What a Mother Knows (11 page)

“That's
Star
Wars
, not
Star
Trek
.”

“Oh right, much cooler.” She couldn't help but roll her eyes.

He turned it off. “Why is
Star
Trek
so lame and
Star
Wars
so cool?”

“Special effects?”

Michelle was tempted to brag that she lived within running distance of Spielberg Drive, the frontage road for the Motion Picture Hospital where her medical coverage maxed out a million dollars ago. Then she remembered that Spielberg didn't direct
Star
Wars
, he directed
E.T
. “Phone home” was the line from that one. She noted the electrodes on the table. She needed to phone home as well, to ask Drew about this.

Dr. Palmer was justifying his affinity for science fiction. “In the morning, I used to get on the bus in Crenshaw, all ninety pounds of me. Then an hour later, boys from the nice neighborhood would pull me off and beat the daylights out of me. I used to close my eyes and ask Scotty to beam me up.”

“Are you trying to tell me you were a geek?”

He split his hand into a Vulcan peace sign. “Still am, under the lab coat.”

“No, this is what you men don't understand. Clothes don't hide who you are; they show who you are. I bet those little thugs are sorry now.”

He laughed. “One of them is a mechanic at the gas station on the corner. He has to drive past here every day. My mama wanted me to autograph a book for him, too, but I said no, so she signed it herself.”

“Your mother sounds fun,” Michelle said. Then she remembered. “I can't even sign my own name.”

He patted the seat beside him. “So practice. Or change your name to X.”

“I can make a great
X
. And I can put on lipstick now,” Michelle said.

Dr. Palmer rubbed her arm gently. “Good. The more you practice, the faster you'll regain coordination.”

“You're assuming I was coordinated in the first place,” Michelle joked.

“May I?” Dr. Palmer asked. When she nodded, he traced the scar on her shoulder until it disappeared under the fabric of her dress.

She tugged the fabric higher. “Ow!”

Dr. Palmer stood up. “You protect yourself with a thicker shell than my crustaceans.” He went back to his desk and returned with a novelty pen complete with a tiny Starship
Enterprise
floating in the barrel. He sat down at a table and skimmed the release form before looking up. “Look, everybody else gave up on that arm a long time ago. Not Lexi, but nurses never get the respect they deserve. Her opinion doesn't carry a lot of weight.”

“It does to me.”

“That won't be enough for the insurance company. I'll sign the damn thing. But just so you know? I think you're stronger than you realize.”

Michelle thought of Drew's second mortgage and Cathy's Hamburger Helper and all the trouble she had caused. “People are counting on me to end this.”

“Are you afraid it will hurt?”

“Hurt? What's an arm compared to—” Michelle pressed her heart. She sunk to the bench beside him. “Do you know about my daughter? That she's missing?”

“Yes. And when you find her, won't it be nice to put both of your arms around her?”

Michelle tried not to cry. “You mean
if
I find her?”

Dr. Palmer laughed.

“What's so funny?” Michelle asked.

“The folks who want that release signed—they're right. The odds are against you. But they've been against you from the start, yet here you are. There's no doubt in my mind that you'll find your daughter.”

Michelle took a deep breath. “I might need more of that chocolate.”

Dr. Palmer set a Kiss out on the table, but he didn't unwrap it. Instead, he reached for her right arm and attached the electrodes to it. She picked up the chocolate with her left hand and fumbled to unwrap it. Then she popped the morsel in her mouth. Nirvana.

A car horn honked outside. Michelle swallowed. “My ride.”

“What do you want to do?” Dr. Palmer asked.

She looked at the release again, wishing it would disappear. She could have Drew fax his signature and make the decision for her, but it was time to think for herself. This form was like a thank-you note for all the help she had been given. But every time she looked at her arm she would only see what was missing.

She took a deep breath. “Could you ask Bree to send them away?”

A few minutes later, the black arrow sprang to life on the meter box. Dr. Palmer twisted the dial until it moved slowly across the thin red lines. Electricity shot through Michelle's right arm, but she didn't feel a thing. Then Dr. Palmer put his hand on her other arm, and she did.

