“Hiya, Michael!” This from Monae, who has come back into the dining room with a raisin bagel slathered with peanut butter.
“Hiya, sweetheart. You taking good care of my pops?”
“Your pops? Sorry, Michael. Christine and me? We’re adopting him.”
Michael laughs. Dr. Rosen laughs. Ceepak and I smile. It’s a regular Hallmark moment.
“And Dad?” says Michael. “Andrew and I have some exciting news to share with you.”
“Oh, really? What is it?”
“Uh, uh, uh. No cheating. I need to tell you this news in person.”
“Very well. Will Andrew be coming with you?”
There is a long pause.
“No, Dad. Andrew is busy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Well, give him my best. I’m sorry we won’t get the chance to see him this trip, but I understand—professional commitments come first.”
“Yes, Dad.”
Okay, I’m not a voice analysis expert, but Michael Rosen doesn’t sound as happy as he did two minutes ago.
“Love you, son,” says Dr. Rosen.
“See you next Friday,” says Michael. And then he must jab a button on his phone because we’re hearing nothing but dial tone.
Dr. Rosen holds out the telephone. Monae takes it.
“It’s this button here, sir. The red one with the little phone picture on it. That turns it off.”
“Thank you, Monae.” Dr. Rosen wheels a couple inches closer to Ceepak and me. “So sorry to keep you fellows waiting. That was my youngest son, Michael. A very important television producer out in Hollywood. Very successful. Six Emmy Awards. Several other professional citations. You’re Adele Ceepak’s son John, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She’s shown me photographs. And let me just say, she is extremely proud of you.”
“And I of her, sir.”
“Attaboy. Good for you. Monae?”
“Yes, Arnie?”
“Have you offered our guests a glass of lemonade or, perhaps, a Stewart’s root beer?”
She turns to us. “You want a root beer or lemonade?”
“No, thank you,” says Ceepak.
I hold up my hand. “I’m good.”
“You want a bagel, Arnie?”
“We have bagels?”
“The policemen brought ’em. They’re warm.”
“Yes, dear. A bagel would be nice.”
Monae leaves again. She has a sassy way of walking out a door. Reminds me of the motion of the ocean.
“So, gentlemen,” says Dr. Rosen, “you are conversant with Christine’s unfortunate situation, I take it?”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“However,” says Ceepak, “to be clear, we are here this morning only as concerned individuals. We are not operating in our official law-enforcement capacities.”
“Of course, of course.” Dr. Rosen shakes his head. “I can’t believe Judge Guarnery signed the TRO. He used to be a patient of mine. Worst overbite I ever saw.”
“Well, sir, the TRO is only the first step in the process. Even when a Temporary Restraining Order is issued under a judge’s signature, there must be a hearing on the complaint within ten days.”
“And do you gentlemen have any suggestions as to how Christine can best prepare for this hearing?”
“It might be advisable for her lawyer to subpoena the police report for the incident in question. Request any and all available evidence gathered at the scene.”
I grin. Ceepak’s hinting at those neck photos I took.
Dr. Rosen sighs. “Her lawyer. Unfortunately, young Miss Lemonopolous is not in a financial position to retain competent counsel. She simply can’t match Mrs. Oppenheimer’s monetary resources. And I can’t loan her the money, as I can’t be seen as taking her side in this matter—not if I wish to keep the peace with my daughter-in-law, Judith.”
“Who’s Mrs. Oppenheimer’s sister,” I say.
“Ah. I see you are aware of my predicament. I do, of course, have several friends at temple who are lawyers, highly respected members of the bar. I myself work with Steven Robins, a senior partner at Bernhardt, Hutchens, and Catherman. However, as I stated, I can’t really assist Christine without incurring the justified wrath of my son’s wife, Judith.”
“We’re thinking about hiring Harvey Nussbaum,” says Ceepak.
Dr. Rosen nods. “An excellent if prohibitively expensive idea.”
“My mother has offered to pay Ms. Lemonopolous’s legal bills.”
“Really? That’s extremely generous. But if I may, why would she be willing to do such a thing?”
I almost say “Because of this antique needlepoint thing her dead aunt gave her,” but I don’t.
