
# FADE TO BLACK

# FADE TO BLACK

# SOMETIMES THE TRUTH REALLY IS INCONVENIENT

# E. CLAY
This book is inspired by true events, but names and some events have been changed to protect the privacy of those portrayed.

Fade to Black  
Copyright © E. Clay 2015

New Paradigm Publishers-All rights reserved  
ISBN 978-0-9891548-8-8 (paperback)  
ISBN 978-0-9891548-9-5 (ebook)

Typesetting by wordzworth.com  
Conversion to eBook by wordzworth.com

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form  
by photocopying or any electronic or mechanical means,  
including information storage or retrieval systems,  
without permission in writing from both the copyright  
owner and the publisher of the book.

## CONTENTS

Prologue |   
---|---  
Chapter 1 | Unfinished Business  
Chapter 2 | The Sum of Life's Experiences  
Chapter 3 | Drinks Served  
Chapter 4 | Social Engineering  
Chapter 5 | Freak Show  
Chapter 6 | Sign Posted Ahead  
Chapter 7 | Special Sauce  
Chapter 8 | Code 3 Emergency  
Chapter 9 | Blank Slate  
Chapter 10 | Total Recall  
Chapter 11 | Tick Tock, You Don't Stop  
Chapter 12 | Homecoming  
Chapter 13 | Grave Situation  
Chapter 14 | Not My Brother's Keeper  
Chapter 15 | [The Court-martial of Staff Sergeant  
Michael Jordin, Part 1](../Text/Chapter15.htm)  
Chapter 16 | [The Court-martial of Staff Sergeant  
Michael Jordin, Part 2](../Text/Chapter16.htm)  
Chapter 17 | Preemptive Strike  
Chapter 18 | Redemption  
Author's Corner

## PROLOGUE

Two childhood friends torn and separated by betrayal are reunited in the US Marine Corps thirteen years later. Clay, the lead character, sets out to atone for his past indiscretion and seeks out his best friend who survived a horrific accident. Their reunion takes a twist when Clay's friend emerges from the accident a changed man from Traumatic Brain Injury—a person with interesting new talents and diminished capabilities.

Clay agrees to help his friend bridge the former life to the present. He soon realizes that what could help restore his friend's life might also sabotage their revived friendship. Clay has two choices, disclose a past dark secret and accept risk or be selective with the truth and protect a valued brotherhood.

_Life is always about choices. Will he make the right one?_

# CHAPTER 1

# UNFINISHED BUSINESS

#### 12 May 1991 7:30 a.m.

**Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton, California**

"Welcome to Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton, Staff Sergeant Thompson," the First Sergeant said as he handed me my check-in sheet.

This was my second tour at Camp Pendleton and it was nice to return to the familiar Oceanside area where I still owned a condo just off College Boulevard. I was renting to a tenant who was a mortician but her lease up at the end of the month. Needless to say, I would be moving in. I was just hoping she didn't take her work home with her.

I was directed to sit outside the Executive Officer's office down the hall, as it was the XO's policy to personally greet all newly joined Marines. I sat down on the wooden bench against the wall and began reading the base paper I had picked up at McDonald's.

As I flipped through the pages my eyes were drawn to the obituary section. I saw a familiar name. Too familiar. I grabbed my briefcase and hurried back to the admin office.

"First Sergeant, First Sergeant," I called out from the back of the line.

He glanced over at me but ignored me as he spoke with a junior Marine. I called him again. He wasn't very happy but he met me at the front counter anyway.

"What do you want, Marine?" he asked in a gruff tone.

"Excuse me, First Sergeant, but the Marine in the obituary ..."

"Yes?"

"I think this is the same Mike Jordin that I grew up with. I didn't even know he joined the Corps."

"So what makes you think it's him, Devil Dog?"

"It says here he's from Bellwood, Illinois, and his next of kin is Barbara Jordin. Was he about thirty years old, six feet tall, blue eyes and dark hair?"

"That's him, all right. He won't be missed around here, I can tell you that much."

I was taken aback. There wasn't a shred of sympathy in the First Sergeant's voice.

The Mike Jordin I knew was the nicest guy you could ever hope to meet; in fact, he was my best friend ... until our senior year in high school.

The First Sergeant crossed his arms over his chest. "We must be talking about two different Marines, because the Mike Jordin we knew around here was nothing short of an asshole. In fact, in a room full of assholes, he would be the one everyone hated." He shook his head. "If he'd survived the roadside bomb in Iraq, the Commanding Officer was gonna court-martial him out of the Corps for assaulting the Operations Officer over there. He was a drunk."

The person he described could not have been more unlike the Mike I knew growing up. It didn't make sense.

Back in the fifth grade, Mike and I had made a pact to join the Marines under the buddy program. But I betrayed Mike our last year in school—and lost my best friend. Even though it had been over a decade since we last spoke, the pain in my gut was every bit as sharp as it had been in the summer of '78. Now, all the guilt I thought I had put behind me started to resurface. I had hoped to say _sorry_ to Mike someday. I thought he might return, but he never did. He just took off and I never saw or heard from him again. Now that I knew he was gone, my unfinished business with Mike would stay with me for the rest of my life.

As I concluded my conversation with the First Sergeant he asked me a favor.

"Staff Sergeant, since you guys were such buddies, I'd like you to do me a favor regarding Staff Sergeant Jordin."

"Sure, anything," I agreed.

"Well, I've been asked to organize a memorial for him but I can't find a soul who has anything nice to say about the guy. Would you do the eulogy?"

I lowered my head as grief began to consume me.

"Yes," I replied with a heavy heart. "I'll do it."

There was one more request forthcoming. "Would you mind going to his apartment off base and inventorying his personal effects?" the First Sergeant asked. "We have to ship everything off to his next of kin. You can take one of my Corporals to help box everything up."

My mind drifted for few moments. I could see the First Sergeant's mouth moving but I didn't comprehend what he was saying. He had to repeat himself and add a few instructions, which he gave me in his private office.

"Staff Sergeant Thompson, when you go through his apartment I want you to do a thorough job. But ..."

"But what?" I asked, sitting across the desk from him.

He leaned across the desk and said quietly, "Anything that would even remotely denigrate his character further needs to disappear ... out of respect for his mother. I call these things ... the unmentionables."

I drew a blank. I asked for clarification, which irritated the First Sergeant.

"For crying out loud," he hissed. "Do I really need to spell it out for you?"

I shrugged my shoulders and nodded _yes._

"Damn. Okay, then. Don't bring back no whips, chains, butt plugs, or vibrating dildos. No porn, no letters that infer infidelity. Shit like that. _Comprendes, amigo?_ All that mess goes in the incinerator out back."

"Crystal clear," I assured him. "What if I find a firearm?"

"I think that's the most intelligent thing I've heard you say. If by chance you find a firearm you're to transport it to the armory. If it is properly licensed then it will be shipped separately. Any more questions, Bright Eyes?"

I had my marching orders. When I arrived at Camp Pendleton earlier that day, I'd had an idea of connecting with old friends—not saying goodbye to my oldest and dearest of friends, Mike Jordin.

Leaving the First Sergeant's office, I decided I would write the eulogy that very night. I mentally prepared myself for rummaging through Mike's personal effects. I wondered who he had become after all these years. Drinking? I never saw Mike go near alcohol. What happened to him?

Little did I know that all of my questions would be answered in just over twenty-four hours.

#### THE NEXT DAY

Corporal Williams and I proceeded to the apartment manager's office to gain access to Mike's apartment. The attendant at the front desk never asked for any documentation or ID. She simply led us to his second-floor apartment and unlocked the door to let us in. We stepped inside, where it was filthy beyond belief. Half-eaten microwave dishes and vodka bottles littered the place. I noticed roaches crawling up my leg. _Ugh._ So nasty.

"Staff Sergeant T, how could anyone live like this?" the Corporal asked as we ventured further into this three-bedroom den of chaos.

I shook my head, equally baffled, then turned around thinking the manager would be chaperoning the inventory. She was nowhere to be found.

I immediately opened a window to get some fresh air. Lining the wall beneath the window were large black plastic bags holding trash and yet more vodka bottles.

It was painful to see how Mike had lived. The state of his apartment spoke volumes about his addiction to alcohol.

_What happened to you, Mike_? I wondered sadly.

I handed Corporal Williams a clipboard. We agreed that I would take the bedroom and he would start in the guest room.

"Corporal, if you find something questionable, give me a shout before you record it on the inventory," I said as I navigated through the maze of spoiled food and empty bottles.

"Roger that," he replied.

There was a part of me that hoped I would find a relic from our past, like a picture of Mike and me as kids. I was uncomfortable going through his drawers and sorting through his mail; it felt like I was trespassing.

"Staff Sergeant?" the Corporal called out. "I need some assistance."

I left the bedroom and saw the only thing that linked this mess of a place to the Mike I remembered. It was a beautiful black upright piano covered in dust. It was the only immaculate room in the apartment. The carpet was clean, and it looked like no one had ever entered the room.

Mike was a gifted musician and had the most soulful voice I'd ever heard. He could sing and play anything. He always closed his eyes when he played, and he sang with such emotion for someone so young. One of my favorite songs he did was _Isn't She Lovely_ by Stevie Wonder. Music was Mike's world and I was just glad to be on the sidelines listening. It was nice rewinding childhood memories of us as kids. Because of him, I learned to play bass guitar.

"Yeah, the boy tickled the ivories like no one I ever knew. I always thought we would make it as professionals," I replied, as I struck a key on the piano.

"Okay, doesn't look like there's much to inventory here, but I'll contact Transportation Management to arrange for collection of the piano."

He nodded. "Staff Sergeant Thompson, what was in the bedroom?"

"Nothing but a mattress on the floor and a steel safe," I replied.

Williams's query piqued my curiosity. While he began taking the bin bags to the community dumpster, I went back into the bedroom and marveled at the safe.

_What would be so valuable that he would keep it under lock and key?_

Money? Legal documents?

Curiosity was getting the best of me. I needed to find a way to open the cream-colored steel safe with its black spin dial. It was time to investigate.

The inventory was complete in about fifteen minutes. Aside from a TV,VCR, and some cheap furniture, there was nothing worth boxing up for shipment.

Corporal Williams handed me a green folder to peruse. It was Mike's medical record.

"Looks like Mike was diagnosed as alcohol dependent just before he deployed. Says here they recommended he report to rehab upon his return." I said.

Williams looked around the place one last time. "I'm done here, Staff Sergeant. I will let the manager know we're securing the apartment. I'll meet you in the parking lot."

I nodded in agreement. As I was closing the bedroom door behind me, I glanced over at the safe one last time. I had an idea. I knelt down in front of the safe and closed my eyes, praying for an answer. I had to know what was in that damn safe.

Mike and I had shared locker D119 freshman year, and I never forgotten the combination. As I approached the last number I was waiting to hear the dial click. It didn't. I tried Mike's birthday 6-6-61, but no luck. My last attempt popped the safe door open. I used 2-23-61, Connie's birthday. She was the love of his life ... and mine, too. I was intrigued by my discovery and started to perspire.

An old black book with faded white pages spilled onto the floor. Inside the safe were five other hardbound books. I opened the book on the floor first; it was a journal from about five years ago. The other books were also journals. They dated back to 1973, the year before we met. I put them in chronological order and quickly flipped through the pages until I saw my name.

References to me as Mike's best friend were poignant, and I started to grieve the loss of our friendship. His references to me changed from his "best friend" to his "brother" somewhere around our sophomore year. As I read further I saw his love for Connie blossoming over time. It was like reading a love story.

Glued to one page was a picture of Mike and me, with Connie standing between us. I think we were about thirteen years old then. We had just gotten off the roller coaster at Adventureland Amusement Park. I loved that picture because the three of us were so happy back then.

I fast-forwarded to the summer of 1978. Mike's commentary about me was scathing, but he somehow managed to forgive Connie. It's amazing how one stupid phone call can turn your world upside down. If I could take back anything, I would not have taken Connie's phone call that day.

I skipped to the present day and saw a mention of a guy called "Q," whom Mike had evidently met fairly recently. I felt a tinge of jealousy about their friendship.

I was interrupted by the apartment manager, who was checking up on me. Corporal Williams stood behind her in the doorway.

"Are you almost done, sir? I have a leaky fridge to tend to."

"I'm done. Hand me the briefcase, Corporal," I said as I stood.

"Do we need to record those journals on the inventory?" he asked, reaching for a pen.

"I don't think so," I said, as I collected the journals and placed them in the briefcase.

The manager looked at Williams strangely as she observed my actions. He explained, "It's okay. These are what we call the "unmentionables." Anything that may cause embarrassment or taint the memory of the deceased is destroyed. Right, Staff Sergeant?"

"Yes, that's correct. We're done here," I said as I made my way to the front door.

I knew I wasn't going to destroy Mike's journals. They were my connection to him. My plan was to read Mike's journey later that night at home.

# CHAPTER 2

# THE SUM OF LIFE'S EXPERIENCES

#### 10:30 A.M. SAME DAY, MIKE'S APARTMENT COMPLEX

_Ring, Ring, Ring._

"Hello?"

"Hey, Cee. It's me, Clay. I can't talk long; I'm calling from a pay phone."

Her yawn came clearly through the phone. "Clay, what time is it?"

"Well, it's 6:30 there in Bellwood. Sorry to wake you but it's important." Deep breath. "I found Mike."

_Silence._

"Cee, are you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here. My lord, where is he?"

"I hate to tell you this. God, I really hate to tell you this. It's not good news, Cee. Mike is dead. He died after his vehicle hit a roadside bomb in Iraq."

I heard the quick intake of her breath. _"Noooo._ Clay, are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I'm delivering the eulogy sometime this week at his memorial service on base. I always hoped and prayed that I'd see Mike again someday, but I never thought it would be looking down at him in a casket," I said, with my forehead pinned against the glass door of the pay phone.

I heard her sniffle. "Clay, you knew how much I loved Mike back then. It took me so long to get over him." She sighed. "He broke my heart when he disappeared. I knew that once he found out, he would never forgive me, but I didn't expect him to cut you off, too." "I understand why. I was family to Mike—that's why it cut so deep. I feel like shit, Cee. I don't know how I'm going to hold it together for this eulogy." I squeezed my eyes shut. "I miss him."

_Please deposit 25 cents for the next three minutes._

"Cee, I'm out of change. I'll call later. Miss you."

"Miss you too, Clay. Bye."

I hung up the phone and wiped a lone tear from under my chin. This would be a tough week, but in just a couple of hours reality would take another hard right turn—something I couldn't have predicted.

It was the end of the day and time to go home. I braced myself for more abuse reading through Mike's journal. Just before I started the engine I saw Corporal Williams flagging me down. It looked important.

" 'Sup, Corporal?" I asked, hanging out of my car window.

"First Sergeant told me that he cancelled the memorial service for Staff Sergeant Jordin. He didn't say why."

I was furious. All my anger, guilt and grief percolated inside. I needed to calm down and maintain my bearing.

"This is bullshit!" I said, as I exited my car and slammed the door. "I don't give a shit if Mike wasn't popular or didn't fit into the good ol' boy network. He was a fuckin' Marine and he rates what all deceased Marines rate, an honorable sendoff."

Corporal Williams looked slightly intimidated by my anger. But he was not the object of that anger. It was the First Sergeant.

"Sorry, Corporal Williams. I know you're just the messenger, but this is totally unsat. I will fix this. Is First Sergeant in his office?"

"Uh huh," the Corporal replied timidly.

I stormed off in a huff. I could hear my heart thudding in my chest and feel the vein in my temple throbbing. I wanted to yell.

I stood outside the First Sergeant's office, concentrating on taking my anger down a peg or two so I could maintain my military bearing. I entered his office.

"First Sergeant. I've written the eulogy. When is the memorial service for Staff Sergeant Mike Jordin?"

I was shaking inside because I expected to hear some bullshit answer that would cause me to get my first-ever insubordination charge.

The First Sergeant continued typing with his back to me. "That's right, Staff Sergeant. I never should have never organized it."

_Keep it together, Clay. Cool it._

"Why is that, First Sergeant?"

He spun around in his chair and lowered his glasses. "Because the son of a bitch ain't dead. He's flying back tonight on a C-5. He survived, somehow. Somebody fucked up royally. His next of kin has already been notified of his death."

_Boom._

Just when I thought things couldn't get any weirder, they did—but in a good way.

The weight on my heart lifted. However, my grief instantaneously morphed into uncertainty. Now that Mike was alive, would I have to go through rejection all over again? I'd read his journal; his opinion of me was lower than a snake's ass. I should have been elated, but I was more confused than anything. I'd been given a second chance to fix things between us. That would be my mission, no matter what.

"Anything else, First Sergeant?" I asked.

"Yeah, as soon as he's released from the hospital, the CO plans to court-martial him out of the Corps. I heard he was a drunk over in Iraq, too." He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "How he got his hands on liquor over there, I'll never know. See yourself out, Staff Sergeant. I've got to apologize to some poor mother I lied to."

Later that night I placed Mike's journals on the kitchen table. My initial plan was to read them all from cover to cover. But now that Mike was alive, it seemed that would be an intrusion on his most private thoughts.

##### ONE MONTH LATER

_Ring, ring, ring._

"This is a non-secure line, Staff Sergeant Clay Thompson. May I help you?"

"Yes, this is Major Alvarez. I am the Base liaison to the Naval hospital."

I immediately knew this call was about Mike's condition, and braced myself for the worst.

_Sigh._ "Yes, sir. How can I be of assistance?" I asked nervously.

"Well, I have some good news and some not-so-good news."

I buried my face in my hands and then whispered into the phone.

"Can I have the good news first, sir?"

"Well, the good news is that Mike is no longer in a coma. He came out a few days ago. His condition has stabilized but he's not communicating with anyone. I called your First Sergeant, who gave me two names, yours and another Staff Sergeant's. I just spoke with Staff Sergeant Quincy, and he has agreed to come down. We need to break through to Mike. Do you think you can help?"

This wasn't a hard decision; my best friend needed me. "How soon can I come down?"

#### U. S. NavaL Hospital., San Diego, California

Over the last couple of days, I had rehearsed the heartfelt apology I planned to offer Mike. I changed the script a million times and barely slept. I didn't appreciate having to share the stage with Staff Sergeant Quincy, aka "Q."

Five minutes before a nurse called me from the waiting room, I decided to go off-script and say whatever was on my heart. I hadn't seen Mike in nearly thirteen years.

"Staff Sergeant Thompson, please follow me," the nurse requested as she led me to Mike's room, which he shared with an elderly man.

When she opened the door, I saw a circular curtain around the bed in front of me. Anxiously, I waited for her to pull back the curtain.

It was Mike.

"Mike?" I asked hoarsely.

Mike was so frail and bedraggled-looking. He had an IV in his right arm and a bandage around his head. But it was Mike, all right.

The nurse smiled at me and closed the door behind her.

I slowly approached Mike, feeling both humbled and relieved. I had found my best friend again. However, the reunion was not to be as I had imagined.

He glanced up at me for a second and looked away.

I didn't let that stop me. "Mike, there's something I need to say. Just hear me out, okay?"

He refused to look at me. His response was surly, almost belligerent. "Whatever you have to say, keep it to yourself. I'm not talking to you or anyone else. Get lost."

All these years must have made him bitter towards me. But I wasn't going to give up so easily.

"Sorry, pal. But I'm not going anywhere until I say what I should have said years ago."

Mike quickly pressed the distress button by his bed, summoning Nurse Jones. She was at the door in a flash.

"Is there something wrong?" She looked worried.

Mike sat up in the bed and gave me an unfriendly stare.

"Yes, could you please escort this man out of my room?"

_Damn._ I never had a chance. I could see contempt in his eyes for me.

"Come with me, please, sir," Nurse Jones commanded.

I left Mike's bedside dejected and defeated. As I was about to vacate his quarters, I had one final parting comment.

"I'll tell Connie I saw you."

"Who?" His response stopped me dead in my tracks.

I did an about-face and made a beeline to his bedside. I grabbed Mike by the shoulders and shook him. "Mike, look at me. Look at me!"

We struggled, and the nurse called for security.

Mike looked straight into my eyes. _I knew it. I freakin' knew it._

"Mike, you don't know who I am, do you?"

He couldn't look me in the eye. Security showed up with batons in hand. I stood and apologized for the scene I had caused, then was promptly escorted out of the building.

One the way home I felt like such a fool. The only redeeming aspect of our encounter was that in just a few minutes with Mike, I was able to diagnose what it would take doctors a week to confirm.

Three days later, I was summoned back to the hospital at Mike's request.

Nurse Jones greeted me in the waiting room. I apologized to her, but she was totally unfazed by my earlier bizarre behavior. I guess she had seen much worse. Once again she shut the door behind her as she left me with my old friend.

"Mike?"

This time there was no contempt in his demeanor, just bewilderment. I evidently had something he needed.

" Hey, can we talk?" Mike asked in what seemed to be desperation.

I was so relieved. "Man, I've got all day. Talk to me, brother," I responded.

Mike unloaded. "I'm having problems. Don't know what's goin' on. I don't know anything. Were we friends?" Mike asked.

I smiled. "We still are ... the best of friends. I knew you didn't recognize me the other day. So you really don't remember me?"

Mike lowered his head "No, I'm sorry."

" What's your earliest memory? Surely there are some things you remember."

Mike's response was disturbing.

"My earliest memory? My earliest memory is waking up in this bed in darkness. I was scared." He looked troubled. "Can you help me piece my life back together? I need to find out who I was. Who I am," Mike said, extending his left hand.

I shook his hand, gladly accepting this daunting challenge.

"Well, for starters, I can tell you where that faded burn mark on your forearm came from. We were in Cub Scouts together and you decided to iron your shirt." I drew a chair to his bedside and sat in it. "You were into Superman, I was into Batman. Your childhood crush was Raquel Welch, mine was Pam Grier. You loved Corvettes, I was into Mustangs. I could go on and on. Man, there is very little I don't know about your childhood."

He appeared captivated as I recounted high points of his childhood and young adulthood. I was an encyclopedia of information all the way up to 1978, but after that I failed miserably. He was anxious to know recent information.

"Am I married?"

I stuttered. "Ah, ah, no. I don't think so."

"Do I have any children?"

I conceded. "Mike, we haven't spoken in a very long time. I'm sorry I don't have any more recent information."

His face fell.

Then in walked the devil himself.

"And that's where I come in. What's happening, Big Mike?"

Mike and I both turned our attention to this Vanilla Ice wannabe. His ball cap was on backwards and he wore dark sunglasses.

I knew who he was. I just had to have it confirmed.

"So, you must be the one everyone calls "Q."

He strutted over and gave me a high five.

"Dat's right. Word to your motha."

_Oh, boy._

"Not only am I Mike's road dog," Q continued, "but he's my business partner. We go way back."

Q was lying. I knew he had met Mike just five years ago, since right before he deployed. But I couldn't say anything.

Mike immediately directed his attention to Q, who seemed to know everything about his past. Q was smooth and charismatic. He talked a good game. But something about him didn't sit right with me. I didn't trust him.

As it seemed Mike was more interested in his current life than his past, I let myself become invisible. I decided to take a back seat to Q—for the time being.

According to the doctors, Mike had an extreme case of amnesia. I prayed for him to one day forgive and forget, where I was concerned.

But sometimes you have to be careful what you wish for. When you pray for rain, you have to deal with the mud, too.

# CHAPTER 3

# DRINKS SERVED

Over the next few days, I sat around listening to Q—the imposter. He mesmerized Mike with sensational stories of their past that seemed unbelievable. Every story was an alcohol-related incident, with them narrowly escaping danger or a run-in with the police. Q was one of those guys who always had to one-up you. Whatever you did, he did more heroically and under more adverse conditions. I found his bravado not only insincere but intensely annoying.

Q produced recent pictures of the two of them partying in Mexico. I glanced over the pictures and rolled my eyes.

"Mike, you look absolutely stoned in this picture," I commented. "Were your eyes really this red or is this just the camera?

Mike didn't answer; he was captivated by these pictures of events he had no knowledge of.

"Wow, I was a party animal, huh?" Mike commented.

Q nodded. "Man, that's how we do it," he boasted.

Mike sighed as he looked at the last picture. "Well, anything beats these four walls. I feel like I'm in prison rotting away. I need to get outta here."

Q assured him, "Mike, we're gonna get so fucked up when you get released."

I was fed up and had to respond. "I hate to be a party crasher, Q, but I think that's the last thing Mike needs."

That drew nasty looks from them both.

"Mike," I reasoned, "the command plans to send you to rehab once you're discharged. They say you're a stage three alcoholic, whatever that means."

Q blew me off.

"Fuck 'em. That's because Mike got popped for a DUI just before he deployed. I had showed him how to beat the breathalyzer, but did he listen to me? Heck, no."

I was losing brain cells by the minute listening to this idiot. I challenged him, "Q, you can't beat a breathalyzer. Everyone knows that."

I was about to be educated.

Apparently, Q indulged in a practice called butt-chugging. By soaking a tampon in vodka and inserting it where the sun don't shine, he claimed he got an almost instant buzz.

_WTF?_

Q laughed. "The best part is there's no nausea or hurling. And when Five O pulls you over, you say in good conscience, "No, officer, I have not been drinking."

