How I Rescued My Brain (21 page)

Then, a few weeks ago, the developer called us out of the blue. He apologised, saying that he hadn't intended things to get adversarial: his hands had been tied by his overseas bank after he had defaulted on his development loan. But now he had the bank's authority to offer us a substantial reduction in price. Many purchasers were defaulting, and the dreadful market conditions were making it impossible for them to get finance. I told him that we might've been able to accept his offer when I spoke with him last year, but our cash reserves had since been swallowed by legal fees, loan repayments, and living costs. He said he couldn't help us any further, and, giving his lawyers a blast, complained that the fees they were charging him were outrageous. He added that he was madly trying to sell his own properties to maintain the payments on his development loan.

We were at a stalemate. I could only conclude that we would be sued by the developer for damages.

I am here, in the offices of this major law firm, because I am fighting over money, which Anna and I will need even more acutely if the developer does sue us. I had asked my income-protection insurer to backdate my claim from the date I had actually stopped work: two years before I lodged the claim. With legal costs, and large ongoing loan repayments to make each month, Anna and I needed more funds. But the insurer didn't accept my request, saying that I had not sought the advice of a medical practitioner in my treatment prior to making the claim.

This was true, in a sense. I had ‘referred' myself to a clinical psychologist, Wayne. If I had asked my GP to write a referral letter for Wayne, I would have been following the advice of a medical practitioner, but I hadn't thought it necessary to do so. Although I had sought the advice of my former colleague, Ian, the insurer saw this as an ‘informal arrangement' that did not meet their definition of ‘under the direction of a medical practitioner'.

To force the insurer's hand, I sought the assistance of two lawyers, Simon and Andrew. They were confident of achieving a positive outcome, and we filed a statement of claim in the Supreme Court. We are here today, nine months after filing, at the invitation of the insurer's lawyer, to try to reach a negotiated settlement. If we don't settle today, we will do battle at a court hearing in two months' time, but Anna and I will not hold out financially for another two months.

My lawyers arrive. Simon is the solicitor. He has a hale and hearty manner, ginger hair, and a stocky build. Then there's Andrew: tall and lean, with a conservative coiffure and the intellectual manner of a barrister. He makes an effort to be friendly, in a self-conscious way. He's dressed in an impeccable black suit and emits measured assurance.

Andrew gives me a rundown of what he's expecting for the morning, and he sounds confident. He's like a sports coach giving final instructions before the game. ‘I'll do the talking. You don't need to say anything. If it gets too uncomfortable during the conference, you can excuse yourself and leave the room.'

‘I'd like to be present,' I tell him.

He thinks that today will be procedural, and we'll have a settlement by the day's end. ‘We're here to support you. We're on your side,' he reassures me.

Off either side of the waiting area are two conference rooms. Andrew talks to the woman with the perfect hair, comes back, and directs us into the conference room to the receptionist's right. There is a jug of chilled water here too — this time set unceremoniously on the kitchenette sink — and now I am too thirsty for mental games of defiance, so I help myself to a glass. As we stand by the kitchenette, marking time, I can see through the open door into the reception area. I hear the sound of the lift doors open, and out walks the man I suspect is my support person, Craig, although I haven't met him yet — we've only spoken over the phone.

Craig has worked in the life-insurance business and knows my policy inside out. I wanted him to come today and explain, in non-legal terms, what is happening and to help me with the decisions I will need to make. Since the stroke, complex decision-making has become terrifying; and, although I have no particular reason to distrust Simon and Andrew, over the last year I've developed a dislike for lawyers. Craig is dressed in a suit, and has a few curious features: a small stud in his left ear that shines like a diamond, rakish hair, and a pink tie that doesn't coordinate with anything else he is wearing. The other noticeable feature is his physicality: he's big, with the chest of a bull. I'd say he is in his fifties, both fit and strong.

