Lucky Leonardo

by Jonathan D. Canter

  “The other side. In this case, DeltaTek or Eugene, or both.”

  “Abigail, this isn’t acceptable. They can’t harass my patients on the street. They can’t disrupt my practice. There’s no justification. It’s like terrorism, for God’s sake.”

  “Leonardo, you are definitely in a pissing contest.”

  “I want to stop them. What can we do?”

  “We can move for a restraining order.”

  “Do it.”

  “It will cost.”

  “Whatever.”

  So it came to pass, two days later, in the same airless courtroom where last week the motion to attach Leonardo’s house was postponed amid hopes of rapprochement, that the emergency hearing on Abigail’s motion for a restraining order began. She had rushed to put together and file her papers, and gave short notice to the other parties. She and Drunkmiller stepped onto the playing field wearing their game faces. Leonardo, in full sweat, watched from the stands. He wondered where his buddy Brockleman was.

  “Good afternoon, your honor,” Abigail began with a full head of steam, addressing the judge on his podium in his black robe, “I represent the moving party Leonardo Cook…”

  “Counselor, give me a minute to read through your papers,” said the judge. “This is the first chance I’ve had…”

  “Of course,” said Abigail, taking a step back, like a sprinter after a false start. Leonardo could tell she was annoyed, as in Your honor, I bust my chops to get you papers, which you don’t bother to read.

  Meanwhile, a tall, sharkish-looking man with sleeked-back hair and a mouth full of teeth emerged from the shadows, and approached the bench. He moved with confidence. “Your honor,” he said, “I am Paul E. Greene appearing on behalf of defendant DeltaTek Corporation, excuse me for being a moment late, I was on a call…” He spoke with authority.

  “We haven’t yet begun, Mr. Greene,” replied the judge. Huh, thought Leonardo, who’s this monkey wrench? Where’s my guy Brockleman?

  “May I bring the court’s attention,” Mr. Greene continued, as he handed batches of paper to Abigail, to Drunkmiller, and to the clerk to hand to the judge, “to my memorandum in opposition to defendant Cook’s motion which is included among these papers, along with my appearance, and DeltaTek’s answer and counterclaims against the plaintiffs, and cross claims against defendant Cook.”

  Hello?

  “I haven’t seen these papers before,” Abigail complained to the judge. “Is there some reason,” she said turning to Greene, “why you didn’t show them to me during the hour we were sitting in this room waiting to be called? I saw you sitting there.”

  “I’m not here to engage in a he-said she-said,” Greene said to the judge with great gravity. “I simply want your honor to have the benefit of knowing the law, which is clear, that we’re talking about a public sidewalk, and that the First Amendment to the United States Constitution hallows and protects this public sidewalk…”

  “Your honor,” said Abigail, “I’m concerned we’re starting in the wrong place…”

  “Your honor,” said Greene, ignoring Abigail, “I hasten to add that I don’t know whether the street interrogation alleged in my sister’s motion occurred, or merely springs from the imagination of a disturbed person, or group of disturbed persons. Given the short notice for this hearing I haven’t had an opportunity to fairly investigate the alleged facts other than to state my understanding that my client has not engaged any interrogator…”

  “Your honor,” said Abigail, trying to get heard, like a schoolgirl waving her hand for attention after the teacher turned in a different direction.

  “…But I urge the court to recognize,” Greene went on, relentlessly as a snow plow, “that for purposes of adjudication of the herein motion it doesn’t matter whether the alleged sidewalk interrogations occurred, nor does it matter whether my client or somebody else’s client caused such interrogations. Rather, all that matters here, your honor, is that the First Amendment guarantees the right of free speech on public property, and precludes the imposition of injunctive relief in this case even if all the facts alleged in this motion were true, which they are not…”

  “Your honor,” said Abigail, squeezing to get a word in edgewise, “the issue here isn’t freedom of speech, it’s the harassment of patients on their way to and from meetings with their psychiatrist. Let’s focus on…”

  “Your honor,” Greene continued, “if the issue is harassment of patients, then where are the harassed patients? Let them come forward and seek protection of this court.” He paused, and cast a rhetorical wave across the courtroom as though offering all the harassed patients a fair chance to step to the front and tell their story. No one among the handful of spectators budged, including Leonardo who was squishy from sweat and did his best to look innocent as Greene’s wave went by.