I wanted to wash my brain in bleach. "Well, now. That gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'Drunk off your ass,' " I said sarcastically.

"I just told you how to beat the breathalyzer," Q replied with a stupid grin. "Keep that in your back pocket. It works."

I couldn't believe this guy. "Maybe that explains why you aren't seated like the rest of us. Dude, you are out of control. You have no boundaries."

I drew an imaginary line in space. "Q, this line represents boundaries. You, my friend, are way north of this ... like in the parking lot."

Mike looked disturbed. "Q, please tell me I never did that," Mike pleaded.

"Well, if you had, you'd still have your license."

"So, how am I gonna get home if I can't drive?" Mike worried.

"I'll drive ..." Q and I replied in unison.

It was obvious that we were competing for Mike's friendship. I just didn't get Q's angle. What was in it for him?

During a lull in the conversation, the elderly man in the bed by the window requested a nurse's assistance.

When she arrived, the nurse asked, "Could you excuse me, gentlemen? Mr. Watkins will need a little privacy. It won't take long," she promised.

I rose from my chair and followed Q out.

We both sat outside the door trading unpleasant stares.

After a few minutes it became obvious what was happening in Mike's room. First came the sound of projectile diarrhea splashing in the bedpan, then a godawful smell. It was the worst smell imaginable, and it was getting stronger by the second. I looked at Q and burst out laughing—his eyes were watering, and the look on his face was just priceless.

I felt sorry for Mike having to endure the stench in close proximity.

Q was so disgusted by the smell, he started to leave. "Q, what about your camouflage hat?" I asked.

"Fuck it, I'll buy another. Ain't goin' back in there. Tell Mike, peace out." He walked away with his hand covering his nose.

I was relieved that Q had left. I took a five-minute stroll around the hospital to kill time. When I returned to Mike's room, the smell had barely subsided and I began coughing.

"Mike, I don't know how you deal with that every day."

"Deal with what?" His response told me volumes.

"The smell, Mike. It's horrendous."

Mike took a big whiff. "I don't smell anything."

I didn't say anything, but it was obvious that there was some trauma to the olfactory receptors in his brain. I let it go. Once again, I had detected something in minutes that would take doctors a battery of tests to confirm. Mike circled back to the issue of alcoholism. "How can I be an alcoholic when I have no desire to drink? I didn't know I was an alcoholic until you mentioned it."

"Mike, I dunno. Maybe you detoxed while you were in a coma."

Mike was stunned. "Coma? For how long?"

I felt uncomfortable because I was out of my depth. The things he wanted to know should have come from a doctor, not me. I answered him anyway.

"Mike, it's been a month. Your truck hit a roadside bomb in Iraq. That's why you're here. I'm sorry."

He shook his head and looked over his body. "But there are no injuries and I feel fine. Look at me," he said, unwrapping the bandage around his head.

"Physically, you might be okay, but the doctors need to determine if or what damage you sustained in the blast."

Mike let out a big sigh. "Man, I don't know what I'd do without you and Q. Seems like you guys are my only friends. Hope you don't mind if I let Q take me home."

"It's cool, I understand." I lied through my teeth. I was livid inside.

Mike complained about how bland the food in the hospital was and asked me to bring some Tabasco sauce with me the next time I visited. He said he wanted something with a little kick to it. I agreed.

I stayed until visiting hours were over. When I left, Mike was snoring his head off. It was obvious I wasn't his best friend—yet.

#### TWO DAYS LATER

**Ralphs Supermarket on Oceanside Boulevard**

While I was perusing the aisles looking for hot sauce, Mike was heavy on my mind. I was tired of Q pretending to be his life-long buddy. So many times I'd wanted to challenge his lies, but I didn't want to go negative so early. I easily could have been the hero and produced Mike's journals, but then I'd have needed to explain how I got them and why I didn't return them right away. I also wanted to keep Mike from finding out why he had hated me so much before the accident. Deep down I knew his journals were the keys to uncovering his past, but the longer I held onto them the less likely I was inclined to turn them over.

"Excuse me, sir. I'm looking for some hot sauce with a kick," I said to the old man in a blue apron and white hat.

"Well, our most popular is _Texas Pete_. We can't keep it in stock. It's got a nice flavor but isn't too hot. Here you go," the grocer said, handing me a small bottle.

"Hmm, I'm feeling a little more adventurous. Something that will make my taste buds stand at attention," I replied, handing him back the _Texas Pete_.

The man winked. "Follow me."

After a brief walk down the aisle, he stooped and snagged a fiery red bottle. "This ought to do the trick. It'll kick your ass. It ain't for the faint of heart," he cautioned, "but if you want hot, you got it right here."

"Oh, what's it called?"

He just smiled.

Intrigued, I read the label for myself. "Is this the real name?"

"You can read, can't you?" he grinned.

"Okay, I'll take one bottle of _Kick Yo Ass Hot Sauce."_

I smiled as I put the bottle with the infamous name in my cart and walked away.

The man called out to me, "Young man, we have an open bottle in the deli area. You can have a little taste—if you dare."

Since it's not in my DNA to back down from a challenge, I followed the grocer to the deli, where he had an open bottle. He pierced a morsel of steak with a toothpick and dipped it in the red sauce. "Here ya go, partner. Tell me what you think."

I accepted the toothpick and stared at the meat. How hot could it really be? I decided to check it out.

I started chewing. Hmm, _not bad._

"The steak is nice, but I don't taste the hot sauce. It's not that hot—"

I abruptly stopped chewing. "Oh shit. _Shit!_ Water! I need water," I shouted in a panic.

Nearby shoppers turned around to watch the ruckus.

I thought I was in the middle of a cardiac arrest. My nostrils were on fire. My eyes were streaming and my nose started running down my shirt. I needed immediate relief. I ran toward a water fountain by the bathrooms.

#### FIVE MINUTES LATER

I tapped the old man on the back while he was stocking shelves.

"Are you okay, son?" he asked, as he removed his glasses.

"Yeah, but water only made it worse."

"Boy, everyone knows that. If you want to ease the burn, use a dairy product like milk or yogurt."

"I'll remember that next time," I replied, my mouth still smarting. "Man, I see why it's call _Kick Yo Ass Hot Sauce._ I'll take one bottle, please.

I figured if this didn't do the trick, nothing would.

#### U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL,  
VISITING HOURS, THREE DAYS LATER

"Hi, Nurse Jones, it's me again. Can I just go on inside?' I asked politely.

"Well, you might want to wait a minute or two," she said. "There's a Major in there with him and I think it's official business.

_Official business?_

I got real curious. I eavesdropped. I could hear the Major speaking.

"Staff Sergeant Jordin, I just spoke with the doc, and we think it would be a waste of time sending you to Alcoholics Anonymous or even rehab, for that matter. It appears that you're no longer alcohol dependent. I guess being in a coma for thirty days weaned you off."

I visualized Mike breathing a huge sigh of relief.

"Sir, that's great news. I'm really looking forward to going home and starting over again. Don't know if you heard, but I seem to be missing time and I'm just not connecting the dots with faces or events. Once I get out of here, hopefully things will start to come back to me."

"Staff Sergeant Jordin, we need you to be healthy and to report back at the unit as soon as possible. The sooner the better."

"What's the urgency?" Mike asked.

_Pause_

"The sooner you get out of here, the sooner we can begin court-martial proceedings for assaulting a field grade officer."

"Assault?" Mike sounded bewildered. "What are you talking about, Major Miller? Who did I assault?"

"Me, you fucking moron! I don't buy this missing time bullshit for one second. You may have everyone else drinking the Kool-Aid but you can't beat the system. I'll make sure of that. Don't get too attached to your rank, Staff Sergeant. You won't have it for very long. Good day."

The door bumped me on the forehead as the Major barged out.

"Move outta my way, Marine," he commanded as he pushed me aside.

I hadn't been in the command very long, but Major Miller's reputation had preceded him. He was the jerk responsible for the no-mustache rule in the unit. Just last month, he took down all the wall clocks and forbade the Marines in his office to wear watches. He accused everyone of being clock watchers. He said Marines were to leave work when the job was done and not at 1630 hours, normal quitting time. After several complaints the policy was rescinded, but that only made the Major more cantankerous. His nickname was "pencil neck." Walking in to commiserate with Mike about Major Miller, I heard singing as the elevator door opened behind me.

_"Don't push me, I'm close to the edge. I'm trying not to lose my head. It's like a jungle sometimes."_

It was Q in his signature dark sunglasses and ball cap that he always wore to one side. "Wassup! Q is in da house!"

Q walked right past me and gave Mike a brotherly hug. He ignored me completely.

I greeted both men.

Mike was glad to have company, despite the bad news from Major Miller.

"Q, you left your cover the last time you were here. Here it is," Mike commented, tossing it to him.

Q picked it up by the edge like it was contaminated, then threw it in the trash can. "No way am I putting that on my head."

I was prepared for yet another evening of alcohol-fueled party stories involving Q and Mike. I couldn't get a word in edgewise because Q talked so damned much. Looking around the room, I saw an opening. "Mike, is that your dinner on the nightstand?"

Mike glanced over to it and grimaced. "Yeah. I just can't get excited about food these days. It's so bland. Everything tastes the same—it's awful."

I stood and lifted the napkin off the plate. It was meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a side of green beans.

I picked up the plate and noticed it was cold. "Mike, I'll be right back. Cold mashed potatoes are nasty. I'll find a microwave and heat this up."

I'm sure Q wondered what I was up to, just as I wondered what he was up to. I had no hidden agenda; I just wanted my friend back. I didn't know what his deal was.

I soon returned with a piping hot meal. "Here you go, Mike."

"Clay, I appreciate your thoughtfulness but like I said, the food is bland. Did you get me that hot sauce I asked for?"

"I sure did." I handed Mike the bottle from the cargo pocket in my trousers. "Mike, I gotta warn you. You only need a little bit, that's all."

Mike opened the bottle and sniffed it. Then he poured.

"Mike, stop!" I pleaded. "That's way too much. That's enough to kill a horse—trust me."

My friend dug his fork into the meat and chomped down.

"Mike!" I snapped. I braced myself for the onset of a seizure caused by a chemical burn of the mouth

Mike just kept chewing away like nothing was wrong. "Clay, it's not hot at all. Try it."

I had flashbacks of my near-death experience a few days before and then the agony of having to pass it later that night. "Naw, I'm good. I'll pass."

Q had to one-up me, as always. This time I didn't mind one bit. "Clay, you're a total lightweight," he mocked. "You need to man up. Mike, cut me off a piece."

_Wow!_ It felt like the Fourth of July, right before it got dark; I knew it was just a matter of time before the fireworks began.

It was like slow motion—Mike handing Q the fork with a nice fat morsel of meatloaf soaked in the devil's blood. Q popping it in his mouth and starting to chew.

I looked at my watch and began counting silently.

Five, four, three two ... I never made to one. Hell's fury was unleashed on the two count.

Q immediately stopped chewing. His eyes widened in panic as he grabbed his throat and started coughing. He staggered up from his seat and did the mummy walk to the nearest trash container. He tried to puke but couldn't.

"Help!" he begged in a raspy voice. His eyes were streaming like a river and there was snot everywhere. Foam dripped from the corners of his mouth.

It was funny for the first few seconds. Then Mike and I started to get worried.

Mike yelled. "Q! Q, are you all right?"

Q's face was bright red as he stumbled out to the front counter for help.

Mike hit the distress button on the side of his bed. Within moments, a nurse appeared with a gurney and carted Q off to Emergency.

I felt terrible and more than a little guilty. "Mike, I'm gonna go check on Q. I'll be right back."

Mike didn't understand what set Q off, probably because the hot sauce had no affect on him.

I stood outside the emergency room, where it looked like Q was having epileptic fits. Unable to keep him still, the nurses summoned the doctor on duty. In just a few minutes, a doctor came racing out of the elevator and charged into the ER.

I saw the doc take a few vitals, then leave the ward. I got his attention.

"Doc! Doc—is he going to be okay?" I asked.

The doc said, "Not sure on the diagnosis, but it's probably drug-related. I've seen these young punks try everything under the sun just to get high. I've seen his kind more times than I care to remember. Dark glasses, gold chains, ball cap. He's probably part of a gang."

That made me angry. Q wasn't my cup of tea, but he wasn't a druggie. "Doc, you've got it all wrong. It's not drug-related."

"And what qualifies you to offer a medical opinion, Staff Sergeant?" he scoffed, looking down his nose at me.

I produced the bottle. "This is the diagnosis. Excessive consumption of _Kick Yo Ass Hot Sauce."_

The doc looked at me, then looked at the bottle. The smug look on his face disappeared.

"Okay. I was wrong. I apologize. I know what to do now."

Within fifteen minutes, Q was released and back to his cocky self. He didn't say goodbye to me or Mike. He straightened his clothes, splashed some water on his face, and left.

I looked at the bottle one last time before tossing it into the trash. Once again, I made mental notes about Mike's diminished sensory receptors. At the time I considered the losses as luxuries, but I would find out they were so more than that.

# CHAPTER 4

# SOCIAL ENGINEERING

#### U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL., ONE WEEK LATER

As I rode the elevator up to Mike's floor, I wondered yet again if this would be the day my old buddy would regain his memory.

But when I entered Mike's room, nothing had changed. He was pacing around, and I could tell he wasn't happy.

"Clay, I guess you heard. The Commanding Officer informed me my court-martial is in two weeks. It seems so unfair—like I'm paying for someone else's crime. Looks like they got me dead to rights, though. Three Marines saw me hit Major Miller in the lunch tent that day. What am I gonna do?" he asked somberly. "I don't want to go to jail."

For a second I thought he was gonna break down. I felt bad for him, but had some good news to share.

"Well, Mike. I think you've been granted a stay of execution. The command postponed your court-martial temporarily."

"Why would they do that? Major Miller wants my head on a stick—yesterday."

"Mike, they postponed it because you and two other Marines are being awarded medals that day by the Wing Commander."

"A medal—for what? What did I do?"

"You and two Sergeants are being awarded Purple Hearts1 for the attack on your vehicle, Mike. The local papers are covering the event extensively. Think how the story would read: _Marine Awarded Purple Heart Survives Blast, Loses Career."_

The delay of his court-martial was of little comfort to Mike, however. To him, it simply delayed the inevitable.

"Clay, is it true that I'm only nine years away from retirement?"

"Yes, we both are."

"Damn, I pissed away my career for something I don't even recall," he said. "Y'know, Clay, I've had so many scans and tests since I've been here. My condition is getting national attention from top brass in D.C. I don't know why everyone is so interested. I'm sure I'm not the first soldier with amnesia; there must be others like me. Next week I'm scheduled to take a polygraph. Man, I'm scared. Really scared."

He really looked troubled. "They want me to take the poly to rule out any chance that I could be faking."

If Mike was faking, he was doing a damn good job. For a split second I wondered _what if?_ What did he have to lose by faking? Early in my career I met a Corporal named Richard who had an imaginary bird. Richard often chased the bird at odd times, like when we were standing at attention. I thought Richard was crazy until he confessed that the whole thing was a ploy to get an early discharge. He was polygraphed, too, and he flunked miserably. After it was determined there was nothing wrong with him, Richard was demoted to Lance Corporal for malingering. After he was busted, he ditched the bird act.

Memories of Richard made me wonder if Mike was taking a page from the same playbook. But no amount of faking could allow him to overcome the physical effects of the hot sauce. Or that awful smell in his hospital room, courtesy of his roommate. No one was that good; at least I didn't believe so.

Two days later, Q and I were summoned to the hospital. They didn't tell me why. I was worried.

I soon found myself in a large conference room sitting across from three well-dressed men wearing nearly identical dark suits. Q arrived late and took the seat beside me.

"Is this about Mike?" I asked.

The man in the middle clasped his hands on the table and addressed us. "Yes, it is. The three of us are licensed psychologists. We are also lobbyists, Congressional lobbyists. We're very interested in Mr. Jordin's condition and we need your help."

"Sure," I said. "I think I can speak for both of us. We want to do everything we can for Mike. Right, Q?"

"True dat," Q replied.

_For once, just once, I wished Q would to talk like a normal person and drop the hood persona. Man._

"So what do we need to do?" I inquired.

Q and I were presented with non-disclosure forms that prohibited us from discussing the survey with anyone, particularly the press. Q and I found ourselves on the same team. Team Confused.

We endured over two hours of discussion and signed our lives away with the understanding that it would help Mike's neurological recovery. As soon as our signatures were collected, the mystery man in the middle retrieved a slim two-way radio from his suit jacket.

"It's done," he whispered into the radio.

_What's done?_

We were given explicit instructions on how to deal with the press—instructions that would guide us through the media frenzy headed our way. We never saw it coming.

Later that evening I called Connie.

"Ma'am, this is a courtesy call from Northern Gas. We would like to know if your boiler is running at the moment."

"Yes, I think so. Why?" Connie asked naively.

"Well, then, you'd better go catch it ... ha, ha, ha," I snickered.

"Clay! That is so lame. I can't believe you fooled me with that dumb routine again. You're such a joker," she laughed.

After I brought her up to speed on Mike's condition Connie and I began reminiscing about the old days when we were in high school.

"Clay, sometimes I wondered _what if_?"

"What if ... what?" I asked.

"What if you and I had gotten together instead of Mike and I?

_I think about that all the time, every day of my existence,_ I thought.

I'd only had one dream girl and that was Connie. When I saw her the first day of school I knew right away I wanted to be with her forever. Connie's mom was Puerto Rican and her dad was black. Connie had hazel eyes and a big sandy-colored afro. Damn, she was fine. I was so intimidated by her beauty. As fine as she was it wasn't her looks, it was her smile and those hazel eyes that got me. I loved her from day one, yet she never knew.

"Clay, if we'd ended up together, I'd probably have three kids by now and we'd all be driving you crazy."

That was my definition of absolute happiness.

"Remember how we met?" she asked.

##### FLASH BACK TO SOPHOMORE YEAR IN HICH SCHOOL

Despite having Connie in my homeroom, I couldn't find a way to get her to notice me. But one day I figured it out. Mike and I used to record music demos in my garage on the weekends. Most of the tracks we laid down were instrumental with Mike on keyboards, percussion, and lead guitar, and me on bass. Mike and I loved making music. I thought I might offer Connie a cassette demo one afternoon and see what she thought.

The school bell rang and all the kids dashed to their lockers to dump their books and head home. I stopped by Connie's locker, nervous as hell.

"Hey, Connie. I'm Clay. What kinda music do you like?"

"All kinds," she said, closing her locker. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, it's just that ah, ah ... a friend and I made this demo. I just want your opinion, that's all. Here," I offered it to her with my hand shaking badly.

She looked briefly at the tape and smiled. "Does your song have a name?"

"No, it's an instrumental. Hope you like it."

She placed my cassette in her book bag and gave me a hug in front of everyone.

I froze in place.

"I'll listen to it tonight after I finish my homework," she promised. "Sit with me at lunchtime tomorrow and I'll tell you what I think. By the way, my friends call me Cee."

_Wow._ I was going to have lunch with my dream girl, the finest girl in tenth grade. Life had just gotten great.

When we met at lunch the next day, Connie told me she liked the track. She said it sounded like a soundtrack for a TV show. "Clay, how about if you write a song with lyrics and vocals? Try that."

For the rest of the school day, I wrote words for my new masterpiece. It was titled _Connie._

The words just came to me ...

_Connie, when I go to bed, dreams of you instead, maybe one day they'll come true,_

_So every now and then well I just pretend someday you'll feel it too._

_I haven't told you, I want to hold you, let me feel your magic touch,_

_I feel ecstasy when you are near me, girl, you know I love you so much,_

_When I'm feeling blue I just think of you don'tcha know it works every time,_

_Don't want a maybe, just be my baby, all I need is a sign ..._

The song was finished just before 7 p.m.

The lyrics were complete. All I needed was the music arrangement and vocals. Mike came by around 7:30 to assist. I never told him that the song was a tribute to the Connie in my homeroom.

"Clay, is Connie a real person?" Mike asked after reading the lyrics.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

Mike closed his eyes and hummed the lyrics first. His head swayed from side to side. He was in a groove. Then he sang the song a capella. I just knew it was a Top 40 hit in the making.

By 10:45 pm we had completed a true work of art. Mike could always lay down a track the first go-round because he always played flawlessly. I gave the demo to Connie the very next day.

"Clay, you made another demo already? Does this one have a name?"

"Yes. It's called _Connie."_

She didn't believe me but she took the tape home anyway. The next day altered the future for the three of us.

When Connie got on the school bus that morning, she sat next to me ... she was anxious in a good way.

"Meet me at lunch," she whispered. "We really need to talk about the tape."

Maybe it was too mushy for her. Maybe I'd laid it on too thick.

Waiting to hear her verdict was the longest three-and-a half hours of my life. I braced myself for rejection.

"So, Connie," I began bravely during lunch, "I take it you didn't like the song. I messed up. Sorry for embarrassing you like that."

"Clay, are you kidding? I _love_ it. It made me cry. It's so full of emotion."

_Wow, maybe we could be more than_ friends, I thought.

She retrieved the cassette from her book bag, placed it against her heart, and smiled like only she could.

I began to gain a little confidence. I was about to ask her out. "So, what do you wanna do, Connie?" I asked confidently. My dreams were within my grasp.

"Clay, I wanna know who's singing my name like that. Tell me, I have to know. Does he go to our school?"

_What just happened?_ I wondered.

Connie begged me to introduce her to Mike. I didn't want to. I wanted her for myself. I wrote the song, but it was Mike's voice that had won her over. The rest is history, with me being secretly in love with her all these years.

1 US Military decoration for being wounded or killed during a campaign

# CHAPTER 5

# FREAK SHOW

#### CAFETERIA, U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL

Life in the hospital was taking a toll on Mike. He often grumbled about it. "In about two weeks I'll be discharged. Seems like I was born here.

Most people are reborn in a church; you were reborn in a hospital," I commented in the lunch line one day.

"More test results came in yesterday. I was diagnosed with _anosmia_ and _ageusia,"_ Mike said gloomily.

"I don't even know what that means," I replied.

"It means I'm screwed, Clay. I have no sense of smell or taste. That's why I'm losing weight. I'm only eating to survive. To me, eating is like putting fuel in the car to keep it running. Sure, I get hungry, but eating for me is just a chore."

Mike and I sat opposite each other at the lunch table. I felt guilty for saying grace before I ate.

I was so hungry, I began devouring my baby back ribs and mac and cheese.

"Clay, you're scarfing your food—it must be good."

I stopped in mid-chew.

"Uh, yeah it's good. I mean, no it's not," I lied.

Mike laughed. "Clay, you're entitled to enjoy your food around me. It's no big deal. The doc said I need to be particularly careful because my condition places me at risk. He reminded me that taste and smell warn us of dangers in our food and environment. Heck, I didn't even think about that."

"I'm sure it's just a matter of time before your taste and smell return," I said. "And when they come back you're gonna have a serious foodgasm. Multiple foodgasms."

Mike just picked over his food. He hardly ate anything. "Clay, I have an idea. Do you remember my favorite food as a kid?"

"Of course—chicken. Hot wings, to be exact. Why?" I asked while polishing off the last bit of mac and cheese.

"Maybe, just maybe, if I ate a dish that I really enjoyed before, it would kick start my taste buds and even my sense of smell," Mike said optimistically.

I thought about it for a while. I knew just the place _—Wingz and Thingz_ on Coast Highway. It was expensive, but they served worldclass hot wings there.

"Mike, what do you have to lose? I'll treat, I insist."

After we finished our meal, Mike revealed to me that he'd already taken the polygraph test. I was super curious.

"Well, how did it go?" I asked.

Mike shook his head and let out a big sigh. "I crashed and burned. I couldn't finish the exam—it was mental torture. I removed the leads and walked out after about fifteen minutes. The Commanding Officer implied he would consider the results of my poly if I passed. Well, I didn't do myself any favors, that's for sure."

I had never taken a poly, so I had a million questions.

"After they strapped you into the chair, what was the first thing they asked?"

"The first question was _do you intend to answer all the questions truthfully._ I said yes. I was really nervous. I started to sweat as soon as they strapped me in."

I was confused. I didn't understand why Mike walked out, knowing what was at risk. Was he hiding something?

He explained, "Clay, do you know when my birthday is?'

"Yeah, June sixth. Why?"

"They asked me and I didn't know. Simple questions that anyone would know, I couldn't answer. I couldn't confirm my age, birth date ... or even my parents' names."

Mike was getting frustrated as he spoke. It was like he was reliving the event all over again.

"Clay, they showed me four pictures of different women. I was asked to pick which one was my mom. I didn't know. I don't even know my own mom. Which brings up a whole new issue. Why isn't she here? The command notified her right after the accident. Where is she? Where's my dad, for that matter?"

Mike's voice had gotten louder and louder, and people sitting next to us began to stare. Once again I felt guilty about holding on to the journals. Everything he wanted to know about his life was on the top shelf of my closet. I offered a little insight to ease Mike's desperate plea for information.

