United States of Oil

Let's face it, the oil companies have been calling the military shots for the US for decades.  How else can one explain with any logic tstateshe "wars" in Iraq, Kuwait, Afghanistan and, for that matter, the many "wars" of the past?

I use quotation marks above since those conflicts were not wars.  There was no action by Congress to declare war on anyone.  In some sense, all of our young have died for nothing since the violent actions of this nation in the Korean War.  That "war" was never authorized by the people through their Congress. Nor has an other war since.  Clearly, the people never would have authorized any of these "wars" So just a few strokes of signature on an executive order and voila, we have a "war".  Just another example, how, ironically the federal government ignores the US. Constitution.

I hate to break the news to you, but our brave young soldiers were essentially mercenaries on hire by Oil, Inc.

It had to be the oil barrons that inspired at least these Middle East bloodbaths to protect their corporate interest.  Now quite possibly, the US picked up some hefty fees for the security services.  Regardless, these "wars" did not involve the United States.  It involves corporations and a lot of money.  So our sons and daughters died not for their country but for the corporation.

Liberty

Our liberty is lessened everyday.  In a big global way and in a smaller way.  We are less free than before.
 The surveillence of the government on our private lives is not known exactly but there are strong indications that federal and local governments will soon be, if not already, spying upon our most private moments.

It's the drones.  Those little radio controlled flying gadgets that can either be loaded with heat-seeking missiles or in the case of law enforcement, sophisticated video and audio equipment so they can see you in your home or anywhere else in private.

The laws and rules in effect now banning us from several personal behaviors are too numerous to mention.  Regardless of what government tells you as to further sacrifice of your liberties remember what John Stuart Mill in his book On Liberty:

"That the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others. His own good, either physical or moral, is not a sufficient warrant . . . Over himself, over his body and mind, the individual is sovereign."

It's that last sentence that inspires me the most.   What Mill is saying is that no government holds any sovereignty over your socerignty over yourself.  You are the king over you and no one else.

Yeah, the cops have the guns.  We must, however, have the courage to assert our rights, constitutional and otherwise whenever the officer goes over the line.  In futue blogs I will give you some personal experiiences fromwhuch you may learn.

Fear

It's been a while but I must continue my pursuit.  Why? Well, as it turns out, I have written the most compelling, provocative and entertaining stories that has been written in a long time.  Blood? Plenty and all violent scenes are those you have never seen before.  Sex? Oh baby.  Detailed but not pornographic.  Meaningful but not over done.

Besides all the exciting things above, it's a story about people appreciating their fellow humans.  People being helped by other people be they lovers, friends and sometimes strangers.

The whole darn thing is somehow sown into the seam of a baseball.  Baseball is the underlying theme and carries the story throughout.  Let me know what you think at andyweitz3@gmail.com. 

Chapter 3-FEAR

 

No matter how satisfying his work was as an ATF leader, Bob needed the avenue of escape and relaxation of baseball.  At 44, in top physical condition and with the spirit of a 20-year-old, he was still good enough to play with the 30-year-olds in the local “ Over-30 Baseball League”.  

     During the last couple of years, however, age was starting to take its toll.  He no longer was a starter.  His fastball no longer had quite the zip it once did and although he could still hold his own with the bat, he had lost that extra step in the outfield and running around the bases.  His role as a player had been reduced to part-time first basemen and closing relief pitcher.

     He was known as “ Mr. Clutch “ for his legendary prowess of shutting down the opposing hitters in the final moments of a game he was called in to protect.  He no longer had his once-prominent fastball but still had his control and, of course, his strategic mind.  Pitchers in any league have been known to survive far beyond their expected years with just those two attributes.

     Bob was probably most valuable to the team as the manager of the club, the team-appointed skipper.  His experience and brilliant strategy made him one the players always went to for leadership, consultation and inspiration.

     It was the end of the 1995 season and, as usual, Bringston’s team, the Braves, were playing in the championship game.  This one, however, was more important than usual since Bob knew this was likely going to be his last with the younger players.  Next year he was ready to move up with the old geezers in the 40 and older league as a win here would be most coveted. 

     The game was supposed to be on Saturday, but it rained heavily in L.A. the entire weekend.  Summer rains in Los Angeles were quite rare, but not out of line with the strange climate pattern in the area over the past few years.  Mild summers with rain, harsh winters, including the rarest of rarities, snow in the heart of the San Fernando Valley.  The climate had been such to expect the most unexpected. 

The game had to be played on the following Monday morning since it was the only day the field was available for many weeks.  As difficult as it was to get 30+ men in the prime of their professional careers to take a weekday afternoon off to play ball, most of them, including Bob, were not going to miss the big game.

A big crowd turned out for the game and Bob was pumped up for his last hurrah with the youngsters.  He instilled the same positive spirit into his teammates. The game turned out to be a pitcher’s duel.  Bringston did not go into the game as he felt it best to save himself for needed relief in the last innings.  With Bringston’s team leading 2-1 and the Braves pitcher showing signs of tiring, Bringston started to warm up in the 8^th inning. It was a moment he was looking forward to as much as he could ever remember.  There were runners on second and third with one out.  The number 3 hitter was up for the opposition who hit from the left side of the plate and led the league in hitting.  In addition, he rarely struck out.  Normally right-handed pitchers like Bob don’t do as well against left-handed hitters because their curve ball breaks towards the hitter.  Bringston though usually throws a screwball for his breaking pitch which curves the opposite way as a curve ball and thus, away from a left-hander making it more difficult for him to hit. 

Bob stepped out onto the field, confidently climbed the hill and put his palm out for the ball. The Brave pitcher gladly handed it over, as he knew he was done.

