Authors: Jonathan D. Canter
Leonardo didn't sleep well the week after his motion for a restraining order was denied. “The only time I get a good sleep these days,” he told Dr. Ziggamon, “is when I'm listening to my patients.”
“Not good,” Ziggamon said.
“I spend a lot of my extra awake time looking for stalkers. I sit behind my window watching and waiting. I know it's nuts to keep doing it, and I keep doing it.”
“Not good,” Ziggamon said.
“When I'm not staring out the window I'm reading law cases, long, tortuous, hair-splitting law cases.”
“Not good at all,” Ziggamon said, shaking his head.
“And Barbara cut me off from Harvey after the drinking thing, as if it were my fault. I've been waiting for her to come around, but she doesn't return my calls. I may have to go back to fucking court if I want to see him which is the last thing in the world I want to do, and the whole thing feels like it's falling down around my neck⦔
“Hmm,” Ziggamon said. “How's Chrissie?”
“I wouldn't say she's part of the solution either,” Leonardo replied with a sigh.
âââ
The news about Chrissie was that Roger LaFlamme, her high school beau and part-time beast showed up in front of her mom's house. “What do you want?” her mom asked him.
“I want to make up with your daughter,” Roger answered.
“Can't be done.”
“Can be.”
“No way.”
“Way.”
“Get out of here.”
“Give me a chance⦔
So they had some beers, and talked into the night. Roger's dad, whom Chrissie's mom knew in high school, knew and then had difficulty extricating herself from when he started doing nothing with his life not counting alcohol and drugs, had died the year before of a stroke, sudden but predictable in view of his indifference to risk factors, and Roger's mom was long gone and living in Cleveland with her new family, leaving Roger by himself, screwing up and not on the verge of a big turnaround either, not counting his floor job at Staples which he had held for a year. “Big fucking deal,” said Roger of his career.
Chrissie's mom had kissed Tom good-bye at the curb at Foxwoods, and came home to nothing much, except for what she could do with what was left of her jackpot during a long winter in an empty house. “Big fucking deal,” she said back to Roger, and they clicked beer bottles in a toast to the way things are.
Chrissie caught wind of this liaison in her regular pre-dawn call to her mom as she prepared for her 6:00 am shift at Starbucks. She hung up and walked through the house looking for Leonardo to propose that they jump in the car for another rescue operation, a la Tom at Foxwoods.
Chrissie was used to leaving for work while Leonardo sat in the dark staring out the window, so was surprised to find him reading the morning
Globe
in the kitchen with all the lights on, eating coffee cake and drinking coffee like a regular morning person. Morbid curiosity turns out to be an effective anti-depressant.
“Are you busy later today?” Chrissie asked.
“What?” Leonardo said. He was engrossed in Brockleman's obituary. They found the big attorney's body at the highway rest stop. His funeral was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. He left a wife and a son. His law office had no comment. “I wonder if I should go to his funeral,” Leonardo said to Chrissie. “I like funerals, but⦔
“What funeral?” Chrissie asked. “I want to visit my mother. She needs me.”
“Fine.”
“You'll go with me?”
“To the funeral?”
“To my mother's.”
“What?”
It took the best part of breakfast for Leonardo to translate the sound of Chrissie's voice into comprehension that Roger LaFlamme, who he thought had transitioned to a more spiritual format, so as to be able to surf the wind and slip through the crack under the bedroom window, was alive and asking about Chrissie, and sleeping on Chrissie's mom's couch at that very minute, and that Chrissie needed to protect her mom from him.
“Hmm,” Leonardo said as he dabbed at the crumbs of his coffee cake. “I can't go with you today, Chrissie.” He had patients in the morning, and a meeting with Abigail in the afternoon to prepare for his deposition which was scheduled for tomorrow morning, which he was looking forward to like it was a court proceeding.
“Because of the funeral?”
“The funeral is tomorrow afternoon.”
“We'll be back⦔
“I'm going to be deposed tomorrow morning, so I have to prepare for it today.”
“Oh, Leonardo, sweetheart, it's OK to be deposed. It happens to everybody, especially when you start thinking about funerals and corpses and bugs crawling inside your skull. I promise you'll feel better after the funeral.”
“No, my point is⦔
“I always feel better after the funeral.”
“Yes, I do too, butâ¦I don't feel invited to this one.”
