What you need to know:
On the teaching side, this story has hit both the inciting incident and plot point one. This means that the “true” story is now unfolding while the one you’ve been reading continues on.
Jennifer and Fran need to hire an accident attorney who gives them some bad news about Jennifer’s policy, and Fran is more injured than she let on initially.
PII - Chapter Sixteen
Ambulance Chaser
Burt (the injury and accident attorney) is a man with an abundance of curly white hair, an oversized head, and a potato-shaped body. In brown rayon pants, a yellow Polo shirt tucked in at the waist, Burt shuffles around an enormous desk, then lowers his girth into a majestic leather chair.
Opposite him, Fran and I ease into low-slung leather chairs and look around. Shelves of legal books, a printer, a computer, piles of legal pads, and model trains. Not a few either. There are model trains everywhere. Some are suspended from the ceiling, others ordered across high shelves, still others on an oval track to the side of Burt’s desk. Box cars. Cabooses. Engines.
Fran, also noting the trains, lifts one of her fine brows, a slight twitch at the side of her mouth. I roll my lips together, swallow a chuckle.
“You ladies look pretty good to me,” Burt says. “For being in a pile-up, you don’t look that messed up.”
Fran shifts to the edge of her chair to be as tall as she can. “Oh, we’re messed up,” she says, giving him a cool look. Her voice is ice. “Trust me.”
Also shifting to the edge of my chair, I tug a manila file out of my bag, then slide it across his vast desktop.
Burt, taking it, unfolds a pair of wire frame glasses, slips them on. He flips through the contents to include the accident report, insurance claim forms, photos of my Element, MSDQ’s Acura, photos of our various bruises, the medical reports, and X-rays.
It has been a couple weeks now and I still can’t lift my left arm without wincing. Fran is short of breath from what might be a cracked rib.
“I see you’ve got Farmer’s,” Burt says to me with a glance over the top of his glasses. “They’re the worst. Incompetent.”
“They already cut me a check for my SUV,” I say. “They gave me about four grand more than it was worth.”
“You didn’t sign anything when you took that money, did you?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t.”
“Wait, don’t we go after MSDQ?” Fran asks.
Burt goes back to the file, scribbles notes on a yellow legal pad.
Fran looks at me, briefly, pissed.
Burt snaps his pen down, closes the file, sits back in his stately chair. King of the trains. King of insurance claims. King of our future.
“Well, the bad news is this,” he says. “MSDQ has All-State. They’re worse than Farmers. Total boobs. Plus, DQ’s policy is bare bones.” He shoves at the file as if it is a dead bug. “She’s young, too, which means nothing by way of income or even savings. Best you can do, for a bit, is get yourselves taken care of. Got a good doctor?”
“I do,” Fran says.
Burt takes up his pen again. “Give me a name,” he says.
Fran flips open her messenger bag, tugs out a datebook. Going through a few pages, she reads out the names of three doctors to include a physical therapist.
“That’s good. That’s good,” Burt says. “They’ll all testify if we need them? They’re useless if they won’t.”
“I haven’t asked,” she says.
“Ask,” he says, shifts his attention to me. “What about you?”
“She doesn’t believe in doctors,” Fran says.
I give her a look as if this is some kind of betrayal. “I went to Frank’s clinic,” I say. “I had an exam.”
“But what have you done since?” she asks.
“Ice. I’ve done ice,” I say to her and to Burt. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t get it,” he says. “What’s the deal? No insurance?”
“I have insurance,” I say. “I don’t do mainstream doctors.”
Fran makes a click sound as if I’m off my rocker. This from a woman who won’t let anyone drive at sunset.
“Look, both my parents died when I was a kid,” I say. “Doctor error.”
“At the same time?” he asks.
“No. My mother after an ER doctor accidentally punctured her lung. A couple years later my father had heart attack while being extubated.”
“How old were they?”
“34 and 39,” I say.
He whistles. “That’s one hell of a case! Did you sue?”
“I was a kid,” I say.
“But your family? They didn’t seek legal recourse?”
“No.”
“Hmm,” he says, studies me for a long, uncomfortable moment.
I feel Fran watch me, too, but won’t look at her now. I feel…raw, irritated, edgy that she would call me out like that. What’s going on? Besides, everyone has some thing. I don’t trust doctors. Period. End of story. But because of this intense distrust, rooted in the past, I ended up working with Rick. Mr. Acupuncture. At the time, I refuse to see my black and white thinking about doctors as an issue. That’s just me, I tell myself. That’s how it is.
Burt goes back to the papers in the file, tugs out my medical report.
“Says here you can’t lift your damn arm,” he says.
“It’s not that bad,” I say, making the same lame excuse.
Burt swipes off his glasses, tosses them on the desk with a clatter. “You got to get yourself fixed up.” He thumbs toward Fran. “Go to the one she’s seeing for some physical therapy. It’s easier on me if you see the same docs—less paperwork. You got to get that arm working. Your injuries are all that matter in a case like this.”
“What about psychological injuries?” Fran asks.
“Like?” Burt asks.
“I’ve been having nightmares,” she says. “I can’t sleep.”
