He dispatches me to my office.
I return to the grill near the orthopedic wing with a solemn resolve to hide in a corner, study my materials, keep the damned cellular phone handy, but to ignore those around me.
The food is not terrible. After seven years of college cuisine, anything tastes fine. I dine on a pimento cheese sandwich and chips. I spread my bar review course on a table in the corner, my back to the wall.
I eat first, devouring the sandwich while examining the other diners. Most wear medical garb of some variety — doctors in their scrubs, nurses in their whites, technicians in their lab jackets. They sit in small groups and discuss the ins and outs of ailments and treatments I’ve never heard of. For people who are supposed to be concerned with health and nutrition, they eat the worst junk foods possible. Fries, burgers, nachos, pizza. I watch a group of young doctors huddled over their dinner, and wonder what they would think if they knew there was a lawyer in their midst, one studying for the bar so he could one day sue them.
I doubt if they’d care. I have as much right to this place as they do.
No one notices me. An occasional patient either limps through on crutches or is wheeled in by an orderly. I can spot no other lawyers sitting around, ready to pounce.
I pay for my first cup of coffee at 6 p.m., and soon lose myself in a painful review of contracts and real estate, two subjects that revive the horror of my first year in law school. I plow ahead. I have procrastinated to this point, and there’s no tomorrow. An hour passes before I go for a refill. The crowd has thinned, and I spot two casualties sitting near each other on the other side of the room. Both have lots of plaster and gauze. Deck would be in their faces. But not me.
After a while and much to my surprise, I decide that I like it here. It’s quiet and no one knows me. It’s ideal for studying. The coffee’s not bad and refills are half-price. I’m away from Miss Birdie and thus unconcerned about manual labor. My boss expects me to be here, and though I’m supposed to be scouting for game, he’ll never know the difference. Surely I don’t have a quota. I can’t be expected to sign up X number of cases a week.
The phone emits a sickly beep. It’s Bruiser, just checking in. Any luck? No, I say, looking across the room at the two wonderful torts comparing injuries from their wheelchairs. He says he talked to the lieutenant and things look good. He’s confident they’ll pursue other leads, other suspects. Happy fishing! he says with a laugh, and is gone, no doubt headed for Yogi’s and a few stiff ones with Prince.
I study for another hour, then leave my table and go to the eighth floor to check on Dan Van Landel. He’s in pain but willing to talk. I deliver the good news that we’ve contacted the other driver’s insurance company, and there’s a nice policy waiting for us. His case has it all, I explain, repeating what Deck had told me earlier; clear liability (a drunk driver no less!), lots of insurance coverage and good injuries. Good, meaning some well-busted bones that might easily evolve into the magical condition of permanent injury.
Dan manages a pleasant smile. He’s already counting his money. He has yet to deal with Bruiser at pie-splitting time.
I say good-bye and promise to see him tomorrow. Since I’ve been assigned to hospital duty, I’ll be able to visit all of my clients. Talk about service!
The grill is crowded again when I return and assume my position in the corner. I left my books scattered on the table, and one plainly labels itself as the Elton Bar Review. This has caught the attention of a group of young doctors sitting at the next table, and they eye me suspiciously as I take my seat. They are instantly silent, so I know they’ve been discussing my materials at length. They soon leave. I get more coffee and lose myself in the wonders of federal trial procedure.
The crowd thins to a handful. I’m drinking decaf now, and amazed at the materials I’ve plowed through in the past four hours. Bruiser calls again at nine forty-five. Sounds like he’s in a bar somewhere. He wants me in his office at nine tomorrow to discuss a point of law he needs briefed for his current drug trial of the month. I’ll be there, I say.
I’d hate to know my lawyer was being inspired with legal theories to use in my defense while chugging drinks in a topless club.
But Bruiser is my lawyer.
At ten, I am alone in the grill. It’s open all night, so the cashier ignores me. I’m deep into the language governing pretrial conferences when I hear the delicate sneeze of a young woman. I look up, and two tables away is a patient in a wheelchair, the only other person seated in the grill. Her right leg is in a cast from the knee down and extends out so that I see the bottom of the white plaster. It appears to be fresh, from what I know about plaster at this point in my career.
She’s very young, and extremely pretty. I can’t help but stare for a few seconds before looking down at my notes. Then I stare some more. Her hair is dark and pulled back loosely behind her neck. Her eyes are brown and appear to be moist. She has strong facial features that are striking in spite of an obvious bruise on her left jaw. A nasty bruise, the type usually left by a fist. She wears a standard white hospital gown, and under it she appears to be almost frail.
An old man in a pink jacket, one of the innumerable kindly souls who act as volunteers at St. Peter’s, gently places a plastic glass of orange juice on the table in front of her. “There you are, Kelly,” he says like the perfect grandfather.
“Thanks,” she answers with a quick smile.
“Thirty minutes, you say?” he asks.
She nods and bites her lower lip. “Thirty minutes,” she tells him.
“Anything else I can do?”
“No. Thanks.”
He pats her on the shoulder, and leaves the grill.
We are alone. I try not to stare, but it’s impossible not to. I look down at my materials as long as I can bear it, then up slowly until my eyes can see her. She does not face me directly, but looks away at almost a ninety-degree angle. She lifts her drink, and I notice the bandages on both wrists. She has yet to see me. In fact, I realize she would see no one if the room was full. Kelly’s in her own little world.
Looks like a broken ankle. The bruise on the face would satisfy Deck’s requirement of a multiple, though there appears to be no laceration. The injured wrists are puzzling. As pretty as she is, I’m not tempted to practice my solicitation techniques. She looks very sad and I don’t want to add to her misery. There’s a thin wedding band on her left ring finger. She can’t be more than eighteen.
I try to concentrate on the law for at least five uninterrupted minutes, but I see her dab her eyes with a paper napkin. Her head tilts slightly to the right as the tears flow. She sniffles quietly.
I realize quickly that the tears have nothing to do with the pain of a broken ankle. They’re not caused by physical injuries.
My sleazy lawyer’s imagination runs wild. Perhaps there was a car wreck and her husband was killed and she was injured. She’s too young to have children and her family lives far away, and she sits here grieving over her dead husband. Could be a helluva case.
I shake off these terrible thoughts and try to concentrate on the book before me. She keeps sniffling and crying silently. A few customers come and go, but no one joins Kelly and me at the tables. I drain my coffee cup, quietly ease from my chair and walk directly in front of her on my way to the counter. I glance at her, she glances at me, our eyes meet for a second and I almost crash into a metal chair. My hands are a bit jumpy as I pay for the coffee. I take a deep breath, and stop at her table.
She slowly raises her beautiful wet eyes. I swallow hard and say, “Look, I’m not one to meddle, but is there anything I can do? Are you in pain?” I ask this as I nod at her cast.