Trial by Fire

Chapter 7

Dahlia woke up in the hospital, speeding down the hall on a gurney on her way to the trauma unit, with nurses and paramedics running along beside her. Zuckerberg had one of the best trauma units in the city, and it was where all the serious accident victims were taken. There were bright lights above her, and voices all around her. They sounded like they were shouting, and her head hurt whenever she tried to open her eyes, so she kept them closed. There was an IV in her arm, and people kept saying her name over and over. All she wanted was to go to sleep, but her head hurt too much. It felt like someone had hit her with a hammer, and she couldn’t move her head. She didn’t remember the accident, but she wondered if her neck was broken, it hurt so much, and her leg was painful too. She wanted to answer the voices but she couldn’t speak. It took too much effort.

She felt them move her onto a table, and she heard people talking about scans, and then everything went black again for what seemed like a long time. She woke up in a room with a nurse talking to her, but everything around them was silent. The nurse wanted Dahlia to answer her, but it was too much work, so she kept her eyes closed and tried to go back to sleep, but the nurse wouldn’t let her.

“Open your eyes, Dahlia,” the nurse said stubbornly. Finally, Dahlia had no choice but to obey or the woman wouldn’t stop talking. She was speaking English, which seemed odd to Dahlia, since she thought she was in France. She had been dreaming about Philippe and wondered where he was, and then she remembered. “He’s with Jacqueline,” she said out loud in a groggy voice in French. “Do you speak English?” the nurse asked her, and Dahlia opened her eyes again and stared at her.

“Yes,” she said, focusing on the woman’s face as she began to come out of the anesthetic they had given her.

“That’s better. You had an accident, you’re in the hospital,” the woman explained to her. Dahlia had had her international driving license in the pocket of her jeans. She had left her passport at the hotel. “You have a broken leg and cracked ribs, and you got a nasty bump on the head,” the nurse said more gently, “but you’re all right, and we’re taking care of you. They put you to sleep to set your leg.” It explained why Dahlia’s head was hurting, and why her leg felt heavy, like it belonged to someone else. She tried to lift her head to look at it, felt a brace on her neck, and saw she had a cast on her leg from her foot to her thigh. “Are you in pain, Dahlia?” the nurse asked her gently. She was in the recovery room after they’d set her leg. Given the condition of the car she’d been in, she was lucky to be alive.

“My head hurts,” Dahlia said, laying her head down, and closed her eyes again. The nurse added something for the pain to her IV. They wheeled her to a private room two hours later, but she was sound asleep.

She woke up again at midnight and was more alert. There was a nurse taking her vital signs, and she smiled at Dahlia. “How do you feel?”

“I’m thirsty,” Dahlia said in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. Everything seemed disconnected and disjointed, and didn’t totally make sense yet, as the nurse handed her a glass with ice chips in it, and Dahlia put several of them in her mouth. “Where am I?”

“At Zuckerberg Hospital in San Francisco,” the nurse answered. “They brought you in by helicopter from Marin General.” Dahlia began remembering the accident then—a tremendous force had hit her, like a building crashing into her from behind, it had launched her forward against the steering wheel, and she hit another car, in front of her, and then everything went black.

“Can I leave?” Dahlia asked her, but she felt woozy and wasn’t sure she could stand up. And her ribs hurt a lot.

“Not yet. The doctor will talk to you tomorrow. Try to get some sleep now,” the nurse said gently, and a few minutes later, Dahlia was asleep again.

—

Dahlia woke up the next morning, when the doctor came to examine her and touched her shoulder. She tried to sit up, which made her head and her chest hurt, and there was a throbbing pain in her leg.

“Hello. I’m Dr. Gilbert. I set your leg last night.” He looked like he was about her age, in his fifties, and he had a pleasant face, and was wearing hospital scrubs. “It’s a clean break, and you should be out of the cast in six or eight weeks. Your ribs will heal on their own. There were no other broken bones, and no internal damage, surprisingly. The police report says that your car was crushed front and rear and caught fire. You were very lucky—they removed you from the car before the flames touched you. You have a concussion, but not a very severe one. You should feel normal in a few weeks, although you may have headaches for two or three months. If they’re severe, you should contact your physician. And I don’t think you should fly for a few weeks. I understand you’re traveling and you don’t live here.” She had had a key to her hotel room as well as the international license in her pocket when they admitted her to the hospital. “I don’t think the leg, the ribs, or the moderate concussion will give you a lot of trouble. And the neck brace was only so you didn’t move your head too much last night. You didn’t injure your neck. The cast is a nuisance, and you should keep your weight off of it for two weeks. After that, you can put your weight on it. I gave you a walking cast. But you should take it easy for a while until you feel better. You’ve had a severe trauma.”