“Really?” I say.
“Really,” she says. A slight angle of her chin.
“How can you have nightmares if you don’t sleep?” Burt asks.
Fran shoots him yet another hard look.
“It’s my job to ask,” he says, opens his meaty hands. “If I don’t, the other side will.”
“I sleep,” Fran says. “Intermittently.”
Burt takes up his pen, writes a few more notes on his legal pad. “Best to get your story straight.”
“It’s not a story,” Fran says, voice tight. “It’s the truth.”
“All right. All right,” he says. “Calm down.”
Telling an already pissed-off person to “calm down” probably isn’t the best idea but Burt seems to have alligator skin. Tossing down the pen, he slides open a side drawer, pulls out two sheets of paper that he skids toward us. We ease to the edges of our chairs. Take one each.
Sitting back, I study what is a contract for representation.
“That’s a big percentage,” Fran says, holding her own copy.
“Standard,” Burt says. “You have copies of all these papers?” he asks me.
“No,” I say. “Those are originals.”
He grunts, shoves into the arm rests of his chair. Stands. “I’ll be right back,” he says, scoops up the file, ambles out of the office. Soon, a copy machine rumbles into action from the front reception area.
Next to me Fran continues to read the contract, expression closed.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I think he’s a jerk,” she says, voice low. “But these ambulance chasers are all the same.”
The copy machine goes quiet. A moment later, Burt ambles back into the office. He passes me the file. Rather than skirt around the island of his desk to sit, he stands before us. Leaning on the edge of his desk, arms crossed, he looks down at us.
“I’m not making any promises,” he says, “but we’ll see how far this can go. Psychological damages included. It could take a long while. A year. Maybe longer. In the interim, keep seeing your doctor. Get better.” He points at me. “See a doctor or two. And get me reports on what you pay out of pocket.”
Bert’s elevator is a two-person situation with mirrors all around. Fran and I stand shoulder to shoulder in an awkward silence.
Fran is draped in an oversized wrap of gray cashmere. A modern day Audrey Hepburn.
“I guess I need the name of your physical therapist,” I say to her reflection in the mirror.
Fran dips into the pocket of her bag, feels around. A moment later, she passes over a business card. Light blue heavy stock paper with gold lettering.
“I. Schleuniger?” I ask.
“Inga,” Fran says, eyes on the passing floor numbers. “Thick accent. I can barely understand her.”
“But she’s good?”
“Good enough.”
The elevator continues its downward crawl. I slip the card into the pocket of my coat.
“Do you want to get a cup of coffee?” I ask. “Something to eat? Great Harvest is a couple blocks away?”
“I’ve got things I need to do,” Fran says. Fast. Abrupt.
“I’ve started back up with the workshop,” I say. “Everyone misses you.”
“I thought you were getting a job at PSU?” she says, glances over at me.
“Well…maybe. I’m not sure. I haven’t heard back.”
The elevator slows as if it might stop. Makes a hard crank sound.
“Until I do hear back, I thought I’d keep the workshops going. When do you think you can come back?” I ask.
“I’m taking a break from all that,” she says. “From everything.”
The elevator clunks to a stop. The doors slide open. Before us, a street level alcove that smells of urine, stale coffee, cigarette butts.
Stepping out, we continue onto the sidewalk. Fran leading. Me following.
“How long of a break?” I ask.
“Indefinitely,” she says over her shoulder, pauses, digs into her bag in search of something. Glasses? Her keys? Her phone?
I cross my arms, shift my weight from one foot to the other, look around. This part of town is mostly office buildings. Glass. Metal. Concrete. A thoroughfare for commuter trains. The river a block away. Finally, I look at her again.
She juggles her keys in her palm.
“I can’t do these workshops alone,” I say. “I mean, I get that you need a break, I just…” I stop, feeling a heaviness in my chest. This is it, I thought at the scene of the accident. And it’s true.
“I suppose I could call that guy at the Tin Pot place,” I say, starting up again. “He told me I could teach for him. They’ve got an infrastructure in place. I’d have to give up my space. Are you sure you can’t come back?”
“I’m going back into therapy,” she says. “I need someone to talk to.”
We are an arm’s length from each other but it feels like she’s miles away.
“You can talk to me,” I say. “We can talk about anything.”
“A professional,” she says, her tone as sharp as with Burt.
I flinch.
“I’m sorry,” Fran says. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m struggling. That’s all.”
The Max Light Rail chimes in the distance. A moment later, it rumbles along the curved tracks. We both watch it, then look at each other. There’s so much to say.
“I’ve got to go,” she says.
“Yeah. Okay,” I say, backing up. “I guess I’ll talk to you later?”
Fran doesn’t say if that will happen or not. With a turn, she hurries away. The click click of her heels on the brick sidewalk.
Up Next:
Chapter Seventeen - Chicken
Returning to the house Rick has finally left—having packed his things and moved in with his cousin—Jennifer believes she has at least six months to get her life back together before making serious property and financial decisions. But now comes a letter from yet another attorney. It seems Rick wants Jennifer to move out…now!