Lucky Leonardo by Jonathan D. Canter Page B

course, unless you tell me you’re about to kidnap somebody…”
    â€œWell, I think you met my brother-in-law last week, Hal Eisenberg?”
    â€œYes. I did. Attorney Eisenberg. At the housing court.”
    â€œHow did that go?”
    â€œMy guy did OK.”
    â€œHow did Hal do?”
    â€œDr. Cook, you’re not bound by the same confidentiality as I am. If I said he was unprepared and a blowhard you could go right back and tell him I said so, and that would be embarrassing.”
    â€œHe recommended you, inadvertently, by telling me you were busting him.”
    â€œI appreciate the compliment. I try to do a professional job on all my cases, big and small. That’s how I market myself. Have you dealt with many lawyers?”
    And so it went for close to an hour, with Leonardo asking for her story, but basically telling his own, starting with his divorce, his ex-wife, his son, his custody rights, his payment obligations, his lawyer, her lawyer, the judge, the second judge, what he tried to do as a psychiatrist, what he thought about pills and insurance companies, blah, blah, blah, getting around to when Brockleman called him with a crisis on a pleasant fall afternoon when he already had a tee time which he wished with all his heart he hadn’t canceled.
    A tear came to his eye at this juncture. A tear? How come a tear? A long time between tears. I am definitely engaged in a new and worrisome internal dialog, manifested by an array of symptoms…and I can’t seem to get them to shut up. He looked around for a tissue. In his office there were always tissues. In Abigail’s office there was a slightly soiled Starbucks napkin under a plastic cup containing the remains of a mocha frappuccino. Like she wasn’t prepared for tears. Like she had other priorities. She handed him the napkin.
    â€œDid you bring the papers?” she asked as he dabbed.
    Leonardo pulled them out and handed them over.
    â€œMartin Drunkmiller represents the plaintiffs,” she said at first glance.
    â€œIs that good or bad?” Leonardo asked.
    â€œI know him,” she answered as she hunkered down with the papers, taking her time, running her finger over each page, flipping to the next, occasionally nodding, occasionally furrowing her brow, occasionally biting her lower lip, all of which Leonardo experienced as a physical exam where he rolled on his side and let the doctor stick a lubricated finger up his asshole. Tumors? Pain? Humiliation? What do you think, doc?
    â€œDr. Cook,” she said at last, “I think the plaintiffs—the Binhs—will have preemption problems with some of their tort claims, because of worker compensation exclusivity, and they’ll probably have causation and credibility problems, but my preliminary assessment is that unless the company is motivated to settle quickly, and puts real money on the table, this thing will be around for a while.”
    â€œIt’s all lies.”
    â€œDr. Cook, it can take a lot of time and effort to disprove lies. Besides, is it a lie that there’s a seriously-injured guy?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œA seriously-injured guy gets a chance to make his case. That’s how it works. I don’t think a judge will throw it out before discovery is completed, if then. I wouldn’t be surprised if the discrimination claims and the fraud claims get to the jury.”
    â€œHow long?”
    â€œTwo years, three years, or longer depending on how much of a pissing contest it becomes, and this, Dr. Cook, looks like it could become a major league pissing contest. I bet these boys will line up and piss at each other until their pissers run dry.”
    â€œWhat about me?”
    â€œYou, Dr. Cook, should bring an umbrella.”
    Leonardo winced.
    â€œIf the plaintiffs win against DeltaTek,” Abigail went on, “maybe they win against you too. Maybe DeltaTek indemnifies you. Maybe your insurance covers you.