All the attorneys looked up as Michelle entered the sleek conference room in Beverly Hills. Apart from the platinum CDs lining the walls, the office was stark, as black-and-white as the law. Michelle hovered in the doorway as they exchanged looks over the smoked glass table. Then she took a step across the checkerboard floor, careful to land on a white square.

Mr. Greenburg, the host of today's party, straightened the French cuffs peeking from his Armani suit before rising to meet Michelle. His sun-kissed crown barely reached the shoulder of her chic black suit, but when he whispered hello, the others leaned forward to listen.

Kenny met her by the door. He pushed a lock of hair off his forehead, pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his brown blazer, and quietly scolded her all the way around the table. “Wipe off that red lipstick. Where is your cane? And what happened to the other dress?”

“I don't do beige,” Michelle whispered. “This jacket is bulletproof.”

“Good, because Guy Butler hired the big guns. Greenburg himself is taking the deposition.”

Michelle whispered to Kenny as they walked. “Don't be intimidated by the gold cuff links. If he's anything like the producers I used to deal with, he has two ex-wives and an upside-down mortgage in Malibu Colony. My guess is, he'd give it all up for five more inches and your head of hair.”

Kenny blotted his forehead. “We needed to rehearse last night. Where were you?”

“Took a bus home from Dr. Palmer's clinic on the west side. I had no idea it would take three hours.”

“Did he sign the release?”

Michelle shook her head.

“Greedy bastard. He could string you along for years. You should have called the minute Tyler gave you my message.”

Michelle scoffed. “You left a message with a teenager?”

Greenburg checked the time on his Rolex. Then he studied Michelle, his eyes like X-rays scanning for cracks in her armor. “Shall we begin?”

Kenny whispered to Michelle as he pulled out her chair. “Answer only what he asks. Don't do that mom thing and try to please everybody.” Michelle wondered whether that was a compliment or an insult. Undecided, she tilted away from the freesia centerpiece infusing the air with a strong Fruit Loops scent.

Greenburg waited while Kenny introduced Ms. Leticia Rodriguez, the young attorney from Pacific Auto Insurance, who sat beside them. She pointed a fiery talon in the air and corrected his pronunciation. “
Let-i-ci-a
,” she said.

Michelle nodded, picturing Nikki in her place. Nikki was smart enough to be a lawyer, and just as particular. She was always so sure about her opinions—yes or no, guilty or innocent. What would she make of this mess?

A young man in a vest opened the door and tapped on his earpiece. Greenburg excused himself and followed him out.

Ms. Rodriguez unbuttoned her ill-fitting blazer and turned to Kenny. “I got your message about an advance, but Mrs. Mason's medical bills have already surpassed the limits of the auto policy.” She slid financial statements across the glass to prove it.

“I'm familiar with your investment,” Kenny said. Michelle wasn't. She squinted to add the numbers from West Hills Hospital, Valley Convalescent, and UCLA Acute Care, but there were far too many. “All reasonable expenditures.”

“Agreed. After her health benefits ran out, we honored the difference up to the policy limit. And if Orrin is found to be liable, they'll be responsible. But we can't advance payment against a trial outcome.

Michelle turned to Kenny. “I'm sorry.”

Kenny shrugged. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

Greenburg overheard them as he strode back in and sat down. “In for a penny, in for a hundred mil.” His assistant sat beside him and set up a digital tape recorder.

A Beverly Hills blond of indeterminable age strutted in and set down a silver pitcher of water, then a stack of leather folders embossed with the firm's name. She cleared the platter and left, the men's eyes trailing behind her. Michelle noticed the red record light on the tape recorder and met Ms. Rodriguez's narrowed eyes.

Greenburg put his palms up. “Apologies. Let's push on.”

He signaled the stenographer, an elderly woman in a peach-fuzz sweater, nearly hidden behind a small desk in the corner of the conference table. She began tapping the tiny keyboard on her stenotype machine as soon as Greenburg asked Michelle to state her name.

“Michelle Deveraux Mason.”

“Driver's license?”

“I don't have one.”

“She means with her,” Kenny clarified. “Her wallet was destroyed in the accident.” He nudged her under the table and wrote
DMV
on his pad with exclamation points. She nodded.

