Legal Procedures
by
Barry Rachin
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Published by:
Legal Procedures
Copyright © 2010 by Barry Rachin
This short story represents a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Also by Barry Rachin:
• The Misfit Motel
• Canary in a Coal Mine
• A Waltz Yes, a Heart No
• Just like Dostoyevsky
• 107 Degree Fahrenheit
Legal Procedures
Shortly after arriving at the Emerald Square Mall, Phoebe Marsalis located Aunt Janet sitting on a bench next to the Victoria’s Secret outlet. At two hundred and thirty pounds on a five-foot, six-inch frame, the black woman was hard to miss. Despite the weight, Aunt Janet was still a modestly attractive woman with flawless skin and regal cheekbones. When she rose, the girl kissed her mother’s sister on the cheek and announced, “I’ve got a problem.”
The older woman studied the advertising displays of bras, French-cut thongs and risqué negligees modeled by svelte females in various stages of undress plastered across the plate glass window - skinny minnies every one of them. Aunt Janet didn't, as a rule, do much business at Victoria's Secret. “You’re pregnant?”
Phoebe cringed inwardly. “Nobody mentioned sex.”
“Thank God!” She blew out her cheeks, pulled the girl close and kissed her a second time for good measure. “I’m famished!” She gestured toward the food court at the far end of the building “Let’s grab a bite.”
At two-thirty on a Sunday afternoon with the New England Patriots playing just down the road in Foxboro Stadium, the mall was dead. They settled in a booth by the windows overlooking the parking lot. Phoebe ordered a Greek salad while her aunt chose the lasagna dinner with a side order of garlic bread. "This ain't no normal size portion!" Aunt Janet stabbed indignantly at her food with a plastic fork. "They gave me the runt of the litter." Jutting her jaw, she lowered her voice several decibels. "Maybe that doofus behind the counter got issues with plus-size, black women."
In a huff, Aunt Janet picked up her platter and lurched to her feet, but Phoebe deftly maneuvered in front of the woman blocking her way. "That's a perfectly normal size serving, no bigger or skimpier than the rest. You're just going to make a scene for no good reason."
Mollified, she sat back down. “I started a new diet last week,” Aunt Janet remarked guiltily, "so this morsel will do just fine." She dabbed the crusty garlic bread at the meat sauce on her plastic plate. "So, if it ain't sex, what's your problem?"
"There's this Jewish guy from school who’s been tutoring me in my legal procedures class and…" The sentence just petered out, and, without warning, a flood of tears dribbled down the side of her ebony nose in briny rivulets.
Aunt Janet glanced at her niece and raised a slab of lasagna smothered in tomato sauce to her lips. "Sammy Davis Jr. was Jewish."
"It's not funny." Phoebe sulked, drying her eyes with a clean napkin.
"What's funny," her aunt shot back with a droll expression, "is that you choose the family member with the worse track record to confide your romantic woes." The black woman patted the girl's wrist. "You ain't pregnant?"
"I just told you a moment ago."
She raised her hand in a placating gesture. “Yeah, yeah. I heard you right the first time."
Phoebe pushed the feta cheese to one side with the tines of her fork and speared an olive. Half her aunt’s lasagna was already gone and the girl had hardly touched her salad. “This past September when I started my sophomore year at college..."
“Hold on a minute.” Aunt Janet pushed her plate aside. She rose from the chair, a surprisingly spry motion for such a heavyset woman, and disappeared in the crowd. A moment later, she returned with a mocha latte cappuccino and chocolate éclair. "I gotta get properly settled in a listening mode."
“What about your diet?”
"Yeah, the diet." Aunt Janet eyed the wedge of chocolate frosting drizzled across the top of the pastry. "The diet can wait. Tell me about this Jewish dude who's got two, good eyes and don't sing or dance half as fine as Sammy Davis Jr."
