by Siegel, Andy
As far as my ankle is concerned, I allow a second-year resident to do the closed reduction and recasting, but I experience a brief encounter with the attending after seeing the postreduction X-ray films. With the films up on the view box, I make myself heard. “Your resident hasn’t achieved satisfactory anatomical alignment of my medial malleolus,” I tell him. “There’s some external rotation of the fracture fragment.” I point to the spot.
The attending, being protective of his resident, initially resists. “When ossification begins, it’ll mold itself into proper alignment as it heals.”
“Why should I rely on chance when you can get it right now with a little more effort? Besides, you know as well as I do the healing process can’t remedy rotation. What’s wrong is wrong. Just cut this cast off and re-reduce it.” That is exactly what happens.
Just before discharge the attending finds me and apologizes for what he called “an error in judgment” concerning the rotated fragment.
“At least you didn’t assert risk or complication,” I tell him, but it only makes him smile uncertainly.
I take a car service home and sleep like a baby during the ride. Having been given crutches this time despite my pleading for a walking boot, I crutch my way into my house at close to four in the morning.
I quietly make my way upstairs, feeling woozy from the Percocets. I stumble into my smallish walk-in closet, which was three times bigger on the blueprints but was downsized by my wife’s intervention between framing and drywall. The secret change order made her adjoining closet 50 percent bigger, but the builder’s profit ten thousand less for his indiscretion.
All I can think about as I slowly get undressed is taking tomorrow off and smoking a cigar. I cautiously take down my underwear, then inspect my intact sutures. Next I take my watch off and set it on the shelf where it always goes. To my surprise, on this same shelf is a piece of folded paper.
The only time paper makes its way there is when our housekeeper, the New Marcolina, finds it during a pre–dry cleaning pocket frisk. The neatly folded rectangle looks familiar. I decide to play the “I’m not going to look at it until I remember what it is” game, but a few seconds later it hits me. It’s Dr. Laura Smith’s curriculum vitae.
Instead of dropping the CV into the wastebasket, I allow my curiosity to compel me to unfold it. Reading it, I quickly get to the part that lays out her education. And there it is.
Dr. Laura was a first-year resident at the Brooklyn Catholic Hospital when Toledo sent the adapter to Risk Management and a third-year resident when Suzy got electrocuted. She undoubtedly didn’t want the case to go forward because it was being brought against the hospital at which she trained.
I go to the last page of her CV. It gives her maiden name. How do I know it? I’ve seen that name before. It suddenly occurs to me where. So much for a day of cigar smoking. There’s more to this, and I need to know.
17.
In the morning, I call the office to check in with Lily. She reprimands me for not picking up my cell or house phone, then tells me a man is sitting in our reception area who wants to speak with me. He’s refused to give her his name but said he was a client. Lily doesn’t recognize him as one of our clients, nor has she pegged him as an HIC. I tell her if he isn’t causing any problems just to let him sit there. If he wants to talk to me, I’ll be in around four and could see him at four-thirty. Lily says he’s no problem, and that because of his size, she’s sure she can handle him if he becomes one.
At four sharp, I find myself standing outside my office entry door. I take my right crutch out from under my pit and steady myself on my left one. I grab the handle, press it down, and try to fling the door open. It opens about two feet, then begins slowly to come back at me. This makes me appreciate how truly skilled that one-legged boy, Charlie, was when I saw him down at rehab. I hope that kid lives a long life. Anyway, during my attempt I glimpse the guy waiting for me in reception.
He’s a smallish black man in his late thirties who’s very well dressed and very good-looking. He’s wearing a gray pinstriped suit that feels more gangsta than banka, but it’s definitely cut from fine Italian stock. As I make my way slowly through the door, he stands up. He measures no taller than five foot six. Despite his slight size he gives off an air of importance in a mildly threatening kind of way. I don’t know whether to respect him or be apprehensive.
He sees me struggling, so pulls the door open to allow me more room to maneuver.
“Thank you,” I reply as I pass him and look directly into his hollow eyes. Not an ounce of human emotion. What was Lily thinking? If I’ve ever seen that look before it’s been in the orbs of hardened HICs who’ve developed their empty eyes in the solitary areas of jail confinement. I stop and balance myself on the crutches. “Can I help you? I understand you’ve been here quite a while waiting for me.”
“Yes, you can. But I see you’re getting used to using your crutches, which I’m sure can be tiring. Why don’t you get settled? Then, when you’re ready to see me, we’ll talk.”
“I appreciate that. What’s your name, may I ask?”
“My name is Carlton Williams Junior. I’m Suzy’s father and June’s husband.”
He’ll Find Out Anyway
I’m obviously shocked because June told me her husband was dead, but I don’t want to show any signs of reaction. “Oh, great to meet you. You have a special little girl there.” I try to extend my hand, which is kind of restricted by the crutch.
He reaches to make the shake. “I wouldn’t know. Haven’t been around too much.” We shake, and by the squeeze of things, he makes sure I know who’s boss. I crutch forward and he kindly opens the inner office door for me.
“Give me half an hour or so.”
“Take however long you need.”
