Page 50 of The Session

“Well, you didn’t leak it,” Mark assured her.

“The district attorney doesn’t quite buy that, and it makes me look bad. It looks like I don’t have control of the case.”

“Oh, it makes you look bad,” Mark shot back.

“Sorry, that’s not what I meant,” Needleman said, clearly realizing that for the last several weeks Mark had been going through hell. “It just puts us in a vulnerable position. The more public you are, the bigger ‘sue me’ flag you’re holding up, and the district attorney is put into an uncomfortable position because the police narrative is blowing up now, and they look even worse.”

“I lost my job and my livelihood. I had to step away from the athletic association,” he told her. “I had to clean up vomit and piss and those goddamn adult diapers—a job I hadn’t had to do since I was seventeen—because nobody could see my side of the story. The true story. And maybe the smart move was to stay quiet, not say anything, and hope I got ignored. But that’s not how things played out.”

“If you try to play the hero, it’s only going to put a target on your back,” Needleman warned.

“A target on my back? I took a literal bullet, and all I got was a cold shoulder and a fuck-you!”

“This complicates things,” she said quietly.

“Can I tell you what I think? I’m not a legal expert, okay? Let me make that very clear. But your job and my job are very different. You look at your job as keeping me out of the courtroom or making sure we win, which is great. But what you don’t think about is what that costs me. You’re worried about pissing off a judge or something I say being brought up in court to complicate the work you have to do, which I get—downstream, it affects me. But there’s another cost I don’t think people like you understand, and it’s reputation. Because we’re in a different world now. And no matter what happens—whether I get sued or not sued—if my story isn’t out there, ten years from now, five years from now, somebody googles me, they’re going to see their story. And it won’t matter what the outcome of the case was, because that’s all that’ll matter.”

“But what if you’re broke, Mark? Or you can’t be a paramedic again?” Needleman asked.

“I am broke. And if I never set foot inside an ambulance again, so be it. That was never my ambition to begin with.”

“God knows I can understand why you’re bitter,” Needleman replied.

Mark took a deep breath. “I’m not bitter, Vera. I’m realistic.”

“If you no longer need my services, let me know,” Needleman said.

“Everything is happening pretty fast. Can you give me a couple days?”

“Sure, Mark. Just be careful,” she said.

Mark hung up the phone and tore into his cheeseburger. He was three bites in before he lifted the bun and examined the ingredients.

He pressed the concierge button on the telephone resting on the side table to his right.

“How can I help you, Mr. Greenley?” a chipper female voice at the other end said.

“Where is this hamburger from?” Mark asked.

“Chef’s Roadhouse,” she replied.

That was Mark’s favorite burger joint in Georgia.

“I don’t suppose there’s one in Miami,” Mark said.

“Not that I’m aware of. This is from the one near your apartment,” the concierge replied.

Mark wasn’t sure how you calculated a carbon footprint, but this one was Godzilla-size.

“Did they fly just the burger in for me?”

“No, of course not. We also ordered pizzas from Tomsoni’s and burritos from Cali Kitchen,” the concierge told him.

Mark leaned back on the sofa, closed his eyes, and shook his head.

“For future reference, I’m happy to eat locally. And anything you all brought, please help yourself and whoever else is there. I’m not going to be able to eat it tonight.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Greenley. For what it’s worth, we’re partnered with a medical courier service and do these kinds of flights all the time,” the concierge assured him.