The Speed of Life

by James Victor Jordan

  “Mr. Langford,” the Judge said, “do you think that I don’t know who Ms. Goldin is?”

  “Well, for the record, your honor—” Langford said.

  “Mr. Langford, you haven’t been recognized. Be seated,” the judge said.

  “Let’s take these matters in order. The motion of the minor, Jacob Rosen, through his guardian, to intervene in this case is granted.

  “Regarding the government’s motion to disqualify Ms. Goldin as guardian ad litem for the minor, Jacob Rosen, the merits are clear. The boy’s father, Mr. Rosen, is deceased. His mother is an in-patient in a psychiatric hospital. In her affidavit, Ms. Rosen’s psychiatrist says that she cannot reasonably determine when Ms. Rosen will be well enough to be discharged.

  “Before she became ill, Ms. Rosen signed a healthcare directive and a general power of attorney appointing Ms. Goldin to make decisions for her if neither she nor her husband could make them. Ms. Goldin’s affidavit states that Ms. Rosen is one of her oldest and closest friends. She’s known Jacob his entire life, and Ms. Goldin and Jacob are close. Ms. Goldin is qualified, well qualified to act as guardian.

  “Only one of the boy’s grandparents is living, Ms. Rosen’s mother, an octogenarian in frail health. There is an uncle, Admiral Bruce Levine, who is stationed in Geneva. He remains close to his nephew, has frequent contact with him, and he assures the court that this will continue. Admiral Levine’s work entails sensitive national security matters. He can’t leave Europe now, and he supports Ms. Goldin’s motion.

  “The United States Attorney for this district has recused his office from this case. Ms. Goldin and Ms. Verus have filed affidavits stating that the attorney-client and attorney-work-product privileges held by the government and the U.S. Attorney’s office remain and will continue to remain inviolate. The court accepts those representations. I could appoint an alternate guardian ad litem as the government urges me to do. But that person would be a stranger to the boy.

  “Balancing the equities, considering the best interests of each party, the government and Jacob Rosen, the court denies the government’s motion to replace Ms. Goldin with another guardian.

  “Let’s turn to the merits,” the judge said. “Mr. Rosen is deceased, so obviously the court lacks jurisdiction over him. Therefore, the criminal case must be dismissed because there is no criminal to prosecute. And as this is an in personam proceeding, the court has no jurisdiction over the property of the deceased upon the dismissal of the criminal case.

  “Recognizing this eventuality, the government has moved to have this case converted to a civil in rem proceeding, thereby allowing the court to retain jurisdiction over the seized property. Mr. Bohem, why shouldn’t I do that?”

  “Your honor,” Georges said, standing. “The government’s papers are replete with unsupported – baseless upon this record – allegations that Ms. Rosen must have known about her husband’s crimes. Mr. Langford’s affidavit says that Ms. Rosen is an unindicted co-conspirator.” Georges retrieves a document from a file on the counsel table. Holding it he says, “Mr. Langford authored this indictment. There’s no mention of a co-conspirator. Nothing suggests that the grand jury considered, let alone found, that there was a co-conspirator.

  “The government’s Johnny-come-lately allegations against Ms. Rosen are Swiss cheese. Where are the facts that would tend to prove, even assuming a civil burden of proof, that Ms. Rosen was aware or should have been aware of her husband’s crimes? It’s just rank conjecture—”

  “Your honor,” Langford said, now standing. “In the civil action, we’ll have discovery—”

  “Mr. Langford,” the judge said, waving his hand, cutting him off, “even in a civil proceeding, the government has to show a likelihood that it will prevail at trial to support a pretrial asset-seizure order. Despite the governments vast investigatory resources, it has never made an allegation against Ms. Rosen.”

  “Your Honor,” Langford said, “our ability to investigate—”

  “Frankly, Mr. Langford,” the judge said, “your speculation about pillow-talk discussion of crimes is, as Mr. Bohem cogently argues, implausible.” He drank from a water bottle, then cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Langford, you would have me imagine a scenario where Mr. Rosen comes home from work and says to his wife, ‘Honey, I had a spectacular day at the bank money-laundering.’ And as to Mr. Rosen’s substantial income and wealth, would you have the court presume that the spouse of every financially successful person should suspect his or her husband or wife of racketeering?”

