“Dr. Cook.”
He did a double take at the sound of his name, and looked around for who might be saying it. It wasn’t the stenographer to his right who was busy setting up her machine, and it wasn’t Abigail because she was working a mouthful of cheese Danish, and it wasn’t Drunkmiller unless he was a ventriloquist because his mouth was locked in a sneer as he sat at the far end of the table scribbling trick questions onto his yellow pad, or Remington, his loyal round-faced associate, who was talking on a telephone behind Drunkmiller with great intensity which could mean that he just missed a critical filing deadline which would ruin his career but more likely meant he was ordering more cheese Danish from the office kitchen because Abigail had thrown off the projections.
Third cheese Danish for Abigail, but who’s counting. Plus thank you for your updated bill. You certainly earned it. You certainly scared the shit out of them at the injunction hearing. “Leonardo,” Dr. Ziggamon commented when he heard this kind of sarcasm, “you criticize her lawyering skills, but in the next breath you worry that she’s fed up with you, and might leave. Does that ring any bells?”
Ding-a-ling. Shming-a-ling.
Not Drunkmiller, Remington, or Abigail speaking his name. That left Susan H. Binh sitting next to Drunkmiller, wearing a smart Chanel-like suit and a lot of gold and a face as cold as January, and last but not least the expressionless, shark-like Paul E. Greene, DeltaTek’s new attorney, replacing the late William T. Brockleman, late and not expected to return. This Greene was last observed biting off Abigail’s arms and legs in open court at the hearing to stop the interrogation of patients on the sidewalk in front of Leonardo’s house.
In the elevator going up, Abigail called Greene the “usual litigation bastard, except he’s from New York so he’s worse,” but Leonardo thought she was being too kind. “I wish I had him for my divorce,” he said, but then felt sorry for the consequences to Barbara.
That thought dropped him into an internal wrestle as he slapped himself for the soft spot he kept for Barbara, and tried to stuff her back into his memory trunk, but she kicked and screamed as he pushed down the lid, and grabbed at his tongue and tied it in a knot so that he couldn’t make words for the rest of the ride up to say nothing of his chances of surviving a morning of sharp-edged deposition questions, prompting him to pop his emergency pill earlier than he planned, as the elevator opened onto Drunkmiller’s floor, enhancing his view of the planes and the boats, and the sensation of floating among them.
———
When Mulverne engaged Greene to replace Brockleman as DeltaTek’s counsel of record in the lawsuit, shortly after the papers were served, following consultation with his insurance carriers and his New York underwriters and a timely tip from Marge Blitz regarding Brockleman’s suspected complicity with Selma in an insider trading scheme, his explanation to Brockleman was part evasion and part lie. “Big Bill,” he said, “you’re too close to the facts and too friendly with the players, including your Dr. Cook. You’ll serve us better this time calling plays from the booth upstairs. I still need you…”
“Thanks,” Brockleman said, feeling stress in his chest which he misdiagnosed as gas.
“You’re welcome,” said Mulverne.
———
“Dr. Cook,” Leonardo heard again, and realized this time it was in fact Attorney Greene making the sound.
“Yes.”
“Do you have a middle name?”
“I…”
“Hemmuppdnnntt,” interjected Abigail as she force-swallowed her wad of cheese Danish, and came to Leonardo’s side. Greene nodded, like a poker player when he’s been dealt a card, acknowledging receipt but not value. Someone should check if this man has a pulse, and/or a mother, Leonardo joked to himself, cracking himself up.
“All set,” the stenographer said. Her steno machine was fixed between her legs and wired into her lap top which instantly translated her short-hand key strokes into English prose and streamed it across her screen. The room came to order.
“Please swear in the witness,” Drunkmiller said to the stenographer, pleasantly enough.
“Dr. Cook,” she responded, raising her right hand, “do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?”
“Yes,” said Dr. Cook
“Please state and spell your full name,” said Drunkmiller.
