by Andy Siegel
“Uh, no.”
“Good,” she says, seeming satisfied. “You loyal to Chi Chi, but lie to me. Now, you loyal to me, too. Okay?”
“Okay,” I answer. My chest is getting tighter by the second.
“Sit,” she directs. She places herself opposite me. “You lawyer.”
“Yes, I’m a lawyer. Right at first guess. You’ve got some skills.”
“You funny. No guess. Chi Chi tell me you lawyer. Chi Chi tell me you have problem on face. Chi Chi right. She good student.”
As I watch, she begins getting down to business. She picks up a bamboo cylinder half the size of the blue kaleidoscope I once had as a kid, purchased from the Museum of Modern Art. She shakes it a few times, and it rattles like a percussion instrument.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Kau Cim. Kau Cim.”
“What’s that mean?”
She shakes her head. “Be patient, lawyer. Stick inside make prediction. Stick inside tell future. Stick inside give you guidance.” Now she shakes it seven or eight times, and I can see little pieces of wood jut out a hole in one side, then slide back in. On the tenth or so shake, a stick falls out, landing between us. I look at the four-sided piece of wood. It’s about three inches long, red-tipped at one end, with Chinese characters running down its sides.
“Listen carefully,” she begins. “You have much going on. All good, but you think bad. You in danger. Be careful. But you no die. Very funny, hee, hee, lawsuit save lawyer life. You live long time. You sick, take care of self. You have woman you help. Special message for special woman—no, girl. You teach her lesson. She learn good. You no worry. You mom get big worry, but you no worry.”
I lean forward to hear more, but she’s stopped. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Well, what’s good about the bad things? What am I in danger from? Take care of myself how? The woman I helped was Cookie, but who’s the special girl? My daughter? And what’s my mom worried about that I shouldn’t worry about?”
“Answer inside.” She points to my heart and then my head. “You go now. Today, Betty day off.”
Chapter Sixteen
Betty was right. I’m sick and getting sicker. It’s been five days since the onset. If my chest feels worse tomorrow, I’ll go to the doctor. I hate going to the doctor. Occupational hazard.
I arrive right on time at Adjudicate Services, Inc., the mediation company chosen by the defense counsel on Robert Killroy’s case. A mediation is a nonbinding settlement conference, usually before a retired judge, where the rules of evidence don’t apply. Therefore, I can say basically anything I want in an effort to get the case resolved. Stuff I’d never say before a jury. I was happy Rich Cohen chose Adjudicate because they know me there. Well.
The law charges a driver with the obligation to see what is there to be seen. The Jew van operator failed to do so. This, I assume, along with the mystery that Robert’s basketball solved, have given rise to this quicker than usual mediation, despite his problem with testifying.
Regarding his ball, Robert testified it ended up underneath the van, which had stopped in midturn within the entrance of the driveway. Just after impact, he popped up onto his uninjured foot and yelled at the driver to back his van up so he could get his signed ball, a gift from Ethel. The driver reversed out into the street until Robert could see it under the front bumper. He hopped over in pain to get his cherished ball, sitting down next to it in the roadway, unable to move one more inch because of his injury.
His location there must’ve led the police officer to erroneously conclude that Robert had darted out into traffic from between parked cars.
Robert’s case went from nothing to a big something simply because I did what I was supposed to do. I listened to my client, took the driver’s deposition, and ascertained the full amount of insurance coverage. Had their prior attorney done this, in all likelihood, he would have earned a hefty fee, as well as the respect and gratitude of his client, not to mention becoming a poster boy for integrity in an area of law that’s filled with schlemiels.
Anyway, I imagine Cohen and his insurance adjuster are here in an attempt to save money on their one-million-dollar excess policy of insurance. That ain’t happening—I’ve got Robert’s financial independence to consider.
Before I walk in, I pull out my phone and speed-dial a favorite contact. I should’ve made this call the moment I left Betty and her fortune sticks.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Mom,” I say. “Is everything okay? Are you worried about anything?” Cough, cough.