  “If I may, I’d just like to add, your honor,” Georges said, “notwithstanding the baseless allegations against Ms. Rosen, the government doesn’t even hint at impropriety on the part of my client, a destitute minor living with and caring for his infirm eighty-year-old grandmother.”

  “Destitute?” Langford said, and the word came out as if he’d said it while sneezing. “Last I heard, Collins, Dickens & Swift was not a charity.”

  “It’s unfortunate, Mr. Langford,” Georges said, “that you’re unaware of our pro bono work.”

  The judge banged his gavel. “Counsel, you know better than to argue with each other. You talk to me, and only when you’re recognized.”

  “Sorry, your honor,” Langford said.

  The judge gave him a withering look. “That’s enough,” he said. “I’m ready to rule. Counsel, be seated.” The lawyers at counsel table were standing. A pencil held by Langford snapped.

  “The motion to dismiss the criminal case is granted. Further, I see no reason to or basis upon which to convert this action into a civil in rem proceeding because, as Mr. Bohem argues, the purposes of the civil asset-seizure and-forfeiture laws would not be served. The court has not been presented with any evidence that suggests that if the property were returned to the deceased’s heirs, that it would be used in a criminal enterprise. Nor is there any evidence that the assets will be used by a criminal as the fruit of his or her crimes.” Then the judge said, “Ms. Goldin, have you filed the appropriate petition in state court to serve as administratrix of the Rosen estate?”

  “I have, your honor,” Aurora said. “I have a conformed copy of the petition and the state court order.” She handed the documents to the clerk, who in turn handed them to the judge.

  The judge said, “Mr. Bohem, you are to prepare an order directing the United States Marshall to release the seized property to Ms. Goldin. When can you submit that order for my signature?”

  “This afternoon, Your Honor,” Georges says.

  During their one-block walk to their office building, Estella said, “Georges Bohem told me that Billie Bower possessed the LSD, not Andrew.”

  “Billie Bower was murdered last night, and that’s not the half of it,” Aurora said. “Van Keet is also dead. The time of each of their deaths is the same. Van Keet was in his bunk in the minimum-security camp at FCI Miami and Bower was found in a motel room in Nashville.”

  “They were murdered? How?” Estella said.

  “Strangled, a deep-purple circular bruise around each of their necks, as if the killers used the same cord to pull tightly, but slowly, painfully, until their eyeballs popped and their windpipes were crushed.”

  “Purple?” Estella said, softly as if speaking to herself. To Aurora she said, “Van Keet’s cellmate?”

  “He was in the infirmary when it happened. He passed a lie-detector test, saying he knew nothing about it.”

  In the building lobby, Aurora said, “The case against Andrew is over.”

  And then, in a quiet, softer voice she said, “Don’t tell anyone. It’s not official yet. You’re the first to know. I’m taking early retirement and recommending you for my job. I think you’ll get it.”

  “Congratulations,” Estella said. “But why? You love your job.”

  “Because there’s a man I love more than I could ever love any job. He’s going to marry me.”

  Estella said, “You’re not going to work?”

&nbs
p; Aurora said, “Not eighty hours a week. Or even forty. Never again. I want to have the time to make this marriage work. I want to have a life.”

  Estella’s eyes teared. “Who?” she said. “Who are you going to marry?”

  “After he finds out about it,” Aurora said, “I’ll tell you.”

  Saturday morning, a few days later, Aurora met Georges on a dock in the Dinner Key marina leased by the Justice Department to berth boats it had seized. A deputy U.S. marshal stood near a locked gate casually tossing a set of keys into the air, catching it, and then tossing it up again. He chatted with Georges.

  Aurora approached the men carrying two picnic baskets. The marshal said, “Morning, Ms. Goldin.” He unlocked the gate. “You need help?”

  “Thank you, Hassan. How’s the knee?”

  Georges took the picnic baskets from Aurora and he and Hassan followed her to the end of the dock where a fifty-four-foot Sea Ray Sundancer 540 sport Yacht, The Octopus, was docked. The teak decks and paneling and the chrome railings shined.

