The Hazards of Good Fortune

by Seth Greenland

  Over the next forty-five minutes, during which Jay observed two doctors blow swiftly through the metal doors to the restricted area where Dag lay, he could only wait. He woke Bebe with a phone call and relayed a concise version of what had happened, leaving out the part about wanting to scare Dag, along with the detail about Dag and Nicole. He intended to keep that appalling, inflammatory, deeply embarrassing information private.

  “Do you want me to drive up there?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Jay said.

  Asking Bebe to drive up would be to admit that he needed his sister and to acknowledge that degree of vulnerability was out of character. To arrange the best care for Dag once he passed triage stage, Jay phoned a prominent surgeon he knew. The call went directly to voice mail and Jay left a message. During this time, he received two texts from Nicole, neither of which he read. When his phone vibrated and he saw that she was calling, he did not answer.

  After what seemed like a week but was less than an hour, a stocky male nurse with a blond crew cut finally appeared to do an intake interview. An X-ray of Jay’s nose revealed a small fracture.

  Jay perched on an examination table in one of the small side rooms in the warren that was the ER of Northern Westchester Hospital as Dr. Sunil Viswanathan, a bespectacled young resident, set the break. He had changed into a flimsy hospital gown. His bloody shirt was rolled up in a plastic bag on a nearby chair. Dr. Viswanathan was solicitous but formal and addressed Jay as Mr. Gladstone while he attempted to manipulate the bone back to where it belonged. As the doctor pushed it gently into place, Jay winced at the pressure.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t do more damage,” Dr. Viswanathan said.

  “Yes, I’m incredibly lucky,” Jay said, unconvinced. The gauze packed in his nose made his voice sound strange to him. Although the pain radiated dully in every direction, he was barely aware of it, being utterly preoccupied by what had occurred. He had been in the ER for an hour and a half, and the last he had heard about Dag was that he was still alive. He hoped that remained true.

  “Would you mind finding out how D’Angelo Maxwell is doing?”

  “The hospital does not give out information to non-family members,” Dr. Viswanathan said. “As I’ve already explained to you twice.”

  “These are unique circumstances,” Jay said.

  “How so?” the doctor inquired, as he continued to fuss with the nose.

  Jay was getting impatient. In his estimation, the manner in which circumstances were unique was proportional to the degree in which he was involved in them. The function of most people with whom he came in contact was to do his bidding, and given that he was unfailingly polite, Jay felt justified in his attitude. Dr. Viswanathan did not seem to understand this concept. Still, he rarely played the do-you-know-who-I-am card because it was almost never necessary. Jay asked the doctor if he was a sports fan.

  “I like the Yankees.”

  “D’Angelo Maxwell is a professional basketball player.”

  “I know who he is.”

  “Dag’s a colleague, and I need to call some people who are close to him and let them know what’s going on.”

  “The hospital is taking care of it.”

  “How does the hospital do that?” Jay’s posed the question with more vinegar than he intended. Not being able to direct the way the evening was unfolding increased his agitation. Along with concern for what had happened to Dag, he envisioned a public relations debacle. His first instinct was to control the flow of information, and the doctor was impeding this plan.

  “Just let everyone do their jobs, Mr. Gladstone.”

  “I’d like to do mine,” Jay said.

  “Your job right now is to sit here and let me deal with your broken nose. Now hold on, this might hurt a little.” He tweaked the bone to its final place, and Jay felt a pain shoot into his skull so excruciating that his sockets seemed to swallow his eyes. After a few seconds, the ache began to subside into something more manageable, and his eyelids fluttered open.

  The doctor placed a piece of plastic over Jay’s nose and bandaged it to his face. “Tomorrow you’re going to look like you went fifteen rounds with Mike Tyson,” Dr. Viswanathan said, scribbling on a pad. “Are you allergic to any medications?” Jay was not. “This is for the pain.” He tore the page from his pad and handed it to Jay, who pocketed it.