“Yes. I’m worried my daughter-in-law is not properly taking care of my son by the sound of that cough. A little less tennis and a little more chicken soup wouldn’t hurt.”
“I can tell you’re feeling fine.”
“Yes, under the circumstances. Anything else? I’m on my way to Lenox Hill for some blood work.”
“Nope. That’s it.” Her circumstances are a prolonged battle with breast cancer. She’s a fighter, a real tough one.
Robert and Ethel are waiting in reception. He’s sitting on the floor, legs wide-open, with five small bags of pretzels and three packs of chocolate chip cookies in between them. (Adjudicate provides courtesy snacks.) He’s also wearing a fully loaded Batman-type utility belt and has his Bluetooth in his right ear.
“Morning, Ethel.”
“Morning. You sure you doing this for free?”
“I meant what I said. But, remember, the deal is that you refer me to anyone you know who’s been in an accident or who received bad medical care, right?”
“Right.”
“Hey, Robert.”
He looks up. “You owe Mr. Wang fourteen dollars and seventy-nine cents. He’s a really nice man. I’d have sued you by now, but Granny ain’t had the time to help me with the papers. You my first lawsuit. You gonna pay or am I gonna sue?”
“Sue me Robert, just sue me. I’m not paying.” He frowns.
“Listen, guys, just sit quiet in there, please. Follow my lead, if need be, but let me work the room. Got it?” Cough, cough.
“Got it,” Ethel says. I look to Robert.
“Fourteen dollars seventy-nine cents, plus filing fees. And I get fifty dollars directly for getting my serve in.” I understand what he means is service of process.
We’re shown into a large conference room. Sitting at the head of the table is the mediator, Allen Joseph. He’s a retired New York State Supreme Court judge and is the number-one guy here. On the other side is attorney Rich Cohen. Gray hair, three-piece suit, midsixties, and a know-it-all air. The woman sitting next to him, I assume, is the adjuster. Midthirties, blonde, attractive.
We take our seats across from them. Normally, I have my clients sit in the waiting area while the negotiations take place. But not this time.
Allen Joseph looks to me to get started. “So, what’s this case about? Given the short notice, both sides waived submissions, so I’m in the dark here.”
Before I get a chance to answer, Rich Cohen makes himself heard. “There’s no way this accident could’ve happened in the manner the plaintiff testified.” At this, he nods at Robert across from him. Robert’s taking his cell phone apart on the table. There are roughly ten little pieces arranged in a straight line.
Judge Joseph now looks to me for rebuttal. The thing is, I’m not supposed to be rebutting. I’m the plaintiff. The plaintiff has the burden of proof, so in any form of legal proceeding the plaintiff speaks first. This is why Joseph posed the question to me. What’s up with that, Rich? Feeling the need to be heard and to take control is the answer. That’s my favorite type of defense counsel. The ones that walk right out into the middle of the quicksand. They sink the fastest.
“He would’ve had to be coming from the opposite direction,” Rich states, “for the accident to have happened in t
he way the plaintiff testified.” He nods at Robert again. His expression is both vehement and righteous.
Joseph looks to me, but I’m not fast enough.
“His opposite leg would’ve been the one struck if the accident happened in the way he testified,” Rich states, relentless in his pursuit of justice. “I tell you, there’s no way this accident could’ve happened in the manner he describes.”
Robert’s phone now is completely dismantled.
I’m not certain Rich is done big-mouthing, so I inquire, “Are you done yet, Rich?”
“Yes, I’m done. But this accident could not have occurred in the way your client testified,” he repeats. “His opposite leg would’ve been closest to the van, and hence the one struck. He would have had to be going in the direction opposite to that testified.”
“Rich, you can’t say you’re done and then continue on. That’s not being done. That’s being almost done. So are you finished now?”
“Yes.”
“Could you say the words that confirm this for us, please?”
“Words? What words are those?”
