"But I'm suing you."
"Really? What did our guy do? Leave a sponge in someone's bowel? Forget to remove a hemostat?"
He was smiling, joking about the kinds of mistakes their clients get sued for. Day Preston was Chicago's busiest medical malpractice defense firm. Word had it that at any given time their team of twenty-some partners and one-hundred-some associates would be handling in excess of five thousand med mal cases—a huge caseload.
"Nothing like that, Mr. Mendelssohn."
"Gunnar."
"Nothing like that, Gunnar. Your guy's OR gave my guy a staph infection. It's still eating its way around inside his abdomen. Kind of an Anthony Bourdain of the lower intestinal tract."
Gunnar laughed.
"Well, if we don't make a settlement offer that makes you go away, please, just let me know. I'll ice the case and get it settled for you. With my compliments."
I warmed to that, of course. I hadn't done much medical malpractice work and this case was for the husband of an ex-client, a woman I had saved from prison after she embezzled from the oil and gas company where she worked in the comptroller's office. Her name was Margaret Rowdy. Her husband was Brian Rowdy. She remembered me when her husband damn near died from what should have been a routine surgery. Now I was trying to help her family a second time. His case wasn't all that strong, given how staph can come from anywhere—not just from an operating room, although that seemed like the logical conclusion, which is why I filed the case. Already I was in way over my head, not knowing all that much about medical malpractice, but I was hanging in there and I was determined.
"If you don't make a settlement offer I'm going to take your hospital to trial and nail your ass," I told him. It was my hope that I sounded confident. In thinking back, however, I don't see how I could have. Like I said, the staph could just as easily have come from the health club where my client worked as a fitness trainer.
He finished arranging his documents in his folder then looked up.
"Look, let me buy you a cup of coffee. Seriously, we can have a cup and you can fill me in on your case, Danny. Then I'll see what I can do."
"Why would you do that for me?" I asked.
"Because you're a good gal and I'm feeling grandiose this morning. My daughter just gave me my first grandson. I feel like giving back to the world."
"A junior partner has arrived on earth?"
He smiled. A great, white smile, which, under his to-kill-for Hollywood hair, made him the double of none other than my favorite, Pierce Brosnan. Pierce Brosnan in his James Bond days. That Pierce Brosnan. Gunnar Mendelssohn was, as they say on Hollywood Tonight, hot. It was no wonder he had made partner at this silk stocking law firm. A guy like that just deserved whatever he wanted. At least that's how mortals like me feel. Guys like my husband—guys with a kind of grapefruit aspect to their best profile—have wives who admire people like Mendelssohn. We would never admit it, but we do. In fact, we're guilty of walking under the influence. Of guys like him.
So I accepted his offer of a cup of coffee. It would be fun watching him beat the waitresses away.
And maybe the med mal case would vanish in a downpour of cash.
6
Danny
"Danny," said Gunnar as he tuned his coffee with cream, "tell me about your case. Let's see if I can help."
I took a swallow of coffee. Then a bite of the cruller I'd ordered downstairs in Gunnar's building at the grill.
"Well, let's see," I said. I wanted to end the Brian Rowdy case for purely selfish reasons: I was in far over my head and was kicking myself every time I touched the file because I knew I shouldn't have allowed myself to get roped into a medical malpractice case. You just don't do that, jump the tracks going in one direction for tracks heading off in the opposite direction. It's not a smart way to practice law and, if you do it enough, sooner or later some big alligator is going to bite you in the ass and it's going to hurt. That's where I was with the case, particularly after that morning's deposition when two different defense attorneys had taken the time with my treating physician to get him to admit Brian Rowdy's staph infection could have come from the health club where he spent his days. In fact, they allowed, it was an even more likely source. I was upset with my doc for giving in to the cajoling and even more upset with myself for taking on the case at all. In short, I was a prime candidate for a quick way out of the case, so when Gunnar offered to help make it go away, I jumped at the chance.