  “Doctor, I wonder if there’s something else I could talk to you about.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “I had a diagnostic procedure on my prostate recently.”

  “Would you like me to take a look?”

  “No, no, no! But I think an infection might have developed. I was taking painkillers and—” He described the symptoms. Dr. Viswanathan prescribed a course of antibiotics and suggested Jay call his urologist if it didn’t resolve in a few days.

  “Doc, is it okay if I have a word with the patient?”

  Jay looked up and saw the police officer from the scene of the accident standing in the doorway. In his hand was a device the size of an electric razor. Dr. Viswanathan asked Jay if he was ready to talk to the authorities and received an affirmative answer.

  “Take care, Mr. Gladstone,” Dr. Viswanathan said. He shook Jay’s hand and was gone. With that, Jay felt the thin scrim of civilization evaporate. He was now facing the elements.

  The cop was in his forties and looked like he spent a lot of time at the gym. He ambled into the room and introduced himself as Officer Wysocki. With his cropped blond hair and strong jaw, Jay thought he resembled the kind of guy they recruited back in Vitebsk when a mob was needed to terrorize Jews.

  “I probably shouldn’t let you know this, but I’m a fan of your team.”

  That was welcome news. Perhaps this was going to go more easily than Jay had anticipated.

  “I’ll make sure you get tickets to a game.”

  “We’re not supposed to accept gifts.”

  “Then forget what I said.”

  “But for that, maybe I can make an exception.”

  Jay was not in a mood to banter. He needed to start gathering facts and begin to assert command over the situation. “Have you heard anything about Dag?”

  “He’s in an operating room, that’s all I know.”

  Jay wished he had some idea of exactly what was transpiring, the condition, the prognosis, anything at all. The cop’s laconic demeanor did not seem to fit the situation. Jay wanted to get this over with.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “You can start by telling me what happened.”

  Now he would have to declare his definitive version of events. Whatever story he decided to tell was the one he would be stuck with since an investigator was going to pounce on any inconsistencies. If he dissembled in any way, he was setting a trap for himself because once a discrepancy was discovered, everything he said would be called into question. Yet, could he be sure he was capable of giving a cogent version of events? What had happened? He knew his brain had not been functioning properly at the time. He could say that since he believed it to be true. But how was he supposed to convey what was going on with him neurologically to this cop? Had he blacked out? He couldn’t remember.

  “Mr. Gladstone?”

  “I want to consult with my attorney before I make a statement.”

  “You understand you haven’t been charged with a crime?”

  “I didn’t commit a crime.”

  “Great. Then I’m going to need you to blow into this thing,” the cop said, displaying the gizmo. It was a Breathalyzer. “We need to check your blood alcohol concentration.”

  “I’m not legally obligated to blow into that, am I?”

  Officer Wysocki had heard this question many times before and had a standard answer that he proceeded to supply: “While you are not legally obligated to take the test, refu
sal to do so will result in loss of your driver’s license for a period of one year.”

  That got Jay’s attention, although, with Boris at his disposal, he didn’t need to do a lot of driving. Still, Jay Gladstone was not the kind of man who had his license suspended. How much liquor had he consumed, anyway? Two drinks, three at the most—but the pills! Those pain pills must have interacted with the alcohol. He wasn’t going to mention the pain pills to Officer Wysocki.

  “Mr. Gladstone, if I arrest you, I can make you take the test because you’ll be legally obligated. Do you want me to book you?”

  Jay thought about this. He did not want to be arrested. But who knew what the Breathalyzer would reveal.

  “Why would you arrest me?”

  “For starters, you were in a one-car accident that resulted in a near fatality. I could take you in on suspicion of reckless endangerment.” The cop waited to see whether this would loosen Jay’s tongue. It did not. “Look, Mr. Gladstone, this is gonna be all over the news. So, you might ask yourself: Do I want the accounts to show I refused to take a breath test?”

  “I certainly do not.”

  “Then please blow into the Breathalyzer.”

