Boca Knights

by Steven M. Forman

  I spent the week following Dom’s funeral working with two independent forensic experts. We set up shop in my apartment.

  Peter Barry was a six foot four, 165-pound computer geek with a master’s degree in computer science from the University of Miami. His specialty was forensic computer animation. Peter taught me that there were two types of three-dimensional graphic animation. One was descriptive animation, which was based strictly on the testimony of a witness. The other was scientific forensic animation, where all objects must obey the laws of physics and conform to facts determined by a forensic expert. Our lead forensic expert was a transplanted Bostonian named Doug Santos, a sixty-seven-year-old gentleman with a doctorate in physics from M.I.T. He had worked on complicated forensic cases with the South Florida police since his retirement from M.I.T. five years ago. Our common goal was to develop an irrefutable forensic animation, narrated in Dominick’s own words, that would prove Dom did not kill Robert Goldenblatt.

  We started with a re-creation, using police evidence and professional diagrams of the scene. Santos sat next to Barry providing the facts and figures while Barry’s fingers flew across the keyboard compiling the data. I was totally useless except for playing the Amici audiotape when needed.

  We worked long hours and I didn’t quit until late at night. I wouldn’t even break to answer the phone. After the second night on the job, I collapsed on my bed and played my telephone messages. I had a message from Togo, one from Claudette, and one from Alicia, who asked that I call her regardless of what time I got home. I decided not to call. Recent conversations with Alicia had been stressful, and I just didn’t have the energy. I got undressed, crawled into bed, and thought about the last time I had seen Alicia. It was outside the church after Dominick’s funeral.

  She looked great that day. Perfect. I wanted to tell her how spectacular she was, but I just said, “Hi.”

  “I read about you and the Buford boy in the paper this morning,” she said. “You did a very courageous thing. Congratulations.”

  I wanted to tell her that I loved her body and that I thought her face was a work of art. I also thought of confessing to her that I wasn’t so wonderful and that I’d had consensual sex with the intended rape victim. Instead, I just said, “Thanks.”

  “I was hoping you’d call me last week,” she said.

  “I wasn’t sure you wanted to talk to me. You weren’t too happy with me the last time we were together.”

  “I was surprised by your behavior,” she said.

  “You mean none of your other friends would have trashed a Nazi’s house?”

  “None of my friends would resort to vandalism as a solution for anything,” she said.

  “You need new friends.”

  “You need self-control.”

  “That’s what Dr. Kessler said about me,” I told her. “He was the Boston police department shrink who tried to analyze why I had such a bad temper and a death wish. He determined I had intermittent explosive disorder.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It means I’m a hothead.”

  “Eddie, be serious.”

  “I am being serious,” I said. “Under certain circumstances my head actually gets hot, and I see red spots and get pretty crazy.”

  “That’s dangerous,” she said.

  “It’s not like it happens all the time. I really have to be provoked.”

  “Like when a woman is being attacked.”

  “Exactly.” I nodded.

  “Did you have this disorder when you vandalized the Buford house?”

  “No,” I told her. “I was orderly and totally under control.”

  “Then why would you do such a thing?”

  I wanted to tell Alicia Fine that people like the Bufords would just as soon rape and kill her (not necessarily in that order) as reject her invitation to Passover dinner. I wanted her to understand that the criminals and bullies of the world found it infinitely easier to confiscate prosperity than earn it.

  But I didn’t tell her anything that day. I just shrugged and said, “That’s the way I am.”

  I fell asleep in my bed and dreamed I was at a Nazi rally in 1939 Germany.

  “You can get further with a kind word and a gun, than with a kind word alone,” Hitler screamed.

  The assembled imbeciles screamed right back at him, “Sieg Heil, big guy.”

  “Success is the sole judge of right and wrong. The victor will never be asked if he told the truth,” Adolf promised the cretins.

  “Auf Wiedersehen, Jews,” the multitude of Mistkerls (shitheads) roared.

  “The only thing money won’t buy is poverty,” the little corporal told them.

  “We didn’t know that,” the geniuses exclaimed.

  “Yes, we are barbarians. We want to be barbarians. It is an honorable title.” Hitler was on a Kaiser roll.

