What?
“Don’t panic, little bunny. I only mean you’ll be bandaged up nice and tight. You won’t be able to wear a bra. All right now, let’s have you lie back.”
“What about my sneakers?” I asked. Except for my shirt I was still dressed.
“Your sneakers are fine, as long as you’re comfortable,” Eve said. She was short and chubby, with a soft face. She looked at me, moved closer, then placed her hands on mine, which were clasped tightly in my lap. “You’re not feeling relaxed, are you?”
“No. Not even a little. Is that bad?”
“No, bunny, we’ll take care of that. I’ll make sure. Anna is going to scrub you now. OK?”
“OK,” I said, still nervous and shaking a little. I rested my head on a pillow and watched as Anna explained what she was doing. “This is Betadine. I need to scrub the area for a few minutes.” She vigorously scrubbed a four-by-four-inch area of my chest with gauze held on the end of giant metal tweezers.
I peered past my stained orange-gold chest. I was wearing my favorite skirt. It was a wraparound I had made myself, thin cotton with a pink and blue flower print. My socks were bright white and my running sneakers looked huge and clumsy on the operating table. It seemed funny to have my feet dressed for surgery. Several nurses were prepping the room. Finally Anna checked her watch and stopped scrubbing. “Don’t touch!” she warned, smiling.
Dr. Nelson appeared at my other side and held my hand. “They tell me the Valium isn’t working on you,” he chastised me. “I’m going to give you a shot of morphine. Tell me how you feel.”
I jumped a little when he pinched my arm. “I feel pretty nervous. I’m scared. I don’t know … oh …” I began laughing and tried to sit up. Anna grabbed my shoulder and hands. “Careful. Lie back.” I stifled my laughter and struggled to remember why I shouldn’t be laughing.
Blissfully floating on a cloud of Valium and morphine I watched the old surgeon remove a piece of my breast the size of a couple of jellybeans. The tumor, pinched in tiny forceps, hovered above me for several moments. I studied it, curious but emotionally blank. A clear dish appeared, held under the brown and red mass, then was swooped away, taking the tumor with it. In my happy fog it seemed only a minute later that Dr. Nelson’s face appeared above me. His mouth moved, telling me, “The preliminary tests are back from the lab. The bad cells were contained in the tumor. We got it all.”
I vaguely recall Roger being called in to the operating room to help me out to the truck. I couldn’t stand or walk alone. And I couldn’t stop giggling. Every face followed my slow progress through the hall and waiting area. The elderly patients — that’s all Dr. Nelson ever seemed to have — looked like dolls. I sensed curiosity and concern from them all. I felt very positive, even jubilant.
Drugged.
I didn’t think of how I might have felt had the prognosis been different.
Recovery was slow but wonderful. I was warned that I would be deformed, but after a scare like that, I appreciated my small breasts, misshapen or not, as if they were gold. My positive attitude must have charmed me. I healed beautifully over the months with only a small scar. My determination to seize the day increased.
I silently vowed to apply my newly realized courage to all facets of my life. I had applied for financial aid, but, again, it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t upset. Rather, I looked to the next year — I should qualify then. In the meantime, I nurtured my business and thought positively. I had just survived a close call with cancer. I didn’t sweat the small stuff anymore.
By summer I had the business running at a hundred percent. I had as much work as I wanted, at least forty hours a week. With my flexible schedule I was able to perform as an extra in several movies filmed on the beach and boardwalk. Roger worked long days as a contractor and kept to himself in the evenings, reading the classics while listening to modern jazz on headphones. He was increasingly moody, especially if I interrupted him. I had plenty of time to myself. Several local surfers were teaching me their art. I entertained them, taking the abuse of sand and surf with the best of them. I was even running again, with the support of double-layered bras. My checkups had been perfect. Dr. Nelson even predicted, “You may never have another problem. Just keep an eye on it.”