“Leonardo, that's silly. You don't have to be invited to a funeral. For goodness sake you just go. All sorts of people just go. Nobody but you and the dead guy know whether you're really invited. At my dad's funeral there were people my mom and I never saw before in our lives. War buddies. Work buddies⦔
“I'm not exactly a buddy.”
“They came over to my mom and me after the service and paid respects and it was very nice, except for the guy who came over to tell my mom that my dad owed him money.”
“Oh?”
“Mom told him to fuck off.”
“Nice.”
“I once asked her if the guy came back, but she was evasive. When dad died she started drinking and dating, and got evasive. I focused on my own thing.”
“Roger?”
“Roger.”
“Chrissie,” Leonardo said as he put his hand on hers, noticing not for the first time how delicate and slender were her fingers, how brown and pretty were her eyes, how attractive she was in her whole package, like she was model quality, like she could sell pocketbooks and stylish shoes in
The New Yorker,
or was as close to that as he ever expected to see at his breakfast table, not that she was likely to carry leather or wear other than jeans and sneakers, or was anything other than a kid who sold coffee, and was now more than ever living in a different time zone.
“Chrissie,” he repeated, looking for the right words, “aside from the fact that I can't go with you today, I don't think it would be so great for me to meet Roger. It would be uncomfortable between him and me, and for you. And, this is my big point: do you really want to get involved with Roger again?”
“I didn't say anything about getting
involved
with him again. I have no intention of getting
involved
with him again. That's your, what do you call it,
paranoia?
I just want to help my mom, who isn't as strong as me⦔
“I⦔
“Me⦔
“I⦔
“Lenny, if you won't go with me, would you mind if I borrowed your car?”
Chrissie borrowed the car. “I promise I'll be home tonight,” she said, but wasn't. She left a brief recorded message: “Looks like tomorrow. Tom sends regards.”
Carless, Leonardo cabbed downtown to his deposition the next morning, which he figured was just as well given his level of medication.
Code Red
, he said as he popped the first of the pills.
Avoid driving a car, heavy machinery, and people who depend upon you.
The deposition was scheduled to begin at 10:00 amâfive minutes agoâin a plush conference room in Martin Drunkmiller's high-rise law offices, featuring a majestic overhead view of Boston harbor which was choppy but sparkling in the winter sunshine and busy with water traffic. Leonardo sat quietly and looked out the window like a drowsy old dog while the others around him hurried and scurried with their last minute businesses.
He identified shuttle boats, water buses, a sail boat under puffy white sail, a fishing boat, a barge, and a nut in a canoe, and on the northern rim of the harbor he saw planes taking off and landing at Logan Airport in orderly procession, big planes, jumbo planes, small planes, itsy-bitsy planes, all kinds of planes gleaming in the sunshine, going up, going down, going up, going downâ¦
“Dr. Cook.”
He did a double take at the sound of his name, and looked around for who might be saying it. It wasn't the stenographer to his right who was busy setting up her machine, and it wasn't Abigail because she was working a mouthful of cheese Danish, and it wasn't Drunkmiller unless he was a ventriloquist because his mouth was locked in a sneer as he sat at the far end of the table scribbling trick questions onto his yellow pad, or Remington, his loyal round-faced associate, who was talking on a telephone behind Drunkmiller with great intensity which could mean that he just missed a critical filing deadline which would ruin his career but more likely meant he was ordering more cheese Danish from the office kitchen because Abigail had thrown off the projections.
Third cheese Danish for Abigail, but who's counting. Plus thank you for your updated bill. You certainly earned it. You certainly scared the shit out of them at the injunction hearing.
“Leonardo,” Dr. Ziggamon commented when he heard this kind of sarcasm, “you criticize her lawyering skills, but in the next breath you worry that she's fed up with you, and might leave. Does that ring any bells?”
Ding-a-ling. Shming-a-ling.
Not Drunkmiller, Remington, or Abigail speaking his name. That left Susan H. Binh sitting next to Drunkmiller, wearing a smart Chanel-like suit and a lot of gold and a face as cold as January, and last but not least the expressionless, shark-like Paul E. Greene, DeltaTek's new attorney, replacing the late William T. Brockleman, late and not expected to return. This Greene was last observed biting off Abigail's arms and legs in open court at the hearing to stop the interrogation of patients on the sidewalk in front of Leonardo's house.