* * * * *
As Phoebe explained it, she was doing reasonably well in all her classes except Legal Procedures. Signing up for the elective on a whim, she soon discovered she had no affinity whatsoever for law. Her first test Phoebe scored a sixty-nine. The second test she dropped eight points lower. After the failing grade, Professor Birnbaum took her aside. "You need a tutor."
"I can just barely afford tuition much less the added expense of paying someone to cram for tests."
"Finkelstein will tutor you for nothing."
Finkelstein - Phoebe had to think. The skinny Jewish boy with the pale complexion and dreamy eyes. His gaunt face was dominated by a mass of fury, charcoal eyebrows that congealed in the middle each time his forehead wrinkled in a frown. The uncharacteristically adolescent features gave new meaning to the term baby face; the boy, who had just turned twenty, looked all of fourteen and that was stretching it. Arnold Finkelstein was the wiz kid, the brainiac with the encyclopedic mind. During class discussion, he had every answer on the tip of his facile tongue. "How do you know this?"
"I told Arnold that, if he helped you out this semester, I'd give him extra credit and recommend him for academic honors."
Phoebe stared at the rows of empty seats. She was holding her own or better in every academic subject - everyone but legal procedures. "How soon can I start?"
They met in either the student lounge or cafeteria - depending on which was quieter - three evenings a week. Arnold had this quirky ability to make the most arcane, legal gobbledygook seem interesting, almost bearable. "What are the four elements of a tort?"
"I don't remember," Phoebe stammered.
Arnold rubbed his chin. His face was utterly hairless - smooth as a baby's bottom. Phoebe doubted that he had ever owned a can of shaving cream much less a razor. "Who in your family's the biggest whack job?"
"Whack job?" Phoebe gawked at him in disbelief. They were sitting in the cafeteria on a Thursday afternoon.
"Who is the most disreputable family member?"
"Oh, that would be Uncle Ray, my Aunt Janet's fourth husband. He gambled and did some loan sharking on the side. They're divorced now."
Arnold stared at her with a blank expression. "How many times has your aunt been married?"
"I'm not sure… five or six times not counting live-in lovers."
"Okay, so let's say Uncle Ray is out in the back yard in late November burning a pile of leaves. The phone rings. It's his bookie with a hot tip on the third race at Suffolk Downs. When your uncle goes off to answer the phone, he leaves the fire unattended. A half hour later, the flame spreads to a nearby lot and burns down somebody's storage shed." Arnold cracked his knuckles one by one and took a sip from a bottle of all-natural peach juice. "All four elements of a tort come into play - duty, breach, injury and causation."
Phoebe considered what he had just told her. Why was it that, when Professor Birnbaum explained things, it all got jumbled up in a meaningless muddle, but add Uncle Raymond, the hapless nitwit, into the mix, and the legal ramifications pulled into clear focus. "His leaving the burning leaves unattended is the proximate cause of the injury," Phoebe volunteered. "It was Uncle Ray’s duty to keep the fire from spreading and by going back in the house he put neighbors at risk. The destruction of the shed and damage to any of their personal possessions represents legal injury."
Arnold ran a tongue ov
er his top lip and the brown eyes flared with sober intensity. "Duty, breach, injury and causation - you just identified all four elements in a tort, which is a civil wrong."
Three weeks later, Professor Birnbaum pulled Phoebe aside. "Regarding that makeup test for the quiz you flunked," the older man paused for dramatic effect, "you scored an eighty-eight."
Phoebe felt a lump expanding in her throat. She knew she aced the test before the ink was dry but still needed to hear it from the instructor. "Thanks."
"You did the work," he deflected the praise back at the girl. "I take no credit for your achievement."
Professor Birnbaum removed his wire-rimmed glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Arnold's a bit high strung…a tortured soul but a very nice boy. I had a feeling he would help you get back on track." A steady trickle of sleepy-eyed students filtered into the lecture hall, opening loose-leaf binders and perusing texts.
"Tortured soul… what did you mean?"
The man seemed slightly embarrassed, as though his light-hearted banter had inadvertently veered off track. "The most important consideration is that he is helping you with the course work, and that's all that really matters."
