When He Fell (19 page)

The office is in a nondescript boxy building near Grand Central Station. It’s not high market but it’s not a dive, either. The first consultation is free, so I tell myself there’s no risk as I sit in a bland waiting room and gaze at the out-of-date magazines.

Then the lawyer, Keith Ellis, comes to the door. I’m expecting someone stereotypically flash, with slicked-back hair and an ostentatious watch, maybe a shiny tie the same color as his shirt, a purple or pale pink. Keith Ellis has none of those things.

He looks…dorky. He has a round face and a bit of a paunch, thinning hair and thick glasses. His smile is surprisingly kind, but his eyes are sharp. I wonder if he takes people by surprise in court, if they think he’ll be a pushover. I hope he’s not.

“Madeleine Reese?”

“Yes. Please call me Maddie.” We shake hands and he leads me into his office. It’s as bland as the rest of the building, all wood laminate and neutral shades.

“So.” He sits behind his desk, pulling a yellow legal pad towards him. I sit across from him, my big leather bag in my lap. “You’re here to discuss the possibility of a personal injury case.”

“Yes, but I’m not the one who is injured. It’s my son.”

“Why don’t you tell me everything from the beginning,” Keith says, and so I do.

I tell him about Ben and Josh and the rocks, about Burgdorf and Juliet and Helen on the playground, and how no one told me where he’d fallen from, how the accident report was wrong. Keith doesn’t say anything, just makes a few encouraging ‘mms’ as he writes notes on the legal pad.

Finally I fall silent and wait for his verdict. He looks up, taking off his glasses and polishing them with his handkerchief. “So you want to know if you have a case,” he says, and I nod.

“Yes.”

“Everyone has a case,” Keith says. “It just depends how strong it is.”

“How strong do you think mine is?”

“It’s impossible to give you a definitive answer at this stage. On the surface, yes, I would say you have a fairly strong case. But of course there are questions. Was your son told by the supervisors to get off the rocks? Were they attempting to get him to come down when he fell? Was he even on the rocks?”

“Why would he say—”

Keith holds up a hand. “You’d need witnesses who saw him and the other boy there. Reliable witnesses.”

This is all sounding very…legal. “I’m sure someone saw them there,” I say. “And Juliet—one of the playground supervisors—didn’t tell me that she’d warned them off, or anything like that.”

“You’ve spoken to one of the supervisors?”

“She’s a friend of mine.”
Was
a friend. And certainly won’t be any longer if I proceed with a lawsuit. My hands turn clammy.

“If you decide to pursue a lawsuit,” Keith says, “it would be better not to speak to anyone involved.” I swallow, nod. “The way to start is to file a third party claim against the school’s insurance provider that presumably covers the parent volunteers and their actions while supervising students. Then, most likely, we will begin settlement negotiations. If, however, the insurance company refuses a settlement for some reason, you have the option of taking the case to court, and filing a lawsuit against the school for negligence.”

“And then?”

“Then the lawsuit goes to trial. But only about five percent of all personal injury lawsuits go to trial.” He pauses before continuing, “However, I should tell you that ninety percent of personal injury lawsuits that do go to trial are lost by the plaintiff.”

“Those aren’t great statistics.”

Keith gives me a small smile. “No. But hopefully we could agree on a settlement.”

“And if we couldn’t? Can I…drop the lawsuit?”

“Of course. But you should consider the strength of your case before we file.”

“Right.” I feel dizzy with all this information.

“If it does come to a lawsuit,” Keith continues, “we could claim joint or several liability, which means we can file against the other parties involved in the accident. In this case, it would be the state of New York, although I advise against that as suing the state is difficult, and the family of the child who pushed your son.”

My stomach drops. “I don’t want to go after the family,” I say quickly.
I can’t lose Lewis on top of everyone else.
“He’s just a little boy, and it was an accident. Besides, he was—is—Ben’s best friend.”

“All right,” Keith agrees equably. “But be prepared for them to be dragged into it if the school refuses to settle and the case goes to trial. The school could claim the boy has some apportioned blame.”

My head is spinning. I am not prepared for this; I don’t understand it all. I certainly don’t want
Lewis
to be dragged into some kind of court case.