“Can I go back to my hotel today?” Dahlia asked. She had hated hospitals ever since her parents’ deaths.

The doctor hesitated before he answered. “If you promise to take it easy for at least a few days, yes, you can. There’s no medical reason to keep you here for long. I’d like to keep you here for twenty-four hours after the accident. So, let’s say you can leave at six o’clock tonight, so we can keep an eye on you until then. All things considered, you were very lucky it wasn’t worse. The leg and ribs will heal, and the concussion isn’t severe since you were wearing your seatbelt.”

“Did other people get hurt?”

“I don’t know. If they did, they probably went to local hospitals in Napa. You were the only one from the accident that we admitted here. The police can tell you more about that. I’m sure they’ll be in to see you before we release you, to complete their report. They usually show up pretty fast for major accidents. They’ll want your account of what happened, as much as you remember.” A few minutes later, Dr. Gilbert left the room, after giving her a prescription for pain medication if she needed it for her leg or ribs. The concussion would just take time to heal, there was nothing she could do for it. She lay there, thinking, after he left the room, wondering if she should tell her children. She didn’t want to frighten them. And it didn’t sound like her injuries were serious. Painful and annoying, but not dangerous. But she couldn’t just show up in France with her leg in a cast, having said nothing to them. She did a rapid calculation, and he had said not to fly for a few weeks. The wedding was three weeks away, so she’d get back in time, or Alex would kill her. But on the doctor’s timetable, she could still make it, thank God, and at least she wasn’t dead, or crippled, or in a coma. It could have been so much worse than a headache, a broken leg, and aching ribs.

She was still debating what to do about telling them, and whether she’d have to cancel her trip to L.A., unless she could manage it on crutches with her leg in a cast, which didn’t sound like fun, or very practical. She was mulling over all of it, when two police detectives appeared at the door to her room, knocked, and asked her permission to come in. They were not in uniform, but showed her their badges. They looked serious and apologized for disturbing her. She hadn’t even thought of how she looked until then, and it suddenly occurred to her that she must look a fright. Her long hair was tangled, she had no makeup on, and she looked like she’d been through the proverbial wringer.

“I’m sorry, Ms. de Beaumont,” the older detective said as he entered the room once she gave him permission to. They stood a few feet from her bed to talk to her and didn’t sit down. “We’re here about the accident yesterday. We’d like to know your recollection of what happened.” She nodded and her head hurt for a minute, as she pointed to the two chairs in her room and they sat down, while the senior detective took out a notepad and a pen.

“Did anyone else get hurt?” she asked him, and he nodded.

“There was a truck involved, an eighteen-wheeler. The truck flipped over, after impact we believe, probably trying to brake and turn too sharply once he saw you. The driver broke his neck and was killed instantly at the scene. The vehicle in front of you was driven by a woman, a Marilyn Nicasio, and her thirteen-year-old daughter Tiffany was in the front passenger seat. Both sustained injuries. Ms. Nicasio has a broken ankle, a broken arm, and a dislocated shoulder. Her daughter has a broken nose, two broken arms, and bruises to her chin. Neither of them was wearing a seatbelt. Their injuries aren’t too severe. The daughter’s came from the airbag as much as the impact. Seatbelts would have made a difference. And they both say they have whiplash.

“Ms. de Beaumont, do you recall if the truck hit you, and then you hit Ms. Nicasio’s vehicle? Or did you impact her first, and then the truck rear-ended you?” Dahlia didn’t hesitate with the answer. It was the one thing she remembered clearly, even if everything after that was vague or she’d been unconscious.

“There’s no doubt whatsoever. I didn’t know if it was a car or a truck—I never saw it. But it hit me with tremendous force from behind. I felt like my car flew after it hit me. And it threw me into the car in front of me, which I also couldn’t see in the smoke, but I felt it. I couldn’t stop. But the truck was first, without question. Were there other cars involved?” She felt terrible about the truck driver and sorry for the passengers in the car in front of her. There had been no way she could avoid hitting them.

“No,” the senior detective said. “There were only the three vehicles involved. There will have to be an official hearing, and a judge will have to determine if there are any criminal implications, or negligence, since there was loss of life of one of the victims, and three other people were injured. It will have to be determined if there was criminal negligence or not,” he said regretfully, but clearly. “Given the circumstances, and the smoke, I can’t foresee criminal negligence by Superior Court standards, although the standards are lower civilly, and the Nicasios could sue you.” Dahlia looked shocked.