"Mike, your mom's name is Barbara and your dad died the summer of our sophomore year. I think he had a stroke or something. We were pallbearers at his funeral. You and your mom weren't on the best terms as far as I can remember. After your father died, you ended up living with us for a while. You and your dad were close. I really liked Mr. Jordin, he bought me a ten-speed for my thirteenth birthday."

As I expected, the news of his dad's death didn't really affect him. After all, he didn't remember his dad, so there was no reason to mourn. Mike couldn't get over his mom's absence, though. I described his mom to him and he immediately recalled which picture it was of the four he'd been shown. I had wondered why I was asked to submit a Jordin family photo to the hospital staff. I didn't have one, so I had my mom send it directly to the psych ward.

"Clay, I have a tattoo. Let me show you." On his right shoulder was a heart-shaped tattoo with the initials C.W. inside.

Mike asked the obvious question: who was C.W.? But, according to the forms I signed regarding the survey, I wasn't to make any reference to sexuality, particularly as it related to his past.

I didn't want to lie, but I was bound by my signature. _Oh, screw it,_ I thought—and lied anyway.

"C.W.? Maybe it stands for Country and Western," I joked uncomfortably.

I knew what it meant. But I didn't want Mike to chase ghosts from his past. Connie had moved on long ago and I didn't want to go down that road. It was a dead end.

##### PANDEMONIUM, U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL

As I pulled into Lot A for visitors parking, I couldn't help but notice TV camera crews in a frenzy blocking the main entrance. Reporters were wading through a gauntlet of protestors and counter-protestors holding picket signs. There was a lot of screaming and shoving going on. I couldn't imagine what had commanded so much press coverage. Whatever it was, it was big, really big.

I got out of my car and plowed through the protestors, getting bounced around like a pinball. One reporter grabbed her earpiece and spotted me in the crowd.

"It's him It's him! Black jeans and black polo shirt, coming this way," yelled the reporter who stood about twenty feet in front of me.

I immediately looked behind me; she couldn't have been talking about me. When I turned back around, a stampede of reporters was headed for me. The next thing I knew, I had several black foam microphones stuck in my face. I was completely confused.

"Sir, Channel 10 here. Are you Clay Thompson?"

Reporters were jockeying for position. I noticed a Channel 10 helicopter just overhead.

"Yes, what's going on?" I asked.

I was blinded by all the camera flashes going off at once. I raised my right hand to cover my eyes from the bright lights.

"Our viewers want to know how Mike Jordin is progressing. Can you give us some insight?"

"Mike? He's doing okay, given the hand he's been dealt. Why all the fuss?" I asked.

"Mr. Thompson, this is history in the making. A congressional committee will be briefed on the findings. A lot is riding on this. Their decision could change history."

"What findings?" I asked.

"Mike Jordin has been selected to address the oldest debate in human psychology—nature versus nurture. Do you believe in genetic determinism or environmental influences?"

I quickly understood why those psychologists were so interested in Mike. He had no memory of his past life and therefore was an adult with a "blank slate." By studying Mike, the psych community would have better insight into human behavior—how much is learned versus how much is innate.

I remembered my oath of confidentiality. "Excuse me, but I have no comment."

I plowed through the maze of bodies, being shoved left and right. The protestors were shouting but I couldn't make out what they were saying. It was a madhouse out there. Two police officers were posted near the hospital's front entrance. I made it safely inside.

The elevator door opened, and I saw hospital staff peering out of the window observing the media circus while others watched it live on television monitors on the ward. On one of the monitors, I witnessed reporters pounce on their next prey as he got out of his vehicle. Q.

"Fox News here. Mr. Quincy, how does it feel to be center stage of such a historic debate? And how well did you know Mike Jordin before the accident?"

I just knew Q would open his fat mouth, even though he'd signed a nondisclosure statement. He couldn't help himself.

"Me and Mike go way back. He followed me into the Marine Corps, that's how close we was."

_Liar._

"In fact, we're going into business together," he said, posing for the camera.

Within seconds, men in dark suits and sunglasses got between Q and the reporters. They weren't police officers; they looked more like Secret Service agents. Anyway, they made sure Q's fifteen minutes of fame were cut short as they escorted him inside.

As Q was whisked away he still tried to get a few comments in. "Just wanna give a shout-out to my boy...."

I just shook my head and rolled my eyes. I was embarrassed to be even loosely associated with Q.

When I entered Mike's room he was glued to the TV set. I was pleasantly surprised to see that his roommate was gone. That guy really knew how to clear a room, in the worst way.

"Hey, Mike. I see Pops checked out. Nice," I commented as I sat next to his bed.

"He died in his sleep last night. They took him away this morning," Mike replied, gesturing toward the empty bed.

"Oh, damn. I'm sorry," Mike. "I didn't know," I apologized.

"I think he knew he was going. Just before he went to sleep he pointed to the checkout board. He was ready to go."

Looking around the room, I noticed stacks of mail at the foot of Mike's bed.

"What's all that?" I asked, pointing to the letters spilling onto the floor.

"Read this." Mike passed me an unopened letter. It had no return address. After reading it, I angrily tore it up and threw it in the trash. It was disturbing. Hateful.

Mike said, "There are several letters just like that one in the pile. Was it a death threat?"

I didn't answer. It was the first time I'd read a death threat and it upset me.

Mike pointed to the trash can. "It's overflowing with hate mail. Makes me feel like shit."

Nurse Jones quietly entered the room and closed the door behind her.

"Hey, Clay, it's not all evil. So far I've received four marriage proposals and six requests to father children of complete strangers. People either love me or hate me. There is no middle ground. I don't understand why my case is so special."

Nurse Jones spoke.

"Excuse, for intruding on the conversation, but Mike's case has stirred up a lot of emotions...all to do with equality. You know, equal rights."

I walked over to the window and peered through the blinds.

"Sorry, I think you're wrong. This is not a black-versus-white issue. You can see that for yourself."

"Who said this was a black and white issue? This is about extending the same rights that both of you enjoy to gays and lesbians. Mr. Jordin, it all started with your results from the Bergmen Sexuality Preference Indicator Test. Do you remember?"

Mike scratched his head. "I remember taking a sexuality test. It had 90 questions. It was confusing because I didn't feel particularly strongly about the questions it asked."

"Exactly. People became interested because you're the first person in the history of that test to show no discernable sexual preference. Your results stumped everybody. Word got to Washington, and that's when a group of men called ARC got on board."

"Ark, like Noah's Ark?" I asked.

"No, A-R-C. I don't know what it stands for but they're ultraright- wingers and they have an agenda. Mr. Jordan, your accident erased any memory of your past sexuality. ARC is on a mission to prove that sexual preference is a learned behavior and not predetermined, as some people say. You are the first person in history to have your sexual preference engineered by psychologists."

Mike looked at me and sat up. He turned down the volume on the TV.

"I can recall every single question on that test," Mike countered.

Nurse Jones elaborated.

"ARC calls it subliminal messaging.

I had questions. "So, Mike do you know what the subliminal messages were?"

I thought about what I'd just asked. "Okay, that was a dumb question. If you knew, it wouldn't be subliminal."

"It's not a political fight; it's a war that won't be decided for a long time," Nurse Jones continued "There are many Generals and Admirals who appear to be straight, but they aren't. They secretly support gay advocate groups and they're generous, very generous. An Admiral passed away on the fifth floor just last month. He came out of the closet on his deathbed. He left his entire estate—worth over a million dollars—to a local support group for gays."

"Damn," I replied.

# CHAPTER 6

# SIGN POSTED AHEAD

Mike and I were quickly reminded of the brouhaha outside when Q sauntered in, cupping his forehead with his right hand. There was a bruise that had begun to swell.

"Hey Q," I greeted him, "I saw the men in black suits whisk you away. They must have really roughed you up. I think you're bleeding."

"Naw, they didn't do this. I got smashed over the head by a couple of picket signs on the way in," he explained, while dabbing his wound carefully with a tissue.

"Yeah, signs were everywhere, but I didn't get close enough to read them," I replied.

"Well, I got a closeup view of the signs that put this knot on my head. One read 'born this way' and the other said 'Leviticus 18:22.'"

I thought I knew my Bible verses, but that one didn't ring a bell. Mike helped me out.

"Leviticus 18:22. 'A man shall not lie with a man as one lies with a woman. It is an abomination'," he stated.

Q and I were stunned. Mike's recollection was back. I was ecstatic. "Mike, your memory. It's back!" I exclaimed.

Mike brushed it off. "Sorry to disappoint, but some woman was shouting it on the news just a while ago. The woman who beat you over the head, Q, was she wearing a long black dress and a cross around her neck?"

"Yeah, that's her. She got me good."

I made a mental note of the quick recall and detail Mike provided. It was impressive.

"So Mike, let me get this straight," Q said. "Some nurse claims you're being brainwashed. That sounds like some _Manchurian Candidate_ bullshit. Man, they could be filling your head with all kinds of perverted shit. I can honestly say I know my sexual preference. I'm an ass man," he said proudly.

"Q, based on your drinking habits, I'd have to agree." I mocked Q by pretending to pull my pants down.

He didn't think it was funny, but he'd left himself wide open for that ... in the most literal of terms.

"So, Mr. Funnyman. What's your preference?"

I looked at Mike and Q and gave it some thought. "I think we all like a pretty face, but for me it's more about the product than the packaging. I'm all about the chemistry and compatibility. A woman's eyes can convey so much. Yeah, that's my preference."

Q commented. "I dig. Mental persuasion for the lower invasion."

Talk about sexual preferences further piqued Mike's curiosity .

"So, what was my sexual preference before the accident?" he asked.

"Sorry, brother, but we can't go there. At least not right now," I apologized.

"If I hear the words "neurological recovery" one more time I'm gonna lose it. All I want is to be some semblance of my old self and not some preprogrammed robot," Mike lamented.

Q suggested, "Dude, if were me I would just say screw it. Let them find another lab rat. Because once they imprint that sexual bullshit in your head it's there for life, bro."

Mike looked doubtful. "I dunno, Q. I'm sure the hospital wouldn't let them do something unethical. What do you think, Clay?"

"Mike, very few people leave a legacy like the one you stand to inherit. This is groundbreaking stuff, and you're in a position to answer a question that has boggled the brightest minds in modern psychology. Just think, your name will live on in textbooks. I'd stick to it.

Mike was being discharged from the hospital in a couple of hours. I felt slighted that Mike had asked Q for a ride and not me. Q had something up his sleeve; I could just sense it. But what? On a whim, I decided to see Mike anyway before he was released.

I stopped by the nursing station. "Hi, Nurse Jones. Mike's bed is empty—has he already left?"

She looked pensive. "I'm probably breaking protocol," she said, "but a Major escorted by two Military Policemen just showed up. I think they're taking Mr. Jordin into custody. They're just waiting for his doctor's signature to release him."

That didn't sound good. I looked around for Mike and heard Major Miller's irritating voice on the other side of the ward. He was angry. I made my way over there to investigate.

The doctor was giving Major Miller an earful. "I don't care if he's your Marine. He's my patient, damn it. I think you're confusing your rank with my authority here. My recommendation stands. Sixty days convalescent leave starting today! Starting right now. Staff Sergeant Jordin, you are directed to report back here at the end of your medical leave. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!" Mike replied.

One of the MPs uncuffed Mike.

Major Miller was frothing at the mouth. I waited for him and the MPs to leave before approaching Mike.

"Mike, where's Q?" I asked.

Mike was glad to see me and relieved to be a free man. "Clay, glad you're here. Q called an hour ago and he said his car wouldn't start. But it's brand new—he just bought it. Strange, very strange. Oh well, it would be great if you could give me a lift. Hope you know where I live, because I sure don't."

Sometimes things just work out for the best. I was glad to spend time with Mike outside the hospital, which got depressing after a while. Mike was released and we headed to the parking lot.

"Nice car, Clay. Looks like the steering wheel is on the wrong side."

"Yeah, I imported it from Japan. I always get strange looks driving down the freeway."

I strapped myself in and turned on the radio. Nothing came on. The car battery was flat.

"That doesn't make any sense. I never have problems with this car." I smacked the steering wheel in frustration. "Guess we'll catch a taxi to your house. I'll call Triple A later to see what's wrong with my car."

The receptionist at the desk was kind enough to call a taxi for us, and within minutes a black sedan was there to collect us.

After about five minutes into the drive on the 5 freeway, I realized that I hadn't told the driver our destination. Yet he knew it anyway. We weren't in a taxi. He kept glancing at us in the rear mirror. I looked at Mike; we both sensed something was amiss. He and I whispered about it, concluding it was probably a hospital staff car.

After about a thirty-five minute journey, the mystery driver stopped right in front of Mike's apartment. He turned around and took off his sunglasses.

"Mr. Jordin. We're here, apartment 78. Stay the course. Finish what you started. Have a nice day, gentlemen."

He sped off, leaving us in a light cloud of smoke.

_Cough, cough, cough._

After I fanned the fumes away, I saw Mike petting a German Shepard near the main office. An older woman was walking the dog around the estate.

"Amazing," she said. "Buster never lets anyone near me. Usually I have to tighten the grip on the leash when a stranger approaches." She smiled. "You must be good with dogs. Do you have a dog, too?"

Mike was busy rubbing the dog's belly as it rolled on its back from side to side. "Dog? I don't think I have a dog. Clay, I don't have a dog, do I?"

The woman gave Mike a sharp look and quickly ended the petting session. "Buster, _now._ Let's go."

She walked away, looking back over her shoulder, undoubtedly very confused.

"Clay, was I a dog person before the accident?"

"No. And there's one other thing I noticed when you were in the hospital."

"What's that?" Mike asked.

"You're left-handed now. I could swear you were right-handed."

"The doc said I didn't display left or right dominance in my tests. He says I'm ambidextrous." Mike demonstrated by throwing a rock with his right hand and then with his left hand. He did both with equal precision.

My attempt to replicate his feat was embarrassing. The first rock I threw with my right hand. It sailed easily into the nearby dumpster. My attempt with my left hand went way off course and hit a car window, setting off the alarm. We took off running.

I knew Mike's memory had been impacted by the accident. But somehow it affected his muscle memory, too. I often wondered what Mike's tests revealed.

I had my own theory. I likened Mike's condition to my 386 computer. For whatever reason, Mike appeared to be functioning on a higher level—or maybe just a faster level—than before. If I deleted all the files on my computer, the processor would operate more efficiently and hold more data because of more free space. Mike's accident deleted thirty-two years' worth of files. I first noticed this in Mike's uncanny recall of minutia when he accurately quoted bible scripture during the protests outside the hospital. It was intriguing. Moreover, Mike hadn't yet developed long-term memory. His memory was only a few weeks old.

Mike and I sat on the steps outside his apartment. It was like a drum-roll-defining moment. Entering his apartment meant that, for the first time in his new life, he would be introduced to the old Mike. He seemed a bit nervous about what was behind the door. He reached into his front pocket to retrieve his keys, at which time his wallet fell to the ground. Mike opened up his wallet and saw his military ID, driver's license, and a debit card from First Interstate Bank. There was no money inside.

"Clay, I think we need to make a trip to the bank. I got no money. It looks like I bank with First Interstate. Know where that is?"

"Yeah, it's right across the street from the Bank of America on Mission Avenue. I bank with B of A."

"Well, let's go then," Mike said.

There was only one problem; my car was at the hospital. Mike retrieved his key ring, complete with a set of car keys.

"Since I've lost my license, here you go," Mike said, as he tossed me the keys. From there we went to his designated parking space, number 78.

The car in spot 78 had a dusty silver car cover over it.

"So, this is the car I drove. Wonder what's underneath."

I knew right away what kind of car it was, based on the shape and contours. It was one sexy motor. And it brought back memories.

Mike whisked off the car cover to reveal a black 1969 Chevy Corvette in immaculate condition. It was stunning. Dusty, but stunning.

Mike stood there in awe looking at the amazing classic car. "Is this mine?" he asked, as he ran his hand across the roof.

"Yeah, it's yours all right. I'm surprised you still have it after all these years."

"So how long have I had this car?"

"Since June 1977. Your dad gave it to you for your sixteenth birthday. We went everywhere in this car. You could've had any girl with this car in school, but you only wanted ... forget it. It's not important."

I could tell he was curious but he didn't press me for details. We got into the car and the engine fired up immediately. It felt like I'd gone back in time, but with a different Mike. I always felt like a million dollars in that car and was glad Mike had kept it.

Ten minutes later we were parked in front of the bank. Mike followed me in.

"Wow, Mike, I see why you bank here," I whispered. "Damn."

First Interstate had the most beautiful women on the planet working as tellers. All wore tight navy blue skirts and powder blue tops that were slightly too snug. It was a true display of multiethnic beauty. Behind counter number six was a dead ringer for Vanessa Williams, the 1984 Miss America. I couldn't keep my eyes off her—that is, until I saw counters number one through five. Blondes, redheads, you name it. No matter what your taste in women, it was there.

I was confident that Mike would find his preference there. I found mine ... all of them.

While Mike and I stood in line, I noticed an old Filipino friend who once worked at my bank across the street. Her name was Tess. Every time I saw her I would practice my language proficiency on her by speaking in her native tongue, Tagalog.

But my eyes kept darting back to counter six. The teller caught me staring yet gave me a million-dollar smile and asked, "Excuse me sir, would you like to make a deposit?"

"Deposit? Ah, ah ... sorry, I'm just here with my friend," I stuttered, embarrassed.

Counter number seven opened up and another knockout appeared. She had red hair and freckles. Mike approached her window. I went to visit Tess.

While I got re-acquainted with Tess I overheard escalating voices. It was Mike and the teller. Tess filled me in on what they were saying.

_"Kaibigan_ mo?" Tess asked.

"Yes. That's my friend Mike," I responded.

_"Palikero siya_ ," Tess replied.

"Mike, a playboy? Really?"

We eavesdropped.

"Mike, I can't believe you did this to me," the red-haired teller exclaimed. "I thought you were different. I waited for you while you were deployed. You never wrote, and then I found out you slept with your ex the day before you left. You were with me the night before. How could you do that to another human being? What did I do to you? I didn't deserve that," she said, on the verge of tears.

Mike was tongue-tied.

"Do I know you?"

The woman burst into tears and a manager emerged from the back. "Emily, take a break, hun. I've got this," he said.

Mike quickly completed his transaction and I said goodbye to Tess.

Mike was frustrated. "Clay, how many more sins from my past do I have to pay for? She seemed like a sweet girl. I bet she was a beautiful person."

While driving home, I waited for his tension to fade before addressing his reaction to all the eye candy at the bank. I was very curious. I wanted to know which way Mike leaned.

"Clay, I'll tell you. But I already know your preference," he commented lightheartedly.

"Okay, what?" I asked.

"You like hips. A lot of hips," Mike laughed.

He was right on the money. However, his choice wasn't obvious at all. "So, Mike. Let me guess. Counter number one?"

"No."

We played this game until I ran out of tellers. Was Mike asexual or what?

"Clay, there were a lot of beautiful women there, including Emily. But there was one woman who really, really drew me in," Mike said.

I had run out of options.

"Who, then?"

"Clay, who was that woman you were talking to? There's something about her. I can't explain it."

I was dumbfounded. "You mean Tess?"

Tess was maybe in her late thirties and very plain. She was like a big sister to me and I was unable to see her in the way Mike did. Out of all the women in the bank, Mike had it for Tess. _Hmm_ ...

# CHAPTER 7

# SPECIAL SAUCE

As we entered Mike's apartment, he braced himself for the unknown. He was being introduced to himself, to a past life that no longer existed. With his eyes closed, he slowly turned the key and opened the door.

"Mike, you can open your eyes now," I said.

He looked left, then right, then down around his feet. "This stinks."

"Mike, you can smell! That's great!" I exclaimed, slapping him on the back in my jubilation.

"No," he said in a flat tone. "The quality of life here; it stinks. Roaches everywhere. It's probably a good thing I have no sense of smell; I'd probably puke." He took a brief tour around the living room.

I, too, began to look around and realized someone had been there after the inventory I'd conducted with Lance Corporal Williams. The first thing I noticed was the boxes; the seals had been tampered with. The trash bags weren't tied as I'd left them, either. It was an eerie feeling to know someone was that interested in Mike's past.

Mike stood in the center of the living room and came to a logical but inaccurate conclusion.

"I must have been moving to another place. That explains why the place is trashed. No one could live in a dump like this. Yeah, that's it. For a second, I actually thought these were my living conditions. Whew! Just a little elbow grease and some paint should whip this place into shape," Mike said, relieved.

His false revelation eased him out of his funk and he was back to normal again.

"I wonder what's in this room?" Mike asked, crossing the room. He stood in the doorway in awe.

"A piano. I played the piano?" Mike asked, sitting down and placing his hands on the keys. He concentrated intently on the keys, waiting for the magic to come.

"Clay, could you go in the other room? I need to relax myself, maybe if I just let it come to me."

I politely closed the door behind me. After a few minutes of silence, Mike emerged—underwhelmed.

"Nothing. Maybe I wasn't that good anyway," he reflected.

His words saddened me because Mike had been such a talented musician. All that talent had vanished along with his memory. What a shame. I changed the subject.

"So, I hear you and Q are going into business. What sort of business?"

"Financial planning for service members. Q is the brains behind it all; I'm just the silent backing partner."

Alarms went off in my head.

"Silent backing partner? How much does he expect you to front? It can't be that much—you said you had less than fifty dollars in the bank."

Mike threw his hands up. "Yeah, forty-nine dollars and sixty cents. But Q said I pledged five hundred."

I laughed.

"That means you gotta find four hundred and fifty more dollars somewhere."

Mike cleared his throat. "Five hundred ... thousand. Half a mill. Where would I have gotten that kinda money?"

"For a second, I thought you were serious," I joked.

Mike retrieved a folded-up sheet of paper from his right cargo pocket. It was a business plan signed by Q and Mike just a few days before Mike deployed. I read it sitting on the window ledge.

"Mike, this smells like a loan shark operation. Basically, you're loaning money to service members at extortionate interest rates. I've seen this before, at my last duty station. The plan works but Marines get hooked on it and they never dig themselves out. It hurts families. But, you don't have a half-mill so it's a moot point anyway."

"Clay, who knows? Maybe I do."

We both looked at the trash bags and raced to rummage through the garbage to find some trace of the money. After twenty minutes of pouring over molded stinky paperwork, Mike dug up something. He was overjoyed and nearly in tears. _What did he find?_ I wondered.

"Clay! Here it is! Right here. You're looking at a millionaire. Yup. I'm a millionaire. See, look for yourself."

I wiped my filthy hands on the dirty carpet before accepting the letter from him. I read it aloud.

_Congratulations, Mr. Jordin. You have won ten million dollars in this year's lottery. To collect your prize winnings please send ten thousand US dollars to the Nigerian lottery association to satisfy your tax bill. Again, thank you for playing the Nigerian lottery._

_Kindest Regards,  
Kwame Mustafa, Lottery Organizer_

I shook my head and put my arm around my deluded and naïve friend.

"Mike, I hate to break it to you, but you are not a millionaire. This is one of the biggest scams known to man. This is a ploy to get money out of you. I saw this scam on TV a while ago. Some elderly lady mortgaged her home and lost it all."

It was like watching the air slowly go out of a balloon, the way Mike deflated. Feeling dejected, he stopped searching.

I began to put the trash back into the bags. After a few minutes, I stumbled on an unopened letter. I opened it and read it silently.

"Mike, could you come here please? I want to shake your hand."

"Sure. What for?" Mike asked.

"Because I never shook hands with a millionaire before. That's why."

"Clay, you told me the lottery was a scam. What made you change your mind?"

I gave him a notice from six months prior. It was a statement from Fidelity Funds.

"Mike, according to this statement, you have 1.3 million dollars in a trust account. What the—?"

I was perplexed and dumbfounded, and shook his hand in disbelief.

"Clay, it's probably a scam, too. I can't have that much money; I'm in the Marines, remember?"

I looked around the room for a phone. I found one and placed the phone on speaker. I urged Mike to call the 800 number in the upper-right-hand corner. After a series of prompts, we got through to a live customer representative.

Mike did not have 1.3 million dollars in his account. Interest and dividends over the last six months had ballooned his balance to almost 1.5 million.

"Mike, how did you get this money?"

"Clay, my memory only goes back a couple of weeks. How would I know? Are you sure this sounds legitimate?"

"Mike, I have an IRA with Fidelity, and this is the same number I dial. Yes. It's true."

My surprise and elation began to fade. Now I knew what Q's plan was. I began to feel protective of my friend and his money.

"Mike, how do you know this is your signature on this business plan? He could have forged it easily."

I handed him a pen. "Write your name."

Mike took the pen and signed his name with his right hand and then his left hand. Neither signature matched the one on the business proposal. I became suspicious.

"Clay, I don't know. All I know I is, I don't want to start life over again as someone who goes back on his promise. I will honor this agreement; it's the right thing to do."

_Arrggh._ I suffered in silence. I was boiling inside, but I had to smile and support Mike's blind decision against my better judgment. I only wished I could have proven Q a liar. But I couldn't.

##### THREE DAYS LATER

"Mike, it's me. Open up," I hollered, ringing his doorbell.

"Just a second. I'm almost ready."

