“Sure,” said Evie. “Sure.”
One side of Evie’s mouth had curled up, very slightly, and Ruben could see that she saw where he was going. He sat back down, and so did she. She pushed forward on her stool so their knees were nearly touching.
“It totally might have been, by the way,” she said. “The beginning of some sort of—what did you say?—some sort of upheaval. I wouldn’t know. I was on the road the rest of November, and most of December too. I didn’t see him again.”
She was right there with him, they were in it together, conspiring, and her eyes were gleaming like diamonds catching light.
Ruben wasn’t sure this was something, but he wasn’t sure it was nothing, either. Even though he had rejected Shenk’s entreaties today, he had walked out of the courthouse cafeteria holding the papers his dad had thrust at him, including the sad little internet printout of research on death penalty mitigation. Listed among the mitigating factors was whether the defendant was “under the influence of extreme mental or emotional disturbance” when he committed the crime.
“Do you think this could help?” said Evie, peering into his thoughts. “Lessen his sentence? Like, keep him from getting the actual death penalty?”
“I think it is possible,” said Ruben.
And then Evie—Evie the Ragged—Evie the Doomed—Evie threw her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek into his. For a long moment Ruben let himself be held, warm and confused and strangely sad, until Evie let him go.
“You should talk to my mom.”
The Rabbi thought it through.
“I think I probably need to talk to someone from outside the family. You said someone called you that night, to tell you what happened. A friend of your dad’s?”
“Yeah. Bart Ebbers. He used to help us out with some of the Wesley stuff. Protecting him from the freakazoids, back in the day.”
“OK.” Ruben wished again he’d brought a notebook, or at least a pen. “Got it.”
“You OK?” she asked him as he got up, and he knew it was because his face had changed. He knew what it meant, this little breakthrough—what he was going to have to do next, before he did anything.
“Yeah. It’s just—I guess I have to call my father.”
March 10, 2009
1.
“Doctor, my name is Jay Shenk, and I am the counsel for Wesley Keener and his family in this matter.”
“Yes. Good morning.” The neurosurgeon was richly bearded and plumply built and magnificently serene. “I know who you are.”
“Good! And so you know what we’re doing here today?”
“Yes, I do.” Dr. Catanzaro smiled indulgently and repeated himself. “Yes, I do.”
The white beard was even more impressive in person than it was on the “Meet Our Team” page of the Valley Village Hospital website. Shenk already knew all about Catanzaro’s life and career, the several previous times he had been named in malpractice suits. Everything had been appropriately submitted by opposing counsel for his review. But Shenk had spent several minutes last night examining Catanzaro’s picture on the website, skimming his bio, preparing himself to encounter the actual man, like an eager theatergoer flipping through the Playbill before curtain.
Shenk had prepared himself for a self-important blowhard, but Catanzaro in the flesh was more Greek philosopher than God-complex asshole. So Shenk recalibrated, adjusting his tactics to suit the battlefield as he found it. This was the whole job. For every deposition you find the right way to play it, the right method to ferret out the details you need to build the story. Already on Keener he had butted heads with Dr. Amandpour, the flinty and defiant ER doc; bantered playfully with Maureen Jacobson, the charmingly sarcastic EMT; and zipped rapid-fire through Q’s and A’s with Judd Smith, her just the facts, ma’am partner.
Catanzaro was going to be a tough one, but Shenk liked tough ones. It was the tough ones, he used to tell Marilyn, that kept you young.
“Just so we’re all on the same page, Dr. Catanzaro, I’ll remind you that this morning’s proceeding is a deposition. Though we are not in a court of law, this testimony is being recorded by our very able stenographer.”
He tipped a wink to Ms. Clarisa, clattering away at her sleek little portable keyboard. She, as always, ignored him resolutely and completely, as of course did John Riggs, the insurance-company lawyer, who sat heavily to Catanzaro’s left behind a short stack of virgin legal pads.
“You are under oath, and obligated to respond truthfully, as you would before a judge and jury.”
“Yes, sir.” Catanzaro was drinking herbal tea. He took a sip and set it down gently on the blond-wood table. “I am aware.”