In the elevator going up, Abigail called Greene the “usual litigation bastard, except he's from New York so he's worse,” but Leonardo thought she was being too kind. “I wish I had him for my divorce,” he said, but then felt sorry for the consequences to Barbara.
That thought dropped him into an internal wrestle as he slapped himself for the soft spot he kept for Barbara, and tried to stuff her back into his memory trunk, but she kicked and screamed as he pushed down the lid, and grabbed at his tongue and tied it in a knot so that he couldn't make words for the rest of the ride up to say nothing of his chances of surviving a morning of sharp-edged deposition questions, prompting him to pop his emergency pill earlier than he planned, as the elevator opened onto Drunkmiller's floor, enhancing his view of the planes and the boats, and the sensation of floating among them.
âââ
When Mulverne engaged Greene to replace Brockleman as DeltaTek's counsel of record in the lawsuit, shortly after the papers were served, following consultation with his insurance carriers and his New York underwriters and a timely tip from Marge Blitz regarding Brockleman's suspected complicity with Selma in an insider trading scheme, his explanation to Brockleman was part evasion and part lie. “Big Bill,” he said, “you're too close to the facts and too friendly with the players, including your Dr. Cook. You'll serve us better this time calling plays from the booth upstairs. I still need you⦔
“Thanks,” Brockleman said, feeling stress in his chest which he misdiagnosed as gas.
“You're welcome,” said Mulverne.
âââ
“Dr. Cook,” Leonardo heard again, and realized this time it was in fact Attorney Greene making the sound.
“Yes.”
“Do you have a middle name?”
“I⦔
“Hemmuppdnnntt,” interjected Abigail as she force-swallowed her wad of cheese Danish, and came to Leonardo's side. Greene nodded, like a poker player when he's been dealt a card, acknowledging receipt but not value.
Someone should check if this man has a pulse, and/or a mother
, Leonardo joked to himself, cracking himself up.
“All set,” the stenographer said. Her steno machine was fixed between her legs and wired into her lap top which instantly translated her short-hand key strokes into English prose and streamed it across her screen. The room came to order.
“Please swear in the witness,” Drunkmiller said to the stenographer, pleasantly enough.
“Dr. Cook,” she responded, raising her right hand, “do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?”
“Yes,” said Dr. Cook
“Please state and spell your full name,” said Drunkmiller.
“Leonardo Cook. L-E-O-N-A-R-D-O C-O-O-K.”
“How old are you?”
“Forty-five.”
“Where do you live?”
“Sixteen Neptune Road, Newton, Massachusetts.”
“Are you employed?”
“Self-employed.”
“As what?”
“Medical doctor, board certified in psychiatry.”
“How long have you been a psychiatrist?”
“Fourteen years.”
“Do you maintain a private practice in psychiatry?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Sixteen Neptune Road, Newton, Massachusetts.”
“Where you live?”
“Yes.”
Drunkmiller flipped to the next page of his pad, and stroked his chin a couple of times. “Dr. Cook,” he asked, “what do you do as a psychiatrist?”
“I deal with the emotional lives of people.”
“Deal?”
“Help. I try to help people with their emotional issues and difficulties, ranging from relatively minor and transitory disorders and conditions to serious and sometimes dangerous and incapacitating illnesses.”
“What people?”
“My patients.”
“Was Eugene Binh your patient?”
“No.”
“Did you try to help him with his emotional issues and difficulties?”
“Yes.”
“But you say he wasn't your patient?”
“He wasn't.”
“You tried to help him with his emotional issues and difficulties which is what you say you do with patients?”
“I did. I do. I tried⦔
“You treated him like a patient?”
“Yes.”
“But you say he wasn't a patient?”
“Yes.”
Drunkmiller paused, and vigorously almost furiously scribbled a note on his pad, while Leonardo floated lightly and slightly out of his chair on the wings of his medication, happy not to sweat whether Eugene was a patient, or not a patient, or sort of a patient, or whether it mattered, or didn't matter depending on how you read the legal cases or the insurance policies or the configuration of the planets or whatever it was. So what. Abigail's last words of advice as they entered the room were, “Don't think too much about whether your answers fit together. As a matter of fact, don't think at all.”
