Ridge wanted to decline the offer as the waste of time it would inevitably be, but he had a duty to Uncle Cho and the court to at least explore settlement. So, what the hell.
“When and where?” said Ridge.
“How about next Monday evening? A drink, just one drink. Say at a bar near you?”
“My office is about a block from the Il Forno Italian Restaurant. Has a quiet bar on the left as you get inside. What time?”
“Say 6 p.m.? I’ll bring along my senior associate on the case, Sasha Kachingski. She knows the facts.”
“Sasha who?” asked Ridge.
“Kachingski. Like the sound of money—Ka Ching—with a ski at the end.”
“OK. 6 p.m.,” Ridge said, shaking his head. “See you there.”
Ridge hung up and Kate appeared in his office doorway. “Kate, before I forget, please calendar a 6 p.m. meeting next Monday on the Pao case with attorney John Gryme of Words & Gryme at Il Forno. And Google him. Get me some background on him and his firm. And oh yes…a senior associate named Sasha Kachingski—like the sound of money with a ski at the end. Ask Terry for help if you need it.”
“OK. But Eric, I’ve got something important to tell you. Judge Sayor in Phoenix just issued his decision, on the Boyle Motion, in our ejection seat case.”
“Already?”
“Yes. And we lost. He threw the case out!”
“Shit.” Ridge was flabbergasted—which didn’t occur often to ‘Mr. Never-Let-Em-See-You-Sweat.’ But by rights, plaintiffs should have won. Ridge couldn’t understand it. God. They had the law. The facts. Even emotion on their side. “OK. Go ahead and forward me the opinion. Can’t wait to read the sucker.”
After twice reviewing each and every word of the written opinion, Ridge remained, well, flabbergasted. Didn’t even seem to be written by Judge Sayor, who Ridge knew from other attorneys and from reading his earlier decisions to be a thorough, thoughtful judge. The opinion was fragmented, full of errors, and to be kind, totally illogical. Seemed the decision was made first, then someone pieced together just barely enough reasons to justify it. It invited appeal. But just the same, it was what it was. The case had been dismissed.
Ridge called his client, the widow of Lieutenant James, and gave her the bad news. He promised he would file the appeal right away. Wanda James, as always, sounded gracious. But Ridge could tell from her voice, she was heartbroken. When Ridge hung up with Wanda, he called his associates and key paralegal into his office. They immediately started planning the appeal. This was wrong. It had to be fixed. And, no doubt about it, it was a clear abuse of justice.
After his staff left the office, Ridge sat, stared at his pen, and wondered aloud, “This stinks to high heaven. What the hell caused Sayor to do this?”
CHAPTER 33
Late Friday afternoon, Ridge had to disappear. The day was getting to him. So, at 4 p.m., he called Kate from the parking lot. “I forgot about a personal meeting outside the office. I’m running late, but if you need me, call my cell.” Before Kate could ask questions, he added, “Have a terrific weekend.”
That worked. Always positive—or at least always trying to be positive—she said, “You too! Take it easy now.”
“Roger that.” He cut the call and jumped into Jayne’s Infiniti, borrowed for the day, and headed to Santa Monica. Earlier, with a pit in his stomach, Ridge had called the psychiatrist on the card from the hospital. He’d promised the hospital shrink he’d follow-up and complete the head-injury protocol, and his two weeks to get it done had run out. He hated the very idea of it, but had to admit that maybe, just maybe, a session with a psychiatrist could do some good. Might help with the flashbacks or migraines. Either way, it was a twofer. He’d complete the protocol and her nurse had agreed to remove his stitches.
Dr. Peters kept her office in a white low-profile medical building along 20th Street in Santa Monica. Near St. John’s Hospital. Ridge pulled into underground parking and took the elevator to the lobby level. Crossing a courtyard full of bright yellow and orange flowers, including some terrific Birds of Paradise, he worked his way to the next set of elevators. After checking the building directory, Ridge exited the elevator on the sixth floor, and found a bronze wall with water slowly cascading down into a narrow trough built into the floor. Calming. By design, no doubt.
A few minutes later, peeking at his watch, Ridge signed in with the receptionist. 5 p.m. Right on time. “Good start,” he mumbled and then told himself to stop talking to himself.
After a short wait, he was ushered in to see the nurse and was thankful that removal of his stitches turned out to be a piece of cake. Now for the hard part, he thought, as the nurse showed him into the doctor’s office.
Dr. Peters got up from her desk, a large glass table with shiny steel legs, and extended her hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ridge. Marilyn Peters. I see you were referred by Redondo Memorial to finish up your head-injury protocol. Great to meet you.”
In her late 40s, Dr. Peters stood about 5-foot 9 in heels and had long brown hair pulled up in a sleek, professional-looking bun. With an attractive face featuring eyes the color of almonds and a pleasant smile, she wore a stylish black pants suit and a white silk ruffled blouse under her jacket.
“Hi.” Ridge shook her hand and asked where he should sit—in one of the black leather chairs in front of her desk or in one of the two modern armchairs to the right? The armchairs were positioned catty-cornered to one another, and Dr. Peters seemed headed there.
“Oh, I’m just getting some tea,” she said as she pointed toward a server table beyond the armchairs. “Sit where you’ll be most comfortable. Some tea, coffee?”
“Coffee, black, would be super.” Ridge took the nearest chair in front of her desk. Keeping his distance couldn’t hurt and the ocean view in the window behind her desk was calming. By design, no doubt.
As she took her seat, she put her tea and Ridge’s coffee on coasters, perfectly positioned on the glass desktop which was empty except an open laptop computer, a small flower vase with one red rose, and two carefully placed stacks of white paper, a notepad and three professional journals. “Your wound looks great,” she said. “Hardly any scarring. And that will only get better over time.”
He nodded. “But there’s more to this protocol than a look at my stitches.”
Peters pursed her lips then smiled. “Right. Yes. I reviewed the forms you filled out at the hospital. We just need this interview to complete the protocol.”
“OK. Ready, willing, able.”
“Let me start with—your age?”
“Early fifties.” It wasn’t that Ridge didn’t want to own his age, just that he didn’t see the need for the shrink to know it to a specific date and time.
The doc tilted her head. “You look younger.”
“Good genes. Got ’em at Tommy Bahama.”
Peters’ eyebrows rose. “Well, your sense of humor is intact, more or less. But look, I have good news. Your tests came back fine. Relax. We just need to complete this interview.”
“I thought you said good news.”
“Funny. Look, what I want to do is follow up on a few notes from the hospital. The first says you’re a combat veteran. The second documents a restless night at the hospital.”