“As for fees,” Keith continues, “I would offer you a contingency agreement, which means you would pay my fees if we won a settlement or lawsuit. If it went to court and we didn’t win, then you wouldn’t owe me anything, but you would still be liable for the defendant’s costs, which could run to the thousands of dollars.” I swallow hard, because even though I know that isn’t much when you’re talking lawyers and lawsuits, it still feels like a lot to me. And if ninety-five percent of these court cases are lost by the plaintiff…

“I advise you to think hard about your course of action,” Keith says quietly. “I know we live in a culture where the first thing people often think of is suing for damages. Sometimes it feels like free money.”

I feel my face heat. “This isn’t just about the money.”

“Of course not,” Keith agrees. “If the school was truly negligent, and your son’s health and quality of life has been compromised as a result, then it is right and just for you to take legal action.” He smiles, his eyes full of sympathy behind his glasses. “But that doesn’t mean there won’t be consequences.”

I am thinking about those potential consequences as I step out of his office building into a dreary gray November afternoon. I call the hospital, and learn that Ben is sleeping after his therapies this morning; I don’t feel like going back to Mount Sinai Roosevelt just yet.

The smell of the hospital has got into my clothes, my hair and skin. Sometimes I wake up in the night and still feel like I’m there; I strain to listen to Ben’s breathing before I realize I’m at home. Alone.

But now, for a few hours, I want to do something else,
be
someone else. I’m just not sure who or what.

I cross the street and wander through the food market at Grand Central Station, browsing the selection of gourmet meats and cheese, filets of salmon and tilapia lying on beds of crushed ice, sun-dried tomatoes and lumps of feta swimming in brine. I imagine being the sort of person who would buy a few of these little delicacies and make something delicious with them, share a meal with a man, someone like Lewis, over candlelight. For a second I will away Josh and Joanna, even Ben. For one evening I would like to simply be a woman with a man, and a lovely meal, and interesting, flirtatious conversation. Just for one evening. But it’s never going to happen, and certainly not with Lewis.

I am just coming out of the food hall when I hear someone call my name. I look up and see Bruce Decker striding toward me. Juliet’s Bruce, wearing an expensive trench coat and carrying a briefcase that probably costs more than anything I own.

“Maddie.” His voice is confident and smooth, the male equivalent of Ruth James’s voice. I don’t trust either.

I tense, not sure if I should smile or not. Before this all happened with Ben, I was friendly with Bruce. I flirted with him a bit, and there was that incident at the party. But I’ve never really
liked
him.

He’s clearly in command of the situation as he stands before me and puts a hand on my shoulder, looks deeply into my eyes. His eyes are a very pale blue.

“Maddie,” he says again, meaningfully, his gaze never wavering. I force myself not to look away.

“Hello, Bruce.”

He squeezes my shoulder. “Juliet and I have been so worried about you. And Ben. How is he?”

“He’s come out of the coma,” I say. “But he still has a long way to go.” As I say this I remember what Keith Ellis advised. Not to talk to Juliet. Or, presumably, her husband, who is also the chair of the board of trustees for Burgdorf.

“But he’s making progress,” Bruce says. His hand is still on my shoulder.

“Yes…” I am afraid that anything I say might damage the case I’m not yet sure I’m going to bring against Burgdorf. “Anyway…” I begin, but Bruce talks over me.

“Do you have a moment? Why don’t we get a drink?”

I hesitate, knowing I should say no,
wanting
to say no, except a part of me actually doesn’t want that. Part of me wants to do anything, with anyone, as long as it means not going back home to my empty apartment where the silence screams at me, reminding me how much I’ve lost, how much I’ve never even had.

“Sure,” I say and Bruce steers me to a bar in the train station, a place with deep plush booths and a huge flat-screen TV above the bar that is thankfully on mute. He leads us to a corner booth, and then asks what I’d like to drink.

“I’m having a martini,” he says. “It’s the evening, right?”

It’s four o’clock in the afternoon, but whatever. I drop my bag on the seat next to me and smile up at him. “I’ll have the same.”