Business was going well, too. I finished paying Roger back for the motorcycle he helped me buy, and in two more months I’d be square with Dr. Nelson as well. I planned starting another business: Grammy’s Cookies. With the combination of my wealthy clientele, their connections, my creativity, and my family’s recipes, it looked to be a success. I had grown up baking holiday cookies and missed the tradition. With a market, I could have my tradition and a profit. In mid-September I distributed ads. A week later I was accepting advance orders!
In late September, Tony called to tell me about the pretrial conferences being conducted. He was excited. “Judge Boyle is not happy with Brown. He told the university attorneys that they were wasting his time and the taxpayer’s money by fighting this. He told them the case was clear and they should settle with you. He said they should give you ‘a hundred grand and get this out of my court!’“
“What? Wow! Will they do that?”
“Possibly. They won’t want to because it would set a precedent. Right or wrong, Brown doesn’t want to have a history of settling lawsuits. Doing so may encourage more of them, even frivolous ones. But don’t worry, Heidi, the judge clearly sides with you and Brown knows it. I don’t think we’ll even come to trial. That would cost Brown more than settling with you would.”
There was no sense in thinking about the legal situation. It was out of my hands and in those of a sympathetic judge. I put it out of my mind.
In October the big earthquake of 1989 struck. Its epicenter was three miles away from our little cottage. We had just moved out of the inexpensive but crime-infested beach flats to a rough cabin overlooking Monterey Bay. It sat on stilts on top of a foothill in the Santa Cruz Mountains. I was home alone when it fell, taking me with it. When the shaking stopped, I found the television and Roger’s computer had landed on my neck and back. I was half-crouching, half-lying in the fetal position, with my hands over my head. I felt smashed-up but alive. Bruised and cut, but fueled by an incredible adrenaline rush, I scrambled through piles of books, broken windows, and rubble to the narrow, misshapen door. Luckily, my cottage was leaning down the incline, and the doorway was still clear of debris. As night fell, I huddled on the crest of the hill, covering myself with a towel from the clothesline. I watched the fires burn in town below and listened to the incessant shriek of sirens and whirring of helicopters. All the while aftershocks continued, rumbling the entire world, it seemed.
Roger returned home late that evening. I was so relieved to see him I cried. He looked at me, amused. I was camped out on the lawn with a radio, blankets, and the neighbor’s three young children, also crying now because of my tears. (Their mother was searching the neighborhood, trying to find a working phone and information on her missing husband.) Roger hadn’t seen the house yet.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked, not making a joke. Quite simply, he was hungry.
“Roger! There’s been a huge earthquake!”
“Yeah? So?”
He didn’t understand.
The awesome power and violence of the quake were indescribable. Those thirty seconds taught me that there are things you will never control. It was as if my mental radar was jammed; I couldn’t comprehend an experience in which nothing good could be found. To make matters worse, Roger failed to sympathize, even made fun of me. That was the beginning of the end of the friendship.
I had believed it was forever. My negative feelings toward him upset me terribly. I pressed him repeatedly: “We need to talk. I’m not feeling right. We need to work on this relationship.”
“Leave me alone. Just stop whining.” His normal moodiness grew. It made me nervous and sad. I began to think struggling alone would be better for me than a unhealthy relationship.
In January, still feeling small earthquakes every week, another crisis hit.
Isabella DeLorenzo phoned. “Heidi, we need you in Providence in three days. Judge Boyle has called your case to trial.”
After three and a half years the case was coming to court. It seemed silly to be making such a big deal out of the accident. Granted my arm was damaged, but why did Brown have to be so difficult? Although the judge urged the parties to come to an agreement, Brown wasn’t going to settle.
With a disgruntled Roger in tow, I flew to Providence. This was not how I had expected to return to Brown — as a litigator.
