The Case of the Unhealthy Health Club

by David Staats

  “We use that room for receiving and storage.”

  “Where’s the sauna?”

  “It’s in the men’s locker room. I’ll get Blake to show you.”

  “He’s the one who was on duty when the body was discovered?”

  “Yes.” MacCreedy pushed a drawer closed, turned a key in a lock on the drawer, and drew it out. She looked out over the club. “I don’t see him,” she said. “Come on,” she said, and led the way to the receiving and storage room. She opened the door next to the vending machines without entering and called, “Blake! Are you in there?” There was no answer. She closed the door and, stepping a few feet to her right, pulled open a door on which a sign said “Men’s Locker Room.” “Blake, are you in there?” she said again.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Come out for a minute.”

  “Has anything been changed about the sauna?” asked Dure.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Have people been using it?”

  “Probably. I don’t personally check the men’s sauna.”

  The door to the men’s locker room opened abruptly and a good-looking guy came out. I had to look twice: he looked just like the bartender that Sarah had talked with in the bar. It was him! He didn’t give any sign that he recognized me. He looked at Ms. MacCreedy like he wanted to ask, ‘What’s this all about?’

  “Blake,” said MacCreedy, and she put her hand on his forearm, “This is Mr. Dure, an attorney. He’s going to represent the health club in that stupid lawsuit that Vanessa filed.”

  “Oh, her,” said Blake.

  “He needs to look at the sauna. Would you take him back?”

  “Sure,” said Blake.

  Ms. MacCreedy turned and walked away and Blake held the door for Mr. Dure.

  Mr. Dure made a gesture like to usher me in ahead of him, but I stood back. I had never been in a men’s locker room and I didn’t want to go in if there were any naked men in there. I felt my face getting warm.

  “Blake,” said Mr. Dure, “why don’t you check to make sure it’s empty before we have Ms. Bonneville go in with us.”

  “There’s no one in there,” said Blake.

  “Check please,” said Mr. Dure.

  In a moment Blake came out again. “It’s all clear,” he said, and he gave me a look I wasn’t sure how to take. I don’t have any high expectations where guys are concerned. The conceited ones I’m glad they turn up their noses at me. Blake took us straight back to the sauna.

  “It’s rather small,” said Mr. Dure when he saw it.

  “It’s a two-man sauna,” said Blake.

  Mr. Dure pointed to a red and white warning sign posted on the door. “That’s a good sign,” he said. He took from his brief case the small camera and took several photographs. He bent his knees so as to get exactly level with the sign, and took a couple of close ups. Then he stepped back and took several shots of the entire sauna unit. Then he asked Blake to stand next to the door and point to the sign. He got a couple of shots of that.

  I took my phone out and got a pic. The sign said:

  Warning!

  REDUCE THE RISK OF OVERHEATING

  1. Exit immediately if uncomfortable, dizzy, or drowsy. Staying too long in a heated area may cause overheating or dehydration.

  2. Supervise children at all times.

  3. Consult a doctor before using if pregnant, in poor health, or under medical care.

  4. Breathing heated air in conjunction with the ingestion of alcohol, drugs, or medications may cause unconsciousness.

  “Where is the temperature control?” he asked Blake.

  Blake showed him where it was on the side of the unit.

  “It’s not locked,” observed Mr. Dure. “Any user could change the settings?”

  “I guess so,” said Blake.

  “Have you ever done any tests to calibrate the thermostat?” asked Mr. Dure. Blake gave him a blank look. Mr. Dure said, “To make sure that when the thermostat says 190 degrees the temperature inside is actually 190 degrees?”

  “Nah, none that I know of.”

  “What’s it usually set at?”

  “One ninety,” said Blake, “just like it is now.”

  Mr. Dure took photographs of the temperature control.

  “Have people been using this sauna since the incident?”

  “Yeah.” Blake shrugged his shoulders.

  “I want it to stop.” Then Mr. Dure said, “You were here the Friday, July the third?”