* * * * *
"Do you understand the concept of assault and battery?"
It was the first week in November. A light dusting of snow peppered the ground, a premonition of things to come. They were sitting on a bench in the solarium alongside the sports pavilion. A steady stream of jocks lugging equipment bags were heading either in the direction of the Olympics-size swimming pool or the gymnasium.
"Yes, of course. That's pretty straightforward."
Arnold leaned over her and let loose with a fake sneeze. "So sorry!" He wiped the imaginary snot from her forearm. Phoebe pushed him away, shaking her head in disbelief. "What I just did… does it fulfill the basic requirements of assault and battery?"
Phoebe thought a moment. "Assault implies an intentionally threatening word or action. But the sneeze was accidental, involuntary… something beyond control, especially if you had a head cold."
"What about the other part of the legal equation?"
Phoebe cracked a thin smile. "Even that might be called into question, because the act was unintentional and lacking malice."
Arnold's head bobbed up and down energetically. "My cousin, Jacob, is getting bar mitzvahed a week from Saturday. Did you want to come?"
"A bar mitzvah?"
"It's a spiritual rite of passage."
"Yeah, I guess so," Phoebe replied. After she had a moment to digest the information, she added. "My parents might get the wrong idea if some emaciated white kid with a yarmulke pulled up in front of the house on a Saturday afternoon, so we'll need to make arrangements regarding transportation."
The function was held at Temple Beth David in Sharon. Phoebe met Arnold in the college parking lot and they drove to the temple together. Dressed in a tallit, prayer shawl, with phylacteries draped over his forehead, the young boy read from the torah in Hebrew. When the ceremony was finished, they went into the communal hall where a catered buffet was spread across the entire length of the far wall. In the middle of a smorgasbord of Jewish delicacies - herring, latkes, spicy, meat-stuffed knishes, gefilte fish with red horseradish, kreplah and hummus - was a swan fashioned from chopped liver and a pair of glistening ice sculptures.
Baruch atoh adomoi elohainu melach ha'olum… The rabbi blessed the food. A Klezmer orchestra consisting of a clarinet, cornet, violin, drummer and accordionist were warming up near the parquet dance floor. "Where do you know Arnold from?" Mrs. Finkelstein asked. Like her son, she was a short woman with dark hair and fastidious features.
"We're in the same class together," Phoebe explained.
She pulled the black girl close and whispered. "Don't get frightened when the band starts up. The music, especially the brisk numbers, can sound a bit schizophrenic to people unfamiliar with the eastern European, traditional melodies." She patted the girl's hand indulgently before running off to greet another family member.
* * * * *
Phoebe didn't see Arnold again until the middle of the following week."I want to tell you about Uncle Nathan, the bar mitzvah boy's father."
"The heavyset guy with the fancy skullcap?"
"He's a gonif," Arnold replied. "A good-for-nothing crook, who was indicted for fraud and racketeering a couple years back. His double chin and gold-embroidered yarmulke were plastered all over the news media." Reaching into his backpack, Arnold withdrew a newspaper article. The garish headline stretched across the top right-hand corner of the page in bold, sixteen-point print.
Regional Food Inspector arrested on multiple Felony Charges.
Directly below the caption, a rotund man wearing a dark suit was being lead into court by local police. According to the district attorney's office, Uncle Nathan had been shaking down a couple of food distributors selling tainted merchandise. A year into the shakedown, the retailers decided turning state's evidence was the lesser of two evils and ratted him out.
"They got my dopey uncle on videotape," Arnold tittered. The footage broadcast on the Channel Ten Eyewitness News supposedly showed Uncle Nathan standing next to his Cadillac Esplanade with the trunk open, while employees from Edgemont Produce loaded the rear with boxes of vegetables, fruits, sausage and bacon. A separate carton containing an assortment of expensive liquors was carefully positioned in the front of the vehicle on the passenger side. "With longevity and benefits," the normally soft-spoken Arnold was musing out loud, "Uncle Nathan was pulling in well over a hundred grand."