“Because,” says Ceepak, “what Mrs. Oppenheimer is attempting to do offends my mother’s innate sense of justice. Mrs. Oppenheimer has to know that if this restraining order sticks, if Christine cannot have it expunged from her record, it will be impossible for her to ever return to her former job at Mainland Medical.”
“You are correct,” says Dr. Rosen. “If Christine loses this fight, her career and, quite possibly, her life will be ruined. It is a mitzvah, what your mother is doing.”
According to my friend, Joe Getzler, a mitzvah is a good deed done from religious duty. And according to Joe, it doesn’t matter which religion, either.
The front door opens.
Christine, smiling brightly, comes into the dining room.
“Ah, Christine!” says Dr. Rosen. “Good news. It seems, my dear, that you have found your guardian angel!”
15
TURNS OUT THAT THE LAW OFFICES OF HARVEY NUSSBAUM AND Associates are open Saturdays for “your convenience.”
In the afternoon, Monae Dunn and her sister Revae, who dropped by for a visit, agree to keep an eye on Dr. Rosen so Christine can go with Ceepak and me to meet her lawyer.
Harvey Nussbaum’s offices are on the second floor of a strip mall on Sea Breeze Drive. The place is sleek and modern, except for the big stuffed bulldog that’s propped on top of the receptionist’s counter. It’s decked out in a black barrister gown and curly white wig.
The walls are decorated with framed newspaper clippings trumpeting Nussbaum’s victories. A former prosecutor, he handled the defense of a New Jersey mayor accused of extorting bribes from a milk broker to help that broker win a school district contract. The mayor got off. The milk broker went to jail. The milk broker did not hire Harvey Nussbaum.
On the other hand, Nussbaum also helped free a prisoner serving a life sentence in the New Jersey State Prison, who had been wrongly convicted of murder based on the evidence of a jailhouse snitch. Nussbaum used new DNA technology, not available at the time of the original trial, and set him free.
Like his slogan says, Harvey Nussbaum takes Wrongs and tries to turn them into Rights. Provided, of course, somebody pays him the right amount of money.
“So, which one of you two gentlemen is Ceepak?”
A short, wiry guy in funky designer glasses flits into the reception area like a hummingbird flapping a sheet of paper. With curly hair, a very high forehead (okay, he’s practically bald), Harvey Nussbaum looks to be about sixty-something. He’s wearing a tweed sport coat, a checked dress shirt, a red silk tie, creased blue jeans, and snazzy black shoes that probably cost more than all the shoes I have ever owned combined.
“I’m Ceepak.”
“You’re the one paying for my services?”
“Actually, my mother, Adele Ceepak, will be assuming the financial responsibility for Ms. Lemonopolous’ defense.”
“She here?”
“No, sir. However, if there is documentation requiring a signature …”
Nussbaum flaps a sheet of paper down on the receptionist’s counter. “This documentation. I will also need a check for three thousand dollars as my nonrefundable engagement fee before I do any more work on Ms. Lemonopolous’ behalf. I’ve already put in three hours since you calle
d.”
“I have my mother’s Power of Attorney.” Ceepak reaches into his back pocket. “As well as a blank check she provided me.”
“Fine, fine, whatever. Sign here. And here.”
Nussbaum pulls a cheap pen out of the pocket of his expensive shirt. Clicks it a couple times before handing it off to Ceepak, who signs where the little sticky flags tell him to sign.
“Okay. Good. Come into my office. Ms. Lemonopolous?”
“Yes, sir?”
“We’re gonna make this Oppenheimer woman pay for what she did to you. When I’m done with her, she’ll make the Boston Strangler look like a choir boy.”
“Oh, I don’t want to hurt Shona …”
“Don’t worry. You won’t have to. I’ll do it for you. Come on.”
And we follow the pit bull into his den.
“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got,” says Nussbaum, flipping through a file folder when we’re all seated around his desk.
I notice our chairs are kind of short. His, behind the desk, looks like it might be on an elevated platform.
Nussbaum takes a photo out of the file. I recognize the shot. It’s one I took of Christine’s bruised and battered neck.
