Mid Ocean

by T Rafael Cimino

  While most teenagers complained about their parents, Jade was smart enough to see the positive side of everything, including her father. Most kids couldn’t have cared less about their dad’s comings and goings. She was different, always maintaining a watchful eye on him. At a young age, she had a reasonable amount of freedom. Her dad was gone at nights. That meant she could do whatever she pleased and, at times like these, she could pursue her secret benefit.

  While trying not to make a sound, Jade put her hands through the bundle of dirty clothes. She scattered the loose pieces on the top of the dryer next to her, sifting through the pile until coming to her father’s soiled jeans, shirt and socks, clothes he wore during the big bust the night before. Then she reached into a cabinet overhead, in between bottles of detergent, bleach and fabric softener, and removed a large white garbage bag, spreading it over the floor below, shaking the worn garments over the plastic. Pieces of cannabis fell from the creases, crevasses and pockets, raining down on the white surface. She shook until there were no more remnants left. Jade then went to the living room, gathered his tennis shoes and repeated the process. With the skill of a chemist, she emptied the remnants into a smaller clear plastic bag, an ounce of weed in all, being careful to return the clothes and pair of shoes back to their original places. She returned quietly to her room where she started to shower and get dressed for school.

  RAP RAP RAP

  There it was again, Owen Sands thought to himself as he climbed out of bed and staggered through the house. Joel stood patiently in front of the large door. As it opened, he was surprised to see Owen standing there, half slumped over, dressed in a muscle shirt and jockey shorts.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” Joel said.

  “It’s okay, I had to get up sometime today,” Owen replied.

  “Porky says we need to pick up the Whaler.”

  “You’ve been to the office?” Owen asked.

  “Yeah, I wanted to get started on the paperwork from last night.”

  “Well I guess you’d better come in. I’ll need some time to get ready.”

  Joel entered the home and sat on the couch while Owen disappeared into the back room.

  “How did you know where I live?” Owen yelled back from his room.

  “Porky told me. He drew a map.”

  “I’ll have to remember to thank him,” Owen said sarcastically.

  While he took his time in the back, Joel looked around the living room. The interior resembled a North Carolina hunting lodge with cedar planks covering the walls and a stone fireplace built into the center of the wall, constructed entirely out of gray slate. In the opposite corner sat a sixty-inch projection TV and below his feet, a thick bear-skinned rug. From the back room Sands yelled again.

  “I met your mother,” Joel said.

  “Really? Don’t get too attached,” Owen warned.

  “Why? She seems like a sweet lady.”

  “She is, but we are seeing early stages of dementia. She will probably forget your name by the end of the week.”

  “And she lives alone?” Joel asked.

  “Her choice, for now. She has a visiting nurse who comes in twice a week. I’m sure she will have to be put into a home soon.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it man.”

  “Hey, if you want something to drink help yourself.”

  Distracted, Joel did not answer. He picked up the framed photo. It looked like a prom picture of a girl dressed in a white sequined dress that complemented her perfectly tanned shoulders. Another picture contained Owen, a woman and two young girls, all of whom were dressed in ski clothes with the backdrop of snow-covered mountains behind them.

  “Hey, listen,” Owen began, coming back into the room with a towel wrapped around his waist. “I’m probably going to be awhile. Why don’t you drive up and get the boat yourself. There’s a chart under the console. You’ll be okay if you stay on the bay side.”

  “You’ve got a lot of confidence in me,” Joel said.

  “Well, if the truth were known, I’ve got a meeting with my daughter’s guidance counselor at the high school and I really don’t have a choice.”

  “It’s okay, I’ll figure it out,” Joel said.

  “You’ll do fine. If you get into trouble, pull into the closest marina and call me.”

  “The chart is under the console?” Joel asked.

  “Under the console,” Owen replied. “Take the Key Largo Cut over to the bay side and follow the markers.”

  Follow the markers, Kenyon thought to himself.

  Owen finished getting dressed as Jade slipped out the back door unnoticed.

  •

  It was an hour later and Owen walked through the double doors of the Coral Shores High School, the only public high school in the Upper Florida Keys. For the most part, he was happy with the school. His older daughter had graduated from there and now Jade was two years away from doing the same. The school housed enough classroom space and ancillary facilities for a student body of twelve hundred, although the rolls reflected a count closer to a thousand. The fact that most of the faculty and staff were alumni of the University of Miami was especially evident in the school’s athletic department, regionally known for producing excellent ball players, players who, like their mentoring university, were known as the Hurricanes and wore similar uniforms only adorned in green and gold. The idea caught on and while the state was looking at the real Miami Hurricanes, the miniature Hurricanes at times caught equal billing, especially when the scores and stats corresponded between games.

  The hallway was long and quiet. Owen reminisced of his days in high school growing up in Hialeah. Before entering the office he took one last look down at his watch. 9:12 a.m. He was over ten minutes late.

  “Mr. Sands, please come in,” said a perky woman standing next to a copy machine.

  “I’m sorry; I’m running a little late…” Owen apologized.

  “Well, at least now we know where Jade gets her punctuality.”

  “Jade was late?” he asked.

