Philanthropist

by Larry Hill

  “I’m no drunk. I never drove when I had been drinking more than a glass or two of wine. That’s bullshit! But I killed somebody, huh?”

  “Yes, you did, Dad.”

  “I’m tired. Thanks for your visit. I’m gonna take a nap.”

  Schofield suggested that the three have coffee in the hospital cafeteria. He started the conversation, “I’m no criminal lawyer, but it seems pretty obvious that our client is in no shape to have anything to do with his defense, right, Irv?”

  “For sure. I had no idea how bad his mind was until just now. He’d be no more able to defend himself than a four-year-old would. And, there’s no certainty that this will ever change. I talked to a neurologist who I’ve put on the stand a bunch of times and he tells me that predicting the amount of improvement an old person with a head injury might have is a fruitless effort. He could be back to normal in a month, or he could spend the rest of his life confused like he is now.”

  “So, where do we go from here?” asked Jason.

  “I’ll call the DA’s office and let them know what’s up. They’re under a lot of pressure to get this case to trial, or at least get a plea which puts your father in jail for minimum of a few years.”

  “You can’t plead out a confused old man who just had his brain operated on, can you?” chimed in Schofield.

  “Of course I can’t. Can you imagine putting somebody who doesn’t remember that he was involved in a crime into jail for that crime? It won’t happen. But we’ve got to let the DA see our patient. They have to make sure that he really is disabled. Too often accused criminals, especially white collar ones, act like they’ve lost their mind to get off. This isn’t your usual case of mental competence where the perp is the same guy before and after the crime. Here, our guy was obviously fine before, out of it after.

  “He’s supposed to go to court for a preliminary hearing in three weeks. The first thing I’ll do is request a continuance. Again, that’ll take a visit from the DA to see Fred before they’ll buy into it.”

  GOING HOME

  “I miss you so much! It’s been a month. Can’t we meet, at least for a drink? I know I can’t come to your house, but maybe at the Clift?”

  “Ernesto, you know that I want to see you. I miss you too, but it can’t happen. We get dozens of calls. Reporters phone and even come to the house. Sometimes I think I’m being followed.”

  “Why the hell would anybody follow you?”

  “God, I don’t know. You’ve seen the papers. I don’t think there’s been a day since Fred was involved in his accident that there hasn’t been something in one of the papers or on TV. Just think of what would happen if one of them found out that you and I were fucking.”

  “Who said anything about fucking? I just want to see you…and talk to you. Let’s meet downtown this afternoon.”

  “No, my love, it’s not going to work now. Later, maybe.”

  “When?”

  “After this settles down. Fred’s coming home in a couple of days. He’s not making any sense still. The hemorrhage caused him to lose his memory.”

  “It could be months before it settles down. I can’t wait that long.”

  “You’re just going to have to. I’m so sorry.”

  Ernesto hung up, saying no more.

  Klein was finally released from General Hospital, almost a month from his ER appearance as John Doe. The neurologist who OK’d his discharge suggested an ambulance to get him home; the discharge planner, a social worker agreed, but Klein refused. “Hell no. Goddam ambulances cost a mint. One of my sons can pick me up.”

  “Your insurance will pay for the ambulance. No need to worry.”

  “I told you, I’m not riding in any ambulance. I don’t want my neighbors to think I’m an invalid. I’m just fine. I’ve got a huge house on Jackson Street. This pacemaker will keep me going ’til I’m a hundred.”

  “All right, Mr. Klein, whatever you say. I’ll call your home to make sure somebody comes over tomorrow – they’ve got to be here by 9 AM.”

  “I’ll make sure they are here by 8. Get them on the phone for me. I don’t remember the number.”

  The twins and Jennifer all showed up in Fred’s room well before 8.

  “Let’s get you out of here, Dad,” said one of the boys. Jennifer had chosen an appropriate traveling outfit for her husband – oversized aqua polo shirt, black lounge pants with a white streak down the legs, flip-flops and an orange and black Giants baseball cap. “Where do we sign out for Mr. Klein in 212?” Robert asked the charge nurse. He had a sense, having had years of hospital experience, that this might not be as easy as it should be.

