Free Fall

18

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.”

“I already have.”

“So, okay, this PTSD thing.”

“You don’t have to go there, Mr. Nussbaum. I have already stricken Ms. Oppenheimer’s unsubstantiated remarks from the record.”

“Thanks. But let’s say, hypothetically, an emergency-room nurse did wind up with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder right after her best friend in the world was horribly murdered. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that this same hypothetical nurse realized what was happening to her and went to her employers to ask for a long-term leave of absence.

“Furthermore, let’s say the folks at, oh, let’s call the hypothetical hospital Mainland Medical, thought so highly of this young trauma nurse that they helped her find a in-house treatment program, which everyone agreed would be kept strictly confidential, thereby putting it under the protection of the federal government’s HIPAA Privacy Rules.

“How could anybody but the hypothetical nurse and her hypothetical doctors even know about this hypothetical incident? Unless, of course, somebody, let’s say another hypothetical doctor, maybe a hypothetical plastic surgeon, whose favorite customer was a hypothetical woman named Mrs. Oppenheimer, violated the young nurse’s privacy rights as stipulated under the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996.”

Harvey stops.

The courtroom is stone cold quiet.

“I’m just sayin’, your honor,” he adds with a shrug. “Hypothetically.”

I never take the stand.

Judge Guarnery has no choice but to toss out the temporary restraining order. He totally expunges its existence from Christine’s record. He even suggests that Mrs. Oppenheimer “have a little chat” with her “hypothetical” plastic surgeon friend and advise him to obtain legal counsel, as he could be brought up on charges for his “flagrant violation” of HIPAA regulations.

I guess the whole PTSD deal was one of the things Christine and Harvey Nussbaum chatted about last Saturday after Ceepak and I left the room. Ceepak could relate. When he first came home from the horror show over in Iraq, my partner had been prone to nightmares. Especially when he was awake and someone set off fireworks, like an M-80 tossed into a dumpster.

The second we’re outside the courtroom, Christine jumps into my arms to give me a big hug. Full disclosure? She does, indeed, have a great bod.

“Where’s Mr. Ceepak and his mom? I want to thank them, too!”

“Um, they’re both kind of busy. The Free Fall opens tomorrow.”

“Huh?”

Christine is confused. Can’t blame her. What I just said makes absolutely no sense.

Unless, of course, you know that skeevy Joe Ceepak is coming to town.