Leonardo nodded over to Abigail, and observed that she and Greene and round-faced Remington were all vigorously, almost furiously, scribbling their own notes onto their pads, and Mrs. Binh hers, with a thick red marker like she was writing with lipstick, or blood, like the time in college he did write in blood, chose to write in blood as it dripped from the back of his hand, silently and pleasingly, like the boats and planes passing across the picture window, against the gentle blue background of water and sky.
I'm on a cruise down memory lane, with vivid sights and sounds...
“Are you married?” Drunkmiller asked next.
“Why?”
“Are you divorced?”
“Why?”
“Are you married or divorced?”
“Objection,” said Abigail. “Mr. Drunkmiller, why do you care?”
“Ms. Stern,” Drunkmiller replied, “I'm allowed latitude in deposition. I don't understand your objection.”
“I wish to protect my client from harassment.”
“There's no harassment.”
“Mr. Drunkmiller, if you persist in asking questions intended solely to embarrass and harass my client I will seek a protective order⦔
“I thought you already tried that.”
“Please watch your step, Mr. Drunkmiller.”
“Off the record,” said Drunkmiller. The stenographer rested her fingers, and relaxed her posture. Drunkmiller stared at Abigail for three, four, five seconds, tapping his fingers on the table in front of him. “Abigail,” he said, “what's on your mind? Why are you so hostile? This isn't personal⦔
“You're invading his privacy.”
“He has no privacy. His life's in play.”
“What was the question?” Leonardo asked.
“Which question?” the stenographer answered.
“How about,” Abigail said to Drunkmiller, “for purposes of getting through this morning you stick to questions about what happened at the event in question and reserve your right to investigate the rest of Dr. Cook's life until after I get a hearing on a motion for a protective order?”
“Are you asking me,” Drunkmiller replied to Abigail, still off the record, “not to ask about your client's professional experience, like whether any of his patients have filed complaints against him, or have committed suicide while under his care?”
“I'm
proposing
,” said Abigail, “that today you only ask questions about the time when your client suffered his alleged injury, on or about last October 4. Later on, as soon as possible later on, we can clarify what other things you can ask questions about.”
“When?”
“I'll serve you with a motion as soon as possible. I'll request an emergency hearing.”
Drunkmiller mulled for a moment, shot a glance at Leonardo, which Leonardo, despite the distant place his mind had journeyed to, instinctively ducked from, then said to Abigail, “In the interest of making efficient use of our time, and our clients' money, I'm willing to start the witness with questions about the event. I expect these questions will fill today's scheduled time, so you could get a motion served and heardâI am sure it will be disposed of in my favor, and I will seek sanctions and attorney's fees when it isâbefore our next scheduled day of deposition. But I'm not waiving any rights⦔
“Deal,” said Abigail.
“Back on the record,” said Drunkmiller. “Dr. Cook, do you recall the events of last October 4?”
“Yes I do.”
“You went to DeltaTek's offices in Lexington that day?”
“Yes I did.”
“Why did you go there?”
“I was asked to by Attorney Brock⦔
“Objection,” said Greene.
“What about?” asked Drunkmiller.
“DeltaTek,” said Greene, “asserts that a physician-patient privilege exists as to any and all communications between the witness and DeltaTek and its principals and authorized agents, including without limitation the late Attorney Brockleman, which may have occurred on or about October 4. It would be wrongful and actionable for the witness to disclose any such communications.”
“Mr. Greene,” said Drunkmiller, “there's no such privilege. You're out of order.”
“Mr. Drunkmiller,” said Greene, “I am advising the witness and the witness' counsel that DeltaTek asserts the privilege, and I am directing the witness not to make any disclosure in violation of the privilege. I put the witness on notice that DeltaTek will hold him liable for any adverse consequences of unauthorized disclosure up to and including any monetary judgment which may be obtained by plaintiffs in this case.”
“Off the record,” said Drunkmiller. The stenographer stopped.
“No,” said Greene, “I don't want anything I say or anything said to me in the course of this deposition to be off the record.” The stenographer started again.
“Well tough shit, we're going off the record,” Drunkmiller replied. Turning to the stenographer he said, “Please lift your hands from the keys and back away from your machine.” Which she did.
“Madam stenographer,” Greene said to her, “you are obligated to record this proceeding. Please do so, or I will seek sanctions against you.” Her hands started moving back toward the keys.
“Madam stenographer,” said Drunkmiller, “if you touch those keys you'll never work in this town again.” Her hands froze in the air. She looked around the room for help, wide-eyed, like a mouse caught between two cats.