Mike appeared at the door clean-shaven, wearing jeans and an LA Dodgers baseball jersey. I had promised to take him to _Wingz and Thingz_ on Coast Highway in the hope that the food there might kick-start his taste buds. I wasn't overly optimistic. However, there was one pressing issue I needed to confront, delicately.

"I see you got your car back, Clay. Let's go."

"Mike, I'm your friend and I can't let you go out like this."

He looked at his clothes and asked, "What's wrong with the way I'm dressed?"

I stepped inside. "It's not the way you're dressed, Mike. You ... you ..."

"What?" he asked, as he followed me to the bathroom door.

So much for diplomacy. "Mike, you smell. It's pretty bad too."

Mike sighed and jammed his hands in his back pockets. "What does it smell like?"

"Like armpits. I didn't say anything in the hospital because the other, competing smells were much worse. But I really notice it now. That's why I bought you this." I handed Mike a plastic bag from Ralphs Supermarket.

"Halston and Speed Stick?" Mike took off his shirt and quickly washed his underarms before putting on the deodorant. "Clay, I understand why I need deodorant, but cologne? Why do I need to wear cologne? I can't smell, remember?"

I lightly sprayed some Halston on Mike's neck. "Cologne is for others to smell. You're all set. Let's go eat."

I insisted that Mike leave his wallet at home. This would be my treat.

On the way to the restaurant, Mike kept directing the conversation to my friend Tess, going on and on about her.

"Clay, how did you learn Tagalog?" His question evoked fond memories of my time in the Philippines years back.

"While I was there I met a sweet girl named Mary Ann. Mary Ann had a nine-year-old daughter named Corazon who didn't like me. Well, the reason she didn't like me was because she couldn't understand me. She grew up in a rural province, so she didn't speak English. I had to find a way to connect with Cori—the nickname I gave her—so I asked her to teach me Tagalog. At first she rejected me, but eventually she came around. I spent hours and hours with Cori and we bonded. She was like a daughter to me. I studied books and listened to cassette tapes, too. By the end of my six month tour, I was conversational in her language."

"So what happened to them?" Mike asked.

I let out a big sigh.

"A little thing called Mount Pinatubo erupted and displaced entire towns, including Angeles City where they lived. I lost contact with them."

"Clay, I want you to teach me Tagalog, okay?" Mike asked.

"The best way to learn a language is from a native. Maybe someday I'll take you to a club in National City called the Trophy Lounge. It's a Filipino hangout. If you think Tess was all that amazing, just wait!"

#### WINGZ AND THINGZ, COAST HIGHWAY

_Wingz and Thingz_ had a business model similar to Hooters as far as employment went. Some of the women looked like strippers. Aside from its abundance of strikingly beautiful women, the establishment was renowned for its hot wings. They were the spiciest in town.

We were greeted by an attractive, bouncy waitress named Amber. "Right this way, guys.Your booth is right there next to the window. Here's your menu. Can I take your order for drinks?"

After Amber took our order, the manager made his rounds and paid us a visit. "Hi, my name is Pete. Welcome to _Wingz and Thingz._ We make the best damned chicken in all of Oceanside. Have you eaten here before?"

"Yeah, years ago when I was stationed here," I replied.

"Well, we're under new management. So allow me to suggest that you order from the left side of the menu—just to be on the safe side."

That got my attention. I inquired. Apparently the left side was the mild side and the right side was the wild, spicy side.

Mike looked over the menu and began howling with laughter. It was the first time I'd seen him laugh like that since he came out of his coma. He was laughing at the menu items on the right side. He wiped a tear from his eye and handed me my menu. I read the featured specials.

_Suicide Hot Wings  
Colon Blow Hot Wings  
Don't be a Chicken Shit Hot Wings_

I grinned in appreciation. We ordered from the mild side of the menu.

After a million questions about the Trophy Lounge, Mike was super curious about the oath of confidentiality I signed at the hospital.

"Mike, I'll tell you this. I can't make any references to your past sexual experiences. Q can't, either. They said if we did, it might impede your neurological recovery. I wanted to help you, so I signed on the dotted line. Why can't we talk about it? Makes no sense. And your newfound love of Filipino women makes me nervous, to be honest."

Mike's body language seemed defensive.

So I explained. "Mike, what if your attraction to Tess really is manufactured? Then it's not genuine. How do you explain to some girl you just met that the reason you're attracted to her is because you were the subject of some weird experiment? Someone could get hurt, including you. Man, I dunno."

"Clay, I understand. All I can tell you is that it feels real. And it's powerful. So what if it was manufactured? I can live with that. Which would you rather have, manufactured happiness or genuine despair?"

He had a point.

After more chitchat, Amber brought a platter of food.

"Yes, Cajun mild for me and Teriyaki for him," I said. I prayed that Mike would get at least some of his taste back. I felt it was an empty but necessary prayer.

Mike rubbed his hands together and grabbed a piece of chicken. I watched with one eye open. He chewed. I saw a look of approval on his face. I was getting excited.

"Well?" I asked.

"I like it."

"Mike, did you hear what you just said?"

He kept eating. "Yeah, it's good," he responded nonchalantly.

I stood up, unable to contain my excitement.

"He can taste! He can taste. It's a miracle," I exclaimed in front of everyone.

Patrons stopped eating, obviously disapproving of the spectacle I was making.

Mike whispered to me while tugging on my shirt. "Calm down, man. It's not what you think."

"You said you liked it. That's awesome, right?" I sat back down and patrons turned back around to finish dining.

"I said it was _good,_ Clay. I don't judge food by taste anymore."

"So how do you judge it?" I asked in disappointment.

"I judge food by its texture. How it feels in my mouth. The chicken is very tender; I like that. It's not rubbery."

_Damn._

That revelation knocked the wind out of my sails. Mike wasn't disappointed at all. He enjoyed the meal.

Mike and I chatted for about twenty minutes after we finished eating, mostly about the money. I was still amazed. But then, what good is one-point-five million dollars if you have no memory, no taste, no smell, and are potentially facing time in prison for a crime you don't even recall?

Amber placed the check underneath Mike's plate.

"I'll take that, Amber. I'm treating tonight." I made my way to the cashier and presented my debit card. Amber swiped it three times. Each time it was declined.

I was overdrawn. Pete, the manager, stood behind Amber and asked me if I had another card or if Mike could pay.

I didn't have another card, and Mike had left his wallet at home since I was paying.

_Not good._

I was running out of options. I was mad at myself for being overdrawn and embarrassed, as well. I thought of a plan.

"Pete, I bet you my friend over there can handle anything on your menu. I don't think your wings are really as hot as people say."

"Partner, your mouth just wrote a check that's too big for your ass to cash. What are you willing to bet?"

"How about the bill?" I offered.

Mike was completely unaware that I was exploiting him to save face.

"You got a deal, partner. Let's shake."

Pete had no idea of Mike's condition, of course, so it was like taking candy from a baby. I laughed silently to myself.

I shook Pete's hand and grabbed a menu from the cashier's counter.

"I guess I will have an order of the _Suicide Wings,_ please."

Pete took my menu and returned it to the counter. He had further instructions.

"For special requests, we have a thermonuclear option. Something even hotter. That's what you'll have."

I felt a little uncomfortable. I was intimidated by the _Suicide Wings_ as it was.

"What do you call the thermonuclear option?" I asked.

Pete smiled and put his arm around me.

"Son, I'm going to hook you up. We call this dish _Brand New Asshole Hot Wings._ One order is two little ol' wings."

Pete burst out laughing and headed back to the kitchen with a smirk on his face.

Why would anyone name a dish that? Who would be stupid enough to eat it?

I uneasily returned to our booth. I informed Mike that the chef wanted him to sample one of his special dishes. Mike shrugged it off and agreed.

Ten minutes later, Pete was standing at our table with two plates.

"We only need one plate."

"I decided I wanted you to have one, too."

I went into panic mode.

"But you said—"

"Never mind what I said." Pete winked at me.

To make the situation even more intense, we had to sign medical waivers in case of an emergency. I told Mike it was probably because of food allergies. Mike scribbled his signature. My hands were so shaky I could barely hold the pen.

I stared at the wings from hell. Mike went first. I could tell he was struggling a bit. His nose starting to drip and he coughed a few times. But he got through it.

Pete couldn't believe it. Apparently Mike's feat had been done only twice before.

It was my turn. I felt like I was about to enter the ring with Mike Tyson. I knew I was gonna get my ass kicked.

I excused myself and went to the bathroom. On the way back to the booth, I remembered that dairy products like milk eased the burn, and made a quick detour. With the two dollars I had on me, I bought two glasses of milk at the front counter. I downed them quickly and joined Pete and Mike at the table.

"I'll have my wing now, please." I took a medium size bite and counted to four while I chewed.

Pete stared intently.

The heat burned right through the milk's protective layer on contact. I stuffed the rest of the wing in my mouth while I was still conscious. I gasped and choked.

I broke out in an immediate sweat; my nose and throat were burning. No, they were on fire. The room started to spin in fast circles. I grabbed my throat.

Mike stood and patted me on the back. "Breathe, Clay. Breathe."

Pete had a nice ol' laugh.

I thought my heart was going to explode in my chest. I was blacking out.

Pete showed a little mercy. After all, people all around were getting worried, and it couldn't be good for business to see a customer spazz out after a meal. Apparently Pete had an antidote in the back and I drank it. I don't remember that at all. Whatever it was, it killed the burn. The show was over quickly, but it was an eternity for me.

Pete let us go without paying the bill, which I appreciated. But as far as I was concerned, I had paid dearly.

# CHAPTER 8

# CODE 3 EMERGENCY

Last night was the first time Mike and I hit the town. It was one of those memorable/forgettable experiences. It was memorable for Mike and absolutely forgettable for me. Against my better judgment, I took Mike to the Trophy Lounge in National City. I used to be pretty popular there because I was one of the few guys that spoke their language.

But last night Mike was the new guy on the block. The women there immediately picked up on his genuine desire to connect beyond a physical level. He was like a kid at Disneyland. It was becoming more and more obvious who the clear winner of the Nature vs. Nurture debate was. Nurture, by a long shot. Mike was so infatuated with my Filipino sisters that I couldn't imagine him dating anyone else. He confirmed that. Whatever subliminal imprinting they had done to Mike in the hospital, it was working.

Mike made a big impression on everyone. His ability to grasp the language so quickly was mind-blowing. It was incredible to observe his mind at work, processing information like a supercomputer. What had taken me three months to learn conversationally, Mike mastered in an evening. What really impressed me was Mike's ability to speak like a native without an accent. As far as I knew, only children at an early age had that ability. Toward the end of the evening some thought Mike was fluent. I was slightly jealous, but I shouldn't have been. Mike's gift had been created by a horrific and tragic accident.

### The Next Day

I normally called Mike around eight a.m. on the weekends to check on him, but that morning I slept in. At noon, I phoned and offered to help him do some painting, saying I'd be there in a couple of hours.

At about two o'clock, I called to say I was on my way. No answer. I called every five minutes after that and still no answer. I started to worry. Mike always answered his phone by the third ring. This was unusual. I called Q to see if Mike was with him.

"Q, this is Clay. Is Mike there?"

"Man, I'm in bed with twins right now getting my swerve on. Mike is the last thing on my mind. Later."

_Click._

I didn't know who else to call so I jumped in my car and burned rubber out of my drive. I couldn't get there fast enough.

I banged on Mike's door but there was no answer. I could hear the TV on inside. I started to panic. I knew something was wrong. I ran to the apartment manager's office and explained the situation. She accompanied me to his apartment and unlocked the door. Together, we made a gruesome, multi-sensory discovery. Mike was lying facedown in vomit, motionless. But the visual was secondary to the intense fumes. We instinctively covered our noses.

_Cough, cough, cough._

"What is that?" she choked out between chronic coughing fits.

Our eyes began to burn and water.

"It's paint thinner. I think Mike must have spilled it or something. My eyes are burning," I complained.

I proceeded into the apartment with my shirt covering my nose. The fumes grew stronger. There was a carton of milk by Mike's left hand. I instructed the manager to call 911. She braved the intense fumes and started dialing frantically. She asked me if I knew CPR. Remembering my CPR training in boot camp, I rolled Mike onto his back. His face was dripping with vomit. I couldn't tell if Mike was breathing or not; his eyes were open but glazed over.

"Shit!" I yelled.

"Is he dead?" the manager asked.

"Fuck, I hope not. Don't die on me, Mike. Wake up, wake up! Please wake up." I slapped his face but that had no effect other than leaving a red handprint on his face.

I remembered the importance of clearing his airway, so I inspected it. It was blocked with slimy food particles. I cleared it by tilting his head and using my fingers. Meanwhile, the 911 dispatcher said an ambulance would arrive within twelve minutes. They called it a Code Three Emergency. Mike started turning a grayish color, and it looked like his body was shutting down.

"Mike, hang on. Just hang on!"

The woman opened all the windows to let the fumes escape. It was toxic in there.

I knew Mike wouldn't last twelve minutes. I wiped Mike's face off with my shirttail. I pinched Mike's nose and began performing mouth to mouth. I then administered successive chest compressions. I alternated between the chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth. The manager watched from the window in tears.

I didn't know if I was doing the CPR right, but it's what I remembered.

Mike's eyes closed. I felt no pulse. I was scared that I was losing him.

I could hear sirens enter the complex. Although they were there faster than expected, I thought _it's too late. Too damn late._

The EMTs were in the apartment with their equipment in the span of a few minutes.

"Stand back," one ordered. "How long has he been like this?"

"We just got here about five minutes before you, sir. Is he alive?" I asked worriedly.

The lead paramedic checked Mike's pulse and immediately began performing CPR. He worked vigorously and started to perspire.

I closed my eyes and prayed.

Just before I said _Amen,_ I heard Mike coughing.

We were enormously relieved. It seemed like I'd been holding my breath the entire time. Mike was resuscitated but incoherent.

"I guess the fumes made him throw up, huh?" I asked.

The paramedic reached for the carton of milk and then looked at the date. He grimaced upon smelling the milk.

"Don't think it was the fumes. This milk is slightly curdled and spoiled. It's a week past its sell-by date. How could anyone drink this?"

I knew how. There was no doubt in my mind that Mike's losing his sense of smell had nearly proved fatal.

Mike was taken to the hospital, where he was to spend the night. While Mike was resting I tiptoed out and headed for home. It had been an emotional and exhausting day. As I passed Reception, I heard two G-men in dark suits inquiring about Mike. I assumed they were checking up on their social experiment. I'm sure they would've liked to know that their little Jedi mind tricks were working. But I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction.

##### THE NEXT DAY

"Clay, thanks for giving me a ride home from the hospital," Mike said as we flew down Highway 78. "After you left, Q stopped by."

"Oh yeah? What did he say?"

"Not much. He said when you and he found me, I was near death."

" _What?_ Q said what?"

"Yeah, it's good to have friends like you and Q. I don't know what I'd do without you guys."

_Arrgh._ I really wanted to set the record straight, but I didn't want Mike to feel that I was competing with Q for his friendship.

Mike and I entered his apartment. He was surprised.

"Clay, what's all this stuff here?"

"It's mine," I replied.

"What's it doing here?" Mike asked, noticing my clothes hanging in his closet.

I took a deep breath. "Mike, this is an intervention."

"What?" he asked.

"Mike, your condition puts you at risk. Last night, I saw you almost die right there on the floor. Can't let you do that to me again. Or to yourself. It messed me up big time."

Mike looked doubtful, so I continued. "Look, I'm not asking your permission. Until you can work things out, I'm here."

He chewed on the idea for a while.

"Okay, but this is not a permanent arrangement. Okay?"

We both shook on it. I breathed a sigh of relief.

#### NEXT SATURDAY MORNING

I crept inside the apartment, hoping not to awaken Mike. I had been out all night.

"Clay, is that you?"

"Yeah, man. I thought you'd still be sleep. It's only 7 a.m."

Mike gave me that look. The look your best friend gives you when he thinks you got lucky.

"You must've had a great night. Was she Filipino?"

I let out a big yawn, took my shoes off, and plopped onto the sofa next to Mike.

"No, my friend. You have a one-track mind built by Mattel. I think I read too much into her asking me to spend the night. I spent the night all right, right on her living room sofa."

"So, are you gonna see her again?"

"Most definitely. Mary's a real sweetheart. I just need to go at her pace." I yawned again. "So what did you get up to last night besides playing _Street Fighter_ on Nintendo?"

Mike went into the closet and returned with an old tattered book that looked very familiar. It was my yearbook from junior year. He began flipping through the pages.

"Clay, I'm looking for someone. I can't find her, but she must be here somewhere. I think she was on page 132."

Mike ceased perusing the book, stopping on that exact page. "Here she is. She's in the girls' choir. There's no name to identify her by. Who is she?"

It was Connie.

"Why?" I asked.

"I don't know. It's the strangest thing. I was looking at the book last night, and I as soon as I saw her I couldn't look away. There's something about her that draws me in. Like I know her or I need to know her. Look at those eyes. Don't you see it? Like they're calling you."

I knew exactly what Mike was talking about. Every time I'd see a picture of Connie I'd feel the same way. But how did Mike single her out of twenty-five-hundred other girls in the yearbook? I was so tempted to tell Mike about Connie, but it was a road I didn't want travel, plus I'd signed an oath of non-disclosure. How long could I keep Mike from learning the whole story—particularly the drama that led him to sever our friendship?

"Well, she's not Filipino, so what does it matter?" I laughed.

Mike was becoming obsessive. He knew there was something there. His subconscious was screaming but his conscious mind was muted.

"I can't get past it, Clay. I've stared at this picture all night. I'm gonna find her. I need to know who she is and why she's so important to me. I've been thinking a lot lately and I know what I want to do before my convalescent leave is up."

"Uh-oh. What's that?"

"Clay, I want to go home and find my mom. I must have done something terrible for her not to come see about me. What could I have done that was so bad?"

There was a story behind Mike's estranged mom, Barbara, but my folks never discussed it with me. Mike's father didn't go to the church where my father pastored, but he spent a lot of time in counseling with Dad during that rough patch.

Mike had something else he wanted me to clarify for him—something that would challenge my compliance with that stupid oath. His confusion was getting to me. He was my best friend and I had the answers he was looking for.

Mike went into the spare bedroom where the piano was. He returned with some sheet music.

"Clay, this piece of music called _The Only One_ ..."

"What about it?"

"Well, it says I wrote it in 1978. Did I write this for someone? It's too sentimental not to be."

The look on Mike's face was too much. I couldn't hold onto my poker face any longer. My friend needed my help.

I cracked under the pressure.

"Yes, you did write the song for someone, Mike. The girl you penned it for is the girl in the yearbook. The tattoo on your right shoulder is in honor of her. CW stands for Connie Walker. That's her."

Mike returned to page 132 again and caressed the photo of Connie with his fingertips. I noticed a tear slowly forming in his right eye.

"I knew it. I felt it in my heart. It's so strong. I gotta find her. Maybe she's still in Bellwood. Between my mom and Connie maybe I can find out who I really am, or who I was. Wanna go on a trip?"

"Yeah, man. Of course."

I remember the song he wrote for Connie, _The Only One._ We recorded the song one night after watching _Archie Bunker_ on TV. Mike and I performed the song at a pool party that summer just before he took off. Mike got a standing ovation for his smooth and sultry vocals. I was just trying to keep up on bass. Guests at the party thought it was a cover song, but it wasn't. It was an original, a song that Connie never heard because Mike vanished before he could serenade her with it. I never told her about it, even though I'd had a cassette tape of it all these years.

One thing for sure, we would make that journey to Bellwood. I only hoped it would be a journey we wouldn't regret.

Nature just blasted Nurture with a big right hook.

# CHAPTER 9

# BLANK SLATE

"Clay, this is a lousy connection," Connie complained. "You sound like you're in a tunnel or something."

"Sorry, Cee. I'm driving at the moment. I forwarded all my calls to my new car phone."

"Car phone? Sounds high tech. What's it like?"

"Other than this damn cord getting tangled up in my stick shift, it's okay. Expensive as hell, though. This call is costing me almost a dollar a minute, but it's cool. What's up, Pumpkin?"

"Well, I just got a letter from our senior class reunion committee. Looks like there's a multi-year reunion coming up soon. I need a date. I'm looking for a man in uniform to take me." I could hear the smile in her voice. "Know anyone who fits that description?"

"Does this invitation include dinner?"

"Of course, and maybe breakfast the following day if you behave."

"Invitation accepted. I can crash at my mom's, she won't mind."

"Oh, I forgot to tell you. I'm moving from Rice Avenue to Schaumberg, Illinois, soon. I got a promotion to senior financial consultant. You can stay with me if you want."

I mentally jumped to conclusions that couldn't be verbalized. Maybe Connie and I were turning the corner on this secret, unspoken attraction. Or maybe I was imagining it all.

"Connie, there's something I need to tell you. Are you sitting down?"

"I don't like the sound of this, but go ahead."

"Mike is asking about you."

_Silence._

"I thought he'd lost his memory. Is he starting to remember now?" Connie asked worriedly.

"No. That's just it. He doesn't remember anything, but he saw a picture of you in my yearbook and somehow that sparked something. I can't explain it, but he's trying to connect the dots where you're concerned. He wants to go home soon to reunite with his mom and find you."

"Clay, I don't know if I can go there. You know what we both went through after Mike found out. I loved Mike and you know that, but it's a bridge I don't think I want to cross."

"We're coming to Bellwood, Cee. What do you want me to do?"

"Just tell Mike that you don't know where I live, because you don't. You wouldn't be lying."

"Okay, sweetheart—I mean Cee. I'll handle it."

Immediately after I hung up from Connie, I was pulled over by an Oceanside police officer. I hadn't been speeding, but the flashing code lights in my rear-view mirror made me a little anxious. He pulled me over because he'd observed me talking on the phone as I made a right turn onto Mission Avenue. Fortunately for me, car phones were so new at the time there were no laws prohibiting talking while driving. He released me with a warning, which I thought was funny.

#### ROAD TRIP

**Mike's Apartment**

"Mike, you ready, man? You're holding up progress. We should be on the I-5 freeway by now. We got a long trip ahead, two thousand miles, and it's gonna take about two days to get there," I said as I zipped up my garment bag and checked my watch.

Mike emerged from the bathroom smelling like Halston. "You know," he said good-naturedly, "I will never get used to wearing cologne that I can't smell. I can't imagine spending forty dollars on something that I can't benefit from. I'll take your word for it that it smells good."

I headed for the door weighed down by a garment bag in one hand and a suitcase in the other.

"Mike, look at it like insurance. I spend hundreds of dollars on insurance every year and I hope I never use it. Lock the door behind you."

We ventured into the parking lot. Mike didn't see my car so he headed to his Corvette.

"Clay, we're taking the Vette, right?"

"Ah, that would be a _no,_ Mike. We'll probably hit a couple of podunk rural towns and we need to fly below the radar, anonymously. I don't want any trouble on this trip, so I decided we'll travel _incognegro."_

"You mean _incognito,"_ Mike responded.

"No, you heard me right the first time."

I had rented a white Nissan Sentra.

#### FIVE HOURS LATER

"Mike, are you excited about going back home?"

"Nervous energy is what I feel. I want to be excited, but there's a chance that things could go horribly wrong. I already feel rejected by my mom. I don't know if I could handle it if she rejected me to my face." He stared out the window for a minute, then looked back at me. "Was I the only child?"

"Yes."

"Okay, that's promising. I'm all she's got. I'm sure she'll want grandkids, too."

Five hours into the drive, I spotted a sign ahead that spelled trouble for my friend. I had to warn him quickly.

"Mike, I need you to cover your eyes for about sixty seconds," I said, glancing over at him.

"What?" he protested. "Why?"

"Mike, seriously. Just do it, okay? Trust me. Please."

Sighing, he covered his eyes.

"Are you peeking?"

"Uh, huh." He lowered his hands and looked around. I was ready for panic mode to kick in. "What's up?" he asked.

I kept a steady eye on him, waiting for him to freak. He didn't.

"Mike, we're driving over a bridge."

"So? Big deal," he responded nonchalantly.

"Wow. Unreal. Man, you really have changed. You used to freak out over heights, mainly bridges. You had it bad, really bad. One time I got two black eyes trying to restrain you on a family trip to Missouri, and that was before we crossed the bridge."

Mike stared out over the vast river below and didn't bat an eye. "Hmm, fear of heights. Can't say that I feel anything at all. Did I have any other fears that you knew of?"

"Yup. Birds. I don't know which bothered you more, birds or heights."

Mike just looked at me, perplexed. His face was scrunched up. "Birds? Why would I be afraid of birds?"

"When you were little, a bird got trapped in your room and attacked you. Ever since then, anytime a bird got near you, you were a basket case."

Mike knew he had lost his fear of heights, but he wanted to test his reaction to the bird phobia. At the first sign of a large tree, he asked me to stop. We got out of the car.

"Shh, be quiet. There's a large flock of birds in that tree right there. Don't scare them, okay?" Mike said as we snuck up on the towering oak tree that was probably hundreds of years old.

We stood at the base of the tree for a few seconds. I whispered softly, "Okay, what are we doing?"

Mike looked all around. Then he yelled while clapping his hands.