  Greene turned back to the judge with an “I told you so” shrug, like he had proven his case, and kept talking: “My point is, your honor, that we’re not here to debate theoretical or speculative issues about harassment of patients. No harm, no foul…”

  “Your honor,” said Abigail, “interrogation of psychiatric patients has no place…”

  Which is when Drunkmiller stepped to the speakers’ table, on Abigail’s left flank while Greene maintained his position to her right, creating the sandwich effect. “Excuse me, your honor,” Drunkmiller said, “I share with Attorney Greene a substantive concern regarding the shortness of notice. Simply put, we have not been given sufficient time to prepare and respond.”

  “Your honor,” said Abigail, now as shrill as a parakeet, “what’s the big mystery? Either they hired a private investigator to harass patients outside my client’s office, or they didn’t. Simple question. Simple answer. How much time do they need?”

  “Your honor,” Drunkmiller continued, “we are entitled to a fair opportunity to gather facts and to fairly respond. These bullying tactics by my sister…”

  “What?” Abigail squeaked.

  “I concur in the characterization,” said Greene.

  “…should not be permitted to interfere with substantial justice,” Drunkmiller continued. “My client, Mr. Binh, can’t move his legs, can’t move his arms, can’t speak. He remains grievously injured, but fortunately he is not deprived of his right to fairly defend himself against charges which I fully expect will turn out to be utterly without merit…”

  And so it went. The judge denied Abigail’s motion on the grounds that she hadn’t sufficiently established entitlement to injunctive relief, including that there did not appear to be irreparable harm suffered by her client, and it wasn’t sufficiently clear whether and to what extent the alleged interrogation was occurring or had occurred, and if it was occurring or had occurred whether the other parties to the lawsuit had anything to do with it, giving due regard to the procedural considerations and constitutional concerns raised by opposing counsel, without prejudice for her to come back if things should change, or for the patients to move for relief on their own if they claim to be harmed, but with a caution that perhaps counsel should try to resolve this kind of dispute in a cooperative and constructive way without having to get the court involved every time somebody’s nose gets tweaked. “Do you follow my drift, counselor?” he said to Abigail.

  “You win some and lose some,” Abigail said to Leonardo as the elevator doors closed, and they began their descent.

  “I was hoping for better, Abigail.”

  “The abortion protest cases hurt us.”

  “Abigail, this hurts. I don’t think you understand. They’re doing whatever they fucking please to me. They’re killing me.”

  “Leonardo, sorry for your disappointment, but you have to recognize that it’s not a perfect system, and that it’s a long war with many battles…”

  “They were killing you too.”

  “I don’t think so�
�”

  “They ate your lunch.”

  “I don’t think so, Leonardo.”

  “They made you look silly and weak.”

  “Leonardo, I think you are misperceiving the reality of what happened.”

  “Like hell I am…”

  “You are. You’re talking childishly. The judge told me to come back when I have more evidence. That’s all he said. Nobody ate my lunch. And to tell you the truth I think he probably made the right decision under the circumstances.”

  They reached the ground floor. The doors opened onto a crowd of other persons seeking justice. “Listen,” Abigail added as they elbowed their way to the street, “we don’t have time to sit around pointing fingers. There’s a lot of work to be done. We have to prepare for your deposition. We have to answer these pleadings I was just handed…”

  “Attorney Greene’s pleadings?”

  “Yes.”

  “What a fuck he is.”