“Oh, good. So let’s begin with your official job title.”
“I am the chief of neurosurgery at Valley Village Hospital, in North Hollywood, California.”
“OK. And how long have you held that position?”
Catanzaro answered the initial rounds of questioning unhesitatingly, between smiling sips of tea, with a thoroughness Shenk might even have admired, if he wasn’t finding Catanzaro’s whole gestalt here totally nauseating. The revered physician, saintly in his beard, deferential as a country lad with his pleases and thank-yous. So calm that Shenk knew it was an act, a performance of calm.
For good measure Catanzaro had worn his scrubs and white coat, as if even here, in the offices of Telemacher, Goldenstein, he might have to heed his profession’s sacred call, rise to his feet, and perform surgery on someone’s brain. It had been Shenk’s suggestion to allow the deposition process to unfold in the lushly appointed headquarters of his rivals. He didn’t mind competing on the other team’s turf, as it were, being not the sort to allow himself to feel disadvantaged by circumstance.
He flicked a glance at Riggs, blinking in his pressed suit. How could someone who was such a snake be at the same time such a cow? If you were to close your eyes and imagine insurance-company lawyer, you would be imagining John Riggs: the receding hairline and the fleshy contours of the face and neck; the suit of superior quality, sadly degraded by the beefy frame upon which it was draped. Shenk knew Riggs; deep down, he felt he knew the man to a tee. They had not exchanged more than a few perfunctory words over the course of these depositions, Shenk having decided to offer aloof courtesy after that summary judgment stunt, but in his career he had sat across from dozens if not hundreds who carried the same banner. They were cold-eyed calculators of advantage, these insurance-company lawyers, careful readers of charts and weighers of odds. They did what Shenk did; they just did it in pricier suits; they did it without allowing themselves to enjoy it.
Men like Riggs, lacking Shenk’s gift for narrative and his pleasure in combat, had powerful weapons in their place: a total lack of compassion for suffering, a will to victory sufficient to quash any stirrings of empathy. Plus, of course, bags and bags of money—resources that the penny-ante, strict-contingency Shenks of the world could never hope to match.
It never ceased to amaze Shenk that it was his brand of lawyering that was considered banditry, scorned as “ambulance chasing,” when men like Riggs could blamelessly hitch their wagons to multibillion-dollar companies like Wellbridge, whose business model was highly sophisticated bloodsucking: collect and collect and collect, and only pay when forced; when squeezed; when pushed to the wall by the heroic likes of Jay Shenk.
Riggs spoke very rarely as the surgeon presented his version of the events of November 12, 2008, because he didn’t need to. The doctor told the story, careful and clean, contradicting nothing that was already on the record. Dr. Thomas Angelo Catanzaro, attending neurosurgeon, had been summoned at 12:42 by the emergency room physicians to find Wesley Keener, Caucasian male, age fourteen, nonresponsive post head trauma. He had examined the child, ordered a CT scan and blood tests, and then consulted with his colleagues on a course of treatment.
Dr. Catanzaro referred to no notes, and throughout he remained remarkably, annoyingly composed. All Shenk’s attempts to thr
ow him off his game, to raise small objections to his memories, to slyly question his decision-making…if anything, all these efforts only made the doctor seem more impressive. Angry people say stupid things and then regret them. Catanzaro was as even-keeled as a battleship, steaming slowly through the day of Wesley’s surgery.
Well, shit, is what Shenk kept thinking, every time the doctor punctuated yet another precise and highly articulate answer with yet another sip of tea. This man would make a very good witness for the defense.
Shenk paused the narrative, leaving Wesley for the moment on the surgical table, and tapped his chin with his finger, fussed with his ponytail. He had tricks up his sleeve, of course. Sleeves bulging with tricks.
“OK. So. Sir. Just doubling back a second. The radiologist.”
“Dr. Allyn.”
“Yes. You had her do a CT scan?”
“That’s right. Once Wesley was intubated and hemodynamically stable. Which just means—”
“I know what that means, believe it or not,” said Shenk sweetly. “OK. So he’s stable, and you bring him to radiology?”
