which comprises the entirety of this floor, is completely barren except for where we’re obviously going to work. Also, there are no shades, no floor coverings, no furniture—no nothing. Bare, down to the exposed pipes and hanging light bulbs.
“Good. Now give me those imaging studies, and don’t say a word.”
I hand her a stack of compact discs.
She prefers a cold read without any guidance. She says it gives her opinions greater credibility since they were formed without the influence of seeing the formal reports that come along with the studies.
I agree.
She places the numerous CDs on the tabletop, which has a heavily scratched white Formica surface. I’d say it was circa 1974. Just so you know, we’re seated on stools with cracked red vinyl cushions. These, I’d guess, are vintage 1960s.