Andrew has been looking at his watch off and on, and, once Craig has introduced himself, says, ‘What's going on? We were meant to start the meeting at ten o'clock. It's now ten twenty-five. They've had weeks to prepare for today. What are they playing at?'

We wait another five minutes or so, and then Simon gets a call. I think it's about the case, so my ears prick up when his voice gets noticeably louder. But instead I hear him say, ‘Well, when I put the washing on the line this morning, it wasn't raining. I can't predict when it's going to rain. What do you expect me to do about it? I'm in Sydney … Look, I'll see you tonight.' He snaps his phone shut and says to none of us in particular, ‘She expects me to be a weather forecaster!'

Finally, there is movement from the conference room opposite. The door opens and out comes a thin man with a beaked nose and heavy, square glasses. He says he is Mr Tsanov, the barrister engaged by the insurer. Simon introduces each of us in turn, and we shake hands. Tsanov gives me a second's worth of eye-gaze — no smile — and a short hello in a plummy, resonant voice. Following in his wake is a woman who almost curtsies in deference behind him, and who is introduced as the insurer's in-house lawyer. Her expression when introduced to me is sympathetic; I wish we were dealing directly with her instead.

All six of us sit at the long conference table. I am at the head, with Tsanov to my left, and his assistant lawyer in the next chair along. Andrew is off to my right, with Simon the furthest away. My large support person sits in the wedge of space between Andrew and me. Tsanov has insisted that if Craig is to be present during the conference, he is not allowed to speak. We have no choice but to accept this condition.

The barristers square off with each other, and although it is an informal conference, I can see them mentally putting on their wigs and gowns, adjusting themselves to sit taller in their chairs. Tsanov searches silently, unhurriedly — all eyes on him — through a folder of documents resting on the table. Then he leans forward, as if seeking intimacy (his tie bent by the edge of the table, eye contact only with Andrew), and, without any preliminaries, asks, ‘What is your client's position … what is he seeking?'

Henceforth, I become invisible.

Andrew refers to a sheet of paper, naming each item in my claim, like an old-fashioned greengrocer with a list on a notepad, written with a pencil grabbed from behind his ear. Unpaid monthly benefits from this date to that date, interest, costs, refund of paid premiums, and interest on interest. He cites the dollar amount of each item, and finally, looking to Mr Tsanov as if expecting immediate payment, announces the grand total. Tsanov gives this summation a moment's disdainful consideration, bows his head to look at his documents again, and the real tussle begins.

I have already decided that I will tune out during most of the conference and maintain a look of equanimity. I think I know how this game is played, based on stories from past clients and from television shows: the other side's lawyer tries to agitate you, needle you, and catch you out in some way.

‘Your client's claim has a number of flaws, I'm afraid,' Mr Tsanov begins. His tone sounds reasonable, even considerate, but the import of what he is saying has a growing malevolence about it.

‘To suggest that Doctor Somerville, a clinical psychologist, is a medical doctor is absurd. I've looked at the registration requirements for medical practitioners in this state …' he intones. He's referring to Wayne. I reassure myself that Andrew will deal with all this. As Tsanov continues, I notice the thinness of his long neck, with its protruding Adam's apple that moves skittishly as he speaks. Along with his small head and the thick glasses that magnify his eyes, I can't help but imagine a turkey. As I mentally withdraw from attending to the meaning of his words, his speech begins to sound like the
gobble, gobble
of a turkey.

I build a life story for Turkey Neck. I imagine that he attended a private boys school, spending his lunchtimes in the library looking up reference or special-interest books. He was probably a member of the chess club, and no doubt excelled on the debating team. Now I'm receiving the brunt of his debating skills. With his slight frame, average height, and glasses, I imagine he avoided the parts of the school playground where the sporty boys hung out. I envision that basketballs, thrown ‘accidentally', would some-times hit him on the side of the head, knocking off and breaking his glasses, and they would need to be patched up with tape until he made it home and got his spare pair, his parents resigned to ongoing optometry bills.