  “Why don’t you follow me back to my office and we’ll talk about it in private.”

  The two walked down a short hallway to another door and entered. It was a modest-sized room. The centerpiece, a large oak desk, took up most of the space. Behind it, hung conspicuously, were several degrees and certificates, most from the Florida State University. At the top of the collection, which was arranged in the shape of a pyramid, was a doctoral degree from Duke.

  “Have a seat. Coffee?” she asked.

  “No, no thanks,” Sands answered.

  “Well, we will get right down to it.”

  “Please do,” he said.

  “Jade, while a very bright girl, is not performing to her capacity. She is making a low C at best and we all know she is capable of producing better grades than that. I believe the problem stems from the home,” she suggested, nervously dropping a pencil on the desk.

  “I know I haven’t provided the ideal home environment for her, but between myself and her grandmother, I think we give Jade everything she needs to grow and go to school,” he said confidently.

  “Where is Jade’s mother?” she asked.

  “Homestead,” Owen responded quietly.

  “Oh, great, maybe we can have her join us at the next meeting.”

  “I don’t think so. My wife passed away several years ago. She resides at the Birchwood Memorial Gardens in Homestead.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” she faltered.

  “You should have,” Owen replied with an irritated tone.

  “Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. We don’t use Leslie’s death as an excuse by any means, but you are her guidance counselor. Something as basic as the death of a parent should be in her file or something. Shouldn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes it should. Look Mr. Sands, I’ve only been with this school for less than a year and most of the cases I’ve had to inherit from someone else.
”

  “Understood. Look, I’ll do what I can to encourage and promote some ambition in my daughter and if you could keep me informed as to any new developments, I would appreciate it,” he said.

  “Would you have any objections to me moving Jade from her free period to a study aid class?” she asked.

  “It sounds like a good move to me,” he agreed.

  * * * * *

  Sculpture

  Hank Pearson sat patiently in the padded, wood-lined pew that had been assigned to him and the other jurors on his row. He had been called to serve his duty. The day started early with free coffee and donuts in the call room. Pearson spent most of the morning sitting amidst two hundred other people. The process was slow and tedious. Attorneys from the Second Federal Judicial District milled over prospective jurors until a group of non-partisan objective listeners could be compiled.

  His boss, with all the right techniques to get disqualified, had coached Pearson. It was either “hate Columbians” or “feel the federal government has no right peering into people’s lives.” Whatever the reason, he was compelled to ignore them all, despite his boss’s objections. His employer, Ajac Restaurant Supply, Inc. of greater Atlanta, was in the middle of a stock reduction program, which left Pearson pulling twelve-hour days, six days a week. At thirty-seven, Pearson was responsible for sales to the northwestern corner of the city. His territory contained some fifteen hundred restaurants, cafes, and coffee shops, all begging for the innovative and exclusive products he sold. His boss was under the gun to increase sales and lower the downtime of his brokers. Ajac owned several warehouses in Norcross, a small industrial area on Atlanta’s Eastside, all filled with stainless sinks, fryers, toasters, pizza ovens and the daily consumables which alone accounted for over sixteen million in gross sales. Some were new, some were used, but all were priced to sell.

  Pearson’s newfound commitment as a grand juror would occupy his life from 6:00 a.m. until 1:00 p.m. every Friday for the next twenty-six weeks. He was proud to serve in this fashion as he was always intrigued by federal crimes. He wondered what he would be exposed to: counterfeit, drugs, tax evasion, bank robbery? He watched syndicated reruns of Perry Mason and the Andy Griffith Show religiously. The thought of being part of the federal process made his palms sweat. What he would encounter would change his opinion forever.

  Pat Stephens stood up from an adjacent chair. His off-the-rack suit had been recently pressed and what was left of his hair was parted neatly to the right. The gray streak was only overshadowed by his piercing blue eyes. At forty-two, if he was anything, he was a confident man.

  As Stephens spoke, his voice echoed from the walnut-coated walls trimmed in cherry and garnished oak stanchions. He commanded attention from Pearson and the other twenty-two jurors.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Patrick Stephens and I am a special prosecutor with the United States Justice Department. Normally, as jurors, you are exposed to anywhere from three to five ongoing federal cases involving as many as twenty different defendants. Over the next six months, you will, through me, hear about several targets involved in different cases. One in particular though, has our attention. No, it’s not a famous mass murderer,” Stephens said, evoking laughter from the jurors.

  “We will focus all of our limited time and energy toward seeking justice and wisdom from our Lord God to find out the truth. Whether or not to indict this man, simply expose him to the closer scrutiny of a trial, or to ignore the evidence presented and hand down a no bill, setting him free of this judicial process. Let us pray…”

  Pearson, like the others, bowed his head with reserve. Stephens made this not just a mission for the United States, but also a mission from God. Pearson, who had attended the Norcross First Baptist Church for over eleven years, was hooked.

  “Our Father who watches over us…”

  Stephens paused as he squinted up to view his captive audience.