  Wysocki handed the device to Jay, who looked it over. On the front was a digital display and a mouthpiece protruded from one side. Jay clamped his lips around the mouthpiece. After five seconds passed and he had still not blown into it, he removed the Breathalyzer from his mouth and handed it back to Wysocki, who failed to hide his exasperation.

  “I want to talk to my lawyer.”

  “Call him.”

  Jay pulled out his phone and asked for privacy. Wysocki stepped out of the room.

  The Gladstone Group commanded a platoon of lawyers but when there was anything sensitive or personal, Jay sought the counsel of Herman Doomer, Esq. He had been Bingo’s attorney and had known Jay for his entire adult life. Doomer picked up on the fourth ring, having been awakened from a deep sleep.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you, Herman.”

  “What is it, Jay?” he asked, foggy. “Are you all right?”

  Jay quickly apprised him of the situation. The lawyer advised him not to take the test and said he would meet him in court the next morning for the arraignment. The words “court” and “arraignment” jolted Jay.

  “Court?”

  “Yes, well, they’ll arrest you, and you’ll be taken to jail. They’ll hold you overnight and bring you to court in the morning where they’ll arraign you.”

  “You can’t get me out of jail tonight?”

  “That would take the intervention of a judge and judges don’t enjoy being woken up in the middle of the night.”

  After thinking this over, Jay decided not to press the issue. He could handle a night in jail if he had to. Anyway, the important thing was Dag’s condition. He needed to arrange the finest medical care as quickly as possible. Locking him up would foreclose that prospect.

  “What if I take the test?”

  “Do you think you might have been intoxicated, Jay? Please say no.”

  “I just got back from Africa,” Jay explained. “I was taking painkillers, and I had a few drinks on the plane.”

  “You don’t want to take that test.”

  Sliding the phone back into his pocket, Jay summoned Wysocki and informed him of his decision.

  “Does your wife know where you are?”

  “Don’t worry about my wife,” Jay said with more pepper than necessary.

  “Someone should bring you a clean shirt.”

  When Jay did not answer, the cop ordered him to place his hands in front of him since he was now under arrest.

  “I’ve got a broken nose,” Jay pointed out. “I want to spend the night in the hospital.”

  Jay demanded to see the doctor, and Dr. Viswanathan dutifully reappeared. He explained to Jay that his injuries were not severe enough to avoid having to do what any citizen would be compelled to do. Jay considered arguing, but recognized he was not going to win and submitted to the doctor’s decree. When Viswanathan departed, the cop again asked Jay to present his wrists. He submitted to this indignity and walked out of the examination room toward the parking lot wearing pants and an open-backed hospital gown that concealed the bracelets.

  When they exited the ER and entered the reception area, Jay purposely did not make eye contact with the clerk on duty. He noticed a young black man pacing in front of two other young black men seated in chairs. The pacer spotted Jay and quickly approached. He looked vaguely familiar. Jay wondered if this guy realized he was handcuffed.

  “Mr. Gladstone, I’m Trey Maxwell, Dag’s brother.”

  “Yes, yes. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “How’s he doing? They won’t tell us anything.”

  “I wish I knew,” Jay said. “They won’t tell me anything either.”

  Rather than continuing to lead Jay through the reception area, Officer Wysocki allowed the discussion to proceed.

  “What happened tonight?” Trey asked. The other two young men had joined them, one short and sturdy, the other the size of a refrigerator. Jay saw the cop taking their measure. He remembered that Dag’s brother got cut when he had tried out for the team.

  “There was a car accident. They brought us here. That’s all I know.”

  Trey was visibly upset. “He gonna be okay?”

  “I hope so,” Jay said, unable to come up with something more specific.

  Wysocki informed Jay it was time to go and led him away. Before they took two steps, the electric doors slid open, and Bebe appeared. Despite his compromised condition and his mortification at the circumstances, Jay was immensely relieved to see her. An ally, a friendly face, Bebe cut a chic figure in the pitiless light of the hospital waiting area.