The legal team was Tony Sr., and his children, Tony Jr. and Isabella. We had one evening to discuss the case together. Mostly I listened. Tony Jr. would be representing me in court, Isabella would sit with Tony Jr. and me and answer my questions when Tony Jr. was busy. Tony Sr. wouldn’t be in court but would be checking and rechecking our strategy from the office. Isabella was a sharp, funny woman just a few years older than I. The baby sister of Tony Jr., she had just passed the bar. Tony Sr. was a Brown alum, quick-witted and dashing. He was relieved to learn I wasn’t too enamored of Brown the institution. We agreed that a liberal arts education was important, but Brown wasn’t beyond reproach. Tony Jr. quickened my heart. He was the thirty-five-year-old version of his father. He looked like a Roman god in his prime. Thick, curly brown hair, tall and muscular. He was an intense worker and charming. Tony Jr. and Isabella took charge of me, explaining the procedures to expect. I would be taking the stand, along with my doctors and Brown officials.
I saw from the paperwork that the suit had grown over the years. I was now suing Brown University for $1.2 million. “Why is the dollar figure so high?” I asked.
“You ask for the maximum and work your way down,” Tony said. “There’s a formula; disability value per year, times years left in your life, plus medical bills, plus value of the scar, plus …”
I slept at Isabella’s house. In the morning Isabella dressed me for court. She chose a simple, chaste outfit. Long skirt, buttoned-up blouse. She arranged my hair, usually tied back or in a headband. She told me my job was simple: “Just tell the truth.”
Telling the truth didn’t seem to be enough. Brown was going to fight hard. For the trial work, they hired the former attorney general of the state, Mr. George Moratta. He tried to win by destroying my reputation in every way. Isabella, disgusted and impressed, whispered in my ear, “Brown knows they don’t have a case. Just like we explained last night, they’re going to try to discredit you.” The rumor in the courthouse halls was that Brown had to pay a hefty fee to get Moratta to be its lawyer.
He was worth it. As easy as my job to “tell the truth” was, Brown fought back despicably. I had once believed Brown was a moral institution. I was wrong. Not only did Brown refuse to acknowledge fault, they excelled in questionable tactics
otherwise known as savvy legal maneuvering
in order to save their reputation.
Judge Boyle had it placed on record that Brown could not find the stacks of complaints and work orders regarding the broken soapdish. The affidavit from Amy, the previously injured student, was rejected because it was from Australia, where she now worked. Irene, the maid from Miller Hall, testified. She happily recounted a story about seeing a woman showering with a man in the men’s bathroom. “I don’t know what they was doin’, but they was making a lotta racket. Then they came out and saw me. The girl’s arm was bleedin’ a little and she said to me, ‘Oops, we broke the soap dish.’ Then they left, laughin’ and carryin’ on.”
I leaned over to Isabella and whispered, “That’s not me. But is the jury going to believe it’s me?”
“Don’t worry, that’s just a smokescreen tactic, a sensationalistic story concocted for the sole purpose of distracting the jury from the facts,” Isabella whispered in my ear. “Relax, everyone knows it’s not you.”
Not everyone. Although the maid never positively identified me as the girl, her testimony was used by the defense to impugn me and, to make matters worse, it was picked up by the media to discourage future student lawsuits. “The Wall Street Journal reports … that Brown University spent two years and upwards of $50,000 fending off a suit by a young woman who sought $700,000 because she hurt her arm on a broken soap dish while showering in a dormitory with her boyfriend.” Newsweek, Dec. 14, 1992.
“… with her boyfriend?” Not true.
Mr. Moratta kept attacking my reputation to distract the jury from my sworn testimony. “Did you shower with a man? At any time?” He even dissected my general health and gynecological exams. “Did you have a Pap smear?” “Yes,” I answered. “You did have a Pap smear on May sixth?” he repeated. “Yes.” I answered again. The procedures he was asking about were normal for any responsible young woman, yet I felt he was using them as damning evidence of promiscuity.
Just tell the truth.