  “Yeah.” This seemed like a reluctant admission.

  “And you closed up the place?”

  “Unh-huh.” Blake said this like it meant ‘yes,’ but it was clear that he was becoming uncomfortable and maybe evasive. I wouldn’t wonder. It seemed like if anybody was at fault in the case, it was him.

  Mr. Dure said, “Is there a place where we could sit down and talk for a few minutes?”

  “Not really,” said Blake. “There’s only the exercise area and the storage room, and the storage room’s a mess – and there’s only one chair in there – broken.”

  “Alright, let’s talk … over there,” said Mr. Dure. He motioned to the long bench between two rows of lockers. To me he said, “Can you take notes sitting on the bench?”

  Of course I could. We all moved a few feet over to the bench and I sat down. I put my legal pad on my lap and was ready to take notes. Blake refused Mr. Dure’s invitation to sit down, so both of them stood. But they were standing on the opposite side of the bench to the way I was facing. I put down my legal pad and pen, and used both hands to heft my left leg over the bench, and then brought my right leg over to join it. It wasn’t as difficult as I had imagined it would be.

  Mr. Blake – I still didn’t know what his last name was – took on an air of serious maturity, as if he were somehow of equal status with Mr. Dure and were discussing a serious problem with a peer. This manner didn’t suit him very well, with his young-looking face and – I can hardly describe it, but a certain immaturity in his bearing. He began by asking a question of Mr. Dure.

  “Is this like, a real serious lawsuit?”

  “Yes” said Mr. Dure.

  “I mean, what could happen?” asked Blake.

  “I take it you don’t own any shares or have any options to buy shares in the corporation?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll reserve discussion of consequences for my client. As far as concerns you, if you have legal questions, or fear that you may be in legal jeopardy, you should retain your own counsel. You should be clear that I represent the health club and Ms. MacCreedy.”

  Blake looked like he had just received a smack in the face.

  “You worked here on July 3?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you come in?”

  “My shift began at noon.”

  Mr. Dure went through everything in what seemed like too much detail. I wondered if this is what you have to do as a lawyer. But I made sure I was diligent in taking notes. At least I found out what his name was: Blake Culler. As I said, a lot of it wasn’t all that interesting, but then at some point I sort of came to: what am I doing? Don’t just go through the motions. You’ve got to learn how to practice law. So I began to pay as close attention to Mr. Dure in his questions as I did to Mr. Culler in his answers. One thing he drilled down on was this certain champagne bucket.

  Mr. Dure asked, “You say that when the body was discovered, there was a champagne bucket on the floor of the sauna?”

  “Right.”

  “And you brought the champagne over from the bar next door?”

  “I brought a champagne bucket over. The one that was in the sauna wasn’t the bucket I brought over from the bar. I took that back on the cart.”

  “So where did the one that was found in the sauna come from?”

  “Search me.”

  “What happened to it? Where is it now?”

  “The police took it.”

  “And you don’t k
now how it got in the sauna?”

  “No, I just figured,” Blake shrugged his shoulders again, “Mr. Hargrave took it in there so he could have a drink while he was relaxing in the sauna.”

  “But you didn’t see him do that?”

  “No.”

  “If you had, you would have told him not to take alcohol into the sauna?”

  Another shrug. “I guess.”

  “Can you describe it for me?”

  “It was a big bucket, bigger than the one I brought from the bar. It was … kind of oval, silver or maybe chrome, I don’t know, just a champagne bucket.”

  “Was there anything in it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Did you look inside it?”

  “I, I don’t remember. You know, when I saw the body, I just closed the door and backed away. I didn’t look real close.”

  A sort of a whoosh resounded in the locker room. It was the door from the exercise area having been pulled open violently and I could hear some steps and then loud bangs in the next aisle of lockers as if lockers were being opened. I looked up at Mr. Dure questioningly.