“Leonardo Cook. L-E-O-N-A-R-D-O C-O-O-K.”
“How old are you?”
“Forty-five.”
“Where do you live?”
“Sixteen Neptune Road, Newton, Massachusetts.”
“Are you employed?”
“Self-employed.”
“As what?”
“Medical doctor, board certified in psychiatry.”
“How long have you been a psychiatrist?”
“Fourteen years.”
“Do you maintain a private practice in psychiatry?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Sixteen Neptune Road, Newton, Massachusetts.”
“Where you live?”
“Yes.”
Drunkmiller flipped to the next page of his pad, and stroked his chin a couple of times. “Dr. Cook,” he asked, “what do you do as a psychiatrist?”
“I deal with the emotional lives of people.”
“Deal?”
“Help. I try to help people with their emotional issues and difficulties, ranging from relatively minor and transitory disorders and conditions to serious and sometimes dangerous and incapacitating illnesses.”
“What people?”
“My patients.”
“Was Eugene Binh your patient?”
“No.”
“Did you try to help him with his emotional issues and difficulties?”
“Yes.”
“But you say he wasn’t your patient?”
“He wasn’t.”
“You tried to help him with his emotional issues and difficulties which is what you say you do with patients?”
“I did. I do. I tried…”
“You treated him like a patient?”
“Yes.”
“But you say he wasn’t a patient?”
“Yes.”
Drunkmiller paused, and vigorously almost furiously scribbled a note on his pad, while Leonardo floated lightly and slightly out of his chair on the wings of his medication, happy not to sweat whether Eugene was a patient, or not a patient, or sort of a patient, or whether it mattered, or didn’t matter depending on how you read the legal cases or the insurance policies or the configuration of the planets or whatever it was. So what. Abigail’s last words of advice as they entered the room were, “Don’t think too much about whether your answers fit together. As a matter of fact, don’t think at all.”
Leonardo nodded over to Abigail, and observed that she and Greene and round-faced Remington were all vigorously, almost furiously, scribbling their own notes onto their pads, and Mrs. Binh hers, with a thick red marker like she was writing with lipstick, or blood, like the time in college he did write in blood, chose to write in blood as it dripped from the back of his hand, silently and pleasingly, like the boats and planes passing across the picture window, against the gentle blue background of water and sky. I’m on a cruise down memory lane, with vivid sights and sounds...
“Are you married?” Drunkmiller asked next.
“Why?”
“Are you divorced?”
“Why?”
“Are you married or divorced?”
“Objection,” said Abigail. “Mr. Drunkmiller, why do you care?”
“Ms. Stern,” Drunkmiller replied, “I’m allowed latitude in deposition. I don’t understand your objection.”
“I wish to protect my client from harassment.”
“The
re’s no harassment.”
“Mr. Drunkmiller, if you persist in asking questions intended solely to embarrass and harass my client I will seek a protective order…”
“I thought you already tried that.”
“Please watch your step, Mr. Drunkmiller.”
“Off the record,” said Drunkmiller. The stenographer rested her fingers, and relaxed her posture. Drunkmiller stared at Abigail for three, four, five seconds, tapping his fingers on the table in front of him. “Abigail,” he said, “what’s on your mind? Why are you so hostile? This isn’t personal…”
“You’re invading his privacy.”
“He has no privacy. His life’s in play.”
“What was the question?” Leonardo asked.
“Which question?” the stenographer answered.
“How about,” Abigail said to Drunkmiller, “for purposes of getting through this morning you stick to questions about what happened at the event in question and reserve your right to investigate the rest of Dr. Cook’s life until after I get a hearing on a motion for a protective order?”
“Are you asking me,” Drunkmiller replied to Abigail, still off the record, “not to ask about your client’s professional experience, like whether any of his patients have filed complaints against him, or have committed suicide while under his care?”
