chapter fourteen
A NEW DEFENCE
MONDAY. THE FIRST one in March, time for her monthly meeting with Dr. Dering to see how she’s doing with her therapy and coping with it all. She recounts her vacation with Aunt Liv, eagerly asserting that she’s renewed, ready again to fight Akaesman and the Shadow Court for the benefits she’s entitled to. She can’t understand why they won’t give her the benefit of their experience in recovery. She can’t do this alone and longs to work with them. But if she has to fight them, she will. She’s determined.
“Up until recently the Court did work with Akaesman innocents, but they’ve become more obstreperous in the last few years, I’m sorry to say. I’m glad to hear you’ve decided to pursue your claim again,” Dr. Dering says. “This is a hidden epidemic that needs to be made public.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. “And the more people like you who fight them, the better it is for all. But we don’t know how many are in your boat because the Shadow Court doesn’t like to publish statistics and the Akaesman Patrols aren’t always savvy or knowledgeable enough to recognize complete AS on site. They can only determine physical issues.”
“Oh.”
Dr. Dering heaves himself upright, swings his chair around, and rummages through the paper on his desk. “Ah, here we are. I’ve been hoping you’d get a new lawyer and found a couple of names for you just in case,” he says as he swings back round to look over the rims of his glasses at her. He looks down through them to read out the names written on the piece of paper he’s holding, “One is called Mr. Mintken. I’ve heard good things about him. I don’t know the other one. But I think you should see both of them. They’re partners in what’s called boutique firms, firms where you won’t get lost as one of many clients. They’ll focus on you the client. Here, why don’t I write these down for you.” And he suits actions to words and then passes the information over to her. She takes the piece of paper he hands her and looks at it, out of habit. The words as usual slide off into the hinterland of nothing.
“Thanks Dr. Dering,” she says with no emotion, no inflection in her voice.
He smiles reassuringly and then clasping his hands says, “Well, I’ll see you in a month, then?”
“Yes. Thanks again.” She shrugs herself into her coat, gathers up her new chenille brimmed hat with matching scarf Aunt Liv had bought her, along with her purse, and carries them out of the room. On the way to the elevator, she stops in the waiting room to dress herself for the ferocious March day. As she wraps her scarf around her neck, she pauses as she realizes she’d better put those names into her Palm now else she’ll forget by the time she gets home, and then it’ll be another week or two before she gets around to calling those lawyers. She pulls the piece of paper out of her purse where she’d stuffed it and then taps the Palm’s screen as she inputs two events per lawyer: one to find the phone number and one to call them. She’ll have to write down on her notepad next to the phone as to what to ask them. She doesn’t want to ramble, annoying the heck out of them.
The next day, she does just that. And then she calls both lawyers, reading out her spiel to the secretaries at each one (“admin assistant” to her sounds like an euphemism for brainless) and makes appointments to see them, one that Thursday, and the other the following Monday. They’re not as quick as Mr. Quickley was in slotting her in, but maybe that’s a good thing, maybe she’ll be more than a cog who’ll be tossed if she’s not his, or her, size and fit.
She’s right. The first lawyer meets with her for an hour in the ubiquitous lawyerly book-lined room with the solid-mahogany table and muted colours. It’s all hushed and professional. She’s liking this lawyer until she hears the word “deposit” followed by “three thousand dollars.” Her bank account is almost dry, even though it’s only mid-month. Her trust fund income is deposited on the first of each month and disappears almost immediately into paying off her VISA bill for all her medical appointments. Her monthly income from the temporary spousal support her family lawyer wrenched out of Jim is low. Her grandmother’s assistance with groceries is not enough to cover legal bills too. She shudders at the idea of asking her for more. She hopes that the next lawyer will take a contingency fee.
Fortunately, Mr. Mintken, the second lawyer she meets on Monday, does take a contingency fee. He ushers her into a south-facing plain conference room, a serviceable black round table standing in the middle, surrounded by simple yet comfortable chairs. The windows look out upon a courtyard. While he leaves to fetch his clerk, she takes her Palm out of her purse and lays it on the table. She puts her purse on a chair. Too restless to sit, she walks over to the window and looks down. Way, way down, people are hurrying through the fog and rain across the granite plaza, past the bare trees, and disappearing into a cold, 1970s skyscraper.