  “To go back to that Friday,” he said, “what time did you get to your job at the bar next door?”

  “It was about six o’clock,” said Mr. Culler.

  “Is there a time clock here that you punched out?”

  “No.”

  “Is there a time clock there that you punched in?”

  “No.” Mr. Culler had a smile on his face and sounded triumphant.

  “It would be impossible,” said Mr. Dure, for you to stay here until six o’clock and arrive at the sports bar at six o’clock.”

  “Nah,” said Mr. Culler. “It’s right across the alley.”

  “Don’t you usually arrive at the bar a couple of minutes early at least,” said Mr. Dure, “to get ready for your shift, get instructions before you start, things like that?”

  “Usually,” said Mr. Culler, “but not that night.”

  “Did you relieve someone else?”

  “Nope. At six o’clock on a Friday they staff up.”

  “Did you get to the bar late?”

  “I don’t think I did.”

  “Did you look at your watch and time your exit from here and your entry over there to occur exactly at six o’clock?”

  “What the hell does it matter?” said Blake. “I didn’t look at the time. I just went. And if you are looking for someone to blame, you might ask Ms. MacCreedy why she is so chintzy about staffing. Really there should be at least two people to close up here.”

  I heard the showers turn on and the hissing of the spraying water.

  “You’re sure you locked up? The front door and the alley door?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “When did the last person leave other than yourself?”

  “I told you, I didn’t look at the time. I don’t wear a watch.”

  “You didn’t happen to glance at the clock on the wall in the exercise area?”

  “No.”

  “So how do you know what time you got to work at the sports bar?”

  “I don’t know. I just know.”

  In my notes that doesn’t seem to make sense, but what I think he meant was, ‘I don’t know how I knew, I just know that I knew what time it was.’

  A strange, guttural howling started to come from the shower. It might have been singing in some foreign language, like Chinese or something. The whole scene was starting to become surreal for me. I looked at Mr. Dure again, hoping that we could get out of there, but he kept on, asking questions.

  “Can you describe for me Mr. Hargrave’s appearance and actions, let’s say, starting from the time he came into the club?”

  “I think I was watching the weight machines when he came in. So, I just saw him come in the door, but didn’t pay much attention.” Mr. Culler looked down at me, as if he had just remembered that I was there, and he stared at my pad of notes.

  “How did Mr. Hargrave appear?”

  “I don’t know, what do you mean?” Mr. Culler seemed to have a harder and harder time understanding; it almost seemed to me like he was being evasive. I didn’t put all of it in my notes, but he seemed to be getting impatient with the questions. I wanted to get out of there, too. What if a naked man came into our row of lockers … and the hot steam was coming out from the showers and I was starting to sweat. But Mr. Dure went through minute detail on this subject. Where was Mr. Culler standing when he first saw Mr. Hargrave? Where did Mr. Hargrave go after he came into the club? With whom did Mr. Hargrave talk? How long? Did Mr. Culler hear any of the conversation that Mr. Hargrave had with anyone?

  “Is it possible that he had been drinking before he came into the club?” said Mr. Dure.

  “I don’t know. Could be. One thing was for sure, Mr. Golden was sure pushing that champagne.”

  “How many glasses did Mr. Hargrave take?”

  “I gotta go. I got work to do,” said Mr. Culler.

  “We’re almost done,” said Mr. Dure. “How many glasses?”

  “I didn’t count.”

  “Just tell me what you saw.”

  “Uhhh, uhhh, let’s see, two from Mr. Golden – full glasses – unnnh, maybe some more. I gotta go.” He just walked away.

  The two men in the other row of lockers had come out of the shower. They were talking loudly about techniques to keep from going bald.

  “I’ll talk with you about this when we’re in the car,” said Mr. Dure. “Let’s go.”