  “Kussen sie meinen esel [kiss my ass], Allies!” the fanatics cheered.

  “Gimme a B!” the mustachioed former paperhanger screamed in my dream.

  “B!” the assembled multitude of Arschlochs (assholes) gave the big A a big B.

  “Gimme an A!” Adolf did a cartwheel across the stage in his lederhosen.

  “Here’s your fuckin’ A!” the united uneducated responded.

  “Gimme an R!” Schiklgruber screamed.

  “R!” cheered those who would get rich killing Jews and taking their stuff.

  Eventually the word barbarians was spelled. The home crowd did their version of “the wave” accompanied by a resounding “Sieg Heil” that would soon be heard throughout Europe.

  I woke in a cold sweat and trudged to the bathroom. I had been doing a lot of night trudging to the bathroom since I turned sixty. As I stood waiting at the toilet I thought about my dreams. I had been doing a lot of standing and waiting at the toilet lately, too.

  I concluded that in Alicia Fine’s rosy world the Hitler B-A-R cheer would have spelled the word Bar mitzvah and everyone would have danced the hora afterward.

  I shuffled back to bed hoping my dream would not pick up where it left off. It didn’t. I had a different dream.

  I was standing inside the security gate of Boca Heights on Yamato Road. A horde of Aryans clamored to gain entrance. The Buford family was trying to open the gate from the inside. All the residents of Boca Heights had deserted the community and gone on a cruise on a large Carnival ship. I was the last line of defense when the Aryans broke down the flimsy gate and swarmed over Boca Heights like locusts. I waved my grandfather’s kinjal over my head and went down fighting.

  Before the Aryans could kill me, I fell out of bed and landed on my ass.

  By our fourth day on the job, Doug Santos and Peter Barry had made tremendous progress. Their computer-generated model was starting to flicker and move.

  “I wish I knew what you guys are doing,” I said, feeling useless.

  Doug Santos patted me on the back. “I’ll give you a crash course, Eddie. Peter and I are creating a computer simulation.”

  “Is that the same as a computer animation?” I asked.

  “No,” Peter interjected. “A computer animation is computer-generated images where each frame is altered slightly to give the impression of movement. A simulation is much more complicated. It involves the input of a lot of sophisticated rules of physics and mathematics. A computer simulation is a re-creation of the real thing, accompanied by expert testimony supporting the visuals.”

  “So, the animation is a version of the story, and the simulation is the story supported by facts.”

  “Established facts,” Doug emphasized. “We’re taking Dominick’s words and determining scientifically whether or not his story is true.”

  “Will the finished version give us something definitive?”

  “I think it will.” Peter Barry smiled proudly. “If we put in the proper facts, we should get a scenario that shows exactly what happened.”

  “Is my theory feasible?” I asked.

  “Yes, it’s f
easible. We’ll know for sure tomorrow.”

  “When will the simulation be complete?”

  “The next day, I hope,” Peter Barry sighed.

  “I really appreciate everything you two are doing,” I thanked them. “The court of public opinion has no judge and jury, but maybe we can salvage a man’s legacy.”

  “That’s why we’re here.” Doug spoke for both of them.

  We were all on the same page.

  I spoke to Togo that night and brought him up to date.

  “You need any help?” he asked.

  I assured him I didn’t need help.

  “I can’t believe it,” Togo laughed. “You’re all over the news more than when you was in Boston. It’s amazing.”

  We both laughed.

  “Everyone here is proud of you,” he said.

  “Thanks. That means a lot to me.”

  “How’s your arthritis?”

  “I’m like a new man most days,” I told him.

  “That’s good,” Togo said. “And your love life?”

  “I’m like an old man most nights,” I joked.

  “You seeing anyone?

  “Actually, I’m seeing two women,” I bragged.

  “They aren’t Jewish are they?”

  “One of them is.”

  “Take the other one,” Togo advised.

  “Why? You have a Jewish wife.”

  “She busts my stones,” he laughed.

  I called Alicia and got her answering machine. I left a short message saying I would call again.

  I saw Claudette once during the week. I rushed to get her into bed, where I promptly fell asleep. She waited until the next morning to get even.