  “He alleges,” she said as she stopped walking, and flipped through Greene’s pages, “that you are liable to DeltaTek for negligence, fraud, misrepresentation of your qualifications, unfair and deceptive trade practices, and breach of contract, and that you should indemnify DeltaTek for any loss it may suffer from the Binhs’ claims…And he’s seeking to attach your house.”

  “Sure. Why not?” said Leonardo, casually, dazedly, like the more the merrier, like sloppy seconds were welcome, like take another piece of my heart, boys. Take it. “Hey, where’s my buddy Brockleman? Did they fire him? Are they suing him too?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And where’s your lover buddy Drunkmiller? Does he still want to cut a deal?”

  “Leonardo, he’s not my lover buddy. You’re offending me.”

  Chapter 33

  Leonardo didn’t sleep well the week after his motion for a restraining order was denied. “The only time I get a good sleep these days,” he told Dr. Ziggamon, “is when I’m listening to my patients.”

  “Not good,” Ziggamon said.

  “I spend a lot of my extra awake time looking for stalkers. I sit behind my window watching and waiting. I know it’s nuts to keep doing it, and I keep doing it.”

  “Not good,” Ziggamon said.

  “When I’m not staring out the window I’m reading law cases, long, tortuous, hair-splitting law cases.”

  “Not good at all,” Ziggamon said, shaking his head.

  “And Barbara cut me off from Harvey after the drinking thing, as if it were my fault. I’ve been waiting for her to come around, but she doesn’t return my calls. I may have to go back to fucking court if I want to see him which is the last thing in the world I want to do, and the whole thing feels like it’s falling down around my neck…”

  “Hmm,” Ziggamon said. “How’s Chrissie?”

  “I wouldn’t say she’s part of the solution either,” Leonardo replied with a sigh.

  ———

  The news about Chrissie was that Roger LaFlamme, her high school beau and part-time beast showed up in front of her mom’s house. “What do you want?” her mom asked him.

  “I want to make up with your daughter,” Roger answered.

  “Can’t be done.”

  “Can be.”

  “No way.”

  “Way.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “Give me a chance…”

  So they had some beers, and talked into the night. Roger’s dad, whom Chrissie’s mom knew in high school, knew and then had difficulty extricating herself from when he started doing nothing with his life not counting alcohol and drugs, had died the year before of a stroke, sudden but predictable in view of his indifference to risk factors, and Roger’s mom was long gone and living in Cleveland with her new family, leaving Roger by himself, screwing up and not on the verge of a big turnaround either, not counting his floor job at Staples which he had held for a year. “Big fucking deal,” said Roger of his career.

  Chrissie’s mom had kissed Tom good-bye at the curb at Foxwoods, and came home to nothing much, except for what she could do with what was left of her jackpot during a long winter in an empty house. “Big fucking deal,” she said back to Roger, and they clicked beer bottles in a toast to the way things are.

  Chrissie caught wind of this liaison in her regular pre-dawn call to her mom as she prepared for her 6:00 am shift at Starbucks. She hung up and walked through the house looking for Leonardo to propose that they jump in the car for another rescue operation, a la Tom at Foxwoods.

  Chrissie was used to leaving for work while Leonardo sat in the dark staring out the window, so was surprised to find him reading the morning Globe in the kitchen with all the lights on, eating coffee cake and drinking coffee like a regular morning person. Morbid curiosity turns out to be an effective anti-depressant.

  “Are you busy later today?” Chrissie asked.

  “What?” Leonardo said. He was engrossed in Brockleman’s obituary. They found the big attorney’s body at the highway rest stop. His funeral was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. He left a wife and a son. His law office had no comment. “I wonder if I should go to his funeral,” Leonardo said to Chrissie. “I like funerals, but…”

  “What funeral?” Chrissie asked. “I want to visit my mother. She needs me.”

  “Fine.”

  “You’ll go with me?”

  “To the funeral?”

  “To my mother’s.”

  “What?”