“Nice job, Tom.  I’ll close it up from here,” said Bob. 

Bob then begun the somewhat odd ritual that every pitcher performs when he first comes into the game.  Bringston manicured the pitcher’s mound to his liking by moving dirt around with his feet and stomping it into place to secure it down.  He then moved to a different area of the mound and dug up more dirt with his spikes and rearranged that earth. Ask any pitcher why he performs this strange protocol and he probably couldn’t explain it.  The best explanation is territorial.  A pitcher must portray the most menacing image as possible to the hitters.  Tearing up the mound and molding it to his liking when he arrives is the pitcher’s way of establishing his territory and letting the hitters know he controls it. 

From the moment he plants himself on that mound, every move Bob makes is designed to advance his physical and psychological dominance over the hitter.  Bringston took a few warm up pitches and as the hitter stepped into the batter’s box, Bringston stepped off the mound on to the grass and stared out to centerfield with his back to home plate.  As he did, he mixed up as much mean as he could muster.  Although standing there for just a few seconds, the impatient batter wondered if the old guy was ever going to turn around and pitch.  He had faced Bringston once before but didn’t recall this little psychological game.  The hitter thought it was nonsense and made him dig in even more.  The umpire and most of the members were not surprised.  This was typical Bringston behavior to fire himself up.  As expected, he abruptly pivoted around, charged up the mound and stood erect upon the pitcher’s rubber, the six-inch by twenty-four-inch rubber rectangle from where the pitcher begins his delivery to the batter.  This was likely Bob’s last thirty-year-old caliber ball game and today he was going to let everything fly.  He glared at the hitter with the look of a crazed killer.  The hitter seemed unfazed by Bob’s antics and stepped into the batter’s box without hesitation. 

Bringston went into the stretch and paused.  He stared at the runner at third and peered back at the runner on second.  Just like his approach to life and baseball, his windup was simple and straightforward.  He brought his hands to his waist and delivered.  It was a fastball with such velocity that it left Bob’s hand low but by the time it traveled those sixty feet six inches and crossed the plate it rose significantly.  The hitter swung and his bat must have been six inches below the actual path of the ball.  He hadn’t thrown a fastball like that in years and given the age of his arm and rest of his body, he doubted he would able to do it again on this day. 

As Bringston prepared for the next pitch, he noticed the hitter placing himself in the batter’s box nearly on top of the plate.  He likely got a scouting report about Bob’s screwball and was looking for an edge to make that screwgy less effective.  Since that pitch breaks away from a left-handed hitter, standing close to the plate gives the batter a better chance of hitting the pitch before it tails away. 

It was time for Bob to send a clear unequivocal message regarding who controlled the mound and home plate.  No words needed here.  All that was necessary was a ball or two toward the hitter’s ear or otherwise threatening his head. 

Bob concentrated more on the location of his next pitch than the speed. He certainly didn’t want to hit the batter but it had to be close enough to make him think.  He whirled and threw one hard, high and tight.  It was not a pitch known as “chin music” in baseball vernacular.  It was more like a “bow tie”.  It might or might not have hit the batter in the neck, but the batter had no interest in standing still to find out.  As the ball sped towards his head, he bent over backwards so suddenly and so fast, he fell over flat on his butt outside the batter’s box. As he got back on his feet, he looked directly into the eyes of Bringston with a smirk indicating he was not about to concede anything. 

It was that classic battle between pitcher and batter that went right to the core of the utter fascination of baseball.  It was like a showdown hand in poker.  Who was bluffing?  Who would dare to call the other’s bluff?  Who, if either, would be the first to yield?

Based upon where the batter placed himself in the box for the next pitch, he didn’t appear to be backing down one iota.  He stepped right back up crowding the plate though his location was a shade further back than previous.

Bob, of course, had the significant advantage in this clash of control.  He held the ball and with his pinpoint control was the sole determining factor as to where it was going. He stepped off the mound to think about the next pitch he was going to serve.  It was one ball and one strike.  If he walked this guy, it wouldn’t be tragic but on the other hand, the clean up hitter was a righty and overall a tougher out than the present hitter.  Would it do any good to brush the batter back again or was it time for the screwgy?  He needed the consultation of Johnny Fenster his catcher.  The two exchanged ideas on how to approach the hitter.  Only in baseball does one ever see two players standing in the middle of the playing field in the midst of the game having a conference.  There is no official time limit for the meeting because baseball is the only major team sport where time is not an issue.  Theoretically, a baseball game could go on forever.  There are plenty of borders, boundaries and restrictions but time is not one of them.  The umpire’s patience though is limited.  As he walked up to Bob and Johnny to break it up, Johnny gave his final advice. 

“Throw him a fastball Bob, but make sure it’s inside of the black, right on the hands.  At this point, we can’t afford to give him anything good to hit.  Depending on his reaction, then come in with either the screwgy or the palm ball,” said Johnny.

Bob was one who was not too proud to take instructions when they made sense.  What Johnny said had a good ring to it and he got up on the rubber ready to deploy the plan.  The fastball was placed just where Bob wanted it.  It was right on the hitter’s hands and would have tied up most.  This batter though was determined.  He took an exaggerated step to the outside with his front foot that opened up his body to the ball and allowed him to take a full swing.  He belted that baseball.  He crushed that cowhide.  It was a screaming line drive hit deep to right and had it not been few feet foul would have easily cleared the home run fence.  

Bob was amazed that anyone could have hit that pitch given the tight inside location.  He couldn’t remember ever gaining more respect for a hitter than this one.  With one ball and two strikes, he knew the batter was expecting a screwball.  It mattered not to Bob that the hitter continued to “cheat” by standing close to the plate.  It was time for the palmball. 