“I couldn’t even see the hood of my car and I was crawling along. What would constitute criminal or civil negligence?”

“Drugs or alcohol,” the detective said simply, “or other factors. Speed, for instance.” None of them could have been speeding in the heavy smoke, or maybe the truck was. Dahlia didn’t know, or how they would determine that now. “In the case of an accident of this magnitude, both hospitals involved would have taken blood samples when you were admitted.” Dahlia hadn’t been drinking so she wasn’t worried. “What were you doing in Napa? Did you visit anyone or any wineries?” The area was known for that. She was surprised by the question. The officers obviously were wondering if she was drunk.

“I was volunteering at a pet rescue center that had been set up to treat animals that were lost and had suffered, mostly burns and other injuries.” The detective nodded. The tests would reveal the truth. She seemed like an honest woman, but he was used to people lying to him, sometimes very convincingly. But blood tests didn’t lie. “I’d like to ask you not to leave the area until there has been a hearing, and some determination has been made. I’ll be asking Ms. Nicasio to do the same. In her case, she lives here, but I understand you’re passing through.”

“I got stuck here because of the smoke. I was supposed to be in L.A. by now, on business.”

“I imagine you’ll need some time to convalesce here anyway before you travel. And you may want to consult legal counsel.” Dahlia looked stunned when he said that. “Where will we be able to reach you?” he asked her. “The insurance company for the rental car company will also want to interview you. Ms. Nicasio may try to sue them too.” In fact, he was almost sure she would. She had mentioned it when they spoke to her.

“I’m staying at The Ritz-Carlton.” They left a few minutes later, and Dahlia had a mounting sense of panic. Hearings, insurance companies, police, criminal negligence. The words danced around in her aching head and made her feel worse.

Her phone was on the night table, and she reached for it to call Philippe. She wanted his advice. It was eight o’clock at night for him, a civilized hour to call, and if it was inconvenient, she knew he wouldn’t pick up.

It rang three times before he answered, and he sounded a little distant. She suspected he wasn’t alone.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, fighting back tears, although she usually didn’t cry easily. But so much was happening all at once and she was scared and still badly shaken.

“I’m just leaving for dinner. Can I call you later?” he asked, sounding businesslike, obviously not thrilled with the call. He made no explanations to his wife, but he didn’t put it in her face either.

“I’ve had an accident,” she blurted out before he could hang up.

“What kind of accident?”

“A car accident. I went back to the animal rescue shelter in the Napa Valley. They evacuated us because the smoke got so much worse, and my car was hit by a truck on the way back. The truck flipped over and the driver was killed. And when he hit me, my car hit the car in front of me. It all happened so fast, and the woman driver and her daughter were injured—broken arms, an ankle, broken nose, nothing fatal. It’s a mess. They’re in the hospital. I am too.” Her voice was shaking.

“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned after hearing what she said.

“I have a concussion, cracked ribs, and a broken leg. I haven’t told my kids yet, so please don’t tell them.” He never called them, and had no relationship with them, so her warning wasn’t necessary, more automatic. “I’m in the hospital, but they’re releasing me tonight.”

“Oh God, you’d better call a lawyer immediately. You know how Americans are. They’re so litigious. Someone will surely sue you, probably the other driver and her daughter, and maybe the car rental company. Have your rep there find you an attorney.”

“There’s going to be a hearing to determine if there was criminal negligence,” she said, as tears welled up in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “And the police told me to stay in the area. I can’t even go to L.A. now, or come home yet.”

“Find a lawyer as soon as we hang up,” he said in a stern voice. “Dahlia, this is serious.”

“I know it is. I’m scared to death. Can they put me in jail?”

“I doubt it, unless you were drunk or something. But it could cost you millions if they find out who you are.” She hadn’t even thought of that. She had visions of being accused of murder, even though the truck driver had hit her. Or the mother and daughter might accuse her of negligence. “I’m not a lawyer, but you need one. And I’m not American. But I’ve heard some ugly stories of lawsuits in the States. Keep me posted. Call me tomorrow when you know something. I have to go now. We’re late for dinner.” She wanted to ask him who “we” was, he and Jacqueline, or he and his son. She suspected it was most likely his wife. They were always on very cordial terms during their annual vacation in the south with their son. It was the only time they spent together all year, and they were all on their best behavior, pretending to be a happy, normal family, which they weren’t.

She hung up feeling worse instead of better, and even more frightened of what might happen next.