  But now I wanted to delay some to make sure that the men in the next row had time to put on their clothes before we passed by that row on our way out. So I deliberately smoothed down the pages of my note pad as I turned each one forward. And I fussed with my purse in the process of putting my pen back. Mr. Dure had started for the exit and was standing at the pathway to the exit door, his body facing that way, but his head turned to look at me, waiting. I couldn’t tell from sound how far the dressing in the next row had proceeded, but from Mr. Dure’s expression, it seemed I had dallied enough. I stood and smoothed down my dress and began to follow after him.

  Fortunately – you’d be surprised, you’d think that with my left eye turned outward as it was, I couldn’t help seeing down the aisle where the men were dressing, but in fact, my brain completely suppresses vision from that eye because the images from the two eyes don’t match, and so I only see out of my right eye – and so I passed by that aisle without a glimpse down it, and in a moment we were out in the open area again.

  As soon as we got out of the health club into the bright sunshine and the heat, Mr. Dure spun on his heel and went back in. I had a hard time keeping up. He found Ms. MacCreedy. “One more thing,” he said. “Do not talk about this case with anyone but me. Never talk about the case. Do you follow?”

  MacCreedy nodded.

  “Good,” said Dure, and he left the health club again. When we got in the car – it was hot from the sun – he told me to make a note for the file about his having warned Ms. MacCreedy not to talk about the case.

  On the short drive back to the office Mr. Dure asked me what I thought the warning sign on the sauna meant for the plaintiff’s claim of failure to warn. “I don’t know,” I said, “It seems like – I don’t know how they can make the claim with that sign being there.”

  Mr. Dure nodded, but it seemed a noncommittal nod. “If you were representing the plaintiff,” he said, “how would you overcome that? What argument would you make, and what evidence would you like to have?”

  I couldn’t think of anything.

  “Think about it,” he said. “Now, why was I asking about Hargrave’s alcohol consumption?”

  “Maybe to say that his death was the fault of the people who gave him the alcohol?” I said.

  “That’s one possibility,” he said. “But Hargrave was a competent adult and unless we can show either that someone forced the alcohol on him, or that he was so inebriated that it would have been obvious to any reas
onable person that he should not have any more alcohol, I don’t think we succeed on that theory. More promising, however, is that we are a contributory negligence state. If we can show that Hargrave contributed to his own death by negligently consuming excessive alcohol, it would bar all recovery.”

  “Now,” said Mr. Dure, “what about the champagne bucket?” We were pulling into the parking garage near Mr. Dure’s office. The car turned a sharp corner inside the garage. My mind was already whirling with the possibilities that Mr. Dure had suggested. It seemed like nothing was clear. Failure to warn, the warning sign, third-party negligence, contributory negligence … now that champagne bucket was supposed to mean something? I didn’t want to appear stupid; I had to think of something. “Maybe it shows, like you said, that Hargrave himself was responsible for drinking too much since he took a champagne bucket right into the sauna with him – even though there was a warning sign right on the door!”

  “If we had any testimony that Hargrave was the one who put it in there,” said Mr. Dure, bringing the car to a stop in his reserved parking space. “So far, we don’t know who put it there, nor do we know when it was put there. But supposing that some employee of the health club saw Hargrave taking a bottle of champagne into the sauna, would that give rise to a special duty on the part of the club to stop him from doing so?”

  Fortunately I didn’t have to answer this, because now we were outside the car, taking long steps down the slanting floor of the parking garage – and I already knew that Mr. Dure didn’t like talking about any client matters in a place where we might be overheard. I was able to keep up with him; this was one of the times when I was glad that I don’t wear high heels. Obviously on account of my leg I could never manage heels, but in my “sensible shoes” I could keep up.

  As we entered the office, he said to me, “We need to look at that champagne bucket.” Kara was back from lunch. In fact, it was nearly four o’clock and neither Mr. Dure nor I had had lunch yet. But he asked Kara to bring him a subpoena form. He filled it in to make up a subpoena duces tecum, which means ‘bring documents with you.’ He had Kara make a copy. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going across the street to the police department.”