  I was at home on the fifth day of the project when I got a call from Jerry Small of the Palm Beach County News.

  “Nice job on the foster care articles, Jerry,” I complimented him. “I read all four.”

  “A lot of people read them,” he said.

  “Did you get any calls?”

  “Over a hundred,” he said. “But most importantly I got the call you were hoping for.”

  “Matt called?”

  “Yup!”

  “When?”

  “After the second article.”

  “That was two days ago. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wanted to let things progress a little.”

  “I assume they have,” I said.

  “Absolutely. In fact, I’ll let Matt tell you himself,” Jerry surprised me.

  “Hi, Eddie.” Matt McGrady was on the line. “I guess you were testing me, huh?”

  “Not really,” I said. “I didn’t want to put you on the spot, Matt. So, I just asked Jerry to put the information in the paper, and I hoped for the best. Besides it was a good story, and it might help other foster kids.”

  “It was a good story,” Matt agreed. “My wife and I went to see Tommy and told him we wanted to adopt him.”

  “He must have been thrilled.”

  “He was,” Matt told me. “He wanted to know if you could be his uncle.”

  “He told the people at the hospital I was his grandfather,” I reminded him.

  “Now you have a choice,” Matt said.

  “Tell him I’ll be his best friend,” I decided.

  “Good choice,” Matt said. “About the money, Eddie,” Matt continued. “My wife and I feel funny taking your money.”

  “I didn’t give you any money,” I said. “It’s for Tommy.”

  “Well, I’m just a little uncomfortable.”

  “Don’t be,” I assured him. “It’s my pleasure. Is your wife happy?”

  “She’s been hugging that kid all day,” Matt said. “She can’t stop crying, she’s so happy. We both feel guilty that we let money stop us from doing this before.”

  “Hey, you had your own family to consider,” I defended him. “You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

  “Thank you, Eddie.”

  “Thank you, Matt.”

  We ended the call.

  I thought I was your best friend, Mr. Johnson said when I was off the phone.

  You’re my closest and oldest friend, I assured him.

  That works, Mr. Johnson said.

  By the end of the day we had our first computer simulation of Robert Goldenblatt’s death.

  There were at least 300 people in the Boca Heights clubhouse dining room awaiting the start of the Dominick Amici/Robert Goldenblatt presentation. The room was set up with rows of chairs like a movie theater instead of the normal restaurant layout. There was a large projection screen at the front of the room. Doug Santos and Peter Barry were making their final preparations. It was a Sunday night, a week after Randolph Buford’s arraignment, and only three days before his grand jury appearance. The meeting had been announced by e-mail and signs posted at the entrance of each Boca Heights neighborhood.

  At exactly 6 p.m. I tapped the microphone, and the audience grew quiet.

  “Thank you all for coming,” I began. “Tonight we will be showing a computer simulation of what we have concluded happened to Robert Goldenblatt last year. A computer simulation is a reproduction of an event based entirely on scientific input using all the relevant laws of physics, spatial measurements, and physical conditions.” I expected to be interrupted at this point. Every speaker was interrupted at a Boca Heights meeting. I was pleasantly surprised when the audience remained silent. “A computer simulation is not based on witness testimony or recall. It is based entirely on available facts. We are satisfied that our results are accurate.”

  “What if we’re not satisfied?” The interruption truce was over. I recognized Seymour Tanzer’s voice. Seymour was a retired lawyer from Scarsdale, New York. He loved to interrupt meetings with legal points of procedure. He was called “the Professor” by those too polite to call him “the Asshole.” Most people called him “the Asshole.”

  “Mr. Tanzer,” I said patiently, “there is absolutely nothing I can do if you’re not satisfied. You can accept or reject the presentation. We are not taking any questions.”

  “What do you mean you’re not taking any questions?” Another ego was heard. “What is this, a dictatorship?”

  Bing. A red spot. I knew I didn’t have the patience for this kind of forum. “Try to think of it as a documentary,” I said. “This is not a community meeting where your opinions are invited.”

  “You can’t tell us what to do,” Seymour informed me. “If we want to ask questions or give an opinion we will.”

