Legal Procudures by Barry Rachin (great novels TXT) 📕

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 cartons of vegetables, fruits, sausage and bacon. A separate box 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 joking 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."

Aunt Janet spritzed her thick neck from a sampler bottle of Paco Rabanne. “When I was your age I was already with child and separated from deadbeat husband number one."

"I thought I could talk to him between classes, but he never showed up on Friday."

"What nerve!" Aunt Janet pointed indignantly at the perfume she had just sampled. “Eighty-five bucks for less than three, fluid ounces and it don’t even smell all that hot.” She immediately wandered over to a display featuring an Israeli skin rejuvenator manufactured from organic salts and minerals harvested from the Dead Sea and rubbed a small amount of the pearlescent, exfoliating goo on her wrist. "You’re old enough to attend college and make your way in this world. What you wanna do with this guy?"

"I don't know."

They left Filenes and took the escalator to the lower level. Before leaving the mall, Aunt Janet always made a pass through the pet store. After inspecting all the gerbils, hamsters, turtles, rabbits, exotic fish and kitties, she approached a clerk and asked to take a closer look at a cuddly, chocolaty pug. Overjoyed to be free of the metal cage, the puppy was slobbering all over Aunt Janet's leather jacket. She tickled the pooch under the chin and, nestling in her forearm, the dog promptly rolled over on its backs. "If your Jewish friend was the color of this dog - would you feel the same?"

"That's a hypothetical situation," Phoebe blustered. "What difference would it make?"

"You conveniently answered my question with a dumb-ass question of your own." Crumpling her hand in a fist, Aunt Janet wrapped the knuckles on Phoebe's forehead rather forcefully. "At least, the lovesick Hebe's in touch with his feelings, which is more than I can say about you." Her aunt rubbed the dog's stomach and kissed it on the snout. For his part the dog, who had been fidgeting like a speed freak on meth, suddenly went limp and fell off to sleep, its preposterously long tongue dangling down the side of its mouth. Aunt Janet petted and talked gibberish to the puppy for the better part of ten minutes before whispering, "Eight hundred freakin' bucks! Who the hell's got that sort of money for some flea-bitten, lop-eared mutt?" She deposited the bewildered pooch in the clerk's arms and sauntered out the door.

Pulling up in front of the main entrance, Aunt Janet sniffed the underside of her right wrist, then the left. “Like this?” She stuck her fleshy forearm up under Phoebe’s nose, revealing a light lavender scent from one of the complimentary perfume testers.
"Yeah it's subtle… flowery."

They passed out into the open air. The temperature had dropped to the low fifties but the sun was out and a wintry breeze felt crisp. When they reached the curb, the woman grabbed her niece by the wrist. "Where's this Hebrew kid live?"

"On the east side over by the community center. Sixty-four Jasmine Court."

"Sounds elegant! Let's go pay him a visit."

"You can't be serious?" When there was no immediate reply, Phoebe added, "You don't think that's a bit extreme?"

"Six husbands and an endless parade of live-in lovers," her aunt shot back in a gravelly monotone, "that's extreme!" She sniffed the other wrist. "On second thought, maybe the Paco Rabanne is worth the money." Aunt Janet cocked her head to one side. Her eyes were pellucid, perfectly clear. "Well, what's it gonna be, girlie?"

Imprint

Publication Date: 11-16-2010

All Rights Reserved