by Carla Damron
While John explained who they were, Tonya wandered into the waiting area and dropped into a chair, a wiggly Byron in her lap. She hoped they didn’t have a long wait. John came to sit beside Tonya, the folder tucked beside him, and started thumbing through a golf magazine. Tonya looked around, comparing the lobby to the one at Jamison and Patel’s. While the plump leather chairs were comfortable, the plush green carpet was the color of snot. She preferred the plank wood floors at her job, the simple upholstered chairs, and the vinyl office plants that survived despite their neglect.
Byron shimmied down to the table and started rearranging the neat stacks of magazines. She decided to let him have his fun; the poor little guy was no good at waiting, and it was almost dinner time.
“Tonya, can’t you control him?” John peered over his magazine.
“He’s two. He’s hungry and he’s bored. Why don’t you get one of his books from the car?”
“It shouldn’t be much longer.” John returned to his reading. Byron batted the table like it was a bongo drum, the vibration sending a NEWSWEEK sliding to the floor.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ladson?” A woman with short, very-blond hair appeared, extending a hand. “I’m Carol Greer, Mr. Hammer’s paralegal.”
John jumped to his feet. Tonya grabbed her boy, ignoring the disrupted table display. Let Will Hammer’s custodial staff straighten things later.
“Nice to meet you,” John said. “Though you’ve been very helpful on the phone.”
“That’s our job, Mr. Ladson. To help you.” The lines sounded rehearsed. She could have been thirty-five or sixty-five. Her skin looked artificially smoothed. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, reminding Tonya of her mother after the Botox experiment: pretty in a mannequin way.
“Let’s go to my office,” Carol said. She moved fast for such a short woman, her heels clicking down the hall’s shiny laminate floor. Byron twisted in Tonya’s arms.
“Pretty!” he pointed at a photograph of yellow flowers.
Carol spun around and said, “You like the picture?” in a little girl voice.
Byron nodded.
“What a darling boy,” Carol commented, leaning into the “darling” before resuming her stride up the hall. Passing door after door, Tonya wondered how many staff Will Hammer had. Carol’s cozy office was furnished with a tan wooden desk, two flowered chairs, and a torchiere lamp that Tonya prayed Byron wouldn’t climb like a fireman’s pole.
“So Mrs. Ladson, how are you feeling these days?” Carol asked, taking a seat behind the desk. “I see you still have some bruising.”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, she’s better now,” John rushed to say. “But it’s been a difficult few weeks. She has a broken nose, some injured ribs. And little Byron has a fractured collar bone. He’s supposed to be wearing a sling.”
Tonya cut her eyes at him. “The doctor said he had to wear it when it was hurting him. You can see he isn’t in much pain now.”
“Good thing kids heal so quickly, isn’t it?” Carol asked.
Tonya scanned the surface of the desk but saw no pictures. “Do you have children?”
“Two grown ones. And my beautiful granddaughter, Amelia. She’s almost five.” Carol pivoted a small desk organizer. A photo of a tow-headed girl on a swing was embedded in the pencil holder.
Tonya had always wanted a girl. In the young days of her marriage, she imagined having four kids two years apart like stair steps: boy-girl-boy-girl. It wouldn’t work now to have another kid, not with things so tense with John, and all the money problems, and the hard work required to keep up with Byron, but that didn’t stop her from longing for it. A blond girl like Amelia.
“Mrs. Ladson, did you miss work as a result of your injuries?”
“Call me Tonya.”
“Just that first day,” John said. “I wanted her to stay home longer, but Tonya’s very dedicated to her job.”
“Dedication is a good thing. Do you have copies of your medical expenses?” Carol asked.
John opened a folder and handed her a neat stack of receipts.
“Our insurance will cover most of it,” Tonya said.
“That may be true. But there are things it won’t cover, like co-pays. Like the disruption of your life. I’ll bet your injuries still hurt—maybe they affect your sleep and your ability to do normal things.”