The palmball is a pitch held with all four fingers and the thumb around the ball and placed in back of the hand.  It is one of the most deceptive pitches around in that it is thrown with the same motion as a fastball but travels ten-twenty miles per hour slower.  With the hitter all wired up and previously exposed to nothing but fastballs, this was the perfect situation to “pull the string”.  The moment it left Bringston’s hand, the hitter knew the pitch was like no other.  He seemed to adjust for the slower speed but wasn’t ready for the other feature of Bob’s palm ball that doesn’t work all the time but on this day was near magic.  As the ball reached the plate, it dropped severely, as if the bottom fell out of it.  As the hitter lunged at the slow-moving sphere, the ball sank well below his bat as he swung and missed for strike three.  As the batter walked back to the dugout, he tipped his hat to Bringston.  Bringston tipped his hat back.

So now it was two down, two on, with the tying and go ahead runs in scoring position and stepping up to the plate was 41-year old Augusto Diaz.  He and Bob were the only 40-year-olds in the 30-year-old league, faced each other on numerous prior occasions and, over the years, gained immense respect for each other.  Bob knew that Diaz was a pure hitter and a free swinger.  He was a classic bad ball hitter who often got his hits off pitches way out of the strike zone.  Bob was also aware that Diaz was a thinking hitter who more often than not predicted the pitch that was coming, enabling him to adjust for a full swing at the ball.  Augie respected Bringston most for his strategic mind.  By far, Bob was the most difficult to outguess as to forecasting what pitch was on its way.  Somehow, Augie managed to hit .316 against Bringston over the years.  Since he couldn’t predict what pitch was coming from Bringston, Augie’s strategy of always swinging at the first pitch had proved successful. 

     As Bob stood on the mound and Augie in the batter’s box, the battle of wits accelerated.  Augie closely followed the at bat before him.  He noticed that Bob never threw the prior hitter the screwball.  He was ready for any pitch but prepared for this pitch.  That approach played right into Bob’s strategy.  He knew Diaz was smart enough to pay strict attention to the prior hitter and would likely be expecting and anxiously awaiting a screwball.  The fastball was too risky especially on the first pitch.  The free-swinging, first-ball-hitting Diaz would likely get around on the fastball even if he put one well off the plate.    He also had a slider in his arsenal but it tended to hang at times and wasn’t his best pitch.  That left the palm ball.  It was usually not thrown on the first pitch but as a change up after a series of fastballs and sliders.  Given the hitter and the situation, Bob thought it was the perfect time for the pitch.

     Bringston placed the ball in the back of his palm with all four fingers and his thumb surrounding the ball.  He went into his windup and didn’t reveal the ball in his hand until the moment before release.  It was as if Bob had slammed on the brakes on the ball after his release as Diaz awkwardly swung for the ball and lost his balance.  He did manage to hit the ball on the end of the bat as it rolled slowly to the second baseman.  Ten years ago, Augie would have beat this one to first, but at this stage in his life, the ball beat him to first as the memory of his baseball-playing days began to fade into dust.  

     Bob ran into the dugout after he saved his team from disaster and got pats on the back and high fives from all his teammates.  The whole squad was trouncing around the dugout like a bunch of twelve-year-old little leaguers.  Bob felt like a million.  He couldn’t wait to get back on the mound in the final game to save it for the championship.

     Just before the beginning of the 9^th though, his special government-issued pager went off.  The number and code following it meant only one thing:  He was being ordered to report in to the ATF central office for immediate assignment without delay. It was a dilemma he dreaded facing, but one that was in the end no contest.  Baseball was the constant, always accessible in some fashion.  If not a full-blown game, one could always play catch with a buddy, go to the batting cage, or, as Bob did all day and night, toss a baseball around to himself.  In some form or another, it was always there.

     The nation’s security, on the other hand, seemed continuously on the brink of being lost, especially to domestic terrorists.  It was a delicate balance that Bob was obligated to protect.  More importantly, the spreading slaughter of innocent individuals across the land had made Bringston more determined to defend those lives. It was also, of course, the safe thing to do. 

His entire life, Bob had often chose the seemingly safe route as opposed to what his heart may have been telling him was right.  He lived his entire life always going after the sure thing rather than what his true desires told him otherwise.

     The fact is, there was one aspect of Bob Bringston that had remained with him since he was a young lad.  It was a fear not, ironically enough, of the barbarous, brutal killers he faced on a regular basis. Death was just part of his job and he was ready to face the ultimate challenge head on everyday he went to work.  It was a fear of losing or more aptly, failing. Learn from it as he has over the years, the big hero was often reduced to a small, helpless child not so much from failing itself but by the fear of such failure.  It was only his determination and powerful inner strength that pulled him out of it.

     His life experience also helped as he had learned that his fear of failure was usually, if not always, ill founded.  He either often did not end up failing or his failures had proven to be something from which to be learned.

     Bob was raised by two Russian immigrants who lived through the Great Depression and World War II, two of the most harrowing and insecure times of the 20^th Century.     His father was an overly critical and blunt patriarch who did not put up with any challenges to his authority.  If, in his eyes, his son was not stupid or incompetent, he was a liar.  He had an unreasonable and uncontrollable temper that he violently displayed against not only Bob but also his two brothers and his mother.    The contribution of Bob’s mother was to seed the clouds of negativity created by his father by constantly expressing her dissatisfaction with whatever Bob may have accomplished in his life.

     When Bob was 12 years old, he proudly told his parents of a science project he had entered in the 6^th grade Science Fair.  It was a display of the properties of kinetic energy and Bob worked on the project into the wee hours of the night for many weeks.  He invited his mother and father to school later that week to see what he thought was a grand scientific accomplishment.  He also informed them that out of two 6^th grade classes comprised of 63 students, he finished second in the fair.

