Finding Isadora(43)

“So you do pro bono work for the folks who can’t pay?” Grace asked.

“Sure, though most people want to pay something, even if it’s only a few dollars. It’s a matter of self-respect. Or they’ll provide some kind of service instead. I get free meals at half a dozen restaurants, which works great considering I’m a pitiful cook.”

“I’m guessing some of your clients are sex trade workers,” Jimmy Lee said, a twinkle in his eye.

Gabriel laughed. “Oh, yeah. I’ve lost count of the freebies I’ve been offered by them. Usually I’m fine with the barter system, but that’s where I draw the line.”

“Barter?” I said. He really was the most unbusinesslike man. Grace and Jimmy Lee were big on barter—or at least they had been until one of their friends got audited by Canada Revenue. “That can get you in trouble with the tax people,” I pointed out. “If you trade goods or services rather than pay cash, you’re supposed to report the value as income and pay income tax on it.”

“Yeah.” He studied my face, no doubt reading the censure on it.

After a moment, he went on in a measured tone. “You’re right. And I don’t want to get myself disbarred, so I’m careful about recording everything. My time, my bills, the value of goods and services I receive, any markdowns or write-offs I decide on. When it comes to income tax, I’m clean as a whistle.”

I was as surprised by what he’d said as by the fact he’d actually given me an explanation. He’d said he was no good at explanations, and I’d told him he could learn. Maybe he’d listened. And maybe I’d been wrong about his business sense. He might not make a lot of money, but he was responsible about managing his practice. “You still need a fair amount of cash, though. You can’t take all your payment in, uh, trade.”

He gave me another long, level stare. “Yeah, I gotta pay the rent, my assistant Miki, office expenses. And I do take in some cash.” A grin lit his face. “Literally. Actual bills, many of them pretty damn tattered. Miki says the bank’s finally stopped giving her funny looks when she makes the deposits.”

Reflecting on the nature of Gabriel’s clientele, I could imagine the source of some of those tattered bills. I wasn’t sure I’d even want to touch them, not without surgical gloves.

He leaned back, stretched. “Often think a person could write a book about the history of one of those bills. Starting out all clean off the printing press, then going from transaction to transaction, ending up in the hands of a sex trade worker, a junkie, a street person. And then to Miki and me, and then over to the bank.”

“In some cases the story has a happy ending,” Grace said. “When you can help the client.”

He nodded and dished out a second helping of kim chee. “I’ve had my share of successes.”

It struck me that his idea of success was very different from Richard’s. For Gabriel, it was springing a sex trade worker from jail or getting a welfare mom’s child back for her. “It must be difficult to make a go of it with a practice like yours.”

He shrugged. “Every now and then I get a file that’s worth a lot. Like now, I’m settling a medical malpractice case. Client’s an exotic dancer. I’d once represented her on a sexual harassment/wrongful dismissal case so she came back to me when she had another problem. She’d gone in for a lumpectomy and came out without a breast.”

Grace and I, both wincing, caught each other’s eyes.

“When she told me,” Gabriel said, “at first I figured the doc must have found the lump was malignant. He still shouldn’t have taken the breast without her consent, but it’d be hard to prove significant financial damages as she’d probably have been dead without the surgery. But when I started digging, it turned out the damn lump was benign. The hospital f*cked up. Got her records mixed up with someone else’s and the doc didn’t notice.”

“You said she’s an exotic dancer?” Grace said.

“Was. And that’s our case for major damages. Lost income. Yeah, she got a breast reconstruction but her days of topless dancing are over. Could downgrade to bartender or waitress, but those jobs pay a lot less. She used to be a popular dancer at an upscale club. Some nights she’d take in a grand or more.”

“In cash,” I said. “Which she probably didn’t declare. How do you prove her income when you’re arguing for damages?”

Gabriel gave a satisfied grin. “She has detailed records. Didn’t used to, but when she first came to me we discussed her occupation and her business practices. Now she’s got everything in her bookkeeping program, and an accountant does her tax returns. She’s squeaky clean. The insurers had to admit it, and we’re settling out of court for a sum that’ll let her retrain to be an interior decorator, something she’s always been interested in.”

“And a job she can do for the rest of her life,” Jimmy Lee pointed out. “One that doesn’t depend on youth and looks.”

“It’s no compensation for losing a breast,” Grace said quietly. “Nor being forced out of a job she was successful at.”

Gabriel nodded. “True. And that’s the problem with cases like this. The money can’t fix the injury, can’t put things back the way they were, can’t heal the emotional scars. And the injured party has the ultimate frustration of knowing that, even if a hospital or doc screwed up badly, it’s the insurers who pay. At worst, someone gets a slap on the wrist.”