  “Please direct our paths as we look forward, with the assistance of your light, into a very dark room, one that holds in it the sins of many others. We ask for your direction and guidance in deciding which path to take. We ask for the courage to make those decisions that we might find difficult. Let us do some good. In your name, we pray, Amen.”

  Stephens paused for a minute as the jurors opened their eyes and reoriented themselves with the room. “The man you will learn about later is a drug dealer. But not just any drug dealer. This man is more dangerous than that. He is a cop, a federal agent actually, still on the job as we speak. He works in one of the busiest sectors of the U.S., the Florida Keys. Because of its proximity to the Bahamas and South America, the Keys have become the busiest conduit for drug traffic in the country. It is estimated that more than seventy percent of all illegal drugs enter the U.S. through this chain of islands. The man you will be investigating has been entrusted by our country, by you the taxpayers and by me personally, to uphold and enforce the law. In the next few months, ladies and gentlemen, we will peer into the life of this man and see how he has betrayed that trust for the purpose of promoting his own personal gain.”

  At the end of Stephens’s introduction, Pearson found himself sitting upright in the hard pew. He hung on every word preached to him by the exuberant Stephens. A slightly chunky girl entered the room serving ice water and fruit. The jurors took in the brief concessions as Stephens fumbled through his notes.

  “Welcome to the ‘People’s Panel.’ That’s what it is you know. A chance for ordinary people like you to extract justice from a system cluttered with bureaucracy and red tape. The process itself is a guaranteed right granted to you, the people, by the Fifth Amendment. Yes, I said the Fifth Amendment. The same piece of legislation we hear quoted so often in this very room. The amendment which protects a witness or defendant from self-incrimination also provides for the grand jury process and all that it entails.”

  “Since we will not have a judge presiding over us, Judge Terry Lewis is in his chambers downstairs and at our disposal should any problems arise. No judge, no attorneys, and no gallery. It’s just you all, the witnesses, and me. And, I almost forgot, the young lady with the goodies is my assistant Marcy. If you need anything, she will be glad to get it for you,” Stephens informed before drinking from a glass of ice water.

  “In the year 1919, an interesting case erupted, that of the United States versus Blair. The specifics of the case aren’t important but the fact that a newly revised grand jury system made its first indictment ever sets it apart as a landmark event. This transposed earlier attempts which were nothing more than rumor shops with the bulk of evidence coming from the testimony of the jurors themselves who testified to personal accounts, gossip and hearsay. Today’s grand jury is an official inquisition and the United States Federal Court System sees to it that we are afforded a tremendous amount of leeway. Our proceedings are stenographed and videotaped for later examination. And like other court proceedings, anyone who violates their oath to the truth is guilty of perjury and I prosecute those personally,” Stephens said, pausing for a moment while examining his notes.

  “Your attendance is very important. Out of the twenty-three of you, I will need a quorum of sixteen to proceed. In the end, it will take a mere twelve to indict. The number twenty-three by the way, has been traced back to the ancient Jewish twenty-three member tribunal known as the Lesser Sanhedrin, which served for a number of years as an ecclesiastical and secular court until the destruction of the second temple in the year 70 A.D. So folks, this process has been around for awhile in one form or another.”

  “Why so many of you? Well some states like Indiana and South Dakota have only seven jurors on a panel. The state of Virginia utilizes five. The federal government uses twenty-three because we want the largest spectrum of the community to be represented and the interjection of a broad opinion base. Different ideas from different walks of life. Different races, cultures, well, you get the idea.”

  Stephens paused again, this time retrieving
two enlarged pictures that were placed on a display easel. They were pictures, mug shots, of two men. Both appeared to be in their thirties. Both were Latin. Both were grubby and hadn’t shaved in probably a week. Underneath them, from their necks, hung a booking pallet, a board suspended by a chain bearing the date of arrest, arresting agency - in this case the Metro Dade Police Department of Miami - and the booking number.

  “These, ladies and gentlemen, are the Aryo Brothers, suspected of narcotics distribution, money laundering, extortion, and the murder of a federal informant. They bring me to my next topic and that is anonymity. Secrecy. What you see here and hear here stays here. Because of a leak in the system, these dangerous criminals got word of a secret indictment and before our agents had a chance to raid their home and take them into custody, they fled jurisdiction - a blatant flight to avoid prosecution. Something we don’t want to have happen. Ever!”

  Stephens continued. “Your job is simple. Hear the evidence presented and decide: A, if a crime has been committed and B, is there probable cause to indict the person, the target, suspected of perpetrating the said crime? The conflict that you may be considering is whether to vote in favor of an indictment or not to. I want you to remember that an indictment is not a conviction. Like most court cases, a jury is present, and they have to vote on a defendant’s guilt or innocence, a vote that, I must stress, has to be unanimous. This is not what you will be deciding today. You are simply deciding whether to charge someone we, the government, feel is breaking the law. Over the next six months you will be charged with this responsibility and you will hear a lot of testimony about a wide variety of potential defendants. Today, I am going to give you an easy case. Let’s call it our case with training wheels, something to get your feet wet,” he said, pausing for a minute to drink from a glass of water.

  “Are there any questions?” Stephens asked.

  “Where are the bathrooms?” one of the jurors replied.