Chris Grabenstein - Free Fall

“Ah, Officer Boyle!” Dr. Rosen says when he sees me. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

“I just wanted to see how Christine was holding up. Tomorrow’s the big day.”

“I’m good, Danny,” she says. “Thanks.”

“By the way, sir-I like your new wheelchair out front.”

Dr. Rosen shakes his head. “I told Monae to put that thing in the garage. Frivolous waste of money. But that, I’m afraid, is my youngest son, Michael. Never very frugal or practical. You’ll see.”

I just nod.

Hey, I have my own family crap to deal with. I don’t need any extra from the Rosens. So, I change the subject.

“Is that your grandson?” I ask, gesturing at the closest jumbo sized portrait of the shaggy-haired boy.

“Indeed. That’s Little Arnie.”

“They named him after you?”

“Yes, Officer Boyle. He is my living legacy. Quite a smile, don’t you think? All natural. Didn’t even need braces or a retainer like his father did when he was a boy.”

“Good-looking kid.”

“Quite the athlete-scholar, as well. I suspect he has the smarts to get into my old alma mater, U Penn Dental School.” Dr. Rosen shakes his head, remembering something unpleasant. “His father, on the other hand, did not.”

“Well, like I said, I, uh, just wanted to drop by and wish Christine good luck. Can’t really do it tomorrow when I’m in uniform, in court …”

“Officer Boyle,” says Dr. Rosen, “I wonder if you might convey a message to your friend, Detective Ceepak?”

“Sure.”

“Kindly inform him that what his mother has done, rushing in to assist Christine, a woman she barely knows, has inspired me.”

“She’ll be happy to hear it, sir.”

“In fact, I hope to, one day, replicate her generosity with some spontaneous act of kindness of my own.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now then, are you prepared for tomorrow, Officer Boyle?”

“I think so. My job in court is pretty easy. I just have to recite the facts as I recall them.”

“Take care, Officer Boyle. I have received top-secret intelligence from the enemy camp: according to Judith, her sister has engaged a young gun by the name of Stan Trybulski to plead her case to the court.”

“I’m not worried. Christine has Harvey Nussbaum.”

“Indeed she does. However, Mr. Trybulski, who is perhaps half Mr. Nussbaum’s age, already commands four hundred dollars per billable hour.”

Friday morning, I’m in court, feeling like a marinated pork butt because I’m just waiting to be grilled by Stan Trybulski, Shona Oppenheimer’s high-priced young attorney.

I appear to be the only witness waiting to testify. I don’t see Shona’s son, Samuel, or anybody else.

Harvey Nussbaum and Christine Lemonopolous are seated at the defendant’s table. He’s in a snazzy suit with a bright red handkerchief tucked into the chest pocket. Christine is wearing her nurse’s scrubs.

Shona Oppenheimer and her attorney, whose suit looks even more expensive than Harvey’s, are at the plaintiff’s table. Judge Ken Guarnery is perched up on the bench, looking very imposing in his black robes.

The Plaintiff gets to go first.

“Your honor,” says Trybulski. “My client, Mrs. Shona Blumenfeld Oppenheimer, a well respected member of this community …”

The judge actually nods and smiles at Shona Oppenheimer. She smiles back. It’s like they’re at a champagne reception raising money for Judge Guarnery’s next political campaign.

Christine doesn’t stand a chance.

“… Mrs. Oppenheimer not only employed the defendant, Christine Lemonopolous, as a home health aide to care for her son, she also provided Ms. Lemonopolous with room and board, making her a de facto member of the Oppenheimer household.”

Nussbaum looks like he’s about to object, but he doesn’t.

“On the evening of June 7th, Ms. Lemonopolous attacked Mrs. Oppenheimer.”

This time, Nussbaum pops up. “Objection. Does the plaintiff have any proof to substantiate her assertion?”

“Of course, your honor,” says Trybulski. “It is all spelled out, right there in the Restraining Order form as specified …”

“That’s not proof. That’s just her side of the story.”

“We also have the police report.”

Harvey flips open a file folder on the table in front of him. “You mean this police report? The one with the photographs?”

“The photographs are irrelevant,” says Trybulski. “The responding officers failed to document Mrs. Oppenheimer’s shin injuries and limited their intake of evidence to dramatized depictions of Ms. Lemonopolous’s bruised neck.”

“Well, that’s what I would have done, too,” says Harvey. “If I was a cop and saw someone getting strangled …”

“Enough,” says the judge. “Objection overruled. The defendant will be given ample opportunity to present evidence supporting her version of events later in this proceeding.”

“Yes, your honor. And I promise, when it’s our turn, we won’t just do a read-aloud of some form we filled out.”

“Harvey?”

“I’m just saying, your honor.” He sits back down.

The judge turns to the plaintiff’s table. Smiles again. “Please proceed, counselor.”

“Thank you, your honor. Now, as you know, what is most important in a hearing such as this, is establishing that my client is in immediate need of the protection that would be provided by the permanent restraining order.”

Here the lawyer turns to her client.

“Mrs. Oppenheimer, can you tell us why you fear further violence from Ms. Lemonopolous?”

“Certainly,” says Shona, sitting up straight in her chair, just like they probably rehearsed it. “Because Christine is a ticking time bomb. She has what they call ‘PTSD.’ Post Traumatic Stress Disease.”

“Do you mean Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?” coaches her lawyer.

“Yes. Christine is extremely prone to angry outbursts and crazy flashbacks.”

Harvey stands. “Objection, your honor.”

Judge Guarnery gets a squeamish look on his face and says, oh so politely, “Mrs. Oppenheimer, this is a very serious accusation. Do you have evidence to substantiate your claim?”

“Sure. I talked to a doctor friend and he told me …”

“Hearsay, your honor,” says Harvey, tossing up both his arms.

“Yes. I’m afraid we can’t admit hearsay evidence, Shona. Objection sustained.”

“Your honor,” says Trybulski, her lawyer, “those with PTSD engage in self-destructive behavior such as alcohol abuse and …”

“Whoa,” says Harvey. “Again with the PTSD?”

“Did you have difficulty understanding my ruling, Mr. Trybulski?” asks the judge, sounding like a kindly old uncle. “If so, I would be happy to elucidate …”

“No, that’s okay,” says Trybulski. “Allow me to rephrase.”

“Kindly do.”

“My client desperately needs the protection this restraining order will provide because she is currently living her life in constant fear of what Ms. Lemonopolous might do next. Need I remind you: Ms. Lemonopolous is a highly trained medical professional. She understands the pharmacology of drugs. She knows how to hurt people. She is a menace to my client.”

Trybulski strides to his chair. Sits down.

“Is that it?” asks the judge.

“Yes, your honor. For now.”

“Would the defense care to cross-examine the plaintiff?”

“Well, let’s see,” Harvey says sarcastically. “They presented so much evidence. Where to start? Oh, how about the police report. Nothing much in there. She said one thing, my client said another. The plaintiff’s son couldn’t tell who started what. Oh, right. The pictures. But you can look at those yourself, your honor.”