“Not me personally, no.”
“A nurse brings him?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“OK. Excuse me. Somebody brings him to radiology, and they give him a CT scan?”
Catanzaro nodded. “Yes.”
“And you review it?”
“Together with the radiologist and the ER doctor.”
“That’s Dr. Amandpour?”
“Correct.”
“And you determine that Wesley needs to be operated upon.”
Catanzaro nodded, and Shenk said, apologetically, “For the record, please.”
“Yes. We do.”
“The group of you decide, or you do?”
“Well. I’m the surgeon. Ultimately the decision falls to me.”
Shenk tried not to roll his eyes. This magnanimous motherfucker.
“And the diagnosis?”
“Subdural hematoma. The patient’s injury had caused a bleed inside his brain, and the resulting buildup of pressure had to be relieved.”
“It had to.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Immediately?”
“Oh yes.”
“Did you consider any less invasive treatment options?”
“I did. But—”
“Did you consider, for example, implanting an EVD to keep track of the pressure?”
Catanzaro smiled indulgently—oh, these mortals. “An external ventricular drain,” he said, “can be a useful tool, in certain cases. As you suggested, the EVD acts as a kind of barometer, monitoring the fluid buildup and related risk.”
“So?”
“In Wesley’s case, unfortunately, too much blood was already present, and a more urgent intervention was indicated.”
“You could see that on the CT?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you made that determination in…” Shenk pretending not to remember; Shenk flustering through the papers to find the record; Shenk running a finger down a row of text, muttering, “Let’s see, let’s see, aha!” and, looking up: “…twenty-four seconds.”
Catanzaro had his tea bag by the string. He bobbed it up and down into the water. “Is that what is indicated by the record?”
“Yes, sir.” Shenk held up a piece of paper. “That is what is indicated by the record. I’m looking at the ER nurse’s notes here. Scans come in. Scans are reviewed. Prep patient for surgery. Twenty-four seconds.”
“If that’s what it says.”
“But you don’t remember yourself?”
“The exact number of seconds? I do not. But as I say—”
“Would you like to see the chart?”
“No, thank you.”
“It’s no problem. Here. Have a peek.” Shenk mounted a quick one-act play, entitled The Passing of the Relevant Page: a single piece of paper lifted from the file, laid down flat on the smooth wood, sailed gently as a whisper across the surface to Catanzaro. Who with a forbearing sigh picked it up.
“Let the record reflect,” said Shenk to the stenographer, “that Dr. Catanzaro is reviewing the transcript of the deposition provided by Nurse Emily Bautista-Ocampo, who was working in the emergency room alongside the doctor on call, Dr. Jamati Amandpour.” Shenk took pride in his precise articulation of the names. “Dr. Catanzaro, would you mind reading that out loud?”
“He has read it and reviewed, Mr. Shenk,” said Riggs from behind his stack of notepads. “Also, I was present at Ms. Bautista-Ocampo’s deposition, and at Dr. Amandpour’s, as were you. We will stipulate to the contents of the record.”
“Okeydoke.” Shenk raised his hands in surrender. “But would you mind, Dr. Catanzaro, just confirming the amount of lapsed time that Nurse Bautista-Ocampo notes there, between when the consulting radiologist, Dr. Barbara Allyn, comes in with the CT scan, and the moment that you take Wesley up for surgery.”
“Twenty-four seconds,” said Catanzaro, and still Shenk could not detect even the slight shiver of agitation, or anger, below the doctor’s placid mien. Shenk took out another stapled stack of papers and sailed it across the table.
“I have here also,” said Shenk, “the deposition from Dr. Amandpour. If you would like to—”
“Stipulated,” said Riggs, and Shenk shrugged.
“OK. Wow. So. Everybody agrees. You apply your wisdom to these scans for twenty-four seconds—less than half a minute—and he is dispatched to surgery.”
Catanzaro tilted his head very gently to one side, ran one hand all the way down the carpet of beard, while Riggs said, “Is there a question, Mr. Shenk?”