"Rahh! Rahh! Rahhh!"

It scared the mess out of me. He completely startled the crows that were taking shelter from the blazing sun. At least a hundred crows swarmed around us and eventually formed a strange-moving shape in the sky. The flapping of wings and screeching were deafening. I started to get anxious thinking about the Hitchcock movie _The Birds,_ and covered my eyes until the madness ceased.

Mike thought it was funny. I didn't. Not at all. He could have warned me.

I complained, with good reason, "Damn it, Mike, what the heck was that about?"

The top of my shirt was tattooed with bird droppings. When Mike realized he had gobs of it in his hair, he stopped laughing. It was my turn to laugh. I ditched my shirt and changed in the car. Mike had to endure his new perm until we got to a nearby gas station.

After we cleaned up, I reflected on Mike's condition. Although he had lost a few special talents after his accident, he was compensated by the loss of two debilitating phobias that had tormented him all his life. At thirty years of age, Mike really was a blank slate.

#### 500 MILES LATER

"Yawn. If I hear that song one more time, I swear—" Mike said, sounding annoyed.

"That's Color Me Badd, _I Wanna Sex You Up._ It's a big hit. Between that song and C & C Music Factory's _Gonna Make You Sweat,_ it's a monopoly on radio air time. No worries," I assured him, "I've got a bunch of cassettes with me in the glove compartment."

I smacked myself mentally on the forehead. I was worried that Mike would find the demo he'd recorded for Connie, _The Only One._ Thankfully, he skipped right over it. The cassette was so old the writing on the label had faded. _Whew._ Oddly enough, he picked a Stevie Wonder selection, one of his favorites from high school.

After five hundred miles behind the wheel, I was pretty weary. Mike had to nudge me a few times because I'd started to swerve a bit. We decided to find a motel in the next small town.

"Mike, there's a small hotel coming up on the next exit. Twenty miles. Let's check it out."

I couldn't wait to stretch my stiff legs. I could smell a pig farm close by as the night wind blew. The motel, called the _Sorry Gulch Inn,_ had its Vacancy light lit. The marquee flashed on and off. Underneath the marquee it read _Color TV in deluxe suites._ That had to be an old sign. Pulling into a parking spot near the office, I made haste to the reception desk. I was dog-tired. Mike wasn't far behind.

"Excuse me, ma'am, I need a room for just one night. How much?"

The elderly woman behind the counter was knitting, with a German Shepherd curled up at her feet. She had a name tag that read _Mabel._

"Only twenty-nine dollars. You're not from these parts, are you, son?"

"No, ma'am. From California. Been driving a while now."

Mabel was ever so friendly.

"You just rest your feet, let Mabel fetch you a cold drink. Are you traveling alone?

"No, ma'am. There's two of us."

She handed me a free can of grape soda and a room key. Mike strolled in with his bags. Mabel raised her eyebrows suspiciously.

"Can I help you, Mister?" Mabel asked.

I interjected, "He's with me."

" 'Fraid I'm gonna have to issue two keys then," she said firmly. "This is a Christian-run business."

Mike and I were confused.

"One room is fine, really. We'll keep it down, we just wanna go to bed, that's all," I said.

"Not in this motel. Cletus," she called out, "Escort these two gentlemen off my premises. Ya'll must be from San Fran. Ya see, we don't care too much for that 'round here. Now git."

A big burly guy with overalls emerged from the back. He didn't look very happy.

I quickly realized there had been a misunderstanding. As Mike and I were being shown the door, I had a final few words.

"Well, I guess the honeymoon suite with the mirrored ceiling is out of the question, huh?" I said in my most effeminate voice.

# CHAPTER 10

# TOTAL RECALL

#### NEXT TOWN

We finally hit a slightly larger town thirty minutes later. I could see all the town lights sparkle in the night as we took the off-ramp.

"Clay, look out! He's gonna hit us!"

_Screeeech!_

As we made a right turn from the off-ramp we almost got T-boned by a speeding car. All I saw was a flash of light. I never saw the car coming over the bend. It's a good thing Mike was looking.

My hands had a death grip on the steering wheel. I looked at Mike out of the corner of my eye. "Damn, that car almost nailed us. What's the speed limit around here?"

Mike and I stared at the dust cloud left by the speeding car.

"Clay, he must have really been in a hurry—he just blew that stop sign over there."

Twenty minutes later, Mike and I were all checked in, in a double twin bedroom. We were both asleep not too long after.

#### 2:30 A.M.

_"Psst,_ Clay. You hear that? Clay, wake up, man."

_Yawn._

"I was in the middle of a good dream. Hear what?"

" _That,"_ Mike said.

I heard radio transmissions outside. Mike got out of his bed and pulled the curtains back. I saw police code lights flashing. There were lots of them. I joined Mike at the window.

"Clay, they're after somebody. Must be criminals hiding out in the hotel."

_Ring, ring, ring._

"No one knows we're here. Who could that be?" I asked with great concern.

The phone kept ringing. Mike answered it.

I studied Mike's face as he listened to the caller. He looked at me in disbelief, then hung up the phone.

"Mike, who was that?"

He started to get dressed quickly and urged me to do the same.

"Clay, they want us to surrender with our hands up," Mike said, sounding pretty shaken.

I peeled the curtains back again, and this time I noticed snipers on the roof and police behind their car doors, pistols drawn.

"Okay, whatever is going on, it must be a mistake. Let's do what they want right now before we have unexpected company," Mike said and headed for the door.

We both vacated our rooms with our hands in the air, scared as hell and hoping no one would shoot. I could see a red beam of light in the center of my chest. Mike had one on his forehead. We both knelt on the ground as instructed. Occupants came out of their rooms onto the balcony to see what was happening.

It was the tensest moment of my life. Within seconds a SWAT team descended on us. We were cuffed and manhandled while other police officers stormed our room and tore it apart.

Mike and I were stuffed inside a squad car and we watched our room get trashed. Mike asked the obvious question.

"Officer, what's goin' on?"

The officer turned around. He looked mean as hell.

"Your job ain't asking questions. Your job is to obey."

After a few minutes the raid on the room was over. Officers gave the all clear and they came out in a single file. One officer approached the car.

"They must have stashed the money. It ain't here, sheriff."

"Money, what money?" We asked almost in synch.

The sheriff turned around and spat his chewing gum out the window.

"Don't make this any harder than it needs to be. Just tell me where the fuckin' money is. And don't bullshit me!"

A canine patrol car parked right next to our car. The dogs were barking at us, and that put the fear of God in us both. There was just one small problem. We didn't know what the cops were talking about. The more we denied everything, the angrier the sheriff became. We made a trip to the station just outside of town. On the way there I visualized Mike and me being buried alive in a shallow grave somewhere, never to be found.

When we arrived at the station it seemed every cop on duty was waiting for us. Everyone except two old farts playing a game of chess near the front desk.

It was a chilly, starry night and I could see my breath in the air as we were escorted inside.

I overheard several conversations and radio transmissions. A local convenience store was robbed just before closing. The owner had been shot in the hand in the act. The sheriff thought we had done it.

Things were about to get worse.

An old man with his hand in bandages walked into the station behind several cops. His eyeglasses were thick as Coke bottle bottoms.

He pointed at me and yelled, "It's him. That's the guy!"

"No, wait, wait a second. You got the wrong guy," I exclaimed.

The sheriff calmed the old guy down and walked toward me.

"No, we got the right guy and the right car. Your friend here is an accessory."

"Accessory to what?" Mike asked.

"Accessory to armed robbery and attempted murder, that's what. We thought you would've ditched the getaway car but you didn't because you're stupid."

Mike rubbed his temple; I could tell he was deep in thought. Something was going on inside his head. He closed his eyes and opened them with a look of composure. I knew he had something important to say.

"Sheriff, I saw the car you're looking for. You're right; it's a white Sentra just like ours. It almost ran us off the road. It was headed east."

The sheriff had a good laugh with his deputies.

"Well, isn't that convenient? You think I'm stupid, boy?"

"No, sir. But I can help you find who did this."

Mike's cool composure caused a silence to fall over the station, with the exception of the two deputies playing chess.

"Hank, you can't get away this time—checkmate in two moves. Ha!"

Mike continued. "Sheriff, the car you're looking for has Las Vegas plates. It has seven digits. WGO W263."

The sheriff wasn't buying it. He told us to sit tight while he found us a holding cell to spend the night in.

Another car showed up with a man in cuffs. His wife was behind him. She had a black eye. He bumped into me when he passed, causing me to back into the chessboard. All the pieces went flying. Both deputies stood and were mad as blazes.

"Now, look what you did. I was one move from checkmate. Ah, hell."

"No, you weren't, Bubba, I had you in two moves."

Mike capitalized on the incident.

"Please excuse my clumsy friend, officers. But if you want to resume the game, I can help."

The deputy on the cusp of victory spoke.

"Pieces everywhere, damn it. I should've won that game. What can you do?" he mockingly asked Mike. "Are you a magician, too?"

"No, sir. I remember where the pieces go. I have a good memory."

Both deputies gave Mike the hairy eyeball. Mike accurately told them where each piece belonged on the board. It was astonishing. In a couple of minutes, the game was back in play, exactly as it had been just before the spill. For a suspected thief, Mike got a nod of respect from both officers. They resumed their game.

The sheriff returned. He had some good news and bad news. I wanted to hear the bad news first.

"The bad news is we got no empty holding cells for you two," the sheriff said in between drags on his cigar.

I was relieved. I really didn't want to spend a night in jail. "We're both in the Marines. We can stay at a nearby motel. You have the keys to our car, so we can't go anywhere."

All the deputies began to laugh. I didn't know what was so funny. The sheriff didn't entertain my gesture, not for a second.

"You didn't let me finish," I went on. "The good news is that we can double up."

Mike offered a suggestion.

"Oh, you mean Clay and I will be cell mates?"

"Wouldn't that just be dandy? That would give you two plenty of time to get your story straight. Ain't happening."

We were given an opportunity to make our obligatory one phone call. I needed to call the legal duty officer back at base but I didn't know the number. The only number that I knew was the Officer of the Day (OOD), which was a twenty-four-hour duty. Once I contacted the OOD we could use Mike's one phone call to get Base legal's number. These were desperate times.

_Ring, ring, ring._

"Staff Sergeant Curry, how may I be of assistance?"

It was nice to hear a familiar voice on the other end. Staff Sergeant Curry and I had checked into the unit together. I knew he would help, he was cool.

"Brian. This is Clay, Clay Thompson. I'm in the middle of Timbuk- fuckin'tu somewhere and I need the number to base legal. Can you get it for me? In a jam right now."

"Sure. I have it right here. It's 725-60—"

Curry was interrupted by someone before he could give me the rest of the digits. I was on pins and needles. Mike was on edge, as well. Curry passed the phone to the Officer of the Day.

"This is Major Miller. Who am I speaking with?"

_You gotta be freaking kidding me._

"Good evening, Major Miller. I was wondering if you could give me the number to the base legal duty officer?"

He demanded a full explanation.

I was deliberately vague. Major Miller demanded to speak with the sheriff. This wasn't going to go very well for Mike and me.

I couldn't hear what Major Miller was saying, but based on the sheriff's responses it made things worse for us.

"Sheriff White here. What can I do for you?"

"Major, seems like we got two of your soldiers... Soldiers, Marines ... same difference. Either way, they're some lawbreakers... The charges?"

The sheriff winked at Mike and me.

"Just two little ol' charges ... attempted murder and armed robbery. And we got ourselves a witness, too. They up shit river without a paddle."

The sheriff passed the phone back to me.

"Major Miller, can you let the CO know that this is big mistake and that we are innocent?"

"I could, Staff Sergeant Thompson. But I won't."

"Okaaay. Can you give me the number to the duty legal officer?"

"Once again, I could, but I won't. Good night, Staff Sergeant."

_Click._

"Damn!" I yelled.

Mike was curious as hell.

"What happened, Clay?"

"That was Major Miller on the phone. He won't help us. We're not getting out of here tonight."

Major Miller was our only lifeline, and he threw us an anchor.

The sheriff quickly separated Mike and me. That's when it got real. Seeing him escorted down the opposite hall messed me up.

But there was more drama ahead.

After I was processed, I was introduced to my new cell mate. They called him Cujo. Cujo was about six-foot-four and well over three hundred pounds. He had no more than four teeth and those were dark brown. He also had the worst acne I'd ever seen. He looked like a walking STD.

Cujo stared at me like I was a piece of meat. His meat. The deputy slammed the cell door shut.

_Clang!_

Shock waves reverberated throughout my body. Cujo stood by the bars and waited for the deputy to leave.

I heard a deputy shout, "Lights out in five minutes!"

_"Uh, oh."_

Cujo finally spoke.

"We can either do this the hard way or the easy way. It's up to you, pet."

_What the hell am I doing here?_ I thought. Just 24 hours ago I was chilling, minding my own business.

At first I was scared, really scared. But then I grasped reality. Tonight was my last night on Earth, because there was no way in hell I was gonna submit. He would have to take my corpse. My fear escalated and morphed into rage. Cujo was a lot bigger than me. I would have to fight for my life, even if it was a losing battle.

"When the lights go out, I need you to get me ready. You hear me, boy?"

For a split second I thought of a movie where the victim took the opportunity to bite his tormentor's junk off. I almost puked at the thought. Death on my feet sounded better than unspeakable nasty on my knees. Mentally I counted down the minutes to lights out because I knew that's when playtime with Cujo would commence.

"Lights out!"

I saw the lights darken in a domino-like effect down the corridor. Cujo lowered his trousers and exposed himself.

I prayed. My heart was racing out of control. I felt death was imminent. I looked around for a weapon. Nothing.

He came forward.

_Shit._

_Silence._

Before Cujo could advance any closer, I saw a flashlight down the corridor. Cujo paused.

A deputy stopped at my cell.

"Cujo, get your trousers back on, boy. You pervert!" He looked at me. "Are you Clay Thompson?"

I was still in fight-or -flight mode.

"Yes, sir. I'm Clay Thompson."

"You're free to go. Mr. Jordin is waiting for you at the front desk."

_Thank you, Jesus_. A few minutes later might have been ... never mind.

I left the cell but still didn't feel quite liberated. I needed to get out of the jailhouse.

I saw the sheriff at the front desk. Mike stood uncuffed. He was glad to see me.

"Sheriff, thank you. You ran the license plate numbers Mike gave, right?"

"Naw. I didn't run 'em. Somebody else did. You boys hit the road and keep stepping. Don't stop either, ya hear?"

We hurried out of the station before someone changed his mind.

"Mike, who ran the plates then?"

"Clay, I don't know and I don't care. Let's just get out of here."

As I pulled out of the parking lot I saw Hank and Bubba, the two chess players, waving goodbye from the main entrance. I connected the dots. I stopped the car and acknowledged them with nods of respect. I mouthed the words _thank you._ Then I put my foot on the gas and never looked back.

# CHAPTER 11

# TICK TOCK, YOU DON'T STOP

#### 50 MILES TO BEUWOOD, NUNOIS

"Doc said I have trouble remembering faces and places. I'm just hoping that being home will stir up echoes from my past. Anything would be better than nothing," Mike said somberly, staring out the passenger window. "I'm sitting on a million dollars, but I'd give it all away just to have a glimpse of my old life back."

The more Mike spoke about wanting to connect with his past, the more I felt like a thief. I had more than a glimpse of his life; I had his entire adult life in his own words. The longer I had the journals the harder it would be to tell Mike ...

_Yeah, I had it all the time._

"Mike, my mom doesn't know we're coming. I always like to surprise her. She'll be thrilled to see you. She never stopped asking about you. A week before my dad died, he asked about you in the hospital."

#### MANNHEIM ROAD, BELLWOOD

"Looks like we made good time, Clay, despite our time in the slammer," Mike said after hearing the local time on the radio. "By the way, where's my watch?"

Immediately I, too, realized my watch was not on my wrist. We must have left the watches in the trays at the police station in our rush to get out of town.

"We can pick them up on the way back," I joked.

"Yeah, you do that. Give Sheriff White my love, too, 'cause I won't be there," Mike said with sarcasm.

"Dude, chill. You couldn't pay me to go back there."

Since it wasn't quite four p.m. I knew my mom wouldn't be home from work, so I decided to take Mike to the Montgomery Ward shopping center in Hillside. I was in the mood for a greasy burger and some fries.

#### HILLSIDE SHOPPING MALL

"Mike, I'm dog tired. Let's sit on this bench."

I reminisced, "Did you know we spent hours sitting right here on this bench back in the day?"

"Right here? Doing what?"

"Fox hunting," I laughed.

Mike looked puzzled.

"We used to call girls _foxes._ Like foxy lady. We really weren't hunters, though, more like observers. But we spent many Saturday afternoons sitting right here watching girls go by. Every blue moon we'd muster the nerve to actually speak to one."

While I was in flashback mode, a thirtyish woman tapped Mike on the shoulder from behind.

"Excuse me, are you Mike Jordin?" she asked excitedly.

"Yes, that's me," Mike replied.

"Oh, my gawd. It's me, Leticia from McKinley Junior High. You were in my English class. I haven't seen you in ages. It's so nice to see you."

She gave Mike a very friendly hug. Whoever she was, she had extremely fond memories of Mike.

Mike grinned from ear to ear as she clung to his neck.

"Leticia, wow, it's been a while. Sorry if I don't ..."

She sat right between Mike and me. "Don't worry, it's been a long time. I had a crush on you back then but I never told you."

Mike introduced me. After a brief reunion, Leticia gave Mike her phone and pager numbers.

This repeated itself four more times with different women. Mike's face was tattooed with red lipstick from friends from way back. My friend was also invited to the Proviso West High School reunion by girls he hadn't seen in years as their date.

When the two of us were alone again, Mike commented, "I guess life has come full circle. From fox hunters to hunted by foxes."

I was curious about something. "Before the trip you were pretty selective with your taste in women. Any change?"

He thought about that for a minute. "I think my horizons have been expanded. Just a little bit. I love it when women talk about the old me, it's therapeutic. I see the familiarity in their eyes—they know me."

"Mike, I know it's not the same hearing it from a pal, but I dig where you're coming from," I sympathized. As we stood and began walking toward the shops, Mike confessed that he was embarrassed about his inability to smell or taste. He asked me not to tell anyone. I understood.

"Two of my five senses are gone," he said. "So does that make me a freak?"

"No, not at all. In fact, I heard that the brain compensates in those cases, making your other senses sharper."

"Guess I missed out." Mike sounded despondent.

It was true that he had lost a great deal in that tragic accident, but I had firsthand knowledge of new abilities he'd acquired—abilities that bordered on the extraordinary.

"Mike, how about your sight, for starters? Somehow you were able to see the license plate of a speeding getaway car in the dark. I couldn't even tell you what color the car was. And how about your memory ... the chess pieces? Don't forget your language aptitude, either. It's mind-blowing. My dad always said, 'When one door closes, God opens another.' Who knows what other abilities you have lying dormant?"

Mike reflected on that infamous night with Sheriff White. "When I see things or hear things, I can replay them in my mind like rewinding a VHS tape and hitting the play button. I can speed the tape up or slow it down. That's how I was able to give them a sketch. I drew the car from memory."

"What are you talking about? What sketch?"

He explained that after they took me away, he scribbled a sketch of the getaway car, one that highlighted the subtle differences between both cars.

"So you can draw from memory?" I was amazed.

"Yeah, it's easy. I can see it in my head just like I can see you."

"Do you have something to write with, Clay? I'll show you."

"Of course, all good Marines carry something to write with."

I searched my pockets. Nothing.

Mike borrowed a pencil and a blank piece of paper from a nearby stationery store, and told me to disappear for a few minutes.

I wandered around the lower level of the mall, making a complete loop before returning to the stationery store.

"Clay, check it out," Mike said, as he handed me a sheet of paper that was folded in half.

"What do we have here?" I asked.

I opened it slowly.

I was stunned almost speechless.

"You drew this from memory?"

"Yeah."

The woman behind the counter marveled at his artwork. She, too, was amazed. I had to express how intrigued I was.

"It looks just like her, Mike. Exactly like Connie's photo in the yearbook. Look at the detail. The eyes are staring right at me. It's beautiful."

The store clerk commented, "I think you should frame it."

"Ah, it's nothing. I was just messing around. If I'd had more time I could've put more effort into it."

Mike's drawing evoked inner feelings for Connie and it caught me off guard. I struggled to keep my composure.

"That will be four dollars and ninety-nine cents. Thank you for shopping Kyle's Stationery."

#### WATCHES R US KIOSK

"So many watches to choose from, it's hard to make up my mind," I said.

Mike stumbled upon a plain digital wrist watch. It had a simple black band, but it was no ordinary watch. He tried it on. The sales rep, an elderly Japanese man, spied it on Mike's wrist.

"Bery, bery wise choice, indeed. _Seikatsu!"said_ the old man.

"God bless you," I responded.

The old man laughed at my misunderstanding.

"No, _seikatsu_ means _life_ in Japanese. This is the watch of life."

Other than having multiple digital displays, it looked like an ordinary watch. However, the watch came with a sales pitch that changed the way Mike and I viewed life from that moment forward.

"How much time do you have left?" the old man asked.

"Well, not much, because I need to be home no later than four-thirty."

The old man shook his head.

"No, how much time do you have on Earth before you die?"

Mike and I stared at the old man.

"Here is a lifestyle questionnaire; it has a few medical queries you need to address, as well. If you both fill it out, I give you free watch as promotional gift."

A free watch? Why not?

Most of the questions were health-related, like smoking, drinking, exercise, age of grandparents at time of death, and a few others. After about five minutes Mike was done. I finished shortly after. The old man studied our answers and made a few handwritten calculations in Japanese. He then adjusted the settings on the watches.

"Now, you try on," he said, handing it to me.

"This looks more like a stopwatch, Pops. Why is it counting down?"

His response was a little too morbid for me. Actually, way too morbid. "The watch has calculated your time of death based on the data you provided. It counts down the hours, minutes and seconds you have left on this earth."

It disturbed me to see seconds ticking off my life. I quickly took the watch off.

Mike had a different take. "Clay, it's really no different than any other watch. But it makes you think about what really matters. It allows you to truly appreciate how precious time is. I was reborn at age thirty; I don't have any time to waste."

"Exactly!" The old man endorsed Mike's assessment. He asked Mike, "If you had just one day to live, what would you do with it?"

Mike was in deep thought. "I'd tell a woman I loved long ago that she was the only one for me."

The old man turned to me.

"And you? What would you do with only one day to live?"

My response didn't require much thought; it was automatic.

"I'd tell a good friend I lost a long time ago how sorry I was for betraying his trust."

Mike and I received the free watches as promised, but not the ones we'd tried on. From that moment forward, I would think about choices. Life choices.

# CHAPTER 12

# HOMECOMING

#### 3320 ST. CHANES ROAD, BENWOOD, ILLINOIS

"We're here."

My mother's house was a beautiful pale-green bungalow with white accents, sitting on a corner lot. The perfectly manicured lawn nicely complemented the property.

I saw my mom's car in the drive, so I knew she was home.

"Clay, does your mother know about my accident?"

"Only that you had one. She doesn't know the details," I replied.

"Good. If it comes up, I'll handle it. If not, all the better."

_Knock, Knock_

My mom pulled back the kitchen curtains and saw an unfamiliar car parked next to hers. Immediately Brutus started barking up a storm. For a Great Dane, Brutus was a softy once you entered the house, but I had to reassure Mike.

"Clay? What a wonderful surprise! I didn't know you were in town," my mom exclaimed as she opened the screen door.

Mom was always glad to see me. I got a great big hug even before I came inside. Brutus went berserk when he realized it was me. His tail painfully swatted me across my legs.

Then Mom's attention turned to Mike.

"Hi, Mrs. Thompson."

"Good Lord, is that you, Mike? Sweet baby Jesus. It _is_ you."

For a second I thought my mom was more excited to see Mike than me.

"My, I haven't seen you since 1978. I've kept you in my prayers ever since. You boys come on in. How long are you in town?"

"Just a few days," I said.

We sat at the kitchen table and reminisced about old times for nearly two hours. Mom never caught on that Mike was pretending to remember. He particularly enjoyed looking at old photos from high school and was mesmerized by the photos of Connie. After a while, Mom cooked us a nice steak dinner with greens and a baked potato.

Mike finally put his fork down and sighed in contentment. "Mrs. Thompson, that was a great meal. Couldn't eat anymore if I wanted."

"Was the steak seasoned too much?"

"No, ma'am. It was perfect."

I knew it would just be a matter of time before Mike's condition revealed itself. It happened right after dinner, but in a way that I didn't expect.

Mom went into the family room and asked us to join her. Mike and I followed.

The family room was a large area with a fireplace and entertainment center as the focal point. On the wall to the left was an old black upright piano. Mike and I sat on the sofa while Mom searched through her library of VHS tapes.

"I just transferred all of our old super eight movies onto VHS. Ah, here it is"

She inserted a VHS tape from 1978 of Mike sitting at the black piano in the same room we were sitting in. The tape was slightly grainy but the sound and color were good quality, considering how old it was. When the film rolled, I was sitting next to Mike tuning up the bass.