  “You didn’t have to come,” he said.

  “I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “Could I have a word with my sister?” Jay asked.

  Dazzled by Bebe, Wysocki acceded to this request and moved away.

  She asked if Jay was all right and whether anything had changed since they last spoke, other than the fact that he was now wearing handcuffs. He updated Bebe, and when she learned he was being taken to jail she cast a disbelieving glance toward Officer Wysocki, now standing at the nurses’ station keeping a wary eye on them.

  “I need you to be my advocate here,” Jay said. “Find out what’s going on.” His sister assured him she would.

  Seconds later, Officer Wysocki approached. Bebe embraced her brother, and then the cop led Jay away.

  A news van pulled into the hospital parking lot. To Jay’s horror, a shaggy-haired young man with a beer gut was running toward him, a video camera affixed to his shoulder. Tottering on high heels in his wake was a young Asian woman with a microphone.

  “Mr. Gladstone—Mayumi Miyata, Lynx News. Could I talk to you?”

  Jay turned to the cop. “Would you get me out of here, please.”

  “Do you know D’Angelo Maxwell’s condition?” she asked.

  Jay did not answer.

  She tried again. “What happened to your face?”

  Jay remained tight-lipped as Wysocki opened the rear door of the cruiser, placed his hand on Jay’s head, and guided him into the backseat. The cop closed the door and got behind the wheel.

  “Are you under arrest?” the woman shouted. “Why have you been arrested?”

  Wysocki backed up and cranked the steering wheel, nearly taking out the reporter and her cameraman in the process. As they sped off another news van careened into the parking lot.

  In his most reasonable manner, Jay inquired whether absolutely anything could be done to avoid spending the night in jail.

  “I’d like to help you out because you’re a nice guy and all,” Wysocki said, “but the same sun shines on the rich and the poor.”

>   To lecture the cop on the naïvete of that statement would have required more energy than Jay possessed. Instead, he miserably attended to the dryness of his mouth, the degree to which his muscles ached, the dull throb of the broken bone in his nose. Even through his clothes, the seat felt slick. What parade of lowlifes had the police crammed back here?

  “You want me to call your wife and ask her to bring you some clean clothes?”

  “No, thank you.”

  It was the rump end of the night when they entered the Bedford police station, Wysocki’s palm pressed against Jay’s lower back. Several officers were in the bullpen drinking coffee and they stared in disbelief as one of the town’s most prominent citizens was frog-marched into their territory.

  The antiseptic hallway held three cells. A young white man in work pants and a plaid shirt was curled up asleep in the first one. Wysocki unlocked the third cell and gestured for Jay to enter. He was grateful to be separated from the other inmate by an entire cell. The spartan unit held a metal bed with no mattress or blanket. Wysocki removed the handcuffs and asked whether Jay would like something to eat. He declined. The reverberant clang of the cell door intensified the clamor in his head. Jay did not turn to watch as the cop walked away. He sat down on the bunk and placed his head in his hands. This position caused the blood to rush to his nose, exacerbating the aching sensation. He straightened his back and leaned against the wall, which alleviated some of the pain. His thoughts turned to Nicole and Dag and whether Dag was still alive.

  Jay Gladstone pondered the condition of his soul.

  There is a gulf between those who can commit violent acts and those who cannot. Jay always believed himself to dwell on one side of the chasm, and his place on that side, he believed, was permanent. As a child, he was horrified when the family dog was struck by a car and killed. The one time he sat ringside at a prizefight, he was repulsed. Jay had never struck anyone in anger. He shied away from any violence, and the deepest part of him believed he had not meant to hit Dag with the car. But was that true? Was there not a sliver of something foul, unconscionable, hidden but leeringly present, a tinge of murderous intent inside of him that not only wanted revenge but also was prepared to act on that most savage impulse and take it to its awful conclusion? Did violence lurk in him only waiting for an impetus to be delivered so it could spring to life? Was the only difference between Jay and Marat Reznikov the circumstances into which they had been born?