     “Hold it stupid, you didn’t win? I’m not embarrassing myself,” his father mocked him.

     As was typical in his growing years, his father’s words pierced through his heart and left him with a deep, dark and heavy feeling over his whole body.    His mother, always one to jump on the bandwagon of pessimism, was not far behind to drive the already crushing blow even deeper.

     “Honey, when you get first prize, me and your father will be proud to go.”

     Though he never let anyone see it from the outside, that desert of despair and pure, unmitigated emotional pain has stuck with Bob Bringston to this day.  Dark, deep, but always there.  He irrigated it with a stronger self-confidence, but it is the fear of returning to this emotionally barren state that continued to plague him decades later.

     The most serious long-term damage of this apprehension occurred in 1974, the year Bob graduated from Arizona State.  He finished as the top mechanical engineering student at the university and was recruited by companies ranging from small, local outfits to heavy hitters like Boeing, Goodyear, and General Electric. In addition, nearly a dozen major league baseball teams pursued him for not only his raw baseball talents, but also his reputation as a fierce competitor who ate nails and spit fire.

     Finally, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms and other U.S. government agencies were conducting an aggressive recruitment on the ASU campus.  Though hundreds of miles from home in Los Angeles, Bob heard the voice of his father loud and clear.  If he took a position at GE, or even the smaller companies and failed, he just couldn’t bear the barrage of ridicule he knew he would get from the old man.  His mother would make it worse.

     His love for baseball was what he really wanted to pursue, but despite his immense self-confidence in his abilities to make it to the Big Show, his engineering mind and the fear of failure prevailed.  Making it as an engineer was certainly doable.  The odds of any young man, no matter how good, making it to the major leagues were long indeed.

     He decided upon what he considered a compromise.  He opted for the wild and risky world of federal law enforcement. Though he has enjoyed his nearly 20 years as an ATF agent, the possibility, the probability that he could have been serving up his heat to major league hitters and otherwise surrounding himself in the magnificent world of baseball, has gnawed at him over the years like a slow-growing tumor. Bob knew that he certainly could not ignore his ATF obligations merely for some amateur baseball game, but this small dilemma reminded him that his chance to immerse his life in baseball had long ago passed him by.  Each day he grew older drove that knife in, cutting a little piece of him away on each turn.

     When Bringston called in to the ATF office he learned of the delicate situation awaiting him.  A group called Whack had taken over a federal courtroom in downtown Los Angeles.  The militants were not only devoted to the typical anarchical principals of eliminating all laws, bureaucracies and other aspects of government, they were determined to start their elimination process by violently destroying the court system and anyone connected with it.

     In the past few years, the group had kidnapped and murdered judges, bailiffs, court clerks and other court staff with a powerful arsenal of guns and explosives and did so, at times, in suicidal fashion. When Bringston arrived at the courthouse, he was greeted by Tim Tuttlehorn who briefed his buddy on the situation. There were three enemies in the courtroom.  Shots had been fired, apparently wounding 3 U.S. Marshals. The terrorists had not yet made any demands except their safe exit of the courthouse which, given their prior modus operandi, they will guarantee with a hostage.

 During the exchange of fire with the U.S. Marshals, Frank Ganji had managed to infiltrate the courtroom held hostage appearing to be nothing more than a member of the press covering the trial being held there.  In actuality, ATF agent Ganji was armed with a .45 caliber handgun, just knawing at the bit for his opportunity to deposit some of his lead in the heads of the crazed courthouse kidnappers. There were 4 other federal agents on the government court-rescue mission.  Two were from the FBI and the 2 others from the Drug Enforcement Agency.

     “Strange,“ Bob thought to himself. “The DEA almost always avoided these types of high-profile operations”.  It was true that Whack had managed to stockpile a rather large cache of arms financed by a sizable drug smuggling operation, but the DEA’s success was built upon undercover  methods.  Even stranger, these guys came all the way from the DEA Washington office. 

     Whatever the reasons, Bringston had to work with the team he was given.  The six government agents met in the courthouse hallway to decide on their plan of attack. Bob, who was usually appointed the leader of these types of hostage situations with little, if any, objections, ran into strong resistance from DEA agent Dick Greer.  Bob knew that the key to winning these confrontations was a heavy element of distraction.  He was dressed in his full baseball uniform, including his maroon Atlanta Braves cap, dark gray maroon-trimmed jersey with white pants, navy blue stirrup socks and a sleek-looking black vinyl warm-up jacket.  Since Bob had only played less than an inning, he still sparkled in is uniform like it was Opening Day.  The only dirt scattered around his celebrative attire was residue from the dirt of the diamond.  The magic baseball dust seemed to enhance Bob’s comfort and confidence. 

     Ganji was already inside and armed.  Bob explained that he was confident that he can create enough diversion by his looks and his speech to give Frank the opportunity he needs to bring the kidnappers down.

     “Forget it, pretty boy,” Greer said firmly.  “We’re not going to risk the success of this operation on the silly baseball games of ATF.”

     “Spoken like a true territory protecting, glory-seeking government bureaucrat,“ Bob thought to himself.  He played into those motivations perfectly.

     “Look, Dick, you know a lot more about drug smugglers than we do.  I think you’d agree, though, that these guys are not the sort you typically run into.  My team has had a lot of encounters with similar hostage situations in the Midwest and here in L.A.  What do you say we put our heads together and secure the situation?”

     Once again, the Bringston charm and charisma paid off.