  “He can go as soon as we get an order from his doctor. He should be here any minute,” she answered, not looking up from the medical record on which she was charting the vital signs of another patient. Robert had plenty of experience in the matter of signing the discharge order. Teaching hospitals, like San Francisco General, are highly demanding of the time of their attending physicians, the ones who are in charge of deciding who gets to go home and when. They teach, they round, they operate, they schmooze. “He should be here any minute,” is a comment that rarely has any relationship to the facts.

  Eight AM came and went. So did nine AM and nine-thirty. Fred showed no evidence of knowing what time it was. He showed no concern. Jennifer had total respect for the medical profession and was sure that whatever was holding up the attending from getting to the floor to write the order must be much more important than this. The twins, radiologist and gastroenterologist, were pissed off. “I know damn well that he could just call in the order or send one of the residents. I wish that I had privileges here – I’d write the order myself.”

  “We could just sign out AMA (against medical advice),” said Phillip who himself wrote discharge orders almost every day and made a point of not making his patients wait – that is unless he had a polyp to remove or an esophagus to scope.

  “I don’t think it would be a good idea to do that. Your father isn’t just an ordinary patient. We don’t want the Chronicle to write that he violated a hospital regulation.”

  “You’re right, Jen. We’ll just have to wait. I’ve got an office full of patients in the Berkeley office this afternoon – I may have to leave before the doc even gets here.”

  “That’s OK Phil,” said Robert. “I can stay with Jen – I can always read films later – my partners can cover my special procedures.” Jennifer never stopped being amazed by how the twin boys cooperated with one another and how poorly both got along with Jason.

  A twenty-something Latina first-year resident finally arrived in Fred’s room shortly after 10. She made a cursory apology, without an exculpatory explanation. She had heard from the nurses that there was anger, at least among the medical professionals in the room with the famous patient. Ignoring the anger, she went down the discharge plans. She could offer nothing prognostically not already known by the family. She listed the medicines that he was to take at home. Pain pills – only if needed. Stool softeners – only if you take the pain pills. Multi-vitamins. Statins to keep your cholesterol down – you don’t want to have another heart attack. Sleeping pills.

  “How about giving me some Viagras, doc?”

  She blushed. So did Jennifer. “Your doctor didn’t mention them. Maybe you better ask him that when you come in for follow up. And that reminds me – you’ve got to call and set up appointments with the cardiologist in one week, the neurologist in about ten days, and the neurosurgeon in a month – he wants to check the scar. And be sure to go see your primary care person sometime. We have Dr. Jameson down as your primary. I don’t know him.”

  “Her, not him,” injected Jennifer.

  “Any questions for me before I go – they need me in Emergency.” She was out the door before any question could be asked.

  A three-hundred pound orderly pushed a wheel chair into the room. He had only one hand – the other was absent with the left forearm being half of its normal len
gth. “My name is Oumar. I am here to escort you to your automobile. Might I carry your valise? Do you have your medications?” he asked in a West African accent.

  The family was impressed by his demeanor, his vocabulary and his willingness to carry a valise and push a wheel chair with a single hand. “Where are you from, sir?” asked Robert.

  “I’m from Sierra Leone – I was a surgeon there, but my license isn’t accepted here – I’d have to go through my training all over again. Plus, I don’t think I’d be a very good surgeon with only one hand.”

  “I don’t need any goddam wheel chair,” blurted out the now discharged patient. “I can walk just fine. Why else did I pay for all those physical therapy treatments?”

  “It’s policy, Mr. Klein. Everybody who comes in here goes out in a wheel chair. I know that you can walk perfectly well – probably faster than me. Please sit down here.”

  “You didn’t have to pay for your physical therapy, Dad. Medicare pays for it – it’s all part of the bill.” Klein sat in the chair.

  Jennifer had gone down to the parking lot to get the Lexus, pulling it up to the passenger loading area outside the ER.