“I’m proposing,” said Abigail, “that today you only ask questions about the time when your client suffered his alleged injury, on or about last October 4. Later on, as soon as possible later on, we can clarify what other things you can ask questions about.”
“When?”
“I’ll serve you with a motion as soon as possible. I’ll request an emergency hearing.”
Drunkmiller mulled for a moment, shot a glance at Leonardo, which Leonardo, despite the distant place his mind had journeyed to, instinctively ducked from, then said to Abigail, “In the interest of making efficient use of our time, and our clients’ money, I’m willing to start the witness with questions about the event. I expect these questions will fill today’s scheduled time, so you could get a motion served and heard—I am sure it will be disposed of in my favor, and I will seek sanctions and attorney’s fees when it is—before our next scheduled day of deposition. But I’m not waiving any rights…”
“Deal,” said Abigail.
“Back on the record,” said Drunkmiller. “Dr. Cook, do you recall the events of last October 4?”
“Yes I do.”
“You went to DeltaTek’s offices in Lexington that day?”
“Yes I did.”
“Why did you go there?”
“I was asked to by Attorney Brock…”
“Objection,” said Greene.
“What about?” asked Drunkmiller.
“DeltaTek,” said Greene, “asserts that a physician-patient privilege exists as to any and all communications between the witness and DeltaTek and its principals and authorized agents, including without limitation the late Attorney Brockleman, which may have occurred on or about October 4. It would be wrongful and actionable for the witness to disclose any such communications.”
“Mr. Greene,” said Drunkmiller, “there’s no such privilege. You’re out of order.”
“Mr. Drunkmiller,” said Greene, “I am advising the witness and the witness’ counsel that DeltaTek asserts the privilege, and I am directing the witness not to make any disclosure in violation of the privilege. I put the witness on notice that DeltaTek will hold him liable for any adverse consequences of unauthorized disclosure up to and including any monetary judgment which may be obtained by plaintiffs in this case.”
“Off the record,” said Drunkmiller. The stenographer stopped.
“No,” said Greene, “I don’t want anything I say or anything said to me in the course of this deposition to be off the record.” The stenographer started again.
“Well tough shit, we’re going off the record,” Drunkmiller replied. Turning to the stenographer he said, “Please lift your hands from the keys and back away from your machine.” Which she did.
“Madam stenographer,” Greene said to her, “you are obligated to record this proceeding. Please do so, or I will seek sanctions against you.” Her hands started moving back toward the keys.
“Madam stenographer,” said Drunkmiller, “if you touch those keys you’ll never work in this town again.” Her hands froze in the air. She looked around the room for help, wide-eyed, like a mouse caught between two cats.
Chapter 35
Janet Casey picked up Mulverne for the ride to Brockleman’s funeral. “You look dapper,” she chirped as he climbed his crotchety way into her freshly-washed Beemer sedan, in ladylike white with a stick.
“Anything new?” he asked.
“Marge Blitz called me.”
“Your new buddy.”
“My new drinking buddy. Pursuant to your request.”
“When did she call?”
“8:00 am this morning.”
“She started work early.”
“She started drinking early. She was already pickled.”
“Because of Brockleman?”
“She’s drinking earlier because of him.”
“She feels responsible?”
“She talks tough, you know. She says she’s lost suspects before and it’s no big deal. She says Brockleman was like all the other fast lane guys when a cop pulls them over…”
“They bribe the cop?”
“No. They’re fragile. They shatter.”
“She still thinks he did it?”
“Yes, very much. She believes the secretary.”
“And you?”
“Mostly I do too. You?”
“I never trusted the fat bastard. May he rest in peace.”
They stopped talking when Janet turned her big-engined machine onto the highway, and ramped up to and past traffic speed, weaving from lane to lane like a tank commander eager for glory but late for battle, scaring the piss out of Mulverne as she always did with her driving, except for the shy and rarely-allowed-out-of-the-house kid part of him which reacted with delight, which was why he asked her to drive. “Yes,” he said more or less audibly as space opened ahead, and she accelerated through it.
