The Office of Judicial Liasion Jean-Jacques D?Mourir
Grand Duchy of Nouvelle Bretagne
18 July 2072
It was a muggy summer that year ? the computer for the district office?s climate control had been on the fritz for three days, and Jean-Jacques had taken a little old silver fan his assistant dug out of the attic of the building and placed it by the open window in a vain effort to ward out the hot, thick air and spirit something cooler in from God only knew where.
The fan was a classic old affair, almost an antique. It had the look of the big chrome bumpers of the buses from the turn of the century that Jean-Jacques knew only from movies, the sleek, shiny, optimistic look of a bygone era, when things were simpler. It was about fifty years old, he was fairly certain, as he?d seen one in the house of his grandfather, now dead.
His grandfather had not been an optimist but a pragmatist, and Jean-Jacques was proud to have both his name and his attitude. He had broad shoulders he passed down to his son, Alain, and a barrel chest that would die out with him one day. There was only one prominent scar, the ugly, thick, smooth kind of scar, from when a man whose socialist wife he had filed a report on had tried to slit his throat.
There was little else Jean-Jacques supposed he had passed down to Alain, to his great disappointment. The boy had his mother?s eyes and the wild temperament of his cousins ? Jean-Jacques? eyes were green, and sharper than daggers. He knew how sharp they were, which was why he narrowed them when he heard his assistant enter the office unannounced. His assistant ? Murray, or something much like that ? knew this too, which was why he hesitated.
Jean-Jacques savored the fearful silence and said, ?Yes, Mr. Murray?? He was standing before his office window, which overlooked a narrow street. His hands were clasped behind his back, more like a military man than a bureaucrat ? though in a way, he was both.
Murray cleared his throat but did not venture any further into the office. ?Sorry to disturb you, Mr. D?Mourir.?
?Hm.?
?You? wanted to know about your son?s friends, yes??
Jean-Jacques sighed and turned to his desk without looking at Murray.
?Ah? Amalia checks out.?
Jean-Jacques finally looked at Murray over his reading glasses. ?How do you figure??
?Because she has no criminal record.?
A harrumph was the reply to that. The job of a judicial liaison ? embedded within the Royal Investigative Police ? was to review criminal cases, those who had not yet been convicted, and decide whether or not they would be sent to the Royal Investigative Police Court, or as some (Jean-Jacques not among them) liked to call it, the secret courts. But they were called secret by some for a good reason ? the trials and outcomes were not public, and often resulted in secret political imprisonment or execution. The punishments for the convicted were severe as a rule, and Jean-Jacques thought there was a good reason for that as well. The people he sent to the secret courts were deemed threatening to national stability.
The position had been created fifteen years ago, and Jean-Jacques, whose heart condition prevented him from taking any of the field positions in the Royal Investigative Police that he had dreamed of since he was a boy, was ideal for the job. He was cunning, and knew who they could get away with sending to the secret courts and when. Often he would have to make ?special recommendations? to have the police visit and interrogate known associates, with the end goal of isolating the target sufficiently ? but never anything to draw too much attention.
The courts were supposed to be a quiet affair, after all. Jean-Jacques much preferred quiet to secret. Secret made it sound sinister, and Jean-Jacques knew that he was not a sinister man, merely a pragmatist, though here he felt his pragmatism fell short.
?And what of her friends??
Alain was liberal-minded. Liberalization and democracy were on the tips of his tongue and those of his peers. His close friend Amalia associated with many activists, but her sympathies were more humanitarian than democratic, and anything more than an interrogation of her would send the wrong signals to the wrong people, anyway. She was untouchable ? but the friends she had in common with Alain were not.
Jean-Jacques? son was in danger of becoming known as a threat to the stability of the state, and if he did not move to isolate his son from his more poisonous peers, then another liaison would likely move to have Alain beaten or jailed or tortured, or worse. He was taking a pragmatic approach to the problem, but it was not practical or sensible to coddle the boy so. But his heart had been big once, and in it he still had a fierce ambition for his son to rise above all other sons. Alain, he knew, had a sharp enough mind for investigative work, but the boy had made known in the household his hatred of the state his father served.
Jean-Jacques wanted to be proud of his son, and though he would die years later without ever admitting it, it ached him that he was not, that there was nothing to take pride in with Alain.
?Let me see? Ah. Devin Kennedy has been friends with Miss De Courell since primary school. She was arrested for disturbing the peace two nights ago.?
Jean-Jacques raised his eyebrows. ?A noisy party is hardly ? ?
?It was at a democratic rally, sir. Though she was not the instigator. We?re in the process of bringing him into our courts??
?No,? he said, shaking his head and standing again, ?he is not an instigator but a co-instigator, and he could not have done it without Miss Kennedy?s aid. Bring her in immediately.?
?Yes sir,? Murray said, and rapidly left. He did not like the look in his superior?s eyes.
The look in the sharp green eyes was a gleam of hope, of all things, twisted and perverted by a pragmatic father?s desire to see his son succeed. He had broken up an argument between Alain and Shannon just three days ago, and it was about Devin.