  The boat, its engine, and all communications and other safety equipment had passed an inspection by Sea Ray-certified mechanics retained by Aurora on behalf of Al Rosen’s estate. The Octopus was fueled, its freshwater tank was full, and it was stocked with ice and other provisions.

  Hassan handed Aurora electronic keys that unlocked the ignition via a shortwave radio frequency when the keys were onboard. She climbed aboard and stared the engines.

  Hassan at the bow and Georges astern untied bowlines from the dock cleats and tossed the ropes onto the boat. From the dock, Georges jumped aboard and tied the stern rope to a cleat on the gunwale. Then he walked along the gunwale to the bow and secured the bow bowline.

  Aurora, using a joystick to control the direction of the boat, stood before an array of blue neon lights, high-tech displays relaying their position via GPS, the depth via sonar, their speed, and the direction the boat would travel. She piloted the boat at a speed too slow to create a wake until they cleared an egress-ingress lane marked by buoys. When they were beyond the no-wake zone, she opened the throttle to three-quarters. The bow lifted out of the water as the twin 715 horsepower, 8.2-liter, diesel Mercury engines propelled them forward at forty-three knots, crossing Biscayne Bay and leaving behind the seagulls that had followed them from the shore.

  Once they were well within the fabled Gulf Stream warm waters, a brilliant band of aquamarine, a clear contrast to the greener, darker waters nearer the shore, Aurora turned the boat until the bow faced the oncoming current. Then she set the cruise control at three knots, about the speed of the underwater river flowing north. The sea was mild, the boat gently rocked.

  She slipped out of her blouse and shorts that she wore over a bikini. Georges kicked off his canvas shoes and took off the slacks and shirt that he wore over his bathing suit.

  “You checked the weather,” he said in more of a statement than query.

  “You bet,” she deadpanned, “hurricane warnings.”

  She took sunscreen from a side pocket near the wheel, squeezed a healthy dab in Georges hand and said, “Will you do my back?”

  After they were lathered, Aurora lit the outdoor grill and soon onions, mushrooms, zucchini, red peppers, red snapper, and jumbo shrimp the size of lobster tails were sizzling. Georges opened a cold bottle of 2006 Far Niente chardonnay and poured a glass of the golden wine for each of them. They drank the wine sitting in deck chairs on the rear deck, their lunch, a banquet, arrayed before them on a teak table.

  “Only the best wine for Al,” Aurora said. “Must be easy to spend stolen money.”

  Georges said, “Was Al clever enough to name this boat?”

  “Are you kidding?” Aurora said. “Al couldn’t remember the first thing about Florida history, let alone California history. No, Hailey named the boat and Al thought it was named after that Ringo Starr song. What is it?”

  “‘Octopus’s Garden,’” Georges said. “What’s the boat worth?”

  “Isn’t this the coolest toy?” Aurora said. “It has a Zeus drive system, digital throttle and shift.”

  “Meaning?” Georges said.

  “Like a jet plane, communications between the engine and the controls are electronic, not mechanical. The computerized autopilot uses GPS and controls fuel usage moment to moment. It can move sideways, to port or starboard. The interior design and furnishing were a half million. The boat? Before delivery the invoice was north of a million dollars. It’s less than two years old. It’s not an appreciating asset. Maybe Hailey will get half that for it.”

  She started to clear the dishes, but Georges stopped her. “I’ll get it,” he said. While below decks, rinsing the dishes and cutlery, he called out to her, “What’s on your iPod?”

  On deck, he handed her his smart phone.

  “You cloned my music library,” she said.

  She paired the device with the boat’s Bluetooth. Then a Paul McCartney song, “I Saw Her Standing There” played on the boat’s sound system. Aurora took Georges’s hand, lifted it over her head, turned under it and they danced, Georges shaking, rocking, and rolling, Aurora undulating from head to toe, her arms moving rhythmically with her body, sexy motion without locomotion.

  “You dance like you’re still seventeen,” he said.

  “You’re one of the few people who would know that,” she said.

  “Twist and Shout” was followed by “Rock ’n Roll Never Forgets.” When “Happy Together” – the Frank Zappa version with the Turtles – began, Aurora stopped dancing.

  “Tired?” he said.

  “Horny,” she said.