  RED! RED! RED!

  I put down the microphone and left the podium. This was not for me. I motioned to Doug Santos to take over. Peter dimmed the lights. A split-screen picture of Dominick Amici and Robert Goldenblatt appeared. Both large, healthy-looking dead men appeared on the screen. The squabbling in the room stopped. Death has a way of changing people’s perspective of what is important and what is not.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Dr. Doug Santos. I’m a physicist and a former professor of physics at M.I.T.” Doug’s voice was authoritative. “I have produced hundreds of computer simulations used in complicated court cases throughout this country. My work has never been challenged. I was asked to work with Eddie Perlmutter to reconstruct events on the night of March 15, 2004, in order to bring clarity and hopefully closure to the unfortunate events that led to the death of Robert Goldenblatt.”

  Doug pointed to Peter Barry, who stood up. “Peter Barry is an expert on computer simulation. Peter used Eddie’s forensic input and my scientific information to create the simulation you will see. I stand a hundred percent behind this re-creation.” Doug moved to one of the computers and tapped commands. The screen changed to a three-dimensional simulation of Robert Goldenblatt’s garage. Doug tapped until he had shown every angle of the garage. He tapped the Pause button.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Doug said, sounding like a docent, “you have just taken a virtual tour of the late Robert Goldenblatt’s garage as it looked the night of his dea
th. Every measurement is precise from every angle.” He took a deep breath. “Now we’ll bring animation to this simulation,” he went on. “Animation is a series of images altered frame by frame to give the appearance of motion. The human mind can’t absorb more than ten images per second. At ten to sixteen frames per second, the animation flickers like an old-time movie. When the speed is over sixteen frames per second the motion becomes smoother. Professional motion pictures are shown at twenty-four frames per second and television is thirty. Our animation is shown at thirty frames per second so it is very clear. Now I’m going to ask Detective Eddie Perlmutter to take the mike again,” Doug said.

  I returned to the podium and shook his hand. “You would make a great lion tamer,” I whispered in his ear. “Before Dominick Amici passed away,” I began, “he allowed me to record his story. These are his words.”

  I worked a few buttons and knobs, and Dom’s face filled the screen. The room remained quiet. “Is it on?” The voice of Dominick Amici filled the room. “It is? Okay. Well, my name is Dominick Amici, and I’m probably dead by now.”

  Everyone was paying attention.

  Dominick started coughing. “Eddie, give me that mask, will ya?” The crowd listened to Dominick breathe in some oxygen. All the while his smiling photo remained on the screen. “Sorry,” Dominick managed. “Anyway, this is not a deathbed confession because I have nothing to confess. I didn’t kill anyone. But I am on my deathbed, so I have no reason to lie.” More coughs. “Robert Goldenblatt and I were never great friends, but we weren’t enemies either. When the members took over the Boca Heights club a few years ago, Robert and I started to disagree on a lot of stuff. We fought over assessments, club policy, and new facilities. You name it, and we fought about it. This went on for three years. I didn’t think it was any big deal. People disagree all the time. Then, at one meeting, Goldenblatt and I got into a real heated argument. We’re both big guys and I guess we’re confrontational. Anyway, he started yelling at me, so I yelled at him. Before you know it the meeting was out of control, and everyone went home pissed off.” More coughing. More oxygen. “I didn’t think nothin’ of it, but the next night I get a phone call from a friend of mine telling me that Goldenblatt sent an e-mail to the entire membership attacking me personally. I got online and read it. Goldenblatt wrote that I was stupid and my ideas were prehistoric or something like that. I mean what the fuck? Oops. Sorry. Wanna start again? No? Okay. So I’m really teed off at Goldenblatt. He’s attacking me personally. My wife is gonna hear about this. My daughters live here. I got grandkids. I’m embarrassed and I’m pissed off.” Coughing followed. “So I get in my car and drive to Goldenblatt’s house to confront him man to man. He only lives around the corner.” Cough. Cough. “I get to his house and pull up to the curb. His two cars were in his circular driveway so I can’t park there. His overhead garage door is open, and I see he’s in the garage hitting plastic golf balls into a net. I get out of the car and call his name.”