My mother and sister Cindy were in the courtroom, hearing every detail of my medical history dissected. How many colds I’d had, if I had ever had a sexually transmitted disease, if my elbow problem might be caused by a sexually transmitted disease, what caused my strange rash. “Was your strange rash caused by a sexually transmitted disease?” he asked. “No,” I responded, again and again. It was becoming clear to me — anything sexual was bad, even if my answer was negative. During recess, my mom hugged me and tried to encourage me. “Well, Heidi, you sure are tough,” she said. Cindy nodded, mouth pursed tight.
Isabella came up then and I introduced her to my mom and Cindy. Cindy asked Isabella, “What were all those questions about sex and diseases?”
Isabella leaned closer, speaking softly, “Quite honestly? It’s crap. Just a way to distract the jury. Throw in a couple of ‘bad’ words like Pap smear, sexually transmitted disease and the jury perks up, and remembers — even if it has no relevance or truth.”
Cindy was disgusted. “The guy’s a jerk.” Mom was just sad.
But the worst point was to come during closing arguments. At this phase the lawyers sum up the case for the jury. None of the statements made during closing arguments are to be construed as evidence; they are designed to manipulate the jury with emotion. Tony eloquently restated the case as he stood calmly before the jury box. I was embarrassed to be the center of attention.
Mr. Moratta then took the floor. He pointed to me at the desk with Tony and Isabella and proceeded to discredit me in every possible way, going so far as to challenge my worth as a plaintiff, a student, a young woman, and a daughter.
The jury was given instructions. We broke for lunch, during which Tony and Isabella double-checked the instructions. They were found to be amiss. We had insisted on an instruction that Brown should be held responsible for the lack of reasonable care by its employees. That instruction was not given. Tony and Isabella explained what would occur if the wrong rule was followed. No way would the jury be able to find for me if the wrong instruction was given to them.
When we returned from lunch, this was brought to the attention of the judge. He did not give the instruction we wanted and added another confusing instruction that we objected to, since it seemed to require that someone from Brown must have been told by a student that the soap dish was broken before the school could be found liable. My lawyers insisted that their original proposed instruction was correct.
I sat waiting with Isabella in the courtroom while Tony paced the halls.
Mr. Moratta approached me. He placed a shaking hand on my shoulder and leaned over to whisper in my ear, “Heidi, I’m just doing my job.” I knew he meant it. But his distortion of my character before the jury was too much for me to comprehend. I could either scream or cry — I cried. For only a moment. A part of me became an ice princess; the open and vulnerable Heidi retreated.
The court was called to order. The jury was led in. They didn’t make eye contact with me as they usually did. Isabella put an arm around my waist and leaned close. She whispered, “They don�
��t look happy.”
“Have you reached a decision?” Judge Boyle asked.
One of the jurors, a thin middle-aged man, stood and said, “Yes we have.”
“Please read it to the court,” the judge said.
He read slowly from a sheet of paper held tightly between both his hands: “We find Brown University is not liable.”
I wasn’t surprised. I realized at that moment that I had never expected to win. I wasn’t even very disappointed. Instead I was crushed by the way I had been treated, especially by Mr. Moratta. And Roger, who had retreated to New Jersey, hadn’t helped either. The stress was too much for him, and he had complained that he felt ignored and left out. I knew better than to expect his support anyway.
As the jury was led out of the courtroom, I stood with Isabella and Tony. We silently watched them file by. I searched each juror’s face. Some were visibly saddened by their own decision.
Or maybe it was my imagination.
Fortunately, during this same experience I grew close to the DeLorenzo family. Tony Jr., Isabella, and their father had been more than lawyers, they were true friends to me. The case had taken four days in court and a weekend — they had housed me, fed me, basically treated me as a family member. I was heartened to know that good people did exist. Toward them and people like them, I would direct my energies. I had never expected life to be easy, but I had always believed life was fair. My lesson otherwise crushed me for a few weeks, but I focused on the positive.
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