  He kissed her then stopped. “We can’t,” he said. “There would be an enormous emotional price.”

  “You mean feelings?” she said. “For each other?”

  “Entanglements.”

  “Georges Bohem, I’m in love with you,” she said.

  He pulled her to him, unfastened the back of her bikini top.

  “Slow down,” she said and refastened her bikini top.

  He collapsed into a deck chair. “What’s the subtext?”

  She looked at him quizzically. In a graceful arc, two porpoises leapt out of the water.

  “The unspoken message,” he said. “It’s pulling me underwater.”

  “You have to propose first,” she said. “And you’d better hurry. I don’t want you to drown.”

  He laughed. “You’re making fun of me.”

  “It’s no joke,” she said. “It’s the most important thing I’ve ever said. You’re going to marry me, Georges, and we’re going to be together always, whether we make love or not. So you might as well accept the benefits with the burdens.”

  Georges got out of his deck chair, walked over to the ice bucket, and poured himself another glass of wine. He said, “What if we’re not compatible? You know, in bed.”

  She said, “Have you had complaints?”

  “You would really marry me?” he said.

  She jumped up and down like a happily excited child, then leaped into his arms, knocking his wineglass to the deck, wrapping her legs around his waist, her arms around his chest. “Yes,” she said. “Yes. I will marry you, Georges Bohem, yes. Yes. I will be yours forever.”

  She threw her head back, looked into his sad brown eyes. Then she let go, took him by the hand and led him to the spacious master suite with its firm, round, larger-than-king-size bed below the bow. “Why did it take you so long to ask me?” she said.

  Hank Smythe-Russell gives a little knock on the open door to Georges’s managing-partner-size-corner office on the thirty-fourth floor of the thirty-five floor all-glass-exterior office tower on Brickell Avenue adjacent to the hotel housing the Chocolate Carrousel. Georges is standing by the windows, looking out to the west over a scene of urban sprawl that eventually gives way to marshy fields and then to the River of Grass. He turns to see Hank in the doorway, gives him a wan smile. “What’s wrong?” Hank says.

  “A friend,” George
s says, “a young friend. Abe Demeke. His name was Abebe.” Georges looks out the window again.

  Hank walks over to Georges, puts a hand on his shoulder. Georges takes a handkerchief from his pocket, dries his eyes. Then he chokes up again.

  “He was only twenty-four,” Georges says.

  “Had you known him since he was a boy?” Hank says.

  “No. Bunny had. Abe and his brother were like family to Bunny,” Georges says. He walks back toward his desk, stops behind one of his client chairs, rests his hand on the crown. “This is Prince Albert; did I ever tell you that?”

  Hank, too large to fit on the seat of either of Georges’s client chairs, sits on the sofa. “Yes, you’ve told me,” Hank says. “What happened to Abe?”

  Georges turns his Prince Albert client chair to face Hank. “The good die young,” he says, and then, unable to hold back tears, he sobs. “I promised myself,” he says.

  “Promised what?” Hank says.

  “Eschew cliché.”

  “Heavens,” Hank says. “Why on earth would you do that? Think of the time you’ll waste.”

  “There was a holdup in a healthcare clinic. This kid with a gun wanted drugs or money. I don’t think it’s clear.”

  “No security guard?” Hank says.

  Georges covers the top portion of his face with a hand, wipes his eyes again. “Funeral’s tomorrow. We’re taking a red eye to L.A. tonight.”

  “Aurora’s going with you?”

  Georges nods. “Dante’s coming too.”

  Then Georges fiddles with a toy on his desk, embossed on a side of its rectangular oak base: Newton’s Cradle. Affixed to the long ends of the base are upright ten-inch metal supports that look like goal posts facing each other. Nylon strings attached to the posts are attached to seven metal balls, touching each other, hanging in a straight line, dead center between the posts. Georges pulls one of the balls straight out, away from the others but on the same vertical plane and lets go. The ball on the opposite end is knocked away from the other balls. When it swings back like a pendulum, it knocks the ball on the other end away from the other balls that don’t swing. When the balls come to rest, Georges repeats the process but uses two balls instead of one. This time two balls in unison are knocked away from the others and when they swing back, two balls on the other end are knocked away.