Janet recognized this twist in Mulverne’s road early on, when she drove him to lunch at half-time of her desultory job interview and u-turned the momentum en route by threatening to love nudge the rear bumper of an old-timer who was clogging the passing lane. “Sorry,” she said to Mulverne after she honked the old-timer to the sidelines. “Sometimes my driving gets…a little aggressive.”
“Christ,” Mulverne replied through gritted teeth, “let’s talk…compensation package.”
Janet used this shared intimacy as a promotional tool like she did with her former boss who got off on baseball talk coming from the mouth of a woman, especially in the winter months, or for that matter her dad who had a sweet tooth for beef stew. Whatever, she implicitly reconciled. If I were brilliant, well-adjusted, and beautiful, as opposed to smarter than some, not completely nuts, and prior to surgical tampering blessed with an enormous nose which kept the boys busy elsewhere, and I don’t mean inside my panties, I mean on the other side of the room so that I had plenty of quiet time for studying, I might not feel the attraction of driving fast to please my boss. And while I am almost certain he came in his pants the time I was stopped for speeding on the Mass Pike [Interstate 90], which might have been his only come of the decade, I didn’t have to touch anything and under these circumstances I do not feel like a prostitute.
The coroner relieved everybody, except possibly Brockleman’s poker-buddy cardiologist, when he identified a massive heart attack as the cause of Brockleman’s death, because even after a lifetime of excess and provocation, a heart attack still feels like God’s will, a natural ending as opposed to the unnatural
ness of high speed impact with a slab of concrete or bullets to the base of the skull which leave their survivors blood-splattered and pacing long hallways of regret.
If he has to be dead, better this way say the aggrieved, except his widow didn’t stop asking, “Why me?”
———
The New York underwriters kept pushing Mulverne to settle Eugene’s lawsuit. “Jack,” they said again this morning, “it creates uncertainties in risk and value. Pay him off and move on. Whatever it is, get it done. We can’t raise capital until you do.”
Mulverne gave the underwriters his usual, “Tough shit. I’d rather eat my foot than pay that crazy slimeball dime one,” but he was mulling it over. He needed to raise capital. He was pushing his liability insurer. As Janet slowed down before the pearly gates of the cemetery’s parking lot, he asked her, “Do you think it’s too early to talk settlement?”
“Depends.”
“What do you think it would take to buy our way out?”
“Greene will report to me later today on the shrink’s deposition. I’ll run it by him,” she said as she parked. She and Mulverne disembarked into the frosty afternoon and walked along a paved path through the gravestones to the place on the rise of a hill where a small crowd was gathered, which was the wrong funeral, it turned out. Having pushed to get to the front row and then squeezed in place by the mourners—including the elderly widower, who was the tip off, along with the reverend saying, “Now we lay to rest our dearly departed Ethel…”—as they closed ranks against the cold so that the only opening was straight ahead into the fresh hole, and with the widower finding comfort next to her luxurious mink, it being otherwise a cloth-coat crowd, Janet considered the viability of stonewalling the faux pas and doing Brockleman as the second part of a double feature, time permitting.
But Mulverne made it easier for them to cut and run, albeit at the bad end of a chorus of curses and with their arms covering their heads to evade identification like perps led from the paddy wagon, when he too loudly asked, “Who’s Ethel?”
Eventually they found the Brockleman party, in time to witness the casket go down, and express sad condolences to the widow who looked wobbly and beaten up, like she saw her husband’s ghost in the mirror and kept smashing herself on the glass as she tried to bring him back to her side, or, as actually happened, almost killed herself when she fell down the stairs at the mortuary on her way to the casket display room to see what they had in extra large caskets; and to the teenaged son who looked like a nice boy who would now have it tough.
Lucky Leonardo Page 14