By the time my duff smacks my office chair, I’ve got June’s number connecting from hitting speed dial.
“Hello,” she greets, then pauses.
“June, it’s me,” I reply, only to realize it was a fake-out hello. Her voice message continues. “June, Suzy, and Dog are a little busy right now but leave a message and we’ll call you back as soon as we can.”
After the beep I begin with my message. “It’s your lawyer. Your dead husband is sitting in my reception area waiting to talk to me. Call me back as soon as you get this.” Click.
I’m nervous and tense. Something’s up. I’m feeling a little helpless, too, because of my physical condition. I start to do what I came here to do and open Suzy’s records.
I go directly to the progress note made on the date of the incident and there it is, just as I thought. It reads: “Patient seen by myself (Dr. Gino Valenti) at eight o’clock this morning with hematology residents (Gold, Hassan, Guthrie, Peck, Lim) during rounds.” Dr. Laura, who changed the name on her diplomas from Guthrie, her maiden name, was actually there the moment Suzy was electrocuted. Still, that doesn’t explain why I got kidnapped by her crazy husband.
My cell rings and scares the living daylights out of me. The caller ID reads: PRIVATE CALLER, and I pick up. “You got some explaining to do here, June,” I assert.
“It’s not June. It’s me, Rosie,” the caller says.
“Oh, hey, Rosie. To what do I owe this surprise?”
“There’s a note in an envelope addressed to you in the doctor’s belongings. I’m responsible for the disposition of her arriving inventory. I thought you’d like it if I disposed of Statement Number Three to you. You want me to mail it?”
“No, Rosie. I want you to open it up and fax it to me right this second.”
Rosie resists. “Right this second? I’m on break. Can’t I get it to you when I’m back on duty?”
“Rosie, you made a cool twenty-five Gs here. Won’t you do me that favor?”
“All right. I’ll fax it now, but I’m not writing a cover sheet so stand by your fax.”
“No problem. Please keep the original safe for me.” Click. I buzz Lily.
“What?”
I hear this through the phone as if I’m some kind of annoyance.
“There’s going to be a fax coming in the next few minutes. When it gets here, I want you to bring it right in.”
Lily mocks me. “ ‘There’s going to be a fax coming in the next few minutes and when it gets here bring it right in.’ Give me a break!”
“Lily,” I say firmly, “I’m in no joking mood.” Her response is a click.
A few minutes later, she enters my office unannounced, holding the Post open in her hands. She puts it down in front of me, place mat style. “Look here.”
“Where’s the fax?”
“Not here yet. Look here! Now!”
I look down and start scanning the stories. I see nothing of interest. “And your point is?”
“Does the guy in that picture look familiar to you?” She points. Come to think of it, he does look familiar. He’s next to a headline that reads: “Killer Freed.” I look at the picture again with a scrutinizing eye and realize it’s Carlton Williams Jr., the guy sitting in my waiting area: June’s husband and Suzy’s father.
“Did you read the article?” I ask.
“Sure did, and I’m going home now. This shit was not in the job description.”
“You mean the verbal?”
“Right, the verbal.”
“There’s a lot of that going around. Travel safely. Just check for that fax one more time before you leave, okay?” She departs without a response.
I speed-read the article. It seems Carlton Williams Jr. comes from a well-known, successful Brooklyn family, and is one of three sons of Carlton Williams Sr., who apparently made a ton of money as a roofer turned real estate baron. He filed mechanic’s liens on the buildings he roofed and ended up owning about thirty of them. However, Carlton Senior lost his fortune investing everything in the development and manufacture of a bagless vacuum system before the technology was advanced enough to work properly. Carlton Williams Jr. was his father’s financial advisor and so was primarily responsible for the loss of the family fortune. Carlton Junior then had to go to work and ended up becoming a sales rep for a law enforcement uniform and apparel supply company. The article goes on to say Carlton made big bucks supplying police uniforms to the most ruthless gang in the city. Among his other criminal designations, he is also a murderer.
After Carlton and his gang were busted, he turned state’s evidence against his gang, putting many of his accomplices behind bars for life. In exchange for his testimony, he was accepted in the witness protection program. After a number of years in the program, the authorities discovered Carlton was responsible for criminal activities related to a drug-running operation unconnected to his plea bargain. The government agreed to drop all new charges in exchange for expelling him from its protection program. He was recently released, but the article doesn’t say exactly when.
I’m sure he can’t be too happy about his picture being in the papers for those he testified against and their families to read about. The next thought that comes to mind is “Benson!”
I dial up Henry in a huff. After the third ring I hear his voice. “Benson here.”
“Henry, it’s me, and I’m really pissed.”
“I’m listening if you need to vent,” says Henry casually.
“I’ve been through a bunch of shit with your injured criminals, especially in the last several weeks. Right now I got Carlton Williams Junior sitting out in my waiting area. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”
“Calm down, calm down. Yes, I’ve heard of him. You’re not dead yet, are you?”
“No, Henry, I’m not dead yet, but this wasn’t in the verbal. It definitely was not in the verbal.”
“I understand, but we’re making money, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, Henry, we’re making money—but at what cost? This has gone too far.”