"So, what are you guys going to sing today?" Mom asked from behind the camera and across the years.

I regressed. I felt like a kid again. I remembered when Mom had filmed us on that long-ago afternoon.

Mike left his seat on the sofa and scooted right in front of the TV. He was taking it all in. The ghost from his past was staring right at him, in living color.

"That's me, that's me," Mike exclaimed.

The video continued to play as we watched our younger selves. "Mike, it's up to you. What do you wanna sing?" I asked, sporting the big, bouncy Afro that had been popular at the time.

In the video, Mike struck a key on the piano, I started tapping my foot, and the magic started.

"This is dedicated to the future Mrs. Jordin. Written by my partner in crime, Clay. It's called _Connie._

_"But it's okay, Connie.  
Gonna make you come, running  
Cause you don't know, Connie,  
That I love you so, Connie."_

Watching that old video was so emotional for the three of us. Mom had to pass the tissue box around twice. There I was with my best friend doing what we both loved most, playing soulful music. At Mike's request, Mom hit the rewind button and played the scene again.

_Wow._

Mom's next request threatened to expose Mike's condition.

"Mike, honey, that's one of my favorites. It would mean so much to me to hear you play it in person."

She sat on the stool and asked Mike to join her.

"Uh, Mom?" I said nervously.

Mike stood and turned to me.

"It's okay, Clay."

I knew the game was up. Mike's memory, including his ability to sing and play, had been wiped by the accident. He had to acknowledge that fact. I was getting uncomfortable and felt sorry for him.

Mike sat beside my mom at the piano. He closed his eyes and let out a big sigh. He was quiet for a long while and that made me even more anxious for him. _Damn._

Every so often I had to remind myself that although Mike had lost many skill sets after the accident, he'd acquired extraordinary abilities, too.

He sang and played beautifully.

_"When I go to bed, dreams of you instead, maybe one day they'll come true,_

_So every now and then—well I just pretend—someday you'll feel it too_

_I haven't told you, I want to hold you, let me feel your magic touch,_

_I feel ecstasy when you are near me, girl, you know I love you so much,_

_When I'm feeling blue I just think of you don'tcha know it works every time,_

_Don't want a maybe, just be my baby, all I need is a sign."_

He performed it with even more heart than in the video and his voice was pitch-perfect. The video must have kick-started his memory. I had a million questions, none of which I could ask in front of my mom.

Mom had to go to the kitchen to fetch more tissues. I took the opportunity to congratulate Mike on getting his memory back.

"Mike, you're back. Your memory is back," I whispered.

"I wish," he replied.

"But Mike, I saw it with my own eyes. You played, you sang perfectly. How did you do it?"

He turned to me and explained, "Anything I hear or see, I can replay in my head. I was just mimicking."

#### THE NEXT MORNING

"Good morning, Clay. I guess Mike's still in the bathroom. I'll make you guys a nice breakfast, how about that?"

"Would that include salmon croquettes and grits, by chance?"

"Coming right up."

Just before breakfast was served, I heard Mike washing his hands. The bathroom door opened. Within seconds the entire house smelled like a cologne factory. My mom froze like a statue.

"Oh, my. Mike must have spilled his cologne," Mom said.

The place reeked so bad Brutus was scratching at the door to go out.

"Good morning, everyone," Mike said.

The smell of cologne was overwhelming and unbearable. While Mom quickly opened up the kitchen windows, I took the chance to whisper to Mike.

"Hey Mike, I think you overdid the Halston."

"I put on a little more than usual. Can you smell it?"

"Mike, our neighbors can smell it. I think you bathed in it. Just two shots will do you."

"What should I do?" he asked.

"Jump right back in the shower and start over."

"I'll take your word for it. Just two shots, right?"

Mike made a break for the bathroom and I hurried to let Brutus out.

#### AFTER BREAKFAST

"So, what the plan of the day, as the Marines say?" Mom asked.

"Mrs. Thompson, we're hoping to run into Connie. I'm really looking forward to seeing her again."

"Oh, that's nice. I heard she's moving, but I think she's still over there on Rice Street. I just saw her last week. "

_Oh, no._

I was under the impression she'd already moved away. Things were getting out of control. Connie would be absolutely furious with me if I showed up with Mike unannounced. I had to think quickly.

"Uh, Mike, I think we should call first just to make sure she's home, okay?"

"Good idea, Clay," he replied.

Nervously, I dialed her number. It was busy.

"Sorry, Mike. It's busy," I said with a sigh of relief.

"No, that's great. That means she's home. Let's go."

Mike was like a little kid. A kid about to get his feelings crushed. It was like watching a slow-moving train wreck. All I could do was watch.

It was less than a five-minute walk to Connie's home. I was nervous as hell. I felt guilty because I had inside knowledge that could have prevented all this. Friends don't let friends get hurt. But what was I supposed to do?

_Mike, forget this dream girl stuff. She told me you have less than a snowball's chance in hell._

No way was I going to say that.

Soon we found ourselves on Connie's doorstep. Mike and I were both super-nervous, but for very different reasons.

He rang the doorbell twice.

_This is gonna be disastrous._

I heard footsteps trotting down the staircase. _Here we go. Showtime._

The door opened. I spoke.

"Is Connie here?"

_"No habla ingles, señor. Nosotros acaba de mudar,"_ replied the new tenant.

"What did she say?" Mike asked disappointedly.

"I don't speak Spanish, but I don't think Connie lives here anymore."

We apologized for the inconvenience and walked past a Bellwood Realty _SOLD_ sign on the lawn. I felt bad for Mike; he had so much invested in this trip emotionally. As for me, I was relieved that I didn't have to explain to Connie what the hell I was doing unannounced on her doorstep with Mike in tow. Mike was on a downward spiral and all I could do was spectate. Next stop: Barbara Jordin, Mike's estranged mom.

On the way home, Mike walked about ten paces behind me. I stopped so he could catch up but he told me to keep going. When we arrived home, Mike said he wanted to take a walk alone but that he'd be home before lunch. He eventually came home well past dinnertime and went straight to bed. It seemed Mike was deliberately distancing himself, but I understood why. I just didn't know what to do.

#### THE NEXT MORNING

"Mike, are you sure you're up for this?" I asked on the way to his mom's house in Westchester.

"I don't know. Yesterday was a major setback for me. I don't think I can handle much more disappointment."

"How about if I approach your mom first and see which way the wind's blowing?"

"Thanks, Clay. I'd appreciate that."

#### 1312 MONTEGILLO PLAGE, WESTCHESTER

Mike was surprised to see how affluent the neighborhood was. He had a hard time visualizing living in this upscale community. Half- million-dollar homes on large lots stood on both sides of the street. BMWs, Mercedes and Porsches filled most of the driveways, with a few Cadillacs here and there.

"This is it—1312 Montecillo Place," I announced.

I could have parked in the circular drive in front of the house, but I opted to park on the opposite side of the street.

"I lived here?" Mike asked.

"Yep. I never felt comfortable in your house, to be honest. Don't think your mom liked me much."

Mike's dad had owned a large chain of construction companies and built the house to meet Barbara's lavish taste. People always said Barbara was a gold digger and married for the money. She was a blonde bombshell and I remember that a lot of guys in school fantasized about her. Mike's dad had been fifteen years older than Barbara, and people would often mistake her for his daughter.

I stood on the top step in front of the door and Mike was off to the side. Once again I was uneasy.

_Knock, knock_

I heard a few voices so I knew someone was home. A woman came to the door in a white robe, with curlers in her hair. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth.

"Ms. Jordin?"

"No, I'm her sister, Jackie. Wait a minute; you're Mike's friend. Your daddy's that preacher in Maywood, right?"

"Yes, ma'am," I replied.

"Don't you remember me? You and Mike used to cut my grass back when I lived on Roosevelt Road."

I'd forgotten that Barbara had a twin. I started to remember those hot summers mowing her lawn. What I remembered most was Mike's aunt sunbathing by the pool in back. She made the best lemonade and sugar cookies on the planet.

"I remember now."

"You were a skinny kid back then. I see you've filled out and you're not so young anymore. I might need you to stop by and—"

Before Jackie finished her sentence, Barbara appeared and stood beside her sister with a gin and tonic in her hand. She downed it. She didn't see Mike milling about off to the side.

"Are you here to tell me that Mike's dead? Is this what this is about?" she asked. "They sent a chaplain here the last time to tell me he was dead, but they lied to me, the bastards."

"No, Mrs. Jordin. Mike's not dead."

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Hi, Mom. It's me, Mike. I'm your son."

His voice cracked and his body language showed how nervous he was.

Barbara's face turned crimson red. She was seething. Hostility came off of her in waves.

"You can't do anything right.," she yelled at him. "You can't even die right!"

Mike and I took a step backward.

But Barbara wasn't done spewing; she was just getting warmed up. "You ruined my life. You were a mistake, you hear me? A mistake!"

Tears streamed down Mike's face, heavy tears. Barbara's rage petrified us.

"But, Mom, what did I do?" Mike choked up.

"You were born. You were born! Your dad should've have worn a rubber the day you were conceived—like any decent man."

Barbara stuck the knife in deeper, twisting it in Mike's fragile heart. The more she spoke, the angrier she became. She shook her fists at us.

Jackie tried to restrain her, but Barbara wouldn't be held back.

It was sickening—the worst abuse I'd ever witnessed between a mother and son, even worse than physical abuse. I couldn't stand it any longer. We weren't kids anymore, we were adults, and we didn't have to put up with her crap.

"Mike, let's go," I said, thoroughly pissed off. "Enough is enough. Let's get out of here, now!"

I walked to the car. My head was pounding; I wanted to yell back at her. I could only imagine what my friend felt.

Mike bowed his head and responded to her rant.

"I'm not gonna stop loving you, Mom. You're all I've got." He followed me to the car.

Barbara had one last nasty comment.

"I should have suffocated you when you slept in your crib. Go to hell."

# CHAPTER 13

# GRAVE SITUATION

"Mom, Mike's been in that room for two days straight. I don't think he's eaten since he saw his mother. I don't know what to do."

She looked troubled. "What happened over there, Clay?"

As I explained the encounter, I relived it, and emotion choked me up.

My mother finished drying the last pot, set it on the stovetop, and proceeded to Mike's room. She knocked on the door.

"Mike?"

" _What?"_ he barked.

_Uh, oh._

My mom burst into Mike's room; she wasn't one to tolerate attitude.

She ripped the blankets off the bed, exposing Mike in his boxers. She gave him that look—the look that promised impending doom. He snapped out of his pity party, and I could smell his fear. He grabbed a pillow and placed it over his lap to cover up.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Thompson."

That was the smartest thing Mike could have said. My mom calmed down. The room quieted. My mom kissed him on his forehead and told him to get cleaned up and dressed. She gave him exactly five minutes.

_For what?_ I wondered.

Even after a shower, Mike still looked like death warmed over. He had dark circles under his eyes that aged him almost overnight.

"Mike, I think it's about time we took a trip." Mom said.

_Lord, please not back to Westchester,_ I prayed silently.

We piled into my mom's Lexus and took a short trip to our old high school, Proviso West.

"Mom, why are we visiting Proviso West?" I asked, while opening the door for her. Mike followed behind us.

"Honey, we're not visiting the school; we're going across the street."

She pointed to the Mount Carmel Cemetery opposite the school. Mike looked spooked even though it was still daylight.

As we entered the cemetery, Mom seemed to know right where she was headed. After a five-minute walk we stood before a nondescript headstone covered in moss. Mom cleared the moss away, exposing the name of the deceased.

_Alex James Jordin  
31 July 1916 – 14 January 1976_

Mike knelt before his father's grave, the tears trickling down his cheeks.

Mom rubbed Mike's back while he wept. We were on such an emotional roller coaster that I didn't know if I was coming or going. It had to be ten times worse for Mike.

He asked to be alone for a few minutes, so we gave him a chance to say his piece and grieve alone.

After a few minutes, Mike slowly stood and patted his father's headstone before joining Mom and me not far away. He was in bad shape; he couldn't stop crying.

"Mrs. Thompson, I'm ready to go back now," he said, wiping tears off his face.

"Not just yet," Mom said. "Follow me."

I'd had enough at that point; I needed to decompress. But it seemed there was another revelation nearby.

"Mike, I want you to meet someone," my mother said.

"A relative?"

"Yes."

We found ourselves standing before one of the more prominent headstones in the cemetery. It was white marble, with encased diamonds in the letters of the deceased's name.

_Deanne Hruska  
5 April 1946 – 6June 1961_

We admired the beautiful craftsmanship. Unlike some of the other older headstones, this one was well looked after.

Mike quickly noticed the date of death. He looked at my mom, then turned his attention back to the headstone.

"Is it a coincidence that she died the same day I was born?"

"No, Mike. It's not a coincidence."

Mike began to work things out in his head. He figured it out. Not me, I was lost.

Mike dropped to his knees and hugged the headstone and burst into tears.

"Let's give Mike some space," Mom said.

I hadn't made the connection.

Mom explained. "Deanne Hruska is Mike's real mother. She died on the operating table giving birth to him. They couldn't save her."

"So, Barbara isn't Mike's mom?"

"No."

I couldn't get over the 30-year difference in his parents' ages. Mike's dad would've been 45 and Deanne was just 15.

"Wasn't Barbara married to Mike's dad, then?"

"Yes. It's complicated. But he loved Deanne with all his heart. He was planning to divorce Barbara the year before Mike was born, but she dragged the process out. Deanne was about fourteen years old when she met Mike's dad. No one knew who the father was until Deanne was about to deliver. In those days, family secrets stayed in the family. We found out about the relationship just after Deanne passed away. Barbara blackmailed her husband into staying married by threatening to report him to the police. The house on Monticello was really payment for her silence."

Mom paused for a moment, thinking back. "Your dad visited Mike's father years later when he was in hospice. Mr. Jordin asked God for forgiveness so he could join Deanne in heaven."

"No wonder Barbara is so bitter," I commented.

"There's more. He changed his will just before he died. Barbara wasn't present at the funeral, but she made sure she was there at the reading of the will."

We joined Mike by his mother's grave.

His grieving morphed into guilt.

"I'm the reason my mother died," he blurted out.

My mom tried to reframe Deanne's death to relieve Mike of his guilt. It was pointless. It consumed him to know that she had died and he lived.

I wanted to comfort my friend but I knew the cut was too deep.

"Mike, maybe you can find closure in reading your dad's will," Mom gently suggested.

"My dad had a will?"

She nodded.

"Where is it? I need to know what it said," Mike demanded.

Looks like we had another trip to make.

#### THE LAW OFFICES OF C&C

**1701 South First Avenue, Maywood, Illinois**

"Good afternoon, and welcome to the Law Offices of C&C. How may I help you today?"

"My name is Mrs. Thompson; we used your services years ago in a personal injury claim. But the reason I'm here is I believe this gentleman's father drafted a will here back in 1975. Would you still have it on record?"

I remembered these premises from my high school days. I had dated Dina, the owner's daughter, my senior year. Dina's mom, Classy, was a kind woman who'd always made me feel comfortable in her home. Over the years I often wondered what had happened to Dina.

The office manager escorted us to her private office down the hall. She perused the files in her desk drawer, retrieving a five-inch floppy disk that she inserted into the computer.

Mom sat between Mike and me as we waited patiently. A phone call came in, temporarily disrupting the search. The woman placed the call on speaker. I was sure it was Dina.

After the call concluded, I asked, "Excuse me, was that Dina ... Classy Taylor's daughter?"

"Yes, she runs the place. She's owned it for about three years now."

"Oh, wow. Did Ms. Taylor retire?"

"No. Ms. Taylor passed away in 1988, the year Dina sat for the bar exam. Dina stepped right into her mother's shoes—and they were big shoes to fill. Dina is driven, and she's a terrific boss."

I wanted to wander off with the intention of running into Dina but knew that would be too forward.

Mom and Mike were of course oblivious to my thoughts; they were focused on the task at hand, locating Mr. Jordin's last will and testament.

The office door behind us opened slightly. I saw the office manager using sign language to communicate with someone behind us. I turned around.

_"Clay?_ Clay Thompson? What are you doing here?"

"Dina, is that you?"

I explained the purpose of our visit. Dina offered to check the files in her office and invited me to join her. Meanwhile, the office manager would be diligently searching through hundreds of records.

"Is this your office?" I asked, admiring the executive-style décor complete with an amazing view. A large portrait of Dina's mom hung behind my friend's large mahogany desk.

Dina was sorry to hear that my dad had passed away. I was equally moved by the sad news of her mother, whom I remembered well.

We moved onto a more cheerful topic of conversation.

"Clay," she said, "Proviso West is having a multi-year reunion soon. I need a dance partner. Can you make it?"

I had promised to go with Connie and felt guilty for even considering Dina's offer. "I heard about the reunion. I missed the last reunion because I was overseas, but it depends on my unit. We'll see."

"Alex James Jordin?" Dina asked, typing away on her computer.

"Yes."

"Got him. This will is dated December 24, 1975."

_Christmas Eve day._ "Is it still valid?" I asked.

Dina went to a large file cabinet along the wall and retrieved a faded manila folder.

"Wills don't have an expiration date. This will is as legally binding today as it was when it was signed."

Dina advised her manager that she had found the will. Mike and Mom were asked to accompany Dina and me.

Mike was slightly upbeat about the discovery—but still a million miles away from being his normal self.

The three of us gathered in suspense as Mr. Jordin's final wishes were to be read fifteen years after his death.

Dina studied the legal document intently. "It looks like your father left you everything. You are the sole beneficiary addressed in the will."

I was surprised, my mom was not. Mike was emotionless.

Dina continued to speed read through the document.

"It says here he left you seventy-five thousand dollars in a trust with Fidelity Investments, not to be drawn upon until you reach the age of twenty-five.You also own ten percent stock in his construction company. The appraised value of his company in 1975 was estimated at thirty-two million dollars. I think that estimate was before the company went national. Mr. Jordin, I don't think you have to work another day in your life." Dina smiled, leaning back in her executive chair.

Despite the fortune Mike had inherited, it wasn't registering. It didn't sink in. I think he was too preoccupied with competing issues.

We were about to leave when Dina discovered one final bequest.

"Mr. Jordin. Are you familiar with the property 1312 Montecillo Place, Westchester?"

Mike nodded yes.

"It seems you own the property in joint tenancy with Barbara Jordin, but there are a few stipulations with it."

The three of us sat back down again.

"What are the stipulations?" Mike asked.

"The stipulations are as follows.

  * Barbara Jordin may reside at 1312 Montecillo Place, Westchester, for the rest of her natural life.
  * Barbara Jordin may not withdraw equity from said property.
  * Barbara Jordin may not use said property for collateral.
  * Upon the death of Barbara Jordin, Michael Jordin shall inherit said property exclusively."

Dina continued, "I just helped close a property in that vicinity, and your property probably goes for over half a mil, easily."

I looked at Mom and she seemed to already know the score.

I now had a better understanding of Barbara's disposition. I flashed back to her rant and remembered her saying:

_Your dad should've have worn a rubber the day you were conceived—like any decent man._

Barbara was referring to her husband having sex with Deanne, Mike's underage real mom.

If Mike had died, as she believed after the first report of his death, she would have inherited the property. All of it. Instead, she was back to nothing because Mike had survived. Her abusive attitude started to make sense. I had a tiny amount of sympathy for Barbara, but I still didn't like her.

Mike was sitting on a mountain of money and he just wasn't moved. I wondered how I would've felt in his shoes.

Dina accompanied us to the parking lot and wished us luck. She hugged me unexpectedly and placed a yellow sticky with her phone number in my back pocket. She whispered in my ear.

"Call me."

# CHAPTER 14

# NOT MY BROTHER'S KEEPER

#### HIGHWAY 176 WEST TO CALI

I drove hundreds of miles on the way back home in silence. No conversation, no eye contact. The trip was about as disastrous as disastrous can get. First we got run out of town by a local sheriff, then chased out of Westchester by Satan's mistress. Not to mention, no Connie. I just drove.

Yeah, we'd followed the doctor's orders for my friend to get some R&R—but what good had it done? Mike was headed toward a court-martial, and there wasn't a thing I could do to stop it.

I was burdened down thinking about Mike's issues, but I had one myself. I had been invited to my high school reunion by two girls. One I'd dated and one I wished I had. I really wanted to go this time, but showing up with one and running into the other would be too awkward. Seeing Dina for the first time in almost ten years evoked fun times during a special period of my life. The only reason we stopped dating was because she went to law school and I joined the Marines. But then there was Connie, my first dream girl. I knew Connie belonged in my life; she was my best female friend in the world.

I remember confiding in Connie's mom about my fondness for her daughter not long after I joined the service. "Mrs. Walker, I have a special bond with your daughter. Almost like being married. But without the sex, of course," I had hastened to clarify.

"Kinda like my marriage," she joked.

"Clay, pull over. I want to get a drink," Mike said.

I was so desperate for conversation, anything was better than nothing, and I pulled into a nearby 7 Eleven. "Hey, Mike," I called after him as he headed toward the convenient store, "Can you get me a Mountain Dew? I'm thirsty, too."

Mike returned with my beverage and sucked down his drink as I pulled off. He let out a big nasty belch.

_BURP!_

"Mike, that was foul. Next time cover your mouth," I demanded while lowering my window.

The belch lingered in the car despite the open window. I smelled it. It was a Budweiser belch. I lost it.

" _What are you doing?_ I'm not going to jail for you over an open container," I yelled.

I instinctively snatched the beer out of his hand and threw it out the window. I didn't think about it, I just reacted.

Mike didn't appreciate it. "So now you're telling me what to do?" he fired back. "I don't answer to you! I'll do what I want, understand me?"

I apologized. "Mike, don't do this to yourself. Please. Who knows how many drinks you are from a relapse? One, two, three? It's just not worth it."

"It's just beer, okay?" Mike grumbled. "Just for one day I wish you could walk in my shoes, just for a day. You take everything for granted, things that for me money can't buy."

"I know, Mike," I empathized. "It must be tough going through life without a past, without being able to smell or taste. You're right; I do take that for granted."

"That's only half of it," he said. "More than anything I wanted to connect with my family and experience unconditional love. My real mother had that for me, and she died. She died for me."

Mike's tears were heartbreaking to see. Thinking about how much I loved my mother, I knew that life would be miserable without her. Mike had never experienced a mother's love. Instead, he grew up with an imposter.

The conversation took another unpleasant turn. One that was very personal.

"Clay, I did the math and there's a thirteen-year gap in our friendship. Why is that? As close as we were, why did we go our separate ways? We were like brothers. Something must have happened. Tell me. Talk to me."

The secrecy was eating me up inside. I wished I had given him the journals from the very beginning. _Why didn't I?_

I knew if I came clean, Mike would use it against me and probably never speak to me again. I saw him as family, and our friendship was worth protecting at all costs. Even if it meant Mike never got the journals.

"We grew apart," I said heavily. "But I'm here for you now."

Mike turned down the radio and revealed what lurked in the back of his mind.

"And if I go to jail next month, will you be with me then? No, you won't."

In the corners of my mind I often visited that issue as a real possibility. To me, it was never a case of _if_ he would go to jail. The question in my mind was ... _for how long?_

It had been three weeks since Mike asked me to move out. He said he needed space. The separation was heavy on my mind—it almost reminded me of a breakup. Mike was distancing himself and no longer returning my calls. All I had done was try to look out for my brother the best way I knew how. The first time it was my fault—Connie and I betrayed him. But this time it didn't seem fair.

The last time we had spoken, it was obvious he was in a bad place. Mike had hoped the Commanding Officer would have mercy on him and forgo the court-martial. However, not only did the command decide to court-martial Mike, but the prosecutor was a high-profile Marine Corps Colonel who had more credentials than brass. Mike told me he felt jerked around because his legal counsel was the most junior officer in the Staff Judge Advocate's office. Then, one week before the trial, Mike's attorney contracted strep throat and withdrew. Mike was provided a list of military attorneys from neighboring bases to contact. None seemed interested in taking on the case. It seemed no one wanted to take on Colonel Davenport. I told Mike I would do anything I could do to help. That was the last time we spoke. I kept my word, I called Dina.

"C & C Law Offices, how may I help?"

"Hi, I'm Clay Thompson. Can I speak with Dina Taylor?"

"She's busy at the moment, is she expecting a call from you?"

"No."

Silence.

"Hold on a sec. I'll see if she'll take your call."

"Hey babes," her familiar voice sang through the phone. "So glad you called. Is this business or pleasure?"

"Every time I talk to you, it's a pleasure, but unfortunately this is business."

I explained Mike's legal situation in detail. Surprisingly, Dina was aware of Colonel Davenport's reputation. In addition to his military judicial career, it seems that Colonel Davenport had a nationally renowned law practice in La Jolla, California. So Dina knew all about his prowess in the courtroom.

"Clay, there is no military attorney in the entire Department of Defense who can challenge Davenport. It's no wonder that nobody wants Mike's case. Davenport is known for coming up with strategic clichés that stick like Krazy Glue in the minds of the jury."

"So what does this mean for Mike?" I asked.

"Davenport will go for the max, Clay—and he'll probably get it."

"What should I do?"