Bruce goes to the bar and I watch him. He is an attractive man, in that rich, charismatic, silver-haired way. He reeks of privilege and entitlement and while he is definitely charming, I wouldn’t say he comes across as sincere. I think of the party when he let his hand slip. It was only a few seconds, but why did he do it? Had he just drunk a little too much and was feeling the love? Or was he testing the waters? Looking back, I think it was the latter.

At the time I waited a few seconds and then stepped away, easily, as if I wasn’t even aware of where his hand was. Bruce dropped his hand just as easily, didn’t even blink or break in his conversation. He’s always been a smooth operator.

I’m not actually sure what Bruce is up to now. It isn’t like him to ask me out for a drink. I’ve known him for ten years, but we’re not
that
friendly.

He comes back with the drinks and sits in the booth perpendicular to me so our knees are brushing under the table. I take a sip of the martini and the alcohol burns the back of my throat. I can’t remember the last time I had anything alcoholic, and this is on an empty stomach. I take another sip.

“This has been so tough for you,” Bruce says, his tone one of such obvious sympathy that I have to resist rolling my eyes.

“Yes, you could say that, Bruce.”

He doesn’t acknowledge my light sarcasm. “I can’t even imagine.”

No, you can’t.
“It’s been very hard.” I take another sip of my martini. I don’t want to talk about Ben. “How are things with you?”

“Oh, the same.” He waves his hand and I wonder if he gets manicures. “Lots of travel, long days at the office…” He shrugs. “But Juliet can’t complain, can she?”

“And the girls?” I ask after a pause. I like Juliet’s girls, although they can sometimes be a little whiny and spoilt. But what kid isn’t? They’ve always been polite to me. I wonder what they think of me now, of Ben. It would have been nice for them to visit, or even for Josh to visit. Now that Ben is awake, I think he would like to see some people other than me. But no one’s suggested anything.

“They’re fine,” Bruce says, and his tone is dismissive. “But I want to talk about you. Juliet was so broken up about what happened with Ben.”

“Was she?” My tone must be a little sharp because Bruce’s gaze narrows.

“Of course she was. She loves Ben, Maddie, you know that. She’d do anything for him.”

A few different retorts spring to my lips but I force myself to stay silent. I’m not going to argue with Bruce.

“You know,” Bruce says, and now he lays a hand on top of mine. “We’d do anything for you, Maddie. If you need anything…anything at all…”

How about a couple grand?
I glance at him and with a ripple of horrified shock I recognize the look in his eyes. That intent look, and I acknowledge the sudden, sensual,
sexual
overtones his words have taken on. His hand is still resting on mine.

“That’s so kind, Bruce,” I say, and just to test it, I squeeze his hand. His pupils flare and the tension ratchets up a notch. I’m not imagining it.

And for a second, just one second, I actually think about it. I wonder if Bruce is one of those serial adulterers. Maybe he has a hotel room lined up, convenient for a quickie near Grand Central Station. I imagine how it will play out: he’ll squeeze my hand back, suggest we leave. We’ll rise from the table and as we walk out of the bar Bruce will rest his hand on the small of my back. We’ll get to the street, look at each other. Hesitate, check to make sure we’re both reading the same signals. Then maybe Bruce will say something about another place he knows, a quieter place, where we can
really
talk. I’ll lower my gaze and murmur how that would be nice. And then we’ll go to some hotel and have sordid, soulless sex.

I don’t want that. I’ve done it before; Ben was conceived in an elevator with a man whose name I still don’t know. The last time I had sex was five years ago, when I hired a sitter—the daughter of someone from work—and went out with a few colleagues. I got drunk and had sex with a guy in the bathroom of a bar. We didn’t even exchange phone numbers. The memory makes me cringe in shame.

I don’t want to sleep with Bruce. I don’t want to feel ashamed and unloved after another emotionless hookup, because that’s all I ever get, all I’ve ever managed to have.

But I don’t want to be alone any more.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Maddie?” Bruce asks quietly. His hand feels heavy on mine. The alcohol is starting to affect me; I feel dizzy and slightly sick and also almost near tears Finally I pull my hand away from Bruce’s. It takes more effort than I expected, and my hand falls into my lap like a dead thing.

I force myself to look up into Bruce’s face; his expression is calculating, his lips pursed, eyes narrowed. “No, Bruce,” I say as I blink back tears. “There’s nothing you can do for me.”