     “Five minutes, Bringston,“ Greer conceded.  “Your man Ganji is already equipped with a miniature mobile listening device, so if we hear that it is time to come in before that, we’re coming in.”

     “Fair enough,“ Bob agreed with all confidence and fire of a closing relief pitcher to whom the manager has just given the ball.

     Bob entered the courtroom and was greeted by the proverbial goon guards who searched him from head to toe.  He had a baseball in his pocket and one in his hand, both of which were confiscated by the guards. One of the goon’s eyes lit up when he saw a bag of hard-to-find barbecue flavored sunflower seeds protruding from Bob’s jacket pocket. 

“Hey, pal,” Bob coaxed, you won’t find these many places,” said Bob as he flashed the bag of seeds to the rebel.  “Check it out.  They’re Jim Beam Kentucky Bourbon soaked sunflower seeds. You can have them if you get your boss to release the hostages and the rest of the courtroom.”

“Say Jimmy, do we really have to hold this place any longer?” the big guy asked the leader of the revolutionary group. 

“Oh, Jeez, Chuckie, you need a little snack, do ya?” Jimmy asked sarcastically.  He proceeded to handcuff the terrified judge to the raised rail and walked down towards Bringston.    It was not the first time they had met. Over the years, terrorist leader Jimmy Borskovich had clashed with Bringston before.

     “Gimme that shit,” demanded Borskovich as he grabbed the rare sunflower seeds from Bringston’s pocket and threw them at the overly salivating Chuckie.

     “Hey Bobby, I got some bad news for ya. I’m pullin’ you out of the lineup.  We’ve got your balls, so no more of your little tricks,” Borskovich boasted as he walked back up to the elevated judge’s bench next to his hostage.

     “Tricks?” asked Bob. “ I give up a huge opportunity to be the closing reliever to win a championship in my fading baseball career, all to meet up with a dick like you?” Bob roared.

He caught the eye of Frank Ganji seated in the audience who gave him a comforting grin. Bob calmly took off his warm-up jacket and strolled right up to the bench where the judge was being held hostage.  Bringston moved around the courtroom like a lawyer passionately arguing a monumental trial in court.

“And then you have the fucking nerve to compare the great American Pastime to trickery.  You just don’t see the light,“ Bringston preached.

With the entire courtroom standing in amazement of the power of his words, Bob flung his jacket up to the bench.  It landed directly on Borskovich’s head completely disorientating him.

Bob was right behind his jacket as he leaped to the bench.  He tackled and subdued the terrorist before Borskovich could remove the jacket and get his bearings.  The judge, pursuant to Bob’s instructions knelt underneath the bench.  Bringston had Jimmy down on the floor behind the massive wall of wood making up the judge’s bench protecting him from the guards at the entryway.

Before they created any problem for Bringston, Ganji sprung up within the court audience and blasted a large chunk of one guy’s head half way across the courtroom. Ganji’s high-powered artillery exchange with sunflower seed sucking Chuckie while Bringston was wrestling Borskovich under control did not work out so well for Frank.  Ganji received some serious chest wounds from Chuckie.

In the meantime, Bob managed to secure his jacket around the leader’s head with a rubber band he found on the judge’s desk.  Fortunately, Jimmy had left another set of handcuffs on the desk which he used to secure Borskovich to the short stairway banister leading up to the judge’s chair. 

The gun Jimmy was holding was nowhere in sight and Bob sensed there was at least one enemy remaining.  He was laying fox-hole style on the floor.  He looked behind him and inches from his feet stood the California flag perched upon a flagpole with a large triangular, metal ornament at the top.  At its zenith, it came to a rather sharp arrow-like point.

Bob peaked around the right side of the bench and saw Chuckie cautiously approaching where Bringston had staked out. Bob wasn’t sure if the other bad guy was still alive but he simply had to take the chance.

Bringston grabbed the flagpole, vaulted up and, with his ballistic arm, hurled the flagpole in the direction of the opposition and then quickly kneeled back down for cover. The California Golden Bear never took a more majestic flight.  The piercing-pole headed straight for Chuckie.  Before he realized what was targeting him, he fired a few errant shots at Bringston.

Bob was pretty close to his aim.  He compensated for the scientific fact that his spear would drop below the point parallel with his release point.  The makeshift arrow punctured the cultist smack dab in the center of his chest.  The power of Bob’s thrust behind it, pushed his attacker into the wall, pinning him like one secures a note to a bulletin board. 

Bob peered around the bench and proudly observed the results of his spectacular “javelin“ toss.  The hole in the bad guy’s chest was so large; the flag attached to the penetrating pole was drenched in red with blood dripping from the lower corner of the flag.   He also saw the third terrorist lying face down in a large pool of blood.  Old Ganji, “ Mr. Reliable” came through in the clutch once again. 

The madness in the Halls of Justice had finally ended.  But where was his loyal friend Frank Ganji?  Bob got up and frantically went to where his old buddy was sitting.  He found Frank seated on the floor with his back against the audience bench with a dazed look on his face and his entire upper torso doused in deep red from his profuse bleeding.  Bringston called an ambulance.

“Rest easy, Ganj, help is on the way, “ Bob assured his beloved friend.

“I’m afraid it’s going to be too late,“ Frank strained to tell Bob. This is it buddy. I sure went out in style, though, huh?  I must have separated that one guy’s face right from his skull,” Frank proudly proclaimed with his quite obviously final breaths as Bob smiled affectionately.

Bob rested Frank’s head in his arms.  He sensed these were his best friend’s last moments.

“We sure had great times together, huh Bobby?“ Frank whispered.  “Ball games, chasing women, fightin’ bad guys.  I’ll miss you, brother.”

