002 – Yvonne

I drive to Yvonne mother’s home through neighborhoods I haven’t been in for years, streets that haven’t changed a bit, one, two, and three family houses, some boarded up, shingled, every one, once a working class neighborhood, now just poor, yards with fences and dogs barking behind them, nobody on the street in daylight.

I stand on the porch and knock at the door of the first floor apartment.  I hear someone coming down the hall on crutches.  “She’s a looker,” Crawford had said to me, but I’m still unprepared for the stark beauty of Yvonne Smith.  A junkie no doubt, probably a sometime whore, twenty-five or six perhaps.  Angry.  Or is it only guarded?  Skinny.  Sexy.  Five foot seven maybe, with gorgeous dark skin, dark eyes, and tight straight hair pulled back in a bun.  A loose black shirt is buttoned up to the middle of her sternum between her breasts.  I see her taught nipples when she leans over on her crutches.  I note the tingling in my lips.  I remember the story a doctor friend told me of how he compulsively peeked down his female patients’ shirts and stared down their blouses even after he’d completed their physical exams.

Yvonne’s wearing impossibly tight jeans cut off below the knee on the right leg so she can get them on over her cast.  Bare footed.  Her toenails are painted red.  The skin on her face glistens.  She wears no makeup.  Her lips are full.  She sticks the tip of her tongue out between them when she’s thinking.  Who is this person, I have the space to wonder.  Where is she from?  What is she really like?

“Come on in mister lawyerman, I thought you’d never come by to visit me.”

“Well, I couldn’t get you to come to my office.  And you said you had to see me or you’d go to another lawyer.  And the court hearing for the fellow who was driving the pickup that ran over you is this Thursday.  And I know you’ve been talking to the people from the district attorney’s office.  And you’re going to give testimony under oath.  So here I am.”

“Come in then.  Let’s go to the kitchen and sit down, please.”

I follow her down an empty hallway, past a closed bedroom door on the right.  There are no posters or pictures on the hallway wall.  The light from the kitchen guides me.

“Pardon the mess.  This here’s my mother.”

“Ma’am.  Pleased to meet you.”

“Same here.”

“Nice little apartment,” I say.

“Oh not really,” says Yvonne’s mother, “but kind of you to say.  I can never get the maintenance people to do anything”

There are so few clients who connect with me on a real level and here are two women who I sense are talking with me as straight as if we were long time friends.

“You want some instant coffee Mr. Benjamin?”

“Please call me Todd.  No thanks.  I really haven’t got a lot of time, but I did bring a copy of the police report and I’d like to go over it with you.”

“Well that’s fine, but I want a coffee.  Say momma would you pour me some hot water please into this cup?”

“Sure, Sugar.”

“Okay, go ahead mister lawyerman, your time is more valuable than mine’s.”

I let that slide.

“Well, here are the police reports,” I say, pulling the folded photocopies from the inner pocket of my suit jacket.  “And here is the interesting part from the first one.  You see here where it says ‘description of accident’ how it says … no better let me read it to you.  ‘Officers on routine patrol in the B104 car receive radio call of woman down on Seaver at Forest.  Twenty-six year old black female in obvious distress laying in roadway crying with manifest ankle injuries.  Victim states she was thrown from truck and tires ran her over.  Called 911.  EMT’s arrived for transport to City Hospital.’”

“Yeah, well that’s what happened.  It did.”

“I believe you, but what I want to focus on here is the phrase ‘victim states she was thrown from truck.’  But before we do that let me also read you what officer Collins said after his visit with you at the hospital.”

“Victim, Yvonne Smith, age 26, states she was waiting for bus when picked up by unknown stranger.  States driver, black male, six one, 180 pounds, 30 years old, light skin, baseball hat, no recalled scars, stopped and offered ride.  Says she wanted to go to Brookside and he headed toward downtown.  Tried to get out and he wouldn’t let her.  Pushed on door of moving vehicle.  Fell out landing on right shoulder and run over by rear tires.  Could ID.”

“Interesting, no?”  I say.  “Because in this report it says, ‘pushed on door of moving vehicle and fell out,’ which makes it hard to place the blame squarely on the driver.”

“Well, but that’s exactly what happened.  I told you.”

“I understand that’s exactly what happened, and I don’t want you to lie, but remember what I told you, that if it wasn’t an accident you won’t recover any money.  If you’re interested in pursuing a criminal complaint it’s one thing, and we would treat that differently, and you wouldn’t need me as your lawyer.  But if what we’re trying to do is recover money then this has to have been an accident.  Now couldn’t you have just leaned against the door and it sprang open and you fell out.”

“Well, that’s exactly what happened.”

“Or maybe you were partially out the door when he accelerated and took off and that caused you to fall.”

“Yeah, well it was like that also.”

“Good.” I say.  And then I say some more.