He was waiting, his coffee cup poised at his lips.
"I take it you're not overly enamored with your case," he chuckled. "Am I reading you right?"
I leaned forward and admitted how I felt. Even as I did, I felt ashamed because I was betraying my client to the enemy—Gunnar's firm was defending, after all, and the first rule of legal bluffing is you never admit a shortcoming about your case. But I gave it up anyway.
"No, you're reading me right. It's one of those cases that you hate yourself for filing."
"What are your guy's injuries?"
"A staph infection that wouldn't go away until he was readmitted to the hospital and put on IV antibiotics."
"Permanent injury?"
"Not really. But it was very painful and frightening to spend an extra five days in the hospital with a tube in his arm."
"Sounds like it was more an inconvenience, then. Isn't that about right?"
"Possibly." I leaned back from the table and regretted where I was with the discussion. I should never have admitted the weakness in Rowdy's case, but there you were because I had. "It was an inconvenience but there was also a significant amount of pain and suffering."
"Sure there was, Danny," said Mendelssohn with a smile and wink. We were really into it now, ganging up with a wink on my client's case. I knew—or thought I knew—with fear and loathing what was coming. I hated myself just then. But then Mendelssohn shocked me.
"What if I can get you three hundred grand to make it go away?"
I dropped my coffee cup to its saucer, where it clattered and rocked as if emphasizing my great good fortune.
"Three hundred?" I said as calmly as I could. The truth was, I was ready to leap across the table and hug the guy. But I played it cool instead. "You can do three hundred?"
He wiped his hands on his linen napkin. "Consider it done. I know I can get it done because the insurance carrier is actually my client. The lawyers on the case are my junior partners. If I say settle, it's settled. And I say settle. We'll draft a release and send you a bank draft for three hundred thousand by five o'clock. Now what else is on your mind?" He was smiling as he said this last part, as if he had been put on earth only to solve my puny problems.
"I'm in shock. I don't know what to say."
"Say yes. Say it's a done deal. And we'll move on from there."
"But why? Why are you doing this?"
He waved a hand at me dismissively. "You know why. You're a good gal and you're a little off your beaten path with this case. You belong back in your criminal practice where you excel. Just promise me this, Danny. Promise me you'll refer-out any future med mal cases. Promise me that, because you have no business getting involved with them."
"It's done. I do promise. And thank you. Now, how in the world can I ever thank you enough?"
"Simple. You and your husband come downtown this weekend and take over my suite at the Palmer House."
"What's that mean?"
"My law firm keeps a suite of rooms at the Palmer House. We do it for special occasions and special guests. You've got it Saturday night if you're of a mind. So you and your husband can have some time away from the kids. Do you have kids? Of course you do, a gal like you. So come into town Saturday afternoon, swim, let your husband hit the weight room and you get your facial and mani-pedi work, then take him downstairs for the freshest lobster you've ever had."
"Why would you do this for me?" Now I was just very suspicious. It felt like he was trying to get us out away from our home where we were safe. This
was way across the line, but the funny thing was, I was determined not to allow the Jana thing to control my life again and so I made an effort to trust Mendelssohn. I made myself trust him even though I should have known better. Still, I had the feeling that he genuinely liked me and wanted to help me. I relaxed a bit and went along to see where this was going. After all, he'd just made me a third of three hundred thousand—my one-third fee. And I felt like I owed him, so I was leaning heavily in favor of the night out. Then he clinched the deal.
"I'm doing it because I want to bring my wife over from our condo and have her meet you. We can all eat together and maybe go dancing. My wife is starved for female company since I'm flying hither and yon most every week, leaving her alone with our poodle. She gets my weekends and won't budge from that, so I try my best to make those memorable times. Getting to spend time with you is something I know Esme will love. Who knows? I might even break inside her lady vault."
"Meaning—"
"I might even get laid if I play it right, Danny. Hello, Danny, earth calling. So you see, I have my ulterior motives. I'm not all Mr. Good Guy."