“There is.” Shenk leaned forward and braced himself on the table with two hands, and all his off-the-cuff affable playfulness was gone in a sharp instant. He aimed across the table like a bayonet. “You examine this kid, if we can even call it an examination, right, it’s a quick once-over. Then you order up the CT scan, the CT comes back and you look at it for the famous twenty-four seconds. Basically the time it takes me to take a leak—excuse my French—but geez, twenty-four seconds and then it’s go time, we’re firing up the electric drill. Can that really be enough time? To make such a difficult decision?”
“No.” Catanzaro said this softly but firmly, holding up one finger. “It was not a difficult decision.”
“What?” Shenk yelped, a show of stunned surprise mingling freely with genuine stunned surprise. “Brain surgery is not a difficult decision?”
“No. It’s not.” And before Shenk could cry out in surprise again, he continued. “The patient had suffered a trauma here—at the center of his forehead.” With one finger Catanzaro tapped the relevant spot, between and just above his eyes.
“This is a particularly well-defended bit of anatomy, to be sure. Well-defended because its contents are precious, and fragile. This young man had taken a hard fall, and the trauma appeared to be severe. He was nonresponsive. Blood tests weren’t giving us any information, but physical examination suggested a severe brain bleed. So yes, I reviewed the CT scan quickly, because I could tell immediately that it confirmed what I already knew.”
Riggs nodding while he jotted away on his pad.
“I understand that these cases may seem momentous to you, Mr. Shenk, and of course they are momentous. To the family, to the patient. But this is what I do, Mr. Shenk. Every day.”
Catanzaro smiled. Not arrogant, not smug. Just a smile. Confident and calm.
“Now,” said Shenk. “Let’s talk quickly about your divorce.”
A moment passed—a startled instant. Riggs looking up sharply, Catanzaro’s whole face transforming.
“I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “What did you say?”
Shenk felt the distinct pleasure of a thrill pass along his spine. Now—now—Dr. Catanzaro was rattled. Not a lot, but you could see it. A flicker of his lips. A tremor of distaste along one rounded, bearded cheek. He lifted the teacup, found it empty, and glared at it.
Shenk leaned in.
“Your wife—sorry, your then wife—testified during a series of custody hearings that you did, on some occasions—”
“No,” said Riggs. “No. Stop.”
“—enjoy a glass of wine with lunch, even when on call at Valley Village Hospital.”
“Where—where—where…” Catanzaro repeated the word helplessly, then took a steadying inhale. “Where did you get this information? These are sealed records you are referring to.”
“So you concede their accuracy?”
“I object,” said Riggs.
The stenographer’s eyebrows rose very slightly as her fingers continued to rattle.
“Noted,” said Shenk, and kept his eyes on Catanzaro, waiting for his answer.
“I object strenuously.”
“Strenuously noted. Judge Cates will weigh the issue.”
Catanzaro had become very still. His hands flat on the table, his breathing steady, marshaling all emotional reserves to keep from wringing the neck of this shyster prick still waiting, all ears, for his answer.
“Sharon,” said Catanzaro at last, “was mistaken. About that.” And then, unable to resist: “As about many, many other things.”
“Oh,” said Shenk, and nodded understandingly. “That’s good to hear.”
“We’re done,” said Riggs. “That’s the end.”
He stood up sharply and motioned to Catanzaro to do likewise.
“So just to be totally clear,” said Shenk. “You hadn’t had anything to drink on the afternoon of November twelfth?”
“No.”
“Not a drop?”
“I object.”
“We know, Mr. Riggs.”
“Listen to me now. You listen to me.” At last, at last, Catanzaro’s voice had risen, though not to a shout, only to a dark accusatory rumble. “Absolutely not,” he said, his eyes flashing. “Absolutely not. I was stone sober, and I did my job to the best of my ability, as I always do. The boy came in with a problem, and I made a determination as to how best to fix it.”
“Oh.” Shenk caught those last few words. He latched onto them like a handle. “Great. Good. And would you say, Dr. Catanzaro, that Wesley Keener has been fixed?”
The Quiet Boy Page 11