“‘There, now I’m done.’ That’s the phrase. I’m waiting until you say it.” I look at Ethel, who grins. Rich, on the other hand, is annoyed. We wait a second as he decides.
“There, now I’m done,” he says, grudgingly. I look to Judge Joseph, who shrugs.
I briefly consider starting with the fact that his driver didn’t see Robert until impact, or that he failed to yield the right of way to a pedestrian on a sidewalk. Or even that, with the driver’s acknowledgement, he backed out into the roadway after the accident so Robert could get his basketball, thus offering an explanation for the erroneous police diagram. But these are facts this lawyer and his insurance adjuster already know from the testimony. I mean, that’s why we’re here—they both realize they have a problem.
I plan, however, to start with something they don’t know. It should cut things short and dismiss their silly notion of saving money. I pat my chest and clear my throat, beginning midlung. It hurts.
“So Rich, are you stating that you accept and believe the testimony my client gave?” He snickers like he’s got me on the ropes.
“Of course I believe it. Since the accident could never have happened that way, it makes the rest of his testimony also unbelievable. So, yes, I believe it. Don’t you? He’s your client.”
I find this confusing. He accepts and believes Robert’s testimony because he knows it’s unbelievable? Isn’t he not accepting it?
“I understand he’s my client, but I also understand my client has a disability.” The word disability catches the ear of the adjuster. Her posture changes from confident to uneasy. If there’s one thing insurance adjusters hate, it’s being involved in an injury case where the injured is mentally challenged—in short, the R-word that Granny and Robert have no qualms about using in daily conversation.
Insurance companies understand such victims can’t fend for themselves and that this heightens the potential sympathy factor. Besides which, a special jury charge exists to help protect them. Thus, they’re not held to the ordinary standard of care of a reasonably prudent person but to a lesser one. That standard fluctuates to embrace the nature of the disability, and I’d suggest it may be a bit low here.
“So what are you saying here?” Rich wants to know.
“I haven’t said anything yet, really. I’ve just been listening to you state your position, i.e., that the accident couldn’t have happened the way Robert says. At the same time, you’re relying on what he says to win your case. It doesn’t make much sense to me. And I find it interesting that a defense attorney with your experience would be relying on my client’s near incomprehensible testimony. I recognize the fact that it wasn’t you yourself who took Robert’s deposition, but certainly your associate, Ms. Kaufman, must have made the appropriate report regarding Robert.”
Rich looks unsure of himself. The blonde is looking at him to save the day. I don’t think so, honey. As for me, I think Rich is about to pose the one question a lawyer should never ask. The one you don’t know the answer to. The one you especially don’t raise in front of the person paying your bills.
“What’s this boy’s disability?” Rich asks. Thank you, dumbass.
I look at Granny. “Tell him, Ethel.”
“Be glad to,” she says. “My grandson over here is a little bit retarded.” Robert looks up from his assemblage of electronic bits and pieces. His red bike helmet is on crooked.
“Yeah, I’m a little bit retarded. Ooh-dat! Ooh-dat! Ooh-dat!” he yells, as if on cue, chopping at his ankle in obvious pain.
Case settled.
Ethel was right. Rich ain’t no bona fide lawyer.
SPIT IN THIS
Right from the mediation, I took Ethel and Robert downtown to the offices of Structure Solutions. There, we had a three-hour meeting with my structured settlement consultant, Brian Levine. A structured settlement is where a portion of the proceeds is used to purchase an annuity that pays Robert in fixed sums, at specified intervals, over his lifetime. Guaranteed. Not only does the structure have tax benefits and cost-of-living increases, but it also does away with Robert attempting to manage his own money.
One thing I did insist on was immediate up-front money so he and Ethel can do a few things they haven’t had the resources to do. They wanted only enough to buy a new bike for Robert and a new wig for Ethel. One she’s had her eye on. It’s purple. I convinced them to take a small chunk more.