"I don't know what to say, Gunnar. This is all too much."
"Nonsense. We'll expect you mid-afternoon at the Palmer. Then Esme and I will buzz you down for dinner around eight. Does that work for you?"
"I'm certain it does. Michael is going to be very happy about this."
I was already thinking way, way down my own line. I might get lucky too.
It was a done deal.
He even paid for my coffee and cruller. What could be better?
7
Danny
I was born to cross-country ski. It is my fave winter sport. By Friday afternoon, after I had left Gunnar's lunch meet up, it began snowing. Swirling white powder, which was somewhat unusual for Chicago as our snow is usually wet and clumpy. But this was perfect for skiing. So I headed north to our country club. In the winter time, six inches on the ground encourages the club to inscribe a well-packed cross-country ski trail. The idea is that you ski from tee to tee until you've completed eighteen holes of snow golf. Every winter I do this, and each time I lose a pound in the effort it takes to ski the full eighteen. It's win-win: I get outside in beautiful, snowy country and I lose some luggage around the middle. What's not to like?
Mrs. Lingscheit was running the office and her orders were clear: when the bank draft from Gunnar's firm arrived, she was to have Brian Rowdy on standby to endorse the draft and to sign the release. My husband and law partner—Michael—was still at the office and would review the release with Rowdy just to make sure he was fully informed when he signed and gave up all future rights to sue because of his infection. To say Brian Rowdy was pleased with the outcome of his case would be a gross understatement: he was thrilled. Margaret, his wife, had come into the office just to give me a hug and say thank you. I had saved her bacon twice—once on the embezzlement case and now on her husband's med mal case. She offered to buy lunch for our staff and we let her order up sandwiches. It was just her way of personalizing the thanks she wanted to leave us with.
I had just skied my first nine holes and was taking a breather at the outdoor coffee stand when my phone buzzed. I pulled it out of my Patagonia and jammed it against my ear. It was Gunnar.
"Yes, this is Danny."
"Danny, Guns here. Sorry to bother you while you're off having fun."
"How did you get my cell number?"
"Mrs. Lingscheit. She said you would want to talk to me, given the serious nature of my call."
"Which is?"
"The insurance company on Mr. Rowdy's case has a few additional questions they want to ask me. The problem is, their claims manager is out until Monday. So I'm wondering if we can still hold our settlement together until Monday when you will absolutely, one-hundred-percent-guaranteed receive your money. Will Mr. Rowdy agree to that? Will you please take a few minutes and call him and see?"
"I-I don't quite understand. To be honest I'm a little dismayed here, and I don't know that I would counsel Mr. Rowdy to even wait. You are breaching your settlement agreement with me, Gunnar. You said the money would be here in my office by five o'clock and I'm thinking I'm going to have to hold you to that. Whether the deal will still be acceptable on Monday, I don't know. I'll call Mr. Rowdy and give him the update but I can't promise what he'll want to do. I'm very disappointed, Gunnar. Very disappointed."
"I know you are, Danny. And I told the carrier that this just might torpedo the whole deal. But they won't budge until their claims guy asks me whatever in the hell is on his mind. Now I'm sure you know how insurance companies work. It's all about hierarchy and following protocol and when they say no there isn't much I can do. I'm pretty powerless right now, just like you."
"I'm not entirely powerless," I said, feeling the heat of anger crawling up through my chest. "I'm pretty effing pissed and I don't know that I'm going to recommend to Rowdy that he wait. I might just tell him to blow up the whole deal. That's how pissed I am, and if I'm feeling that way then I know he'll be even angrier. You promised, Gunnar. Promised. That's the bottom line here."
"You're right. I dropped the ball and I own it. I should have talked to my claims manager before I made the settlement offer. It was just that I wanted to reach out and try to help because I liked you and I saw how out of your element you were with the case. I still like you and hope this doesn't screw up our plans for the weekend. Please tell me that's still on."