“I called the SHPD right after you people called me. Demanded that they send me the police report of the incident in question, ASAP. They were quite cooperative.”
“As I’m sure you will always find them to be,” says Ceepak.
“Right, right. You two are cops, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In fact,” I say, “I wrote up that police report.”
Nussbaum flips to the front page of the Case Report.
“You’re Boyle? The OIC? Officer in Charge?”
“If I need to leave the room because of any conflict of interest …”
Nussbaum holds up his hand. “Not yet. We’re gonna be subpoenaing you … for the hearing …”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course, I have to wonder why you didn’t arrest Mrs. Oppenheimer for assault and battery when you saw those ligature marks on Ms. Lemonopolous’s neck. Why you checked ‘Review Only’ down here instead of ‘Arrest Warrant.’”
“She claimed self-defense,” says Ceepak, jumping to my defense.
“Come on, boys, don’t piss on my boot and tell me it’s raining. You two have been around the block. You both know your Forensics one-oh-one. So, Officer In Charge Boyle, since when are strangulation marks a sign of self-defense?”
I clear my throat. Nervously. “Mrs. Oppenheimer claimed that she had to hold Christine by the neck to stave off her kicks and punches.”
“What? She couldn’t do what most people do when someone’s whaling on them?” The lawyer holds up both his arms to block his face and body. “How come she didn’t pull a rope-a-dope like Muhammad Ali against George Foreman? Nineteen-seventy-four. The Rumble In The Jungle?”
Okay. I’m feeling pretty dumb. Like maybe I should’ve slapped the cuffs on Mrs. Oppenheimer and dragged her off to jail when we caught that 911 call.
“Is any of this relevant at this juncture?” asks Ceepak.
“Officer Boyle’s incredible SNAFU on the night of the inciting incident?” Nussbaum shrugs. “Nah. You were in a she said/she said situation. The only independent witness was a scared kid, the son of the Sea Haven Strangler. I probably would’ve done the same thing. Break ’em up, send them to separate corners, call it a night. But now that Oppenheimer is coming after Ms. Lemonopolous with the full fury of the law instead of her two fists, now we fight back.”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Okay, Christine. Why’d Mrs. Oppenheimer want to wring your neck?”
Christine takes a moment. Smooths out her pants legs. “We had a disagreement.”
“Yeah, yeah. And you tried to ‘defuse the situation by walking out of the room.’ I read your statement. Nice. Very sweet.”
He makes a “gimme, gimme” gesture with one hand.
“I need more.”
“Well,” says Christine, “I don’t want to cause Shona any trouble …”
“What?” Nussbaum is livid. “This Oppenheimer woman and her high-priced attorney are trying to screw you for life and you don’t want to cause her ‘any trouble’? They got a judge to issue this exparte order, meaning the restraining order is already in effect, because you were going to cause ‘irreparable injury, loss, or damage’ between the time the thing was filed and a hearing. They’re saying just seeing this sheet of paper would make you attack her again.”
“Still …”
“Grow up, Ms. Lemonopolous. Otherwise I’m giving Mrs. Ceepak back her retainer check. I can’t win this thing with one hand tied behind my back.”
Christine closes her eyes. “Okay. But this is pretty horrible.”
16
CHRISTINE IS READY TO TALK.
“Shona Oppenheimer wanted me to, more or less, spy on my other home health care client, Dr. Arnold Rosen.”
“The dentist?” says Nussbaum. “Why?”
“Shona’s sister, Judith, is married to Dr. Rosen’s oldest son, David.”
“And?” He does the gimme-gimme gesture again.
“Shona told Judith to recommend me for the position at her father-in-law’s house.”
“Why?” The lawyer scribbles something on his legal pad.
“They wanted me in Dr. Rosen’s house so I could find out stuff.”
Nussbaum looks like he’s about to turn purple again. “Stuff?”
“Dr. Rosen is a very private man,” Christine explains. “He won’t allow family members to accompany him when he visits his doctors. He also refuses to sign the HIPAA forms that would give medical professionals permission to talk to his children about … anything.”
“Does he let you go into the exam rooms with him?”