“I understand. Relax, will you? Just relax. Things will settle down. They always do. By the way, did you gracefully get us out of his kid’s case or are you going forward or what? Maybe that’s why Williams is there in the first place.”
“No, Henry. I didn’t get us gracefully out of the case. What was your verbal? Oh yeah, the verbal on the Suzy Williams case was ‘There is no case.’ You really have no idea what you’re doing when it comes to injury law, do you?”
“Relax, please relax. To answer your question, no, I don’t know what I’m doing when it comes to personal injury. That’s why I gave you all my injured criminals. Now, how come we’re not out of it?”
“Henry, are you sitting down?”
“Yes, I’m sitting. Why, did I fuck up?”
“You might say you fucked up, but I fixed things. I just settled Suzy’s case for close to ten million dollars.” There is silence on the other end of the line. The “I just hit it big” pause that has rendered the person pausing speechless. “Did you hear me, Henry? Ten million dollars, and that little girl is going to get a payout from a structure to the tune of thirty-five million. Do you hear me?”
“Great. I knew I made the right decision when I chose you to take over my injury practice. I’m right again.”
“Henry, is that how you see it? You were about to throw a case worth ten million dollars right out the window and would have destroyed this family in the process.”
“That may be how you see it, but I brought you in on these cases for that exact reason. I think I made a good decision. If not for my decision, you never would’ve been in the position to make any money on Suzy’s case and save the day for this family.”
“There’s just no getting through to you, is there?”
“Now if there’s nothing else,” Henry says dismissively, “I have to get over to the Four Seasons for an early dinner.”
“There is something else. What’s the story with junior, the guy sitting out in my waiting area?”
“There is no story. He’s your typical uniform supply salesman gone bad. He’s also a killer, but only if he has reason to kill. I was his attorney when he was pinched and I got him into witness protection. He’s been a client of the public defender ever since. He doesn’t like to pay his legal bills. I heard he was being kicked out of protection. Must’ve been released in the last several weeks.”
“You carry a gun. Why don’t you get down here and protect my ass? This little guy scares the crap out of me.”
“I told you, I’m having an early dinner and have to get going,” replies Henry. “Carlton’s not a cold-blooded killer. He doesn’t kill for sport. He needs motive. Don’t worry about anything. Like I told you, he’s only a danger if he has reason to kill, and he has no reason to kill you, so relax. You don’t need protection.” Click.
I can’t believe he hung up on me. I hit my redial button and get Henry’s voice mail. Damn it! Just then Lily marches into my office and slams the fax from Rosie down on top of the Post, which is on top of Suzy’s records. She snaps her fingers twice in my face and says, “Bye.” She performs her patented catwalk turn and prances out like a commando swimsuit model. An instant later, she sticks her head back in. “By the way, lock up. You’re the last one here.”
I look at my watch and see it’s five to five. My heart’s racing and I’m not happy about being here alone with a known killer. I take out a few ER-issue Percocets and mix them up with a few Xanax as a rescue dose. Down the hatch they go. I take five deep breaths, repeating my calming chant, then remind myself what Henry said: that he only kills when he has motive to kill and there’s no motive for him to kill me. In fact, he should want to send my ass to Vegas with June and Suzy for getting his daughter millions of dollars.
Carlton has been waiting for me an hour now, and that’s on top of all the other hours before I arrived. I better go out there and tell him I need thirty more minutes, suggesting he may want to come back. I crutch my way there and take a peek at him through the spy door. He looks like a tiny harmless little man and then he quickly turns his head in my direction, catching me in midspy. Busted.
I quickly open
the door to save face. “Mr. Williams, I need another half hour or so. Do you want to wait or come back tomorrow sometime?” I pray for the latter.
“Take your time. I assure you, I’m in no rush. Take your time. I’ll be right here,” he answers in a most pleasant manner.
“Thank you for understanding.”
“No problem.”
What a nice guy Carlton is—a ruthless murderer, I think to myself. Never be fooled by smiling faces.
Back at my desk, I pick up the fax of Dr. Laura’s letter. It reads:
Dear Mr. Wyler:
I hope this note finds you alive and well. The fact you are reading it means I’m most likely dead. I write this to finish the cleansing of my soul you began when you first walked into my office. Please share its contents with your client as she has a right to know after all these years.
I went to the hospital on February 14 and this Valentine’s Day started out just like any other day in the life of a first-year resident except that morning a man from the hospital’s Engineering Department came up to the cardiology suite and had a conversation with the attending in charge. The attending called me over and introduced me. From that introduction I fell in love with and married Steven Smith.
The attending said Steven needed someone from cardiology to accompany him to satisfy a work order issued by Risk Management. We were to find a specific cardiac machine and attach a little plastic device. You know what I’m talking about. Steven and I had so much fun looking for the machine all over the hospital, much like an Easter egg hunt.
After searching for hours, Steven called Engineering and was informed the machine we were looking for was actually there in the basement for a wheel repair. We were hungry by that time so Steven suggested we eat, then complete the work order, so we left the hospital for lunch. We ended up spending the day together and were together ever after. We got married late that afternoon and took the next several days off for our honeymoon.