"So what happened?"
"The schmuck pleaded nolo contendere, and they sent him away to a country-club prison for eighteen months. Then he took early retirement and still got to keep his state pension – proof positive that crime pays."
"One thing I don't understand," Phoebe handed him back the clipping. "If your uncle is so religious, how could he have gotten caught up in anything this sordid?"
They were in the student cafeteria. On the table Arnold arranged a paper plate with a half-eaten cheeseburger in front of Phoebe. Smoothing a soiled napkin, he placed it to the left together with a plastic fork and knife. "Tell me what you see."
"What's this got to do with Uncle Nathan?" Phoebe protested
"Just answer the question," he demanded tersely.
"A table setting."
Arnold's expression was morose. "As an ultra-orthodox Jew, Uncle Nathan follows the Shulchan Aruch, a system of Jewish beliefs governing every aspect of behavior from prayer to marriage to business and finance." "Shulchan…table, aruch…set," he translated from the Aramaic. "If you faithfully follow the religious precepts, every aspect of daily life will be as harmonious and efficient as a properly set table. Nothing can ever go wrong, unless, of course, havoc is imposed from an external source."
"But if God provides everything needed to live a humble life, where did your uncle go wrong?"
Arnold's features convulsed in a tortured grin. "My saintly uncle suffers from hubris, spiritual pride. He's an incorrigible asshole!"
* * * * *
Over the next four months, Phoebe and Arnold slogged through duress and undue influence, contractual capacity, discharge of obligations, remedies for breach of contract, sports and entertainment law. In Each instance, he ignored the assigned reading in favor of the here and now. Married and divorced a half-dozen times, even Phoebe's bulky Aunt Janet was dragged into their legal give-and-take - especially when Arnold needed to bolster a point regarding cohabitation, common-law arrangements and breach-of-promise.
Reaching out with a stubby index finger, Arnold tapped the iPod dangling from Phoebe's neck. "Let's say you make an offer to sell me your iPod. You don't really have any intention of getting rid of it. You're just fooling around… acting silly." "Of course, the court has no interest in what might be in the mind of the person making the offer," he continued. "You may be bullshitting me, but if a reasonable person would interpret the jok
ing behavior as a serious offer, that would establish legal intent."
Phoebe considered the possibilities. "So a person could actually be held accountable for something said in jest."
"Yes, absolutely," he shot back. "For example, if I told you that I was madly in love with a young girl and couldn't imagine living apart even though we had infinitely more going against us than otherwise…"
Several students at adjacent tables looked up. Arnold had begun to cry, making horrible snuffling sounds. Phoebe reached out and grabbed his hand, but he promptly pulled away, lurching to his feet. "Now I've ruined everything." He rushed out of the cafeteria without bothering to separate out his recyclable trash or place his food tray on the conveyor belt leading to the commercial-grade dishwasher.
Phoebe should have seen it coming. When the orchestra played Sunrise, Sunset in a lilting, three-four time and Arnold escorted her onto the dance floor, he nuzzled his chin just a tad too comfortably against her neck, draping his arms around the small of her back and pulling the girl gently up against his chest. It was a joyous celebration. Everyone was having a splendid time so why read anything into it? And anyway, by now Phoebe was thoroughly comfortable with Arnold's irreverent humor - his kooky nuttiness and thoroughly weird take on the human condition. The slapstick buffoonery taken aside, he always got the essentials right; he never compromised the serious stuff. What was that errant remark Professor Birnbaum let slip that late October afternoon following the makeup quiz - something about Arnold being high strung…a tortured soul? Now the proverbial cat was up the tree and it was one hell of a tall shaft of old-growth lumber!
* * * * *
"Since his emotional diarrhea, you ain't seen or heard from the Hebe?" Aunt Janet pressed.
They were at the cosmetics counter of Filene’s Department Store, where a collection of complimentary sprays were arranged on a silver tray. Though she seldom bought any, Aunt Janet liked to sample the designer perfumes and body lotions. "I left messages, but he won't return my calls."