She nodded. She hadn’t slept through the night since the wreck, thanks to the nightmares. Her ribs ached, especially when she carried Byron.
“She still takes Tylenol every day,” John said.
“Any neck or back pain?” Carol asked.
“A little,” Tonya admitted.
“I want you to keep a diary for me. Starting today. Record your pain level every few hours, and every dose of painkillers you need to take. What about your boy? Byron, right?”
“He took medicine the first few days but not since then,” Tonya answered.
“Like you said, kids bounce back.” John flipped through his file and uncovered the photos. “Here’s how he looked the day of the accident. And this is two days later.”
Tonya winced at the angry red stripe across her son’s chest that seemed brighter in the photo than it had actually looked. The third photo John flipped over was taken from above. It showed Byron wearing the brace, his tear-streaked face looking up at the camera, his bottom lip pooched out in a tragic expression.
“This is a great shot.” Carol lifted the picture.
“When did you take it?” Tonya asked. Whenever Byron looked like that, she scooped him up and hugged him. She whispered soothing things in his ear and let him lie against her. Funny that John chose to take a photo instead.
He shrugged. “That first day, I think.”
Byron crawled up Tonya’s torso and jettisoned himself towards the desk, landing a kick to her chest that made her wince. John slid the folder out of his reach.
Carol opened a desk drawer. “Can he have candy? I have suckers.”
“Sure.” It might keep her boy occupied for a few minutes, but then they’d have to worry about his sticky fingers. A bright red lollipop appeared, Carol’s deft hands removing the plastic so Byron could grab it with a squeal of delight.
“I have pictures of my wife, too,” John said.
Tonya wondered why he said “my wife” and not “Tonya.” It almost sounded possessive. His wife. When the photos emerged, she understood why.
“Don’t show her those,” she whispered. She hadn’t seen the shots before, but remembered every click of the camera when he had snapped them. They looked grainy, the color dulled away, except the bruises on her breasts glowing crimson and black. She studied her own expression, her eyes squeezed shut, her head turned in shame, the towel scarcely covering her nipples. If there had been any “pain and suffering” for Tonya it had been when John took those disgusting pictures.
Carol gazed at the photos before turning them over. Tonya exhaled.
“Have you gotten an estimate on the damage to your van?” Carol asked.
“The body shop says it’s totaled, but the insurance company says it’s worth eight thousand. We paid close to seventeen for it three years ago,” John said with obvious disgust.
She hadn’t heard that it was totaled. Did that mean she’d never see it again? She felt a flush of sadness, maybe even grief, that the vehicle that had become an extension of her was gone. Deceased. Dead. Like Mr. Hastings.
“That’s often what happens. That’s why it’s important that you have your legal rights protected.”
“Which is what I keep telling Tonya.” John reached over and squeezed her hand.
“I understand that the other driver passed away.” Carol lowered her voice, looking intently at Tonya.
Tonya nodded. It had only been a few days since the funeral; the wound felt tender.
“It is tragic,” Carol said. “And he was the one ticketed?”
“It was absolutely his fault,” John said. “He ran the red light and slammed
into the van.”
“He didn’t—” Tonya stammered, furious with her husband. “He had a heart attack. The priest said they think he had it while he was driving. That’s why he ran the light. It wasn’t his fault.”
“What priest?” John glared.
“I went to the church where they were having his funeral. I talked to the priest. He knows the family. He said Mr. Hastings was a wonderful, kind man and they’re all devastated by his death.” She wanted to leave. To spring from her chair, grab her son, and bolt from the room.
“Mrs. Ladson. Tonya. Listen to me.” Carol lifted a pink-nailed finger. “I understand how upsetting his death is for you. His heart attack took his life—and it almost took yours and your son’s. He had insurance, and it is his insurance company that will be held accountable.” Carol’s eyes left Tonya’s face. “Perhaps talking to the priest was helpful, but from now on, it’s best that you avoid the Hastings family, including their friends.”