Frank warmly smiled at his loyal friend.  Bob lovingly smiled back.  It was the last thing Frank saw before he died in Bob’s arms. The sense of loss in Bob’s heart was devastating.  He had just lost a most cherished life-long companion.  A genuinely good man who, on countless occasions, like this one, risked his life to save his comrades, America, and her values.

The most empty, desolate feeling suddenly came over Bob as the magnitude of the pain consumed him.  Motionless, frozen, without a thought in his mind except that he lost someone he deeply and truly loved.  Bob stayed in the kneeling position with Frank in his arms until the paramedics arrived. 

The small flow of tears from each of his swelling eyes met at his chin and slowly, painfully dripped onto Frank’s body.  Just then the FBI and DEA agents stormed the courtroom and took custody of Borskovich who was still handcuffed to the judge’s bench.  Minutes later, the coroner arrived for Frank’s body and the two dead terrorists.  Bob just sat in the courtroom withdrawn and numb to his surroundings.  How, he thought, will he ever get over living and working without his most dear friend?

As the government agents were whisking Borscovich out of the courtroom, the rebel stopped in his tracks when he reached where Bringston was sitting.

“Marsh really sent his best out for this one didn’t he?  Well, you can tell the Director that he has double-crossed us for the last time,” Borskovich warned.  The agents then took him away.

Bob, though still distraught, was suddenly awakened from his deep withdrawal.  He hadn’t heard the name of his former mentor in years.  Was the crazy cultist actually referring to DEA Director Victor Marsh?  If he was, what in the world did he mean by Marsh had double-crossed him for the last time?

This mystery just had to be solved.  Bob vowed to investigate and research this baffling question as soon as he got over the grief of the loss of Frank Ganji.

Without fail, I immediately come out of my deep depression by lifting my chin and holding my head high as I romp around the mysterious streets of LA. They’re all fucking phonies but today I’ve declared that I will walk and stand proud no matter any setbacks that may have arisen in my rather volatile life. It’s that simple. Declare that you will hold your head high and you’ll be surprised how good and truly happy you feel when you do it. Drugs and therapist merely provide a façade of happiness. You are only genuinely happy when you tell yourself that you deserve to be happy and are pleased to share that with the world. So chins up America. Hold’em high, happy and mighty. Preservation of the US Constitution and its guarantee of individual rights is at stake here. We must be strong and unyielding to the concept that an individual is as much a sovereign as any government entity. Does that shock you? Any measly slob on the street is a sovereign? First, what does mean? The Free Online dictionary defines it as: “One that exercises supreme, permanent authority, especially in a nation or other governmental unit.” Guess what? When those genius Founding Fathers got together to conjure up a constitution, there was a heated debate among those who wanted a strong central government and those who wanted a weak, if any, centralized government. The Bill of Rights was the compromise that not only firmly and legally recognized numerous individual rights but established the individual as a sovereign with supreme, permanent authority over himself. When that head of yours props up and you observe the world around you, you’ll get a surge of happiness and pride as to belonging in exactly the place you are in. The birds, the people, the trees. You feel so proud, you pull your head even higher and realize your sovereignty was not granted by any government. The foundation of my sovereignty is the sun. It’s magnificent distribution of light, heat and other life processes are the reason we are all here to be free. Not because the US government has granted it. The Bill of Rights acknowledges and confirms there are certain individual rights which we, as Sovereigns of the Sun, already have. When the bloody battle begins, if it has not already, it will be over the preservation of foundational rights which have been steadily eaten away by the feds. The military/bankers can be challenged but you must do so in a proud and happy fashion. So next time you explore the urban jungle, remember, you are a sovereign. Hold your head high and be proud of who you are. More on what I think is an upcoming major civil war bloodier than anything else in the past in my next writing.

Without fail, I immediately come out of my deep depression by lifting my chin and holding my head high as I romp around the mysterious streets of LA. They’re all fucking phonies but today I’ve declared that I will walk and stand proud no matter any setbacks that may have arisen in my rather volatile life. It’s that simple. Declare that you will hold your head high and you’ll be surprised how good and truly happy you feel when you do it. Drugs and therapist merely provide a façade of happiness. You are only genuinely happy when you tell yourself that you deserve to be happy and are pleased to share that with the world. So chins up America. Hold’em high, happy and mighty. Preservation of the US Constitution and its guarantee of individual rights is at stake here. We must be strong and unyielding to the concept that an individual is as much a sovereign as any government entity. Does that shock you? Any measly slob on the street is a sovereign? First, what does mean? The Free Online dictionary defines it as: “One that exercises supreme, permanent authority . . ..” Guess what? When those genius Founding Fathers got together to conjure up a constitution, there was a heated debate among those who wanted a strong central government and those who wanted a weak, if any, centralized government. The Bill of Rights was the compromise that not only firmly and legally recognized numerous individual rights but established the individual as a sovereign with supreme, permanent authority over himself. So next time you explore the urban jungle, remember, you are a sovereign pursuant to the US Constitution. Hold your head high and be proud of who you are. In my next piece, I will explain why our rights as sovereigns have already been seriously breached and how the future looks even bleaker.

Mitchell Stein Associates: Know Mitch Stein & Associates – A Dedicated Law Fi...

Mitchell Stein Associates: Know Mitch Stein & Associates – A Dedicated Law Fi...: To be acquainted with a dedicated law firm can bring you success even with the most complex legal issues...

Dedicated? Customer oriented? My ass.  Mitchell Stein is nothing but a pathological liar and on a mission to milk as much money as a possible from desperate homeowners trying to save their home.  His first lie is representing to clients that they even have a case against the banks.  These cases have been repeatedly dismissed and Stein knows they will be but he still collects his fee.  As a former employee of Spire Law Group(the new name of MJS & Associates) here's another little tidbit.  He doesn't pay his lawyers and other employees. 