  “How’d that dent get there?” asked Fred as he was loaded into the back seat on the right.

  TONIC WATER AND A SLICE OF LIME

  The Redwood Room at the Clift Hotel in downtown San Francisco is as close to New York as anything in California. Smoke free and thirteen bucks for well drinks – Johnny Walker Black, Bombay, and Remy Martin.

  Ernesto Contreras finally convinced Jennifer Klein that the time had come for them to get back together. It had been two months since Fred had returned home; he had become accustomed to the full-time Filipinas and no longer put up a stink when Jennifer would leave the house to shop or go to the gym or visit with a girlfriend. He was fairly mobile, having developed the skills necessary to get around with his walker.

  Ernesto and Jennifer had never had any embarrassing encounters at the Clift in the dozens of times they had reconnoitered at the up-market Geary Street establishment. They had their own favorite obscure corner table next to the kitchen entrance - refused, for traffic reasons, by most patrons and therefore nearly always available. Jennifer would always sit with her back to the room; she was far more likely to be recognized than he. Not once in the three years that The Clift was their first choice in meeting places had they seen anyone that they knew, and no evidence ever surfaced that they had been unknowingly seen. The closest they had ever come to discovery happened shortly after they stepped up to the Clift from a sleazy place in Chinatown. As the lovers were leaving the main door of the hotel, the husband of one of her neighbor friends was entering. She could tell he knew that he knew her, but probably didn't know from where. He said hello, she did the same and both went their own ways. Thereafter, she and Ernesto made sure that they entered and left the hotel, and the bar, separately.

  The last time they had been together was a Tuesday, ten days before the felony and eight before Ernesto had been the designated-caller of emergency rooms. For the next two months he had persisted in his pleas to rekindle their affair. She declined, not out of lack of desire, but out of guilt and fear. Guilt for obvious reasons, fear for something ending up in the paper. Before her husband's accession to infamy, she recognized that the worst that could happen was that Fred would learn of her adultery. That she could handle; he never said anything to make her think that their gap in ages was not considered by him a free pass to an occasional tryst. He hadn't said “Go for it.” But he had not said not to. But Fred Klein had become a Bay Area household name. Discovery of spousal infidelity would be headline stuff. Early on in adulthood, Jen would have loved to be famous. But she couldn't sing and couldn't dance and, while attractive enough, was no Marilyn Monroe. She did a course at City College in acting, and got an A: the teacher offered no real encouragement, favoring others, so Jen did not enroll in Acting II. She gave up the quest for fame some years ago; she now feared it.

  Eventually, Ernesto's persistence paid off and Jennifer accepted a date at the Redwood Room. “Let's get there early so our table is empty.”

  It was empty. In fact, only a handful of the two dozen tables was occupied. The maître d' knew them from earlier meetings, but said nothing about how good it was to see them back after the long absence. He took them to their accustomed perches although there were many better tables available. Jennifer tipped handsomely.

  Their usual afternoon waitperson approached the table, using no names. “One Tanqueray and tonic and one Sam Adams draught, I presume?”

  Contreras nodded affirmatively to the offer of beer. Mrs. Klein said, “No, just bring me a tonic with a slice of lime.”

  “Huh?” queried Ernesto.

  “I don't drink anymore outside my house, unless someone else is going to drive me home. One criminal in the household is enough.”

  “Next time I'll drive you home.”

  “Right,” snickered Jennifer. “How will I get here? I'm not about to take a bus. When I leave the house, Fred knows how I go - my car, or someone else's. He may not remember but he is getting better. He's going to be asking questions soon and I don't want any that I can't answer.”

  “How about, 'who were you with?’”

  “I don't get that one. As I've told you a hundred times, I think he's OK with me sowing oats, as long as he doesn't know where they are sown and with what farmer.”

  “Speaking of sex, I've made a reservation upstairs. This is a pretty special occasion, getting back together after all that time apart.” Special occasions like birthdays and Christmas had in the past, been excuses for booking a room in the elegant hotel, to be paid for by the Klein millions but covered by the Contreras Master Card. They'd square up with cash.