  It took the best part of breakfast for Leonardo to translate the sound of Chrissie’s voice into comprehension that Roger LaFlamme, who he thought had transitioned to a more spiritual format, so as to be able to surf the wind and slip through the crack under the bedroom window, was alive and asking about Chrissie, and sleeping on Chrissie’s mom’s couch at that very minute, and that Chrissie needed to protect her mom from him.

  “Hmm,” Leonardo said as he dabbed at the crumbs of his coffee cake. “I can’t go with you today, Chrissie.” He had patients in the morning, and a meeting with Abigail in the afternoon to prepare for his deposition which was scheduled for tomorrow morning, which he was looking forward to like it was a court proceeding.

  “Because of the funeral?”

  “The funeral is tomorrow afternoon.”

  “We’ll be back…”

  “I’m going to be deposed tomorrow morning, so I have to prepare for it today.”

  “Oh, Leonardo, sweetheart, it’s OK to be deposed. It happens to everybody, especially when you start thinking about funerals and corpses and bugs crawling inside your skull. I promise you’ll feel better after the funeral.”

  “No, my point is…”

  “I always feel better after the funeral.”

  “Yes, I do too, but…I don’t feel invited to this one.”

  “Leonardo, that’s silly. You don’t have to be invited to a funeral. For goodness sake you just go. All sorts of people just go. Nobody but you and the dead guy know whether you’re really invited. At my dad’s funeral there were people my mom and I never saw before in our lives. War buddies. Work buddies…”

  “I’m not exactly a buddy.”

  “They came over to my mom and me after the service and paid respects and it was very nice, except for the guy who came over to tell my mom that my dad owed him money.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mom told him to fuck off.”

  “Nice.”

  “I once asked her if the guy came back, but she was evasive. When dad died she started drinking and dating, and got evasive. I focused on my own thing.”

  “Roger?”

  “Roger.”

  “Chrissie,” Leonardo said as he put his hand on hers, noticing not for the first time how delicate and slender were her fingers, how brown and pretty were her eyes, how attractive she was in her whole package, l
ike she was model quality, like she could sell pocketbooks and stylish shoes in The New Yorker, or was as close to that as he ever expected to see at his breakfast table, not that she was likely to carry leather or wear other than jeans and sneakers, or was anything other than a kid who sold coffee, and was now more than ever living in a different time zone.

  “Chrissie,” he repeated, looking for the right words, “aside from the fact that I can’t go with you today, I don’t think it would be so great for me to meet Roger. It would be uncomfortable between him and me, and for you. And, this is my big point: do you really want to get involved with Roger again?”

  “I didn’t say anything about getting involved with him again. I have no intention of getting involved with him again. That’s your, what do you call it, paranoia? I just want to help my mom, who isn’t as strong as me…”

  “I…”

  “Me…”

  “I…”

  “Lenny, if you won’t go with me, would you mind if I borrowed your car?”

  Chapter 34

  Chrissie borrowed the car. “I promise I’ll be home tonight,” she said, but wasn’t. She left a brief recorded message: “Looks like tomorrow. Tom sends regards.”

  Carless, Leonardo cabbed downtown to his deposition the next morning, which he figured was just as well given his level of medication. Code Red, he said as he popped the first of the pills. Avoid driving a car, heavy machinery, and people who depend upon you.

  The deposition was scheduled to begin at 10:00 am—five minutes ago—in a plush conference room in Martin Drunkmiller’s high-rise law offices, featuring a majestic overhead view of Boston harbor which was choppy but sparkling in the winter sunshine and busy with water traffic. Leonardo sat quietly and looked out the window like a drowsy old dog while the others around him hurried and scurried with their last minute businesses.

  He identified shuttle boats, water buses, a sail boat under puffy white sail, a fishing boat, a barge, and a nut in a canoe, and on the northern rim of the harbor he saw planes taking off and landing at Logan Airport in orderly procession, big planes, jumbo planes, small planes, itsy-bitsy planes, all kinds of planes gleaming in the sunshine, going up, going down, going up, going down…