He had me there. I couldn't dash Michael's instant agreement to getting away for the weekend. He had been ecstatic—no, whatever a stronger word would be, that was how he responded when I told him. We hadn't been having a hard time in our marriage—I wouldn't go that far—but there had been friction. He was not all that happy with how many hours I was putting in and how little work I seemed to be getting done as I battled my own demons. I didn't trouble him with all that; he would have been much more worried than necessary, so I kept much of it just to me. But he was also seriously thinking of accepting a job offer to become a prosecutor for a spell and start putting bad guys away. That had him really troubled because it would mean a huge cut in income for our family. Granted, our house was paid for and granted I would be heading up our practice if Michael left, but our income would drop hundreds of thousands of dollars and he didn't like that one bit. He was feeling resentful that his options were limited this way. Of course, I didn’t like that part either. That's why he hadn't jumped at the chance to become a prosecutor although that prospect had been one that maybe all defense attorneys contemplate at some time or other. Michael was no different, just looking for a frolic and detour from real life. But at that point, when Gunnar pulled the rug out from under me, there was just enough static between Michael and me that I knew better than to sabotage his weekend hope of getting laid in a strange hotel. So, I had to agree the getaway was still on.
"We're still planning to spend Saturday at the Palmer House and have dinner with you and Esme Saturday night," I told him. "We keep our end of the deals we make," I added somewhat caustically. It was unnecessary—the guy obviously felt bad enough already. You could hear it in his voice and he couldn't apologize enough as we talked on. But a slight rift had come between us now, at the front end of what we both had imagined—or at least I had imagined—would be a long and productive friendship. I felt uneasy with Gunnar, still. The postponed settlement brought up feelings that I hadn't noticed, feelings that were making me think Gunnar couldn't be totally trusted. But I stuffed those feelings; I was pretty good at stuffing.
I had already been considering taking Gunnar and Esme out with us for a weekend on our boat when the weather warmed. A kind of payback for a good, welcome respite from winter and cold weather beside the indoor pool at the Palmer House. Oh well, at least there was still that.
"Good, Danny, I would hate to miss out on fun with you and Michael. Thanks for not throwing us over on that."
"I couldn't do that to Michael," I replied. "Not just be
cause of a failed PI settlement."
"It isn't failed, Danny, I promise you. It's only delayed."
"Dress it up however you want, Gunnar. I'm not a hundred grand richer today like I thought I would be. That hurts deep down."
"And I'm sorry for that. I bear full responsibility."
He should, I was thinking.
He was responsible, one-hundred percent.
But then my mind jumped ahead to tomorrow night at the hotel. Just Michael and me after a long, scrumptious meal. Who knew where that might lead?
But the joy was gone out of Mudville. Mighty Casey had struck out. I shucked my skis and headed for my Jaguar. I was done skiing for the day. Besides, the light was failing and it was getting very cold.
So I drove home slowly and with a small, inner sense that things were not all as they should be. Not with Gunnar. The feeling was very strong that I had met him before and he wasn’t all he was leading me to believe. But I couldn’t put my finger on it. s
Sometimes we should listen to our gut.
8
Danny
It was a great place to get away for a night, the Palmer House in Chicago.
But first we had to arrange for the kids. So we had Marcel, our armed and tough investigator, come get the kids and take them for a weekend to my mother’s and stepfather’s house. They live out by Barrington on three acres, two horses and four goats included, and the kids thrive there. Plus, Marcel would be sleeping just outside their room. They would be safe, so we both relaxed and went downtown.
Our hotel was near Millennium Park, located in the heart of the theatre, financial, and shopping districts of downtown. Michael loves to get away there because he loves museums and likes me to spend some crazy dollars at the world-class shopping—all within walking distance of the lobby.
Check-in time was 3 p.m. but Michael called ahead and they made a special dispensation for us so that we were in our room and had my black dress on its hanger by one o'clock.
Voices In The Walls: A Psychological Thriller (Michael Gresham Series) Page 3