“Do you plan to drive once your new license is issued? With one hand?” Greenburg asked.

“I put these pantyhose on with one hand. Granted, it took twenty minutes, but I can certainly drive with one hand.”

“Can we just get past the preliminaries here?” Kenny asked.

Greenburg spoke quietly. “With all due respect, Mr. Kazan, legal infractions tend to lend weight to testimony. Mrs. Mason's character is relevant.”

“I assure you, Mrs. Mason is a law-abiding citizen with no prior record. She hasn't been well enough to go to the DMV.” Kenny looked at Michelle. She played along, lifting her limp hand to the table.

“Shall we postpone until she's feeling better?” Greenburg asked. “We could try again in a few weeks.” He tapped his iPhone calendar. “No, I'm in Cannes. We'd have to postpone our June trial date. Which is fine. The statute of limitations gives us until October—plenty of time to subpoena the witnesses again.” He leveled his gaze at Kenny. “And let me be clear, sir: we will not hesitate to cite Mr. Mason in contempt of court. Or Mrs. Mason. We may need to call you back in as well.”

Michelle turned to Kenny, eyebrows raised.

“It means, don't leave town.” Kenny nodded to Greenburg. “Let's proceed. June it is.”

“Excellent. Mrs. Mason, were you wearing a seat belt at the time of the accident?”

“Of course,” Michelle answered.

The lawyers all sat up. “You recall the events?”

“No, but I always wear a seat belt. It's the law.”

They sat back. “So you can't say for sure that you wore one that day?”

“I guess not.” Michelle fanned the lapel of her jacket. Didn't anyone else notice how hot it was in this room?

Greenberg continued. “Then, can it be said that you also don't know if, on the morning in question, your passenger was wearing a seat belt?”

“That's ridiculous. What kind of mother drives kids around without seat belts?”

Kenny looked at the stenographer. “For the record, let it be known that the defendant is in the practice of wearing seat belts, and she has no history of transporting passengers in noncompliance; therefore, we can assume that all passengers in the car were in compliance.”

“With all due respect,” Mr. Greenburg replied, “this is not philosophy class. The law of syllogism carries no weight. Only the law of evidence.” He pointed at the embossed folder in front of Kenny. “Evidence shows that the fatal injuries sustained by my nephew were inconsistent with the use of a seat belt.”

Michelle's breath caught in her throat. Noah Butler was his nephew?

Kenny whispered to her before opening the folder. “Relax, this could work to our advantage. He's an entertainment lawyer—a deal maker, not a litigator. He's doing his brother a favor, probably hasn't been in a courtroom for years.”

Beside them, Ms. Rodriguez gasped. They looked up and saw her staring at a photo in her open folder. Michelle reached for hers, but Kenny slapped his notepad on top of it.

Mr. Greenburg continued. “Please be aware, Mrs. Mason, that our suit against the driver is a claim for negligence in driving improperly or unsafely. Our suit against Orrin Motors is for product liability, which may or may not affect you as a responsible party. Do you understand?”

“I think so. Yes.” She whispered to Kenny, “Didn't you say the car company is suing me?”

“Yes, a cross complaint for negligence. We filed an answer on your behalf. Didn't I explain that the other day?”

“I was a little distracted the other day,” Michelle admitted.

“Doesn't matter. We're not going to complicate matters with two separate trials. You'll only have to go through all this once.”

Greenburg cleared his throat. “As stated in the civil suit, we ask the responsible party or parties to cover loss of income based not only on album and concert sales for the last two years, but in perpetuity. We estimate that additional revenue streams will bring the total to approximately one hundred million dollars.”

Michelle whispered to Kenny, “They're kidding, right? Who has that kind of money?”

The door banged open. A rotund man in three-piece pinstripes apologized profusely as he barreled across the room. Greenburg stood to shake his hand then addressed the group. “May I introduce Mr. Dillenger, from the Orrin Motor Company?”

“His stockholders have that kind of money,” Kenny whispered. “Which is why Greenburg would rather they be found liable.”