"Pray." Her voice softened. "I'll see what I can do. Take care."

Tomorrow was D-Day. Mike's trial was scheduled to begin at 9 a.m. sharp.

Dina's comments were heavy on my mind as I reported to the First Sergeant as the Staff Duty Officer for the day.

"First Sergeant, any special orders for me before I assume my post?"

"Yeah. If you see Staff Sergeant Jordin, detain him. Everyone's looking for him."

"Today is his last day of convalescence leave. Surely he wouldn't be expected to come to work today?"

"People seem to think he's a flight risk."

"Why?"

"There's a rumor going around that he just inherited a million dollars. Any truth to that?"

"No, not at all."

"So it's bullshit?" asked the First Sergeant.

"He didn't just inherit a million dollars. He came into the Marines a millionaire. He just never told anyone. How did you find out?"

"Staff Sergeant Quincy is telling everyone. He acts like it's his money."

_Oh, terrific._

I was fuming about Q and more than a little worried about Mike. After speaking with the First Sergeant, I called Mike's home number.

_The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service._

I started to worry. Did Mike do a runner? I made an unannounced visit to Mike's apartment, something I'd promised not to do after the trip to Bellwood.

Nervously, I walked up the brief flight of stairs to his apartment. The curtains had been removed and there was evidence that a cleaning crew had come and gone. When I saw that Mike's Corvette was no longer in its designated parking space, I knew something was amiss. I had a brief chat with the apartment office manager.

"Mr. Jordin moved out a few days ago," she said. "We requested a forwarding address for his mail but he didn't leave one."

If I were a millionaire facing jail time, would I go into hiding? Or would I turn myself in and subject myself to all the horror stories you hear on a nightly basis? It seemed Mike had opted for the former.

What bothered me most was that he didn't tell me he was leaving. He just left. I felt bereft. I thought we were closer than that. Guess not.

#### LATER THAT NIGHT ...

As the Staff Duty Officer, I had a 24-hour shift with many responsibilities that went from 7 a.m. to 7 a.m. the following day. After normal work hours I was required to patrol the enlisted club on base, babysit the drunks, and enforce order. I also would visit the lodging on base, which was basically a motel. I knew the old retiree there who had the midnight watch, and loved listening to his stories of the old Marine Corps.

"Hey, Cecil. I don't know how you work this shift. It takes me a day to recover."

"Been doing this shift for thirty years now," he said proudly. "I like it because it's usually quiet and I can read my books. But if I get one more complaint about room one-forty-five I'm gonna have to call Security. Could you do me a favor and knock on the door and tell them to keep the music down?"

"Sure, Pops."

I could hear gangsta rap music blaring as I approached the room. It was well past midnight and I was prepared for confrontation.

_Knock, knock_

"Who is it?"

"It's the Staff Duty Officer," I said authoritatively.

"Who?"

"It's the Staff Duty Officer! Turn the music down! People are trying to sleep."

The door opened.

_"Q?"_

He had a drink in his hand. I peered into the dimly lit room and saw women dancing on the bed and sofa. The place reeked of alcohol.

"Q, keep it down, will you? The manager is about to call the MPs."

"Ha, ha—you're the Staff Booty Officer. Sucker."

"You always have something smart to say, Q. Just keep it down."

He was about to close the door when I remembered to ask him about Mike.

I stuck my foot in the door.

"You seen Mike?"

"Nope. I don't have the Mike watch. Sorry."

I heard the toilet flush.

"Q, who's at the door?"

"Is that Mike?" I asked.

After a brief pause, I called out Mike's name.

Q shut the door on me.

It opened seconds later. A very drunk Mike greeted me. He grabbed me around the neck and breathed into my face.

"C'mon in, Clay. We partying like it's 1989."

"You mean 1999. Mike, everyone is looking for you. The command thinks you went AWOL."

"No, you're wrong. Major Miller is looking for me. To hell with him. Anyway, I spoke with the Commanding Officer a few hours ago."

Q joined Mike and me with two shot glasses.

"Clay, have a toast with us."

"That's cute, Q—you know I can't drink while on duty. What's there to toast anyway? Mike's court-martial is in eight hours."

Q hugged Mike's neck and toasted their business enterprise.

"Mike has decided to open up a second office in San Diego. How could I say no to that? It's amazing what one million dollars can get you. Mo money, mo money, mo money," he chanted happily, then downed his drink.

"One _million_? Mike, are you serious?"

Mike's eyes were glassy and he was barely coherent. He made an urgent trip to the porcelain throne.

My heart sank. It seemed that, based on the high probability of doing time, Mike had vacated his apartment and put his car in longterm storage.

I had to conduct other rounds before it got too late. I left.

I was certainly glad to see Mike; it was a relief to know he hadn't run away. I was bothered by his financial commitment, but more pressing was his date with Colonel Davenport just hours away.

# CHAPTER 15

# THE COURT-MARTIAL  
OF STAFF SERGEANT  
MICHAEL JORDIN,  
PART 1

After I was relieved from my post at seven a.m., I drove to the Staff Judge Advocate's office, the venue where courts-martial were tried. The walk was a short but emotional one for me. There would be no high fives in the courtroom, just a broken man being led away to serve time for a crime he couldn't recall committing.

Both parking lots were full. This trial had attracted a lot of attention, as it was Colonel Davenport's last hurrah. Many senior officers took the day off just to observe the master at work.

I spotted a posse of journalists blocking the front entrance. At the first glimpse of the Colonel, reporters swarmed him. Camera flashes blinded the icon as he approached with an entourage. He was evidently revered like a rock star.

Colonel Davenport was a highly decorated Marine with rows and rows of medals upon his chest. The most impressive of the bunch were medals of valor and heroism awarded for his actions in the Vietnam campaign. He had been a company commander in the infantry then.

The Colonel stopped to answer another question from the press.

"Colonel Davenport, is there a reason why you delayed your retirement to take on this particular case?"

Reporters waited in anticipation for the Colonel's response.

"Yes, there is," he said decisively. "The Marine Corps was founded on core values that must be respected and enforced, especially in a time of war. Marine Corps officers are the finest in the Department of Defense and insubordination cannot be tolerated. Insubordination is a cancer within the enlisted ranks that must be eradicated before it metastasizes. During this trial, you can call me The Surgeon." He nodded briefly. "Thank you."

After his interview he marched through the gauntlet of reporters.

I sat in the back row of the courtroom against the wall. There were three sections in the courtroom where people sat. The left section was for the media, the middle section was designated for the general public, and the far right section was reserved for witnesses and others assigned to the case. Up front near the judge's bench was assigned seating for the prosecution and defense. Colonel Davenport took his seat on the left side and conferred with a few colleagues.

People started to trickle in to see the main event. _Iron Mike Tyson vs. Pee Wee Herman._

I saw a very young-looking officer in civilian clothes place his briefcase on the defense table. He looked like he was fresh out of law school. He appeared to be almost too preppy for the Marines. I didn't understand why he wasn't in uniform. I took the opportunity to walk over and introduce myself.

"Good morning, sir. I'm Staff Sergeant Thompson, Mike's friend. Are you his legal counsel?"

He looked troubled.

"I am his legal counsel providing he makes an appearance. My client was supposed to be here already. He's late. I don't want to start off on the wrong foot with the magistrate. Court will be in session in less than one hour. Do you know where Mr. Jordin is hiding?"

I knew exactly where Mike was. Right where I left him, drunk on his ass.

It took me all of ten minutes to get to his room. I banged on the door loudly.

A girl in her bra and panties answered. Her eyes were mere slits. I barged in. Mike was sleep on the sofa, still in his clothes from the night before.

I shook him forcefully.

"Mike, get up! Get up, now!"

He was hung over and groggy.

"What? Whaddya want, Clay?"

"Your court-martial is in thirty minutes. Get your shit together. Your attorney is waiting for you."

Reality kicked in—hard.

"I must have overslept! Q said he was gonna wake me up!"

I ran into the bathroom and got the shower going.

"Get in here now, Mike—you smell like a brewery."

As he stumbled to the shower, he said, "Clay, I'm sorry I avoided you the last few weeks. I just want you to know that I really do appreciate you being there for me."

That's all I wanted to hear. I was glad he realized I meant well. However, the immediate issue was to get his butt into the courtroom by nine a.m.

Mike quickly shed his clothes and jumped in the shower with his back to me.

I made a lighthearted comment to take the intensity down a notch.

"Mike, I think you've been robbed."

"Really? What makes you say that?"

I passed Mike a towel as he turned the shower off.

"Because your ass is missing. It's gone. It should be right there, but all I see is continuous back."

He threw the wet towel in my face.

In the space of ten minutes Mike was in his dress uniform. But there were still two problems. His breath stank of alcohol and his voice was still slurred from its effects.

"Mike, this isn't going to work. Everyone will know that you're under the influence. The Colonel will crawl up your ass and camp out if he suspects you've been drinking."

"Clay, there's no way out. I did this to myself. There's nothing we can do."

He was mistaken. We took a page from the Bellwood playbook.

We arrived with two minutes to spare. All eyes were on Mike. He did his best to appear sober. I was hoping he wouldn't stumble on the way to the defense table.

Ironically I sat next to Q, who tried to explain what had happened.

"Clay, somethin' came up and I couldn't get back to the room. Glad you got him here on time."

I ignored him.

As soon as Mike sat down, people nearby began to cover their noses and fan the air. The judge began coughing into her elbow.

"It smells like a French whorehouse in here. Where is that smell coming from?" the judge asked.

Mike's attorney responded.

"Your honor, it's my client."

Judge Baker became hostile.

"Is this a stunt? Because if it is ..."

"No, sir. My client suffers from Traumatic Brain Injury, rendering him without the benefit of a sense of smell. He's put on too much cologne."

People in the immediate area began to cough violently. It wasn't long before the courtroom was overwhelmed by the smell of Halston cologne. I could smell it all the way in the back row.

People started vacating the courtroom.

The judge slammed the gavel.

"Counselor, do whatever you must to get rid of that offensive smell. There's a fire hydrant out back. Hose him down if you have to. We will reconvene in one hour!"

Colonel Davenport looked over at the defense table and shook his head. He knew something was up.

_Whew._ We needed to slow-roll the court-martial, but one hour was not enough time to get Mike sober. I'd run out of ideas.

An hour later we found ourselves back in a Halston-free courtroom. Mike was a little better, but not where he needed to be. I verbally castigated Q, and for once he apologized.

Just as the bailiff announced the arrival of the magistrate, Q got up from his seat. "I gotta take a piss. I'll be right back," he said.

I was angry. "Like I really needed to know that."

After the bailiff concluded his declarations, Colonel Davenport made his opening remarks. He was charismatic and dynamic—until the fire alarm sounded.

_Beep! Beep! Beep!_

People scattered like rats on a sinking ship, leaving Colonel Davenport in mid-speech in front of the judge's bench.

The magistrate commanded the bailiffs to take charge. "We will reconvene once we receive the all clear! Bailiffs, direct everyone to the exits and designated area across the street. I want a head count of all court officers and personnel on duty."

The entire building was evacuated in about ten minutes. I heard the sirens from behind. Firefighters made a dramatic entrance and disembarked quickly. I stood in formation next to Q.

"We needed to buy time. This is just what the doctor ordered," I said under my breath.

Q winked.

I had to admit it was a brilliant maneuver. Mike's court-martial was delayed by one day.

The next day was marked by extreme fog, and I was blinded by the flickering of high beams from oncoming traffic. The fog almost caused a head-on collision at the four-way intersection near the General's building.

"All rise! This court is now in session. The Honorable Colonel Shelia Baker presiding," the bailiff announced.

The judge took her seat. There was standing room only. The general public section was comprised mostly of senior officers, Majors and above. Colonel Davenport and Major Miller exchanged pleasantries and patted each other on the back. When the Colonel faced front his demeanor instantly changed. He straightened his necktie and his game face was on. He looked smooth, urbane, masterful. He was intimidating as hell.

Directly to the Colonel's right sat Mike and his adolescent-looking attorney in a dark blue pinstripe suit.

"Will the defendant please stand."

No longer under the influence, Mike snapped to the position of attention.

The judge addressed Mike.

"In the case of United States Marine Corps versus Staff Sergeant Michael Jordin, you are being tried for violation of Article Ninety of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, assaulting a superior commissioned officer. Do you understand the charges levied against you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Unlike trials on television, there was no jury. Mike's fate rested in the hands of the judge.

Colonel Davenport was allowed to begin with opening remarks. The courtroom went quiet as he stood and walked gracefully toward the front.

"Your Honor, no matter how complex the defense would like to paint this case, it is a simple case. During this trial I will show that the defendant, Staff Sergeant Michael Jordin, did willfully assault a superior commissioned officer. I will prove the defendant assaulted the plaintiff with foreknowledge that the victim was his superior officer. Your Honor, I would like to remind the court that this brazen act of insubordination took place during a time of war, escalating the severity of this despicable offense. During the trial, I expect you to hear medical doctors submit testimony regarding the defendant's medical condition. But that is not the reason we are here. What happened after the assault is irrelevant and a mere distraction from the truth. What we must ask ourselves is just one question: Do the defendant's actions meet the criteria as cited in Article Ninety of the Uniform Code of Military Justice? I have no further comments at this time."

_Wow._ Sounded like an iron-clad strategy.

Major Miller winked at Mike. The Colonel took his seat.

Mike's attorney stood and approached the judge's bench. He looked calm and composed.

"Your Honor, officers of the court. There is no disputing whether or not my client assaulted the defendant. It happened and we know that. I intend to prove that my client acted under extreme duress and therefore should be not held accountable for his actions. I have no further comments at this time."

Mike looked befuddled, as did everyone else in the courtroom.

The judge sought clarification.

"Counselor, your defense is duress. Is that correct?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The court reporter was typing rapidly, capturing every word spoken.

I had many thoughts about what just happened. But one thought prevailed. _Yup, Mike's going to jail._

If this was round one, then that probably was a knock down.

#### FIRST WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION

After calling his first witness, Colonel Davenport stood to the right of the witness stand.

"Please state your name and occupation."

"My name is Dr. James Irving, chief neurosurgeon at the San Diego Naval Hospital. I have served there for nearly twenty years now. Staff Sergeant Jordin was in my care until he was discharged a few days ago."

"Dr. Irving, what is your medical assessment of the defendant?"

"My diagnosis is that Staff Sergeant Jordin suffers from Traumatic Brain Injury."

"Traumatic Brain Injury. What a clever and convenient diagnosis. Explain to the court what that means in the case of the defendant. Break it down to us like you would to a two-year-old."

"Certainly. Traumatic Brain Injury, or TBI, can have several debilitating effects on the brain depending on what part of the brain is damaged. Here is a recent MRI of the defendant. As you can see in this location, there is damage to the front temporal lobe and to the olfactory and optic nerves."

Despite the doctor's attempt to speak in lay terms, it fell far short.

"In other words ...?" the Colonel prompted.

"The defendant, Staff Sergeant Jordin, cannot remember events, places or faces before his accident. Additionally, he cannot smell or taste, and he is color blind."

_Color blind, too?_

Guests in the courtroom began to whisper among themselves upon hearing the severity of Mike's diagnosis.

"Silence in the courtroom," the bailiff ordered.

"Dr. Irving, is it possible for a person with the same MRI to retain his memory?"

The doctor hesitated.

"There is a probability, albeit a low probability."

The Colonel continued.

"Is it possible for a person who has lost his or her memory to regain it?"

"Memory loss can take a long time to return. In some cases, it's permanent."

"So it is quite possible that this is a temporary condition that might have even corrected itself during the convalescent period."

"Again, possible but unlikely."

"Your Honor, officers of the court, I would like to remind us that simply saying 'I do not remember' does not exclude one from accountability."

He looked grave. "We are a Christian society, and do you think forgetfulness washes away our sins? The answer is no. On Judgment Day the Lord won't ask you if you remembered your sins. Ladies and gentlemen of the court, the excuse _I forgot_ is an insult to jurisprudence. The defendant cannot be questioned about the charges because he cannot or chooses not to answer them? I submit to you that this is a mere fabrication for convenience. _Fabricate to exonerate._ Remember that."

Colonel Davenport turned back to the witness.

"Is there anything else you would like to share with the court, Dr. Irving?"

The doctor reviewed his notes.

"In my twenty years of practicing I have never seen such a case of hyperthymesia," the doctor stated enthusiastically.

The Colonel did a double take.

"Hyperthymesia? Please enlighten the court, Doctor."

I was wondering what other debilitating issues Mike suffered from. This was a new one.

"Hyperthymesia is the condition of possessing an extremely detailed autobiographical memory. Hyperthymesiacs have an abnormal ability to remember vast amounts of information of seemingly innocuous events. I have a theory based on the defendant's remarkable recall. I call it _Linear Memory._ For most people, being asked a question triggers a cerebral search that can take anywhere from seconds to minutes to answer—depending on where the data is stored in the brain."

"Indeed. So what is the response time for the defendant?" the Colonel asked sarcastically.

The doctor's response created quite a stir inside the courtroom.

"Nanoseconds. It's instantaneous. His memory is literally point to point, hence the name of my theory, _Linear Memory."_

The theory of Linear Memory was instantly challenged by the prosecution.

"I'd like to see a demonstration of this phenomenal ability," invited Davenport.

Mike's attorney stood.

"Objection, your honor! My client's memory is not on trial here."

The judge was intrigued.

"Overruled. If the defendant wishes to accommodate the prosecution, he may."

Mike and his attorney whispered back and forth. After a brief debate, Mike stood.

The Colonel smiled. _Was Mike walking into a trap_?

The prosecutor approached the defendant.

"Staff Sergeant Jordin, I parked my car in the south parking lot. My license plate is AF55BZE. What color is my car?"

The buzzing in the courtroom became too noisy for the bailiff.

"Silence in the court!"

Mike looked down at his feet and began mumbling to himself. His hesitation was disappointing to the doctor and to me but was welcomed by the prosecution. The Colonel smiled at Major Miller, then turned his attention back to the witness stand.

"Well, doctor, there goes your theory. The defendant seems to have forgotten where he placed the information," he laughed.

The court laughed along with the prosecution.

I felt bad for Mike. It was depressing to see him stumble.

The Colonel continued, "Mr. Jordin, I guess you're not so exceptional after all. You seem a bit tongue-tied."

Mike cleared his throat.

"Sir, with all due respect. There are thirty-two cars in the south parking lot, none with that plate number. The license plate number AF55BZE is actually in the north parking lot. There are twenty-six cars there. License plate AF55BZE is on a Mercedes Benz. I would love to tell you what color the car is but I can't. I'm color-blind. And there's one more thing you should know."

Obviously dumbfounded, the Colonel uttered, "What's that?"

"You left your lights on."

_Boom._

Mike's response triggered an uncharacteristic burst of chatter in the courtroom, mostly by officers. The bailiff chastised the court once again.

If that was Round Two, it went to the defense.

#### 12:00 NOON

**14 Area Chow Hall**

Mike, his attorney and I dined for lunch. I started to reassess Mike's chances. Although I was not on trial, the whirlwind of emotions I was experiencing left me without an appetite. On the way to the chow hall, we laughed at the sight of Colonel Davenport asking a buddy to help jump-start his dead battery.

Turning to the defense attorney, I said, "Excuse me, sir, but I don't think we've been properly introduced. My name is Clay Thompson."

"Thank you for your service, Clay. My name is Daniel."

I'd never been thanked for my service by another Marine before. Usually a comment like that comes from a patriotic civilian who never served.

Mid-meal, Daniel commented on Mike's uncanny recall. "I have to admit you impressed me in court today. I think the entire courtroom took notice. That's one helluva gift."

"It's a very expensive gift," Mike said soberly. "A gift that I pay for every day of my life."

"Well, you bested the Colonel today," Daniel laughed. "I don't think he appreciated that."

Mike grinned. "I thought his question would be more challenging than that. It was easy."

"If that was easy, what would be considered hard?" Daniel asked.

Mike paused.

"What would be hard to remember? Anything before the accident," he said quietly.

After we finished our meal, we discussed the trial.

"Daniel, I guess you intend to call me as a character witness. Can you give me a few pointers?"

"No, Clay. I won't be calling character witnesses. I have two witnesses, just two, for this trial."

I was not impressed. He explained, "Any witness I put on the stand can be cross-examined by the prosecution. Trust me; you don't want Colonel Davenport to have his way with you. It won't be fun. I have two key witnesses that I believe will connect with the judge."

"Who?" I asked.

"Major Santos and one of the top polygraphers in the country."

_What a mistake,_ I thought. "I know Major Santos; he's a close friend of Major Miller."

"Yes, I know," Daniel responded confidently.

"And why a polygrapher?"

"Insurance ... insurance."

Mike joined the conversation. "What happens next?"

"Mike, Davenport is coming after you hard. He'll need to discredit you and anyone who supports you. If you have any dirty laundry, he'll air it out. He will leave no stone unturned. Make no mistake, he's a formidable opponent. It's not going to be a picnic."

"Do I stand a chance?" Mike asked worriedly.

"I didn't come here to lose."

# CHAPTER 16

# THE COURT-MARTIAL  
OF STAFF SERGEANT  
MICHAEL JORDIN,  
PART 2

#### AFTERNOON SESSION

**Prosecution Concludes Questioning First Witness**

"Let the record show that the defendant willingly placed himself and others at risk by driving under the influence of alcohol, per testimony of the witness. This recklessness and carelessness speaks to the very core of the defendant's character. I have no further questions," the Colonel stated.

Judge Baker turned her attention to the defense.

"Would the defense like to question the witness?"

Daniel stood.

"Yes, ma'am."

He approached the witness and crossed his arms.

"Sergeant Bradford, you were the officer that issued the DUI citation to the defendant, Michael Jordin. Is that correct?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"Would you please explain to the court what the defendant was doing when you approached his vehicle?"

The officer looked uncertain and made eye contact with the prosecution.

He mumbled something under his breath.

Daniel looked annoyed by the faint response.

"Sergeant Bradford, I can't hear you. Speak up so the court can hear you."

"He was sleeping." the officer responded. "In the passenger seat."

"Oh, I see. So my client was not actually operating the vehicle, was he?"

The police officer became flustered.

"Not at that time, he wasn't. But I knew he had been driving because the engine was still hot."

Daniel pounced on his prey.

"Did you see my client drive the vehicle?"

"Well, no. But one can assume he did."

"As you assumed. Sergeant, under California Vehicle Code Section 23152a, the driver must be operating the vehicle while under the influence to be cited. In the state of California, you cannot be cited for sleeping while drunk even in a vehicle."

I could hear undercurrents in the courtroom at this.

"Officer Bradford," Daniel continued, "do you see the television camera right there? Well, you have a chance to do the right thing, right now."

The police officer wiped the sweat from his brow.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Jordin. I made a mistake."

Daniel nodded in approval. The prosecution whispered among themselves, visibly unhappy with the admission.

"I have no further questions."

Again the courtroom became overly chatty by Daniel's cross-examination. The bailiff chastised the courtroom once again.

#### PROSECUTION CALLS SECOND WITNESS

"Please state your name and occupation for the court," the prosecution requested.

"My name is Emily Blair and I work for First Interstate Bank on Mission Avenue."

I remembered Emily from the bank. She was the one Mike had cheated on. I knew this testimony would be brutal. She had been an emotional wreck at the bank, and I was sure there would be another breakdown on the stand. Her conservative attire today made her look like a devoted Christian, not as she had been dressed at the bank. I braced myself for another scathing commentary about Mike.

"Ms. Blair, what was your relationship with the defendant prior to his deployment to Iraq?"

She took a deep breath. "Mike and I had been dating for about six months before we were engaged. I looked forward to being his wife and starting a family. I trusted him with all my heart."

"And what happened?"

"It was all a lie. He cheated on me with his ex-girlfriend. He broke my heart. He's a cheat and a liar!" she declared.

I could almost count down to the moment of breakdown. Unlike her tears at the bank, this almost seemed scripted. I was suspicious. However, I saw sympathetic expressions on many faces in the court.

The Colonel could not have picked a more emotive witness to discredit Mike. It didn't look good for the home team.

The prosecution concluded questioning. Daniel was up to bat.

"Ms. Blair. I am sure you were anxiously awaiting the return of your fiancé from his deployment. Is that correct?"

"Yes. It was like my life was on hold."

"Did the defendant buy you an engagement ring?"

"No, we were saving up."

"Ah, I see. Do you remember how he proposed to you?"

"Of course."

"Please tell the court about that special day."

The prosecutor sprang to his feet.

"Objection! This is irrelevant."

"Sustained," the judge ruled.

Daniel remained cool.

"Ms. Blair, were you faithful during your fiancée's deployment?"

"Objection. The witness is not on trial!"

"Overruled. The witness may answer."

"Yes, of course," Emily said defensively.

Daniel stepped closer to her.

"Ms. Blair, I'd like to remind you that you are under oath. The truth is, you were not faithful to Staff Sergeant Jordin. In fact, you had several partners immediately following his deployment. I can stop right here, or should I continue?"

For the first time in court, she shed real tears and her makeup ran down her face.

"You can stop there," she choked up.

Daniel continued. "Isn't it true that you never were in a relationship with the defendant and that it was a mere one-night stand that took place in the back of your car outside the enlisted club?"