“Would you have to talk with Mrs. Hastings?” Tonya asked.
“No. Her insurance company will talk with her. If we can settle out of court, there should be minimal disruption to them.”
“How much do you think we can get?” John asked.
“We’ll need to review the information you’ve provided before I can give you an estimate. We work on a contingency basis, meaning we don’t charge until after the settlement, when we’ll deduct a third.”
“But what if their insurance tries to low-ball us? What then?” John asked.
“Then we up the ante. In some cases, we go after the personal assets of the ticketed party. For example, if we can prove that Mr. Hastings was impaired when he was driving—given his health issues, maybe he shouldn’t have been behind the wheel—then we have a stronger case.”
Something clenched in Tonya’s stomach. “I don’t want to bother the family.”
Carol lifted a hand. “And maybe we won’t need to.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of legal papers. “Tonya, we’d like to represent you. We’ll work hard for a prompt settlement. I’ll need you to review and sign these forms if you consent.”
She glanced over the forms, seven legal-size pages. If she signed them, she may be adding to the troubles of the Hastings family. If she signed them, she and John might get a settlement—enough to pay off the credit cards, and the house insurance which was due next month, and the roof repair they’d been avoiding, and maybe have some left over to put in savings.
“I’d like to have a day to look these over,” she said.
“Come on, Tonya. It’s just legalese. Sign the papers and be done with it,” John muttered, exasperated.
“I work in a law firm. I know how important it is to know what you’re signing.” She gave Carol a smile as she stood. “You understand.”
“Of course.” Her tone had lost its warmth as she handed Tonya a business card.
Byron wrapped his arms around her knees. As she lifted him, she said to John, “Ready?”
“I’ll meet you at the car in a few,” he answered, his voice tight.
CHAPTER 15
When Joe Booker rounded the corner on Main Street, a familiar presence fell in stride with him. The sour smell was familiar, too. Rag Doll, dressed in a stained brown top she must have snagged from the trash behind the Goodwill store, wore a sheen of sweat on her chapped face despite the cold. Her red high-top sneakers had a hole in the right toe.
“Where ya going, Joe?” she asked. “You going to the park?”
He picked up his pace hoping to make it hard for her to keep up.
“Not as cold today,” she said. “Bout froze my titties off last night. You stay at the shelter?”
Again, he kept his silence, and tried not to notice when she cupped her saggy breasts to make her point.
“If it gets that cold tonight I’m gonna try to get in,” she continued. “Some fat cow run me off from there last time.”
He cast a sideways glance at her, wondering what she’d done to get run off. Could have been anything: fighting, stealing stuff, cussing out staff. Why Rag Doll worked so hard to tangle with people he didn’t understand, but it seemed something she took pride in.
As he turned the next corner, she stayed at his side. “Hey, you gotta ten you can give me?” she asked.
“No.” He put power in the word to shut her up. Rag Doll was always begging. Always. Downtown folks going into their jobs. Mothers coming out of a grocery store. She was good at it, too. Why she was asking Joe for money when she had more than he did was always a puzzle.
“Or a few bucks. I need it.” She rubbed at her nose with the back of a dirty hand. “I’ll pay you back in a week. I promise.”
He paused, arching his brows at her. Her gaze did a dance from his face to the sidewalk to the road ahead, more jittery than normal.
“You owe somebody?” he asked, hoping she hadn’t got herself in trouble with a dealer.
“Even a dollar,” she persisted. “You got a dollar don’t ya?”
He got moving again, Rag Doll a pace behind. Sometimes she was harder to shake than a head cold. Joe tucked his hands in the pockets of his pea coat, glad to have the warm wool between him and the cold breeze stirring up.
After they’d gone a few blocks, she paused, pointing to a brick walkway that led to a tall building. The crisp lawn on either side of the path was too green for this time of year.
“You ever look at that fountain?” Rag Doll jutted her chin towards a strange-looking thing halfway down the walkway: a cement circle around a pool. In the center, a giant hammer made out of some kind of brown metal had water pouring from its head. How the thing didn’t get rusted made no sense.