Alain had been seeing her for two weeks.
Grand Duchy of Nouvelle Bretagne
18 July 2072
It was a muggy summer that year ? the computer for the district office?s climate control had been on the fritz for three days, and Jean-Jacques had taken a little old silver fan his assistant dug out of the attic of the building and placed it by the open window in a vain effort to ward out the hot, thick air and spirit something cooler in from God only knew where.
The fan was a classic old affair, almost an antique. It had the look of the big chrome bumpers of the buses from the turn of the century that Jean-Jacques knew only from movies, the sleek, shiny, optimistic look of a bygone era, when things were simpler. It was about fifty years old, he was fairly certain, as he?d seen one in the house of his grandfather, now dead.
His grandfather had not been an optimist but a pragmatist, and Jean-Jacques was proud to have both his name and his attitude. He had broad shoulders he passed down to his son, Alain, and a barrel chest that would die out with him one day. There was only one prominent scar, the ugly, thick, smooth kind of scar, from when a man whose socialist wife he had filed a report on had tried to slit his throat.
There was little else Jean-Jacques supposed he had passed down to Alain, to his great disappointment. The boy had his mother?s eyes and the wild temperament of his cousins ? Jean-Jacques? eyes were green, and sharper than daggers. He knew how sharp they were, which was why he narrowed them when he heard his assistant enter the office unannounced. His assistant ? Murray, or something much like that ? knew this too, which was why he hesitated.
Jean-Jacques savored the fearful silence and said, ?Yes, Mr. Murray?? He was standing before his office window, which overlooked a narrow street. His hands were clasped behind his back, more like a military man than a bureaucrat ? though in a way, he was both.
Murray cleared his throat but did not venture any further into the office. ?Sorry to disturb you, Mr. D?Mourir.?
?Hm.?
?You? wanted to know about your son?s friends, yes??
Jean-Jacques sighed and turned to his desk without looking at Murray.
?Ah? Amalia checks out.?
Jean-Jacques finally looked at Murray over his reading glasses. ?How do you figure??
?Because she has no criminal record.?
A harrumph was the reply to that. The job of a judicial liaison ? embedded within the Royal Investigative Police ? was to review criminal cases, those who had not yet been convicted, and decide whether or not they would be sent to the Royal Investigative Police Court, or as some (Jean-Jacques not among them) liked to call it, the secret courts. But they were called secret by some for a good reason ? the trials and outcomes were not public, and often resulted in secret political imprisonment or execution. The punishments for the convicted were severe as a rule, and Jean-Jacques thought there was a good reason for that as well. The people he sent to the secret courts were deemed threatening to national stability.
The position had been created fifteen years ago, and Jean-Jacques, whose heart condition prevented him from taking any of the field positions in the Royal Investigative Police that he had dreamed of since he was a boy, was ideal for the job. He was cunning, and knew who they could get away with sending to the secret courts and when. Often he would have to make ?special recommendations? to have the police visit and interrogate known associates, with the end goal of isolating the target sufficiently ? but never anything to draw too much attention.
The courts were supposed to be a quiet affair, after all. Jean-Jacques much preferred quiet to secret. Secret made it sound sinister, and Jean-Jacques knew that he was not a sinister man, merely a pragmatist, though here he felt his pragmatism fell short.
?And what of her friends??
Alain was liberal-minded. Liberalization and democracy were on the tips of his tongue and those of his peers. His close friend Amalia associated with many activists, but her sympathies were more humanitarian than democratic, and anything more than an interrogation of her would send the wrong signals to the wrong people, anyway. She was untouchable ? but the friends she had in common with Alain were not.
Jean-Jacques? son was in danger of becoming known as a threat to the stability of the state, and if he did not move to isolate his son from his more poisonous peers, then another liaison would likely move to have Alain beaten or jailed or tortured, or worse. He was taking a pragmatic approach to the problem, but it was not practical or sensible to coddle the boy so. But his heart had been big once, and in it he still had a fierce ambition for his son to rise above all other sons. Alain, he knew, had a sharp enough mind for investigative work, but the boy had made known in the household his hatred of the state his father served.
Jean-Jacques wanted to be proud of his son, and though he would die years later without ever admitting it, it ached him that he was not, that there was nothing to take pride in with Alain.
?Let me see? Ah. Devin Kennedy has been friends with Miss De Courell since primary school. She was arrested for disturbing the peace two nights ago.?
Jean-Jacques raised his eyebrows. ?A noisy party is hardly ? ?
?It was at a democratic rally, sir. Though she was not the instigator. We?re in the process of bringing him into our courts??
?No,? he said, shaking his head and standing again, ?he is not an instigator but a co-instigator, and he could not have done it without Miss Kennedy?s aid. Bring her in immediately.?
?Yes sir,? Murray said, and rapidly left. He did not like the look in his superior?s eyes.
The look in the sharp green eyes was a gleam of hope, of all things, twisted and perverted by a pragmatic father?s desire to see his son succeed. He had broken up an argument between Alain and Shannon just three days ago, and it was about Devin.
Alain had been seeing her for two weeks.