Now, Turkey Neck is looking and sounding like an old-time headmaster chastising his pupils: so confident, so superior. He is taking my legal team to task. ‘Of course, the logic of your argument is ridiculous. Doctor Roland has clearly managed his own affairs and has not relied on a medical practitioner's directions at all. He didn't even mention his condition to his GP for at least a year and a half, and yet consulted him on a number of occasions for other ailments.' As he says this, I see him, out of the corner of my eye, glance towards me, as though to determine if his remark has provoked a reaction from me. I remain impassive.

‘I don't want to insult Doctor Roland's intelligence,' he says, and then goes on to detail — in that tone of reasonableness — how unintelligent I have been.

What's going on? This is supposed to be a negotiation. Andrew had told me that we were invited to a
settlement
conference; he didn't say it was going to be adversarial. But Turkey Neck is having a good old poke at my claim, and is barbecuing my legal team in the process. He rummages around in our box of arguments, picks up each one, and holds it at arm's length with pinched fingers, as if saying,
You mean this is an argument, this fragment?
and then drops it back into the box. I feel like squeezing his turkey neck.

My team looks off-colour. Andrew spits out short retaliations now and then, and occasionally rises to launch a salvo. But I can see that he is rattled, and his retorts are smothered by Turkey Neck's words. He is leaning back in his chair, like someone facing a barking dog. Simon, although not directly in the line of Turkey Neck's assault, exhibits similar body language.

Turkey Neck refers to a letter that apparently says something that disadvantages my case. Simon says, ‘Oh, I'm not sure I've seen that.' He flaps through his folder of documents, the size of the city telephone directory, as if somehow the offending page will float out — magically, as in
Harry Potter
— into his hands. After a few minutes of flapping, he says, ‘I can't seem to find it. I'm not sure that we've received that.'

At this, Turkey Neck's expression seems to say,
I thought as much … total incompetence
.

As my confidence in my legal team wanes, I let go of the idea of strangling Turkey Neck — it's stirring up a disconcerting feeling of anguish. I tune out again. As far as Turkey Neck is aware, I remain unmoved, staring out the window at the end of the room. Fortunately, I can see a large patch of perfect blue sky. In my mind, it becomes the blue of the ocean. I am swimming in the bay near home. I can see turtles and fish, and feel the sand, gritty in my bathers, as I stand up in the surf after being tossed around by breakers while coming into shore. My friends are there, the sun is out, and I feel all right.

I'm brought back when I hear the barristers declaring that they'll take a break and have a private conference because ‘Doctor Roland is probably tired out'. I do welcome this, and the barristers and solicitors trundle off to the other conference room while I'm left alone with Craig.

Craig says that he is not in favour of adversarial tactics: it puts the insurer offside. Taking the insurer to court, as I have, makes them less willing to negotiate. But I did not have his advice before. He acknowledges that there's no point in dwelling on it. He suggests a compromise, which sounds reasonable to me. I agree, and make a note to discuss it with Simon and Andrew.

But before they come back, I change the topic of conversation. I'm sick of talking about legal complexities, and I'd like to get to know a bit about Craig. Somehow, he gets onto telling me that he is a Remote Area Firefighting Team volunteer. I haven't heard of this before. ‘It's a specialist unit with the Rural Fire Service. We go where normal fire vehicles can't get in. We're dropped in by helicopter.' He explains how they set up new fire fronts to fight the existing one.

‘What sort of training do you need for this?' I ask.

He says that because they fly in helicopters, they need to be prepared to land in water. The fire service has a metal compartment the size of a helicopter cabin, and they drop this into the swimming pool used at the Sydney Olympics. When a helicopter lands in water, it can turn upside down, so to prepare for this, the volunteers are strapped into the compartment before it is dropped into the water upside down. They don't have oxygen tanks, so they rely on holding their breath while they extricate themselves from the compartment and swim to the surface.