"Yes," she sobbed.

"So why would you perjure yourself and tarnish my client's good name?"

Emily wiped away her tears and composed herself.

"I thought he was the one—the special guy. We made passionate love that night and fell asleep shortly after. When I woke up, he had gone. He never even asked for my phone number. Then I found out he slept with his ex. I felt worthless."

"I have no further questions."

The prosecution began arguing amongst themselves.

I was very impressed with Daniel's tactical prowess in the courtroom. When I heard that Mike had been saddled with the most junior attorney I thought it was by design—Daniel's youthful appearance was misleading, to say the least. I decided to visit the legal department on the second floor to express my gratitude for Mike's defense thus far. I was greeted by an attractive, mature woman at the counter. Her name tag read _Mrs. Lucas._

"Please sign in," she asked politely.

"I'm not here for anything, really. I just wanted to express my appreciation for the brilliant defense in court today."

Mrs. Lucas corrected me.

"You mean prosecution. Colonel Davenport."

"No. The young officer representing my friend, Staff Sergeant Jordin," I clarified.

"Staff Sergeant Jordin is not represented by a military attorney. His defense is represented by Conway and Associates. They're one of the top five law firms in the country. Staff Sergeant Jordin must have declined offers from the list we provided. Not many Marines could afford even a consultation with these heavy hitters. The retainer fee must have been extortionate. The entire office refers to this court battle as The Main Event. This is going to be exciting to see Colonel Davenport and Conway and Associates go toe to toe."

_Wow._

#### FINAL WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION

"Your Honor, I'd like to call my final witness to the stand."

A Lieutenant Colonel with salt and pepper hair took the stand.

"For the record, please state your name and occupation," the prosecution requested.

"Lieutenant Commander Samuel Peterson. I am the chief psychologist at the US Naval Hospital in San Diego. I've authored over twenty books on human psychology. I am often called to provide an expert testimony on matters such as this."

"As an expert in the field of psychology, are you aware of patients feigning mental illness?"

The witness nodded. "Feigning mental illness is a behavioral form of malingering. We tend to see an increase in malingering during a time of war, with the intention of avoiding deployment. Sometimes it can be a ruse to return home prematurely from a combat zone. Since Desert Storm, we have seen an uptick in cases involving malingerers."

Colonel Davenport nodded.

"Have you ever seen cases of malingering to avoid prison?"

"Yes. A common ploy to avoid going to prison is feigning amnesia, also considered a form of malingering."

"Fabricate to exonerate."

"That would be one way of describing it," the witness responded.

"As an expert in your field, Dr. Peterson, how would you expose someone feigning amnesia?"

"There are several tests you can administer. Typically, malingerers exaggerate their symptoms because they do not know how genuine amnesiacs respond. One way to detect an imposter is to give him or her a test that only someone faking would fail."

"Are there other methods of exposing a fake?"

"The polygraph," Peterson responded. "The polygraph can detect deception by sweat gland activity, heart rate, or breathing irregularities. This would be my most trusted method."

Davenport looked thoughtful. "During the defendant's stay in the hospital he was administered a polygraph. Midway through the questioning, the defendant disconnected the leads from his body and terminated the examination. In your expert opinion, how would you interpret that behavior?"

"Deception."

"Would you repeat that for the court?"

"Deception," the witness repeated.

"I have no further questions."

It seemed the Colonel had saved his best for last. The doctor's testimony certainly seemed damaging for the defense. I wondered how the defense would respond.

Daniel stood.

"No questions from the defense, your honor."

The co-counsel gave the Colonel a thumbs-up as he was seated.

I was by no means an expert on courtroom legal strategies. But in my humble opinion, that was a tactical blunder if I ever saw one. How could you let a damaging statement like Peterson's marinate in a public forum without a response?

Based on the amount of whispering in the courtroom, it seemed the prosecution was closing in on a win. Mike looked troubled.

Daniel was unmoved. He seemed to be deliberately stalling for time. All throughout the Colonel's questioning, Daniel had checked his watch every few minutes or so. But now, for the first time he displayed concern. Something was obviously unnerving him. He met with the judge and successfully petitioned for a recess. He was waiting for something.

Thirty minutes later the court reconvened and Daniel continued to check his watch nervously. He was out of time. He called his first witness.

"For the record, would you state your name and your occupation?"

"My name is Greg Folkes. I oversee the polygraph program for the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington DC."

"Have you been briefed on the defendant's polygraph results?"

"No, I was hoping to preview them before this trial but unfortunately the results were not available. Without the results, I'm afraid I am of no use to the court."

Daniel was visibly concerned. I didn't understand why he would call an expert witness with nothing to say. The prosecution was salivating. The witness was excused.

Before the witness vacated his seat, the bailiff was handed a package that he presented to the judge.

"Counselor, is this what you are looking for?"

The judge waved a Federal Express envelope.

Daniel breathed a sigh of relief. The witness was reseated and examined the evidence.

Judge Baker addressed the expert witness.

"Are you able to interpret the charts?"

"Yes, your Honor."

"Are you able to provide a professional assessment?"

"Yes, your Honor. By examining the control questions, I am able to interpret the data. Control questions are questions that the subject is instructed to respond to with a lie. We use these questions to establish a baseline for deception and truthfulness. That's an overly simplistic explanation, but I don't want to lose the court with too much detail. Normally, spikes on the graph indicate deception. As you can see, there are significant spikes on questions four through six. These spikes are flags, which mean the subject is experiencing stress at the time of questioning. Stress during questioning often implies deception."

The courtroom was silent.

"Please continue," the judge instructed.

"As is evident on the chart, the subject exhibited an elevated heart rate and increased sweat glandular activity when responding to these questions. That is a definite flag."

Daniel interjected.

"So, other than questions four through six, the defendant displayed no anomalies. Is that correct?" asked Daniel.

"That is correct."

"I have no further questions," Daniel stated.

That was his insurance? Daniel was losing me as a fan and he was hurting Mike's case.

The judge offered the prosecution an opportunity to cross examine the expert witness.

Colonel Davenport approached the witness. He had a smug smile on his face, which bothered me. Was Mike hiding something? It appeared questions four, five and six would seal his fate.

"Officers of the court, I would like you to pay special attention to the expert testimony you are about to hear. Mr. Folkes, please tell the court what questions four through six are."

I wanted to leave the courtroom. We were doing so well up until the very end, and Daniel messed it up.

The witness put his reading glasses back on.

"Question Four. Which one of these four pictures is of your mother?

"Question Five. Which one of these four pictures is of your father?

"Question Six. How old are you?

The expert witness continued.

"I would like to highlight a question that has significant bearing on my assessment. It is Question One: Do you intend to tell the whole truth today?"

The witness looked straight at the judge. "The defendant showed no deception when answering that question. In my expert opinion, the frustration of not recognizing his parents coupled with not knowing his age caused undue stress on the subject. The defendant's termination of the exam should not be viewed with prejudice."

The prosecution realized they had been set up.

_Gotcha,_ I thought.

Daniel took Colonel Davenport's lunch money in front of everyone. Brilliant.

# CHAPTER 17

# PRE-EMPTIVE STRIKE

#### FINAL WITNESS FOR THE DEFENSE

"Your Honor, I'd like to call Major Ronald Santos to the stand."

The courtroom stirred as the defense called a well-known ally of the prosecution. I stopped questioning Daniel's strategy because although it was confusing, it was effective.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

"I do."

"For the record, please state your name, occupation, and your relationship with the plaintiff."

"My name is Major Ronald Santos, Alpha Company Operations Officer, and longtime personal friend of Major Miller. We attended Officer Candidate School together."

"Is it fair to say that you are close friends with the plaintiff?"

"Absolutely."

Daniel seemed to have more of a swagger and exuded greater confidence as he headed for the home stretch.

"Major, kindly describe for the court the relationship between the defendant and the plaintiff."

"Adversarial. Staff Sergeant Jordin was a poor example of a Marine. I don't know he made it to Staff Sergeant."

"Moving right along. Major Santos, you were a witness to the assault. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"For the benefit of the court, describe the assault."

"It was during noon chow in the mess tent. Major Miller assigned Staff Sergeant Jordin to a routine patrol. Staff Sergeant Jordin became hostile and started shouting. When Major Miller put Jordin in check, that's when it happened."

Daniel demanded clarification.

"When what happened?"

"Staff Sergeant Jordin pushed Major Miller. He should have been locked up."

"He pushed him. Do you know what angered the defendant to provoke such a reaction?"

"Yes. Staff Sergeant Jordin was unhappy about going on patrol."

"Tell the court exactly why the defendant felt so opposed to going on that particular patrol."

Colonel Davenport stood and shouted, "Objection, your Honor. The witness is not a mind reader."

The judge responded, "Overruled. If the witness has knowledge, then let him share it."

Daniel cautioned the witness, "Remember, the whole truth."

Obviously uncomfortable, Major Santos squirmed in his seat. "Jordin was upset because the patrol was scheduled at the last minute, less than three hours before he was supposed get on a plane to redeploy back home."

"And? The whole truth, sir," Daniel demanded.

Major Santos rose from his seat and banged on the desk.

"You are asking me to disclose classified information. I will not!"

"All right, Major Santos," Daniel said firmly. "Then I will. The reason my client responded the way he did was because he knew that Iraqi insurgents had recently laid mines along that route."

The Colonel became infuriated.

"Objection! Request to have that testimony struck from the record on the grounds of national security!"

_Pandemonium._ The courtroom started its whisper campaign again.

Judge Baker immediately called the prosecution and the defense into her chambers.

While they were in a closed-door session, I began to think. What would I have done in Mike's place? Either way, it was a no-win situation. Risk your life or risk your career.

Ten minutes later, the judge reclaimed her seat and the two gladiators assumed their previous positions.

The judge announced that the testimony pertaining to the mining of the patrol route would stand in court.

Daniel continued where he'd left off.

"Let us refresh the facts. Three hours before wheels up, Major Miller scheduled one last patrol, knowing that the route had recently been mined by insurgents."

Major Santos shook his head in disappointment.

"Yes," he bemoaned.

"Major Santos, what is proper protocol when intelligence indicates a patrol route has been mined?"

The Major's mumbled response was inaudible.

"Please speak up, Major."

Major Santos loosened his tie before responding.

"Proper protocol is to await clearance from explosives ordinance disposal—EOD. The patrol should have been cleared with EOD before issuing the order."

"Thank you, Major. One final question. As a pragmatic Operations Officer, would you have ordered that patrol without EOD clearance?"

Once again, the Major squirmed, sitting on his hands. He responded, "No, I would not."

Daniel let out a big sigh before facing the judge.

"Your Honor, I have no further questions."

#### CLOSING ARGUMENTS

**The Prosecution**

"Your Honor, officers of the court. During the course of this court-martial, there was no question that the defendant did in fact assault his superior commissioned officer during a time of war. I submit to you that duress is a flawed defense. This is wartime! Obedience is the only option. A not-guilty verdict would set a dangerous precedent and undermine military rule of law. No one is above the law and we need to make that crystal clear. Your Honor, this case is not about guilt or innocence; it is about sentencing. The defense is asking that a ten-year sentence be awarded."

_Gulp._ I was worried.

I saw Mike's head lower immediately upon hearing the prosecution's recommended sentence. Who could blame him?

**The Defense**

Daniel had never looked more impressive as he faced the judge for his summation. "Your Honor, officers of the court. There is only one victim in this courtroom. It is my client, Staff Sergeant Jordin. Imagine being so close to going home to see your loved ones, only to find out that you have been handpicked to patrol an explosive-laden route. Staff Sergeant Jordin could have refused but he didn't, even knowing he might not return alive. My client should not be on trial."

Speaking eloquently and with conviction, Daniel concluded redefining the criteria for duress.

"Duress. Duress is when one's actions are coerced by wrongful conduct. I leave you with that. Thank you, your Honor."

Daniel finished strong and impressive. Despite his sprint to the finish line, I figured there were only two possible outcomes:

  1. Jail with no leniency
  2. Jail with leniency

Even six months in jail would be unimaginable. I reflected on my recent jail experience with Cujo. Six months of that? Kill me now.

The judge called a recess and retreated into her chambers.

The Colonel and his co-counsel huddled around Major Miller. They seemed confident.

Meanwhile I saw Daniel trying to reassure Mike.

**The Verdict**

"All rise. The Honorable Sheila Baker is seated," the bailiff announced.

Everyone took their seats. The television camera crews focused in on the judge as she put on her reading glasses and addressed the court.

"I have reached a verdict. Despite the seriousness of the injuries the defendant sustained, I cannot take that into consideration. My focus falls within that narrow window of time—the time of the assault."

_Damn._

Judge Baker continued.

"I am also duly aware of the impact in setting the wrong precedent. Our officers need to know that their orders must be respected and carried out, especially during a time of war. As a judge, I am an underwriter of the rule of military law and order."

Colonel Davenport patted Major Miller and his co-counsel on the back. Major Miller winked at the defense.

The judge continued the reading of the verdict.

"But it is also within my duties to recognize the abuse of military law as we have noted today. As such, I find the defendant, Staff Sergeant Jordin ... not guilty!"

She slammed the gavel.

_Thud!_

"Staff Sergeant Jordin, you are free to go. Bailiff, take charge."

To my surprise, there was a standing ovation for the judge's ruling, mostly by fellow Marine officers. The camera flashes were blinding. An uproar of cheer filled the courtroom. Journalists hovered around the prosecution and then the defense.

Mike hugged Daniel and sobbed. I had never seen a Marine in uniform cry before, but there were several others who did so, including me.

Then there was Major Miller. He embarrassed himself on national TV.

"What just happened?" he blustered. "I don't believe this. This is a miscarriage of justice. Do something, Colonel!"

The bailiff was forced to remove Major Miller from the courtroom. He left kicking and screaming.

After the media frenzy had tapered off, Colonel Davenport and Daniel shook hands like true professionals. It was like watching two boxers embrace after the fight. I overheard the Colonel speak to Daniel.

"I underestimated you, Counselor. Today, you were the better man. Best regards to your father."

Mike spotted me fighting the crowd to reach him and Daniel. His uniform was damp from tears.

I hugged my brother. The journey was over.

Daniel had navigated the defense marvelously. I asked him the question I'd been burning to ask: "Daniel, how did you get the judge to introduce classified information into court?"

He retrieved a _New York Times_ article from his briefcase. Apparently someone had leaked the report to the press after the attack, rendering it public domain.

The three of us walked outside. A smartly dressed chauffeur was standing next to a black limousine near the front entrance.

"That's my ride." Daniel smiled warmly as he shook our hands.

Mike and I thanked Daniel again for his triumphant efforts.

The chauffeur opened the door for our hero and then got into the limo. Daniel lowered his window, donned his sunglasses, and waved goodbye as the limo pulled away.

"Mike, that was money well spent," I commented.

"What do you mean?" Mike responded while waving goodbye.

"The legal office upstairs said you hired private legal representation, one of the best in the country."

"No, Clay. The military arranged my counsel. I'm sure."

After the crowd died down, we paid Mrs. Lucas a visit.

"Mrs. Lucas, are you sure the military didn't arrange Staff Sergeant Jordin's counsel?"

"Funny you should ask," she said. "I just got off the phone with the firm to advise them of the verdict. I can call them back."

"Please," Mike requested.

She placed the call on speaker phone.

_Ring, ring, ring..._

"C & C Law Offices. This is Donna."

I looked at Mike in confusion.

"Hi, is Ms. Taylor there?"

"No, she's in court all week. Can I help?"

"Donna, this is Mike Jordin—you helped me with my dad's will last month."

"Oh, yes. I remember you."

"So, it was your company that arranged my legal consul," Mike said. "Daniel was magnificent. I'm a free man. I will probably have to cash out my inheritance to pay for services rendered, but it was worth every cent."

"Mr. Jordin. There's no fee. It's all paid for."

"Paid for? By whom?"

I was wondering that myself.

"It was paid for by your father."

Mike responded heavily, "Donna, my father's dead. There must be a mistake somewhere."

"There's no mistake. Dina found a prepaid legal clause in your dad's will. It was paid for by his estate upon his death."

"But why would my father prepay my legal expenses? I'm confused."

Donna explained, "Mr. Jordin, I asked the same question. According to Dina, your father suspected that his ex-wife would contest the will since she was left nothing. In order to protect your inheritance, he prepaid your legal costs—for life. To ensure you would never lose what he bequeathed, he gave you the best legal representation money could buy, no matter who took you to court. Kinda like an insurance policy."

Mike looked to the sky and pointed. I think he was thanking his dad.

# CHAPTER 18

# REDEMPTION

#### THREE WEEKS LATER

I was very happy that Mike decided to move in with me after the verdict. We did something that I never thought we would ever do again ... remininsce. We joked and laughed about our brief but adventurous past. We laughed about me blacking out at _Wingz and Thingz,_ and at the priceless look on Colonel Davenport's face when he realized his car battery was dead as a doornail. Despite all the laughs we'd shared during the last three weeks, I was feeling pretty gloomy underneath—because Mike was being medically discharged from the Marines in the morning. Mike told me he was leaving soon after his discharge to find his maternal family back home.

Immediately following the verdict, Mike hit a streak of good fortune. Since his medical condition was service-related, he was medically retired and would receive a pension and benefits for life.

**Discharge From the USMC Case of Staff Sergeant Jordin**

I took a half-day off work to say goodbye to my best friend as he separated from the Corps. This would be the last time he'd don his Marine Corps dress uniform. He looked sharp with the rows of medals on his chest. The most impressive medal was the Purple Heart, presented for wounds sustained in combat.

I went home early that day. Mike's bags were packed and sitting next to the front door. I heard a muscle car whiz into my rear driveway.

_Vroom, vroom, vroom._

Mike came in through the back door. He looked peaceful and settled within himself. As for me, I was a basket case. I was going to miss my friend. He would never remember all the memories from our childhood, only recent memories. I hoped he would never forget me.

"Are you all checked out now?" I asked.

"Yes. The doc sent me to the Naval Hospital for a final round of testing before they signed off on my discharge."

"Did they give you the sex test again?"

Mike laughed.

"You mean the sexual preference indicator test. Funny you should mention that. I was asked to retake it, so I did. This time it was'nt nearly as stressful."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean, I had genuine responses for each question. There was no guess work this time around."

"So did they tell you what your sexual preferences were after the exam?"

"No, but I didn't need them to to tell me."

"Why?"

"Because I know what they are now. I don't know if they are the same as before the accident but it really doesn't matter. I am who I am."

"Have you given up on Connie?" I asked.

"I suppose I need to let her go," Mike sighed. "Maybe one day I'll find the right woman. How do you know when you've met the right one? I don't even know what I want in a woman. What about you, Clay?"

"What do I want in a woman?"

I answered half seriously, half sarcastically. "All I really want is a woman who will love me unconditionally and remind me to keep the toilet seat up."

"Anything else?" Mike asked lightheartedly.

"Yes. I want a woman who will seek out my honest opinion on things that really matter, and then do the exact opposite."

He laughed. After a brief chat about Mrs. Right, he thanked me for my hospitality.

"I guess this is it, Clay. Thanks for letting me crash here. I owe you. I'll probably get my piano out of storage at some point, but not till I get settled."

"Man, don't be silly. We're family, and don't you ever forget it," I said.

Mike grabbed his suitcases and headed for the door. I offered to take him to the airport.

"Thanks, Clay, but I'm not flying," Mike said.

I followed him outside. "So how are you getting back home?"

He opened the patio door and there was his shiny black 1969 Corvette. It looked brand new.

"Mike? I thought you lost your license."

He popped the trunk and placed his bags in back.

"Sergeant Bradford from Oceanside PD pushed for me to have my license reinstated. I didn't ask him to do that, but I'm glad he did."

"You're in luck, I still have the map we used last time. Let me go get it."

"Clay, don't bother. I don't need it," Mike said, as he strapped himself in.

"How are you going to find your way? It's over two thousand miles."

Mike pointed to his temple. "It's all up here. I know the way."

"All two thousand miles?" I asked.

"All two thousand miles."

I hugged him through the car window. "Don't forget me, man!"

"I can't forget, remember?" he laughed.

I watched Mike pull out the drive. He made a right turn onto College Boulevard and was gone. My brother was gone.

Three days had gone by and I hadn't heard from Mike. I played his tribute to Connie, _The Only One,_ over and over again, but it just made me miss him more. The most painful reminders were Mike's journals on my closet shelf. I didn't know what to do with them. I couldn't discard them and I couldn't return them. But I knew they couldn't stay in my house anymore. The guilt was too much.

I called my mom and explained my dilemma.

"Dear, I'm sure Mike will contact you when he's ready. Give him time to find his family. In the meantime, you can send me the journals until you figure something out. Also, can you make me a copy of _The Only One?_ That was one of my favorites. It's a shame that Connie never heard it. You know Mike left his portrait of her in the spare bedroom?"

"Yeah, I figured he would. I think he gave up on Connie. He hasn't mentioned her since the trip."

"Clay, I ran into Dina at the supermarket yesterday. She asked about you. She's doing so well with her law practice. Whatever happened to you two?"

"Life happened to us, Mom. She went to law school and I enlisted. But I still think about her."

#### TWO WEEKS LATER

On the way home from work my pager went off. It was from my mom. I called her as soon as I got in, hoping it was nothing serious.

"Mom, just got your page. What's up?"

"Hi, dear. There's someone I want you to speak with"

I was hoping it was Mike. It wasn't. It was Connie.

"Connie? Hey, what are you doing at my Mom's? What's goin' on?"

"Clay, I just heard _The Only One._ Oh my God, it's beautiful. I love it. I can't believe you and Mike did this back in high school. I can't stop crying. And this portrait ... it's like I'm staring in the mirror. I don't know what to say."

"Connie," I said bravely, "Mike's still in love with you, wherever he is. I wish you could have seen him when we were there."

"Mike _is_ here. He just stepped out, but he'll be right back."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious. Clay, I told him everything."

"Everything?"

"Yes. He knows about you taking me to get the abortion junior year. I remember how excited he was when I told him I was pregnant. It devastasted him when I told him I aborted his child. He knows the whole story now."

Things were happening so fast, like a whirlwind. My mind had a hard time keeping up with the developments.

"What did he say?"

"Hold on, Clay. Here he is."

"Hello?" Mike answered.

"Mike! What have you been up to these days?"

"Clay, I found my family. That's what I've been up to. It's so nice to be loved unconditionally. That's all I ever wanted."

"I'm happy for you, brother, really happy for you. So what else have you been up to?"

"Well, I just finished reading a fantastic story. It changed my whole life."

"Oh, yeah? What's it about?"

"It's a story about two brothers who are inseparable."

"How does the story end?"

_Pause._

"It doesn't end."

I gripped the phone harder. I could barely breathe. I couldn't have spoken if I'd tried.

"Clay, remember you mentioned a close friend you lost years ago?"

"Yeah. The one whose trust I lost?"

"That's the one. Well, if I were a gambling man, I would bet that he's put it past him."

"Really? What makes you so sure?" I asked.

"I just know. And another thing. Connie and I are going to the reunion and she wants you to come, too. Do you think you could bring a date?"

"I might just have someone in mind."

"Great! Hold on, Mom wants to talk to you."

I swallowed hard. He just called my mom, Mom.

"Hi, dear. Just wanted to let you know that the church will be honoring your dad on his birthday. It's the Sunday after the reunion. Can you make it?"

"I'll be there. And Mom, one last thing."

"What's that, dear?"

"Thank you."

Mike had found his family. When he was twelve, he wanted us to adopt him. At age thirty, he adopted us. My mom once told me that it's not always the blood in your veins that makes you family; sometimes it's the love in your heart.

I agree with her.

## AUTHOR'S CORNER

This story was inspired by the real-life tragic accident involving my friend Michael during a military training exercise. Getting reaquainted with someone I already knew was a difficult, but true, experience. Dangerous events that surrounded his loss of smell and taste in the story were based on true occurences. In real life, Mike gained over sixty pounds experimenting with different foods in an effort to regain his taste. The real verdict of his court-martial was altered in the book.

The very last entry of Mike's journal exposed Q's involvement in a financial scam. Mike's signature on the proposal was genuine, but he changed his mind as soon as he discovered he was being swindled. Q attempted to exploit Mike's memory loss for his financial gain. Mike never returned Q's calls for the money.

I introduced the ancient debate of Nature vs. Nurture early in this book. Although some may consider this subplot underdeveloped, I hope that readers may draw their own conclusions as to how the pendelum shifted in the story.

In real life, Mike never regained his memory. Unlike in the story, the only memory that Mike retained after his coma was indeed Connie (not her real name). Every other memory before the accident was erased.

My other titles include: _Flagrant Misconduct, My Name is Elijah, The Mogadishu Diaries, Insider Threat, The Seduction of Monet Dawson,_ and _The Crossover_ (a Number One best seller in the UK).

Special thanks to Daniel Conway, Attorney at Law, Jen Elinow, and Dina Taylor of C & C Financial Services.

New Paradigm Publishing. All rights reserved. 2015

Editing Services: Cindy Huffman, Strategic Writing Solutions Cover Design: Cesar Vargas