“Sometimes people throw coins in there.” She scampered over and sunk her hands into the cold, frothy water. She grimaced as she pulled out a dime and two nickels. “See?”
“That money ain’t yours.”
“Ain’t nobody’s.” She laughed, pocketing the change. “Till now.”
The building had large wooden doors with shimmery glass windows, almost like a church but not quite. When one opened, Joe and Rag Doll stepped away, both knowing they didn’t belong there. A woman with a tiny boy came out. The child ran to the fountain and leaned over the edge, worrying Joe. He was about to dash over to stop the little boy when the woman—his mother, Joe guessed—hurried over and grabbed his hand.
“Byron! Be careful!” she scolded. They were white folks, the woman with hair the color of tree bark and the little boy a towhead.
The child giggled. She sat beside him, holding on as she let him touch the water. “It’s cold, isn’t it?” She spoke in that exaggerated way young mothers did. The boy pounded the surface of the pool, drops sprinkling both of them. As she wiped moisture from her face, Joe noticed a sizable bruise across her nose.
“Byron!” Her tone was half scolding, half laughing.
“Think they got money?” Rag Doll whispered.
Joe frowned.
“This here’s one of them TV commercial lawyer places. Everybody comes in and out of here got lots of money.” She grinned.
The woman took the boy’s hand again and coaxed him away from the fountain and up the sidewalk to the parked cars. A moment later, the big doors opened again and a man and a blond-headed woman emerged. They paused on the steps, the man holding a file, the two huddled close like they were sharing a secret.
“I bet that guy’s got cash on him,” Rag Doll whispered.
The man leaned in to listen as the blond woman pointed to the papers in his hand. He nodded, and she walked back up the steps towards the entrance, where she hesitated. “John? Talk to her. Then call me later.”
He flipped through the pages and answered, “I’ll do what I can.” He frowned as she returned inside the building.
“Wait here,” Rag Doll commanded. She circled the fountain, sizing him up like a house cat cornering a rat. The man’s attention remained fixed on what was in his hand.
As he reached the
end of the walkway, Rag Doll approached. “’Scuse me sir, but you got a little money you can spare?”
The man’s head shot up. He was a youngish fellow, with pale skin like the little boy but darker hair.
“Just a buck or two for some supper. Me and my friend here—” she pointed at Joe. “We’re powerful hungry.”
Joe’s hand squeezed into a fist. He wanted no part of Rag Doll’s game.
The man shook his head and pushed past her.
Rag Doll did what she always did: hurried up behind him, nattering away. “Just a dollar then. We can get us some coffee to warm us up.”
Joe almost laughed. Rag Doll wouldn’t pay nothing for Joe to have coffee. These were lies she told to get her way.
“If you and your friend got yourselves jobs, you could buy your own coffee,” the man berated, looking over her head at the cars.
“Ain’t so easy to get a job, but I’m trying!” Rag Doll continued. “Don’t you got a few bucks to help a woman out?”
The man froze, glaring at her. She stepped closer, smiling, showing him the gap where her front tooth had been knocked out. He turned his head as though repulsed by her. Maybe it was the smell.
“You people are piranha,” he said. “Always grabbing for a handout. Some of us freakin’ WORK for a living.”
Rag Doll’s smile flattened. Her eyes narrowed. “You think you better than me? You ain’t!”
Joe flinched at the rise in her voice. If she kept getting herself riled up, she’d get herself arrested again.
The man shook her off and started walking.
“You ain’t no different from me,” she yelled, but then her voice softened. “You ain’t nothing special.”
He hurried to the car where the young woman and little boy waited, climbed inside, and slammed the door shut. Rag Doll showed him her middle finger as he sped off.
When she returned to Joe, she kept her head down, tendrils of greasy hair hiding her face. Joe got moving, with her a few steps behind, muttering something he didn’t care to hear.