  “No, my dear. It's too early for that. I'd love to go to bed with you. But I've got a disabled husband at home. I can't do it.”

  “You said he was OK with that.”

  “He was OK with it, but that was before brain damage. He may get back to where he was before, but until then, I'm not going to cheat on him.”

  Ernesto came as close to pouting as she had ever seen, but said nothing other than, “All right.” After the drinks arrived, she told him about the little bit of progress made by her husband, plus the inadequacies of the care givers and the attentiveness or lack thereof shown by the three sons and their families. Gradually, the tension of the renewal of the relationship subsided and the two long-time companions lapsed into their meaningful meaningless discussions that kept them together for nearly two decades. They held hands above the table, comingled feet below.

  Ten minutes later, that comfort was interrupted. “Jennifer, my love, don't turn around.”

  “Why, who's there?”

  “I'm not sure, but I think it's one of your stepsons. The older one maybe.” Ernesto had never met any of her step family, but she was incessant about taking out her smart phone whenever they were together. She would document her stories with photos, so he had seen pictures of each of the family members multiple times. As Jason and his crew were the object of more stories than the other siblings combined, he was the easiest to remember.

  Jason Klein, Esq., had indeed entered the bar, with two men, both older than he and both dressed like he was – dark suit, blue button-down, power tie. They had to be fellow members of the California bar. Jennifer used the full range of motion of her eye muscles to identify her stepson out of the side of her eyes. “Oh, shit,” she mouthed. Jason, et.al, were seated at a table no more than ten feet from her plush chair. He had taken the seat facing the entrance to the room so that he didn’t look directly on her table, nor did he look directly away. All it would take was a single ninety degree twist of the neck to the left for him to have his stepmother in his direct line of sight. Were she to go to the ladies’ or were she and Ernesto to get up and leave the establishment, there would be no way for her to not be noticed. “Oh, shit,” she repeated silently. Her best bet was for him to require a trip to the
men’s.

  The lovers, who had role-played a couple of times for their unlikely discovery by friends or family, talked stocks. Ernesto was the broker, Jennifer the client. They spoke softly, but not so soft that drinkers at neighbor tables could not, if they paid any attention to the handsome Latin and his female friend, avoid hearing that the discussion centered on equities. “Should I sell the Amazon?” “…index funds?” “… ETFs?” “…long term capital gains?” Jennifer knew more about the subject than did Ernesto, so the more audible comments came from her. He mostly nodded or uttered single word affirmative responses.

  Half an hour went by. Jason showed no evidence of a full bladder or sticky hands. He remained seated, involved in often heated negotiations with his colleagues. To Jennifer’s knowledge, he had not seen her and had not heard enough of her voice to pick up on the fact that the wife of his father was ten feet away. She and Ernesto had no pieces of paper that they could pass back and forth to suggest that their reason for being there was strictly business. They could only mention specific publicly traded companies so often before it became ridiculous. They had to escape; their antagonist wasn’t showing any sign of wrapping up his conference. They waited until one of the unknown lawyers handed Jason a thick document which he started to peruse, at which point they stood up, aiming themselves toward the front of the barroom.

  “Your check, sir.” The waiter had come out of the kitchen and saw his customers leaving, having not requested a bill. He had known them for as long as he’d had his job and assumed they just forgot.

  “We were going to pay up front,” responded Ernesto.

  “No problem, Mr. Contreras.”

  Jason looked up from the hefty document. “Jennifer, is that you?”

  “Oh, hi, Jason. I didn’t know you were in town.” Jason had not announced his arrival to his father or stepmother or brothers. He didn’t want to have to try to talk to his father. It had been hard enough to have a discussion with him before the brain damage. Since Fred’s episode, he was even more willing than before to tell his first born how much he didn’t like his wife and kids. In the weeks since Fred had been home from the hospital, this was Jason’s third trip to San Francisco, two of which were unannounced.