After cleaning things up at my office, I meet Mick at a gentlemen’s club that just opened on 23rd and Eleventh. It’s called Boner’s. The retired pro-football player and celebrity personality John Bonner opened it up. The second N in his name is hanging down below the other letters on the sign out front, looking like it’s about to fall off. (I don’t think this is on anyone’s list to fix. Trust me.) We’re meeting here in order to have the night out that keeps never happening.
I’d suggested The Palm for steaks, but Mick insisted the evening involve live entertainment, and we couldn’t meet at Jingles. I didn’t want to risk seeing Cookie. I intend to honor her directive not to contact her, even if the contact would be incidental.
Anyway, I feel like crap—a lot worse than I did at Robert’s mediation this morning. I’m sick. Really, really sick. My chest feels like it’s about to explode, and I’ve had horrible pressure headaches coming and going all afternoon.
When I walk in, after noting that the doorman and cashier here have friendlier dispositions than those at Jingles, I see Mick sitting alone at a table closest to one of the tips of the five-pointed star stage. At each of these points a tall dancing pole is affixed to the ceiling, and beautiful girls are performing sensual maneuvers on them. It reminds me of two things, both related. One is my life goal to keep my daughter, Penelope, off the pole. The second is that she’s got a big dance audition coming up in the city right near my office, a commitment Tyler’s now reminded me of twice, since it involves my participation.
I take a couple of steps, then have to stop. My chest. It hurts. My joints hurt, too. Maybe I have Lyme disease or something. Mick, seeing me hunched over with my hands on my knees, comes to check. He bends down, imitating my position, creating a two-man huddle.
He’s tilting his head. I do the same. We lock eyes.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m sick. Probably a bad cold.” Cough, cough, cough. “Let’s sit down. I’ve got to give it a rest.” We move toward his table. We began together, but he arrives three steps before me. I have a longer stride. You draw the conclusion.
“You look like shit,” he says from across the tiny round table.
“Thanks. A Chinese fortune-teller predicted it.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” Cough, cough, cough. I look up at the girl on the pole three feet aw
ay from us. She’s hot. No halo. Cough, cough, cough. And quite skilled. Cough, cough. Prior to meeting Cookie and witnessing how she connected with so many men in a very genuine way, I would have objectified and trivialized this pole dancer now before me.
At least I admit it. Cough, cough, cough.
“That sounds bad,” she comments, looking down at me as her bikini top flies off.
“Yeah, that sounds bad,” Mick agrees. “You’re right,” he adds, to her, not me.
To me, not her, he says, “I need to put my head on your chest.”
“Maybe later,” she says to Mick.
“Oh, sorry, I was talking to him, I need to hear what’s going on in there.”
“Suit yourself,” she responds, then does a triple twirl on the pole. Mick slides his chair around the star tip next to mine and puts his ear on my sternum.
“Get those queers outta here!” yells a rowdy homophobe. Mick ignores him. He knows and I know that it’d take too much effort to explain I don’t feel well and that Mick’s a doctor.
“Take a deep breath,” he instructs.
“Aw, that’s cute,” chimes the busty server on her arrival. “Can I get you boys anything? A blood pressure cuff, maybe? Or how about a rectal thermometer?”
Everyone’s a comic.
“No, thanks, just two beers.” Cough, cough. Mick continues to listen to my chest, and I appreciate it might look a little funny.
He picks his head up. “You got lower lung rales. They’re starting to crackle. That’s bad. Cross your right leg over your left for me.”
“Mick,” I tell him, “no need to keep going. I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow.”
“Cross your right leg over,” he repeats, not taking no for an answer. He gives a tiny karate chop just under my kneecap. My foot shoots up, kicking the undersurface of the table, sending it flying over.
“Good thing we didn’t get our beers yet.” Just then, a large swiftly moving object comes at us from the right. It’s an oversized man in a black suit with a communication device in his ear, CIA style. Robert would love that. He weaves around the scattered tables, moving agilely for his size, while Mick uprights our table.