“Sorry I'm late,” Dillenger said. “Flight delay. Weather can be a bitch, eh? Snow, sleet…rain in Topanga Canyon?” He zeroed in on Michelle. “Mrs. Mason, I presume?”

She nodded.

“What have I missed?” he asked, as the secretary served him coffee.

Greenburg spoke up. “We've established that while the rain may have contributed to the cause of the accident, the absence of a functioning seat belt may have contributed to the outcome.” He nodded at the stenographer.

She scrolled back and read the last sentence. “‘What kind of mother drives kids around without seat belts?'” They all looked at Michelle.

“Not me,” Michelle said.

“Would you be willing to take a lie detector test?” Mr. Greenburg asked.

“Sure,” Michelle said. Then she felt a pinch of doubt. What if she hadn't reminded him to wear it? Could she have forgotten this once?

Kenny saw her face flush. He took her left hand and gave it a squeeze. “There's no need for that, gentlemen. It won't hold up in court.”

She smiled at Kenny, appreciating his faith in her, and relaxed. It was fear that had caused her to panic, not guilt. This wasn't her fault. She spoke up. “I always say ‘seat belts' before I put the key in the ignition. Ask my kids. We used to sing the jingle, remember? ‘Buckle up for safety, buckle up.'”

“Click-it or ticket,” Mrs. Rodriguez added, quoting the freeway billboards.

“Click it or die,” Mr. Greenburg said.

The stenographer's keys stopped clicking as silence engulfed the room.

Michelle shrugged. “Maybe the seat belt didn't work. Wasn't there some sort of recall?”

Kenny was still holding her hand. Now he held it so hard, it hurt.

“Indeed,” Mr. Dillenger said. He smiled, his fangs just short of wolf-sized. He pulled a postcard emblazoned with the Orrin logo from his titanium briefcase. “This is a recall notice for a seat belt locking mechanism malfunction. Look familiar?”

Michelle nodded. “Yes.”

“And what did you understand it to mean?”

“That there might be a problem with the seat belt and the manufacturer knew it.” She smiled at Kenny, but he shook his head to quiet her.

“Isn't it true, Mrs. Mason, that you received this notice prior to the accident in October?” He leaned across the table to hand it to her. But with Kenny still squeezing her left hand, she couldn't take it. “How much prior, would you say?”

“I'll have to stop you there,” Kenny interrupted. “My client has suffered a significant memory loss. Any answer she gives will be conjecture.”

“Be that as it may, there is no record of compliance with the maintenance request.”

“It was my husband's car. The notice was addressed to him.”

“Under California law, any vehicle acquired after marriage is community property.”

Michelle looked at Kenny. He was right: she should have let him coach her. And she should have worn the beige dress. She felt nauseous.

“Were you aware the inspection and potential repair were offered without cost?” Dillenger asked.

“What about the cost of my time—getting a ride to the dealer and picking it up? I had a full-time job with two kids to drive and shop and cook for. It was hard enough to maintain my own car, let alone one I never drove.”

Greenburg's cell phone rang. He turned away to take it. A tapping noise punctuated his quiet conversation.

Michelle looked down to see Ms. Rodriguez stamping her navy pump on the marble floor beneath the table, as if to wake a sleeping foot. Michelle could see the ankle strap cutting into swollen flesh. She wondered what shoes Nikki was wearing now: bunny slippers, or plastic sandals, or the purple sneakers embroidered for her birthday? Were Nikki's ears buzzing from this ping-pong game of blame?

When Greenburg finished his call, he walked to one of the draped easels in the far corner. “The fact is, Mrs. Mason, you did drive the car.” He pulled off the drape. Noah stared back at them. In the thumb-sized newspaper photo, he looked like a rag doll with pale skin and dark curly hair framing his light eyes. Here, he had the lanky ease of a frame not yet grown into, a frisky colt with clear blue eyes. Noah would always stay this way, young and pretty, like Dorian Gray.

As Michelle gazed into his eyes, fire consumed her belly and flared up until her chest burned. These eyes would follow her right into hell.

Kenny poured Michelle water from the crystal pitcher. “Take a sip every time they ask you a question,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“So you have an excuse to keep quiet. And if you're not absolutely sure of the answer, just say you don't know. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”