She lay in bed crying for a few minutes, and then remembered something. She had put Mark Hamilton’s card in the pocket of her jeans. He was an attorney and might be able to recommend someone who handled situations like this. They had cut her jeans off when she was admitted, to access her broken leg, but her lacerated jeans were with the rest of what she’d been wearing, in the closet in her hospital room. It took a lot of maneuvering, but she managed to get out of bed, with her head throbbing and her ribs aching, and hop to the closet on one foot, open the door, grab her jeans and throw them over her shoulder, and hop back to bed, using the crutches they had left at her bedside. She felt dizzy but didn’t faint. She lifted her leg with the cast back onto the bed, and reached into the pocket of her jeans. They had destroyed her favorite Chanel jeans, but his card was still in the pocket. She dialed his number as soon as she caught her breath after the challenge of getting to the closet and back. His cellphone number and his office number were on it. She opted for his cell. He answered immediately, puzzled by the number of her French cellphone. He didn’t expect a call from her.

“Yes?” he answered in a brusque voice.

“I’m so sorry,” she began, trying not to cry. “This is Dahlia de Beaumont. We met at the pet shelter in Napa yesterday. I don’t know if you remember me—you gave me your card.”

“Of course. How many intriguing French women do you think I meet at a pet shelter in Napa? Did you get back to the city all right? It took me three hours.”

“Well, actually, no, I didn’t. I had an accident on the way back. Rather a bad one. Someone was killed. I’m in the hospital now, and I’m afraid it could turn out to be a terrible mess. There’s going to be a hearing, and I think I need an attorney. I was wondering if you know anyone to recommend who would handle something like this.” She sounded breathless when she finished. She had been exceedingly polite, and he was shocked.

“Are you injured?”

“Well, yes,” she conceded, “a bit, but not too badly. I have a broken leg, cracked ribs, and a concussion, but I’m all right.”

“That doesn’t sound all right to me. I’m so sorry to hear it.” And then his voice grew more serious. “Was it your fault? Dahlia, I’m an attorney and whatever you say to me is attorney/client privilege. You can tell me the truth.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she said, sounding innocent and childlike. “The truck hit me from the rear, with tremendous force. The truck flipped and the driver was killed. And when he hit me, my car flew into the car in front of me, and I hit that car. The woman driving and her daughter apparently weren’t wearing their seatbelts. The daughter was in the front seat and was injured by the airbag. She has a broken nose, and both arms are broken. The mother broke her arm and her ankle, and has a dislocated shoulder, and they both have whiplash.”

“That’s always debatable,” Mark said skeptically. “And why weren’t they wearing their seatbelts? How old is the child?” He had visions of an injured three- or five-year-old.

“She’s thirteen. The police seem to be focusing on whether the truck hit me before I ran into them, or if I created the accident by rear-ending the car in front, which caused the truck to run into me, in which case maybe I’m responsible for his death.”

“Do you remember which it was?” he asked her.

“Definitely. The truck hit me first, without a doubt, and then I hit them. And after that, I passed out.”

“I think that’ll be the crux of the matter. With the extenuating factor of the smoke, it should be ruled an accident, unless the woman decides to sue you civilly, or tries to claim criminal negligence, but I don’t see how she could. She can always try, and technically if you rear-end someone, you’re responsible, but if you were rear-ended first, I suspect that’s a different story. I’m not a personal injury lawyer, I’m a corporate lawyer, although I’m a litigator, so I’ll have to do some checking for you. When can I see you?” She couldn’t imagine that he would handle it for her. She was a total stranger, and it wasn’t his field of expertise, and she was sure he was busy. She didn’t want to impose on him, she didn’t even know him. She had just called him for a name. She could have called her rep, but she didn’t want to explain the mess she was in to her, and Mark had exuded confidence and was very kind when she met him.

“I don’t want to bother you. I’m sure you have much more important things to do.”

“I’m happy to help a friend,” he said graciously, and she wasn’t even that. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, Dahlia. I hope the other driver is an honest woman. Some people try to make money on events like this, big money, especially if the other party has means.” Dahlia was well aware of that—it was why Philippe had told her to get a lawyer immediately—and with injuries involved, it could be very costly. “Why don’t we get together, and I’ll make some notes, and I’ll talk to a personal injury lawyer, and see what he says. I’m happy to help you out. Hopefully, we can take care of it quickly, before anyone gets too wound up, and they’re talking about enormous settlements.” He wanted to protect her, and keep her from harm, and she sounded so shaken and frightened. “When will you be out of the hospital?”

“The doctor said at six o’clock tonight. They just want to be sure my head is okay and I can manage on the crutches. I haven’t mastered that yet, but I don’t want to stay here. I want to go back to the hotel.”