“Yes. But only because I’m an RN. And I have to leave if, you know, the doctor puts on a glove and asks Dr. Rosen to …”
Marty give her another spin of his hand. TMI—Too Much Information. Time to move on.
“Judith, that’s Shona’s sister …”
“Yeah, I got that bit.” Nussbaum circles what he had written earlier on the legal pad.
“Judith was worried about her father-in-law’s medical condition. I could understand. I mean, if my parents were ninety-four, I’d want to know everything I could about their health.”
“But Dr. Rosen didn’t want his kids knowing diddly?”
“That’s right. And since he used to be a dentist, he reminded me of my own oath as a nurse. Our code of ethics.”
Ceepak’s eyes light up the way they do whenever somebody else mentions their Code.
“Enlighten me,” says Nussbaum.
“Some people call it the Florence Nightingale Pledge. We all stood up and recited it when I graduated from nursing school. I solemnly swore to ‘hold in confidence all personal matters committed to my keeping and family affairs coming to my knowledge in the practice of my calling.’”
Now Ceepak is nodding like a happy bobble-headed doll.
“So, long story short,” says Nussbaum, “you didn’t do what you were hired to do in Dr. Rosen’s house?”
“Not according to Judith. So, she kept pressuring her sister. Nagging Shona to have me write up reports about Dr. Rosen’s doctor visits. To Xerox any medical records I could find. To feed Judith information.”
“What kind of information?”
“Anything having to do with his health. Physical and—” Christine hesitates. “Mental.”
“What?” says Nussbaum. “You think they wanted him declared mentally incompetent? That way they could ship him off to a nursing home or the nuthouse so they could move into his mansion?”
“Sorry, Mr. Nussbaum,” Christine says with a frown. “I know you’re trying to help me, but I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to speculate about family affairs that came to my knowledge while engaged in the performance of my professional duties.”
“
Agreed,” says Ceepak, who is a stickler about obeying the whole code even when it would be easier to chuck the parts that work against you.
“Okay, okay,” says the lawyer. “Fine. Not important. So why did Shona strangle you that night?”
Christine takes in a steadying breath. “I had just caught her rummaging around in my shoulder bag, looking for medical information about Dr. Rosen, I guess.”
“Did she find anything?”
“Of course not. We keep all those kinds of documents at Dr. Rosen’s house in a locked filing cabinet.”
“So all you were doing the night of the altercation was protecting your patient’s right to privacy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. That’s good. That’s excellent. By the way, how is Arnie doing?”
“Very well. Especially for someone in his nineties.”
“Tell him I said hello.”
“I take it you know Dr. Rosen?” says Ceepak.
Nussbaum smiles. Points to his teeth.
“In this town, who doesn’t? I mean, if you’re a certain age. For years, Dr. Rosen was the dentist in Sea Haven. Capped four of my molars. Even his root canals were painless.” Nussbaum flips through more papers. “This TRO. Who signed this thing, again?”
“Judge Ken Guarnery,” says Ceepak.
“What a putz. My guess? Mrs. Oppenheimer’s late husband, ‘Slick Opie’ Oppenheimer, handled the judge’s investment portfolio back when Guarnery was just a schmuck lawyer, which he was, believe you me. I wouldn’t be surprised if the dearly departed Arthur Oppenheimer bankrolled Kenny Boy’s first run for the bench. My gut tells me the judge owed Mrs. Oppenheimer, big time. Why else would the yutz sign this thing? Okay. Now you two boys in blue need to leave. My client and I have to talk. In private.”
After Christine finishes up with her lawyer, we shuttle her back to Beach Lane.
“Do you need to be anywhere right now?” Ceepak asks, once Christine is back inside the house with Dr. Rosen.
“Nope,” I say.
Yes, it’s Saturday, around 5 P.M. and, once again, I have no date. Maybe, once this restraining order dealio is done, I should follow up on Mrs. Ceepak’s advice. Ask Christine out.
“Rita is working the Early Bird dinner shift at Morgan’s Surf and Turf,” says Ceepak, explaining why he isn’t rushing home. “I’d like to swing by the boardwalk. Check out the Free Fall. Make certain they are obeying our shutdown order.”