“Here we are,” Mr. Mintken says as he opens the door, ushers his clerk in ahead of him, and closes the door. She turns around and sits down, while the two pull out chairs to sit opposite her.
“Now then, I understand you had an experience with Akaesman. Tell me about it.”
She does, like she’s relating an abstract concept. The clerk takes notes on a yellow, lined pad while Mr. Mintken sits with his hands clasped on the table, watching and listening to her intently, occasionally asking her questions.
“Well, it’s obvious you’ve got the syndrome.”
“Oh?”
“Of course. You have trouble staying focused on me and listening. Your affect doesn’t match your story.”
She blinks, trying to absorb this support. “Mr. Quickley had an IQ test done …”
“I’m familiar with him and his methods.”
“Oh. Well, um, anyway, he said I’m too s-s-s-smart. It’s too high. The IQ.”
Mr. Mintken waves the very thought away as if a used Kleenex had dared to float by him on the wind. “That has nothing to do with anything. It isn’t your IQ that matters, it’s how you function. I see issues with memory, concentration, fatigue obviously, and listening. I can see that everything you do takes enormous effort on your part. When I look into your eyes, I see conflict and another presence, as if you’re battling for your identity. You’re telling me you haven’t written a song since the day it happened. People with all sorts of IQ levels can write songs, so clearly that has nothing to do with it. And people with all sorts of IQs can be invaded.
“But I understand where he’s coming from. Not everyone can see the subtle signs of your internal struggles. It’s much harder for people to see and understand problems with thinking and reading and identity than problems with walking. But don’t worry, we’ve handled cases like yours before. Unfortunately, the Shadow Court is becoming less and less about helping the Akaesman innocents and more and more about brushing the problems aside and putting the onus on the innocents to prove their invasions. It used to be all about helping them. But those days are long gone, and we must deal with that. It isn’t your fault this has happened. You are entirely innocent, yet you have been made to feel that somehow you’re to blame. You won’t experience that here. We are here to help you. All of us are here to help you. I mean that.”
His hazel eyes penetrate into her clouded brown eyes. She sits back in her chair, her arms falling from the table into her lap. He turns to the clerk, “Lisa here will carry on with you and answer any concerns you may have. She has a number of questions that we ask all our clients, and she’ll have you sign blank consent forms. This is so we can gather the evidence we need to build our case. We will need you to see some of our experts as well so as to strengthen the evidence, and I want to advise you that the Shadow Court will be sending you to their own experts. It’s part of the process. The process itself will take some time. The regulations set so many days to complete each step, but we all have other cases, and we have to take into account each other’s schedules. So be prepared for your case to take some time, although you won’t be involved between each step or even within some steps of the process. We want you to continue with what you are
doing and not to worry about the case. As I mentioned earlier, we work on a contingency basis. Given how typical your symptoms are, we’re confident that we will get you compensation for your therapy and your income loss, and only then will we deduct our fee and disbursements. You’ll find in our brochure an explanation of how we calculate our fees. I should mention also that we will be seeking damages for pain and suffering, but don’t get your hopes up. Under the law, it’s miniscule and is a small part of your overall claim. If you have any questions, here’s my number, call me anytime,” he hands over his business card. “It’s been a pleasure meeting with you. You don’t have to worry anymore. It’s obvious you have Akaesman syndrome. We’ll handle all the dealings with the Shadow Court. You need therapy or anything else to help you recover, call me or Lisa, and we’ll add it to our case. Alright?”
“Alright,” she nods.
“Good,” he smiles at her. And then he stands up, reaches across the table to shake her hand firmly. She tries not to wince as the movement vibrates her sensitive neck and shoulder. And he’s gone with a whoosh of cool air flowing in and a click of the door. Lisa’s voice recalls her to what she’s supposed to be doing. She swivels her body toward her and answers the questions robot-like. She’s dreading the stack of consent forms she’ll have to fill out. But this time she’s with the right lawyer. She hopes.
~~~*~~~
She Page 14