“Is it too soon if I come to the hotel at eight or eight-thirty tonight? I think we should get on this quickly, before it gets blown out of proportion.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind? I feel awful bothering you.” She was incredibly grateful to him.

“I feel terrible knowing it happened to you. I should have followed you to the city. I didn’t even think of it. None of us knew how bad the road would get. The smoke was really grim.” And it was no better that day, a day later. If anything, it was worse, and the air quality was for sure. “Call me if you need more time, or if you’re too worn out when you get back to the hotel. I could come tomorrow too, if that’s better for you.” He wanted to help her. She was far from home and injured, with no one to protect her. He was happy to do so.

“I’m really grateful, Mark. I was panicked after I met with the police.”

“Don’t do that again,” he warned her, “unless you have an attorney with you. You have a right not to answer some of their questions. They might try to trap you into saying something you shouldn’t that isn’t true. You’ve been through a lot in the last twenty-four hours, you could easily make a mistake, and remember something inaccurately that they could use against you. I’ll see you tonight. And don’t talk to anyone about the accident in the meantime. The insurance people will want to talk to you very soon. If they show up, tell them you have a headache and can’t talk. They’re going to want to get rid of this quickly, even if they have to pay a big settlement. They’re used to it. The last thing they want is an expensive trial. I doubt it will come to that. But we don’t want you to have to go through a trial, even a civil one. I want to do all I can to avoid that for you, if the other driver is reasonable. See you tonight.” The calm and confidence in his voice reassured her. It was a big deal, which he didn’t deny, but he didn’t sound panicked. She was taking her cues from him. And oddly, when she left Napa the day before, she thought she’d never see him again, and now she had reached out to him. She had no one else. She didn’t want to call a total stranger. At least she’d met him and liked him.

Dahlia told him which hotel she was staying at, and after they hung up, Mark did what he had told Jeff he shouldn’t do. He looked Dahlia up on Google, both her name and the firm she had mentioned to him the day before, Louis Lambert Perfumes. And he was impressed to see she was the CEO and owner, when she only told him she worked there. She was definitely modest and discreet, as well as beautiful. He was fascinated by the firm’s history, and liked the fact that it was a real family firm and two of her children worked there.

It was clear from everything written about her and the firm that it was an enormous and impressively successful enterprise, and she ran it all. And there was something wonderfully exotic about perfumes, which the firm had supplied for five generations, and yet had added modern cosmetic lines. On the personal side, she was much less visible, but there were a number of photographs of her at major Parisian social events with her very handsome children, including one who was wearing Doc Martens boots and had pink hair, while the three others were conservative in their dress. Dahlia looked elegant in every photo and nothing like the way she had looked the day before in jeans and T-shirt at the makeshift shelter. She was a very interesting woman of many facets and apparently immense talent and success in her field. He loved the contrasts in her life, combining both family and business, and he wanted to do everything he could to help her get out of the jam she was in, so she could go back to Paris in peace.

He was sure he was going to find a reasonable way to do it, unless the other driver was greedy and dishonest. He was thinking about it as he left his apartment in the Millennium Tower on Mission Street. He had sold his Pacific Heights house to buy it when his daughters had grown up and rarely came to visit anymore. They lived in the East, and one was married with children. He had a guest wing for both of them in the apartment for visits, and it was the ultimate bachelor pad, with a spectacular view of all of San Francisco and both bridges from the fifty-seventh floor.

He drove to The Ritz-Carlton, remembering the photographs he’d seen on Google. Dahlia de Beaumont was a very interesting woman. The biographical piece he’d read said she was a widow and had run the business alone for twenty-six years, and her husband had been an aristocrat, an extraordinary athlete, a champion skier and alpinist who had met his death in the French Alps. There were some other photographs of her with a very attractive older man in black tie at some openings and social events. They made a handsome couple, and it mentioned that he was the CEO of a major luxury brand Mark recognized. He wondered if the man listed as Philippe Vernier was her boyfriend, but they could have been just friends judging by the slightly distant way they stood together. There was a lot about Dahlia he wanted to know, although he knew it would do him no good since she lived in Paris. But first, he had to help her with the fallout from the accident. And one thing he was almost sure of—if the driver of the car in front of her, Marilyn Nicasio, got wind of who Dahlia was in a much bigger world, she was probably going to try to get millions from her. Mark wasn’t going to let that happen, if there was anything he could do about it.

He left his car with the doorman at the Ritz, thinking that Jeff Allen’s instincts about Dahlia were right. She was famous, and kind of a star after all.