Stein is living in this dream world that everything revolves around him and his pleasures.  He is an inconsiderate, selfish guy who should be believed when he says anything. 

Break?Maybe-Fold-Absolutely Not

In the spirit of Jackie Robinson the champion through adversity, I am inspired to carry on with my pursuit.

First I thought about writing my congressman. Then it dawned on me, if it is the federal government that is determined to stop me and the publication of my novel, then surely any member of Congress will not help me in my fight against the feds. Local government thugs won't be much more helpful in light of the uniqueness of my story.

The novel I have written, Hardball, looks at government for what it really is and what it is not. The protector of the public interest is merely the facade. What government really is nothing but a tool of a few to protect their monopolies both legal and illegal. Hardball attacks government like a vicious, rabid wolf with no holds barred and does so in an entertaining and provocative fashion.

At least 3 things have happened in my life since I began my pursuit of the publication of Hardball.

In about the year 2000, a woman from the Los Angeles Department of Children and Family Services came to visit our home. It was the first night of Hanukah and my wife and 2 young children were sound asleep. I opened the door and the woman, who was accompanied by 2 uniformed and armed LAPD officers, informed me that she is investigating a complaint that I was "yelling" at my own children. She asked to take a look at the children. She went upstairs took a peek at each child and cam downstairs to tell me that everything seems OK but that I should refrain from yelling so much.

"Thank you for the advice,"I said, "but now, take your ass and that of your friends here and get the fuck out of my house." She left in frustration and the officers smiled as if to say, "Good for you".

A few years later I was speeding near my home. I never heard any cops behind me and when I got out of my car, a police vehicle was parked perpendicular to my car parked in the driveway. The situation reminded me of the DCFS woman invading my home. I was scared. I was nervous. When the cop demanded my registration and insurance, I slowly and methodically searched for the documents so as not to make any sudden moves that may cause him to draw his gun. I guess he lost his patience. He pulled me out of the car, slapped the cuffs on me and shoved me into the back of the squad car. I was arrested and eventually convicted for reckless driving.

A few more years later and most recently, I was arrested for drunk driving. when I was in the holding cell, the jail cop told me to put my shoe on which I had taken off in light of my painful right foot. In the middle of my plea, 4 or 5 other cops took hold of me, forced the shoe on my foot and took me to the car. For that they added the charge of resisting arrest and battery. In jail, I was released after the first day but that release was reversed for some unknown reason. They shoved me in the psycho ward for refusing to take the wrong medication.

I firmly believe the government has me marked as one who is not afraid to object to government actions and thinks if they continue these attacks I will give up my pursuit of the ultimate challenge, a novel that will sir up even more challenges. Regardless of whether my government conspiracy thory is valid or not, it has inspired me to pursue publication with even more vigor.

Bring it on you useless bureaucrats. In the end, the people will win. We will expose you for the utter corruption you are and bring the government back to the people. To those in power now, allow me to sum up our anger at you: Fuck you and the army behind you. Like Patrick Henry, Thomas Paine and our other heroic fathers, we will fight for our individual freedom and fairness to others and seek true justice till our death and you thugs will not take that away from us.

Speaking of Hardball, here's Chapter 1 in case you missed it earlier. Let me know what yu think:

Chapter 1-Comrades

All three still had their other obligations. Time was running out to wind out of those commitments. During the next few months, Bob and Emily kept busy with routine jobs like black market cigarette and liquor dealers and gun smugglers. Ron went back to his appellate law practice and was experiencing an unusually hard time with the appellate judges who were hearing his cases. Since he had come back from his trip to Missouri, he had been on a terrible losing streak.
Bob was tormented by the fear. The voice of his father was louder and surfaced more often in his mind, telling him to give up his crack-pot conspiracy ideas and concentrate on his work. There was no avoiding it. He would soon have to choose between his illustrious career as an Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms agent or continue with his emerging independent investigation. In the meantime, he continued his truth-seeking mission as long as he could while remaining a federal agent. In the future, if he had to give up his government post or his investigation, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
Bringston’s top priority was Jimmy Borskovich. He could be the freshest and only surviving source of information as his search of nearly 50 prior cases revealed witnesses and defendants that were dead, released or otherwise untraceable. According to Bob’s information, Jimmy was imprisoned at a fed facility in the Arizona desert not far from Bob’s alma matter in Tempe. He called his lawyer and newly-found good friend, Ron Rosenberg.
“You’ll never guess what I got in store for you,” Bob teased Ron.
“Don’t tell me, another trip to a federal prison. Say Bobby, is there any chance I’ll get to talk to a warm body?”
“Not necessarily. But what the fuck? Let’s keep trying. I need you Ronnie, you’re the only man for the job,” Bringston urged.
“Yeah, sure, why not? The rest of my practice is going down the fucking tubes, I may as well serve the best-paying client.”
“We’ll fly out of Burbank, less chance of surveillance there. Emily will take us to the airport. We’ll pick you up at your office at 3:45 this afternoon. Oh, and your attorney fee has just been raised to $ 500.00 per hour, you’re worth every dollar and then some,” Bob praised his lieutenant.
“Oh, gee thanks pally. My balls must really be in a wringer now. I suppose the next thing is, you’ll want me to pack a piece.”
“No, not yet. I’m saving that for the right strategic moment.”
Bringston had only the slightest idea of how close a track Marsh was keeping on him and Ron, but he couldn’t be too careful. To that end he provided Ron with the best set of phony ID that money and old trusted federal government contacts could buy. One call to Karl Honig of the Social Security Administration and in the blink of an eye, a social security number was issued. Karl was a former ATF agent who served with Bob for a few years but couldn’t take the stress of the life or death situations and chose an administrative position at Social Security. For the right price, he issued Social Security numbers of recently deceased citizens. When Bob contacted Karl, they reminisced about their old ATF days for a minute and then got right down to business. Bob gave him the name, Karl quoted his price, Bob paid and the new Social Security number was officially issued to the newly chosen name for Ron. He used it to set up a special American Express account primarily for car rentals. In addition, he always made sure that he, Ron and Emily had several hundred dollars cash in their pocket. That amount would be increased, if necessary. Even as an ATF division head, Bringston had a policy that when he and his team went out on the road, arming his team members with ample artillery and other paraphernalia was just the beginning. The pockets of his squad on a particular project always had multiples of C notes when they hit the streets. Though most certainly aware that guns and other hardware were crucial to the success of a mission, it was sometimes equally vital to victory to have a few hundred dollars so that folks along the way will perform small tasks or convey important information to help out.
The real test as to the effectiveness of Ron’s fake ID was awaiting him at the federal prison in the Tempe desert, where, as in all federal prisons, all visitors are put through an extensive identification and search process. Bob’s ID project was made even smoother by the fact that Ron was already admitted to the Arizona State Bar and happened to know a lawyer who worked at the Arizona Bar. That friend made a few minor adjustments to his State Bar Number such as the name and history and wiped the record clean of Ronald William Rosenberg ever being connected with that Bar Number.
As Ron prepared for this crucial prison meeting, a deep, queasy feeling consumed him. As he drove towards the prison, the numbness threatened to disable him. Over his long, accomplished career of protecting individuals from overzealous prosecutors and other agents of the government, he had visited hundreds, if not thousands in custody but never under these circumstances.
This one visit could very well be detected by Marsh and seen as a direct threat to his vast drug empire. If so, Ron knew his life was in danger.
Furthermore, if it was discovered that he presented a prison guard, a federal officer, with fake ID, it would undoubtedly result in immediate disbarment in all the states where he was admitted to practice law. All his successes and accomplishments would go down the drain and his career abruptly ended.
Rosenberg, however, was devoted to the mission of discovering and revealing the monumental truth about Marsh. He had full confidence in the leadership of his friends Emily and Bob and based upon that trust, was ready to risk it all in pursuit of this truth.
In light of this, Ron confidently, but quietly, walked up to the guard desk at the Redstone Federal Prison and told the officer whom he was there to see and proudly showed him his new Arizona driver’s license and his newly issued Arizona State Bar card. Those two items along with Ron’s uncharacteristic low-key approach gave the guards every reason to believe that Ron Rosenberg was who he said he was: George Herman, hot shot Phoenix criminal appellate lawyer. Bob picked that name. It was the legal first and middle names of the legendary Bambino himself, Babe Ruth. Besides, it sounded Jewish enough to complement Ron’s sophisticated New York personality, which leaked out just a bit despite Ron’s effort to tone it down.
Ron met Jimmy Borskovich in the prisoner visiting room, where he was well aware one must operate under the presumption that there was constant video and audio surveillance being conducted. The two were separated by Plexiglas stretching from the ceiling to the counter. Communications were conducted by in-house phones. Borskovich greeted him with a rather disabling greeting.
“Am I ‘spose to know who the fuck you are?”
“No, we never met. I’m George Herman, an attorney that specializes in criminal appeals,” Ron explained.
“I followed your trial from the beginning. Based upon my review of the record in this case, I am confident that you were dealt a short deck of your foundational rights under the U.S. Constitution by not only the federal officers who detained you and later searched your property without a warrant, but the lawyers and judge in the trial thereafter.”
Ron made sure to make all his comments, prior to getting into his real reason for the visit, as long and verbose as possible. Not a difficult task for “Ronnie the Rat Trap” a pet name given to him by his Columbia Law School comrades as much for his resounding rhetorical talents as well as his uncanny abilities, to always catch his Rat. Standing only 5 feet 6 inches, it might have been his Napoleon complex. In his later years, his frizzy, receding hairline gave him the feeling he always had to battle his way toward respectability. Early in life, he found his mind and mouth were the tools that led to success. If necessary, Ron could create a long-winded conversation out of a dripping faucet while his razor sharp mind was formulating his next move.
“So what can you do about it, Flash?” Jimmy asked in a dejected tone.
“Well, I’m not certain yet as to what, if anything, I can do for you on your terrorism and kidnapping convictions, although we may have an entrapment argument, but I’ll tell you this, if you let me represent you through the appellate process, I’m quite confident the munitions and marijuana evidence found at your property will be excluded and you will . . .”
“Fuck you, dickface,” Borskovich shouted as he shot up and slammed the chair into the Plexiglas window separating the two.
Ron sat there motionless and, for a change, speechless for a few seconds. “Interesting,” he thought. “No federal prison guards or any other personnel have responded. Of course, 12:06 p.m., time for all good bureaucrats to take their lunch.” Still, though, he was not convinced that no one was watching. He was going to play it safe and not even hint as to why he was really there until a few more minutes had passed. Borskovich, still ranting and raving, picked the phone up again and continued.
“You think I give a shit about taking a few years off my time here? Fuck, at least in this cesspool, everyone is who they appear to be. Look, you little weasel, I’m already sick and tired of your legal mumbo jumbo crap. So why don’t you just take your fancy ass out of here. My fight is not against the courts, this prison or even the entire U.S. government any more. My lifelong enemy is the DEA.”
“I agree, those DEA agents searched . . .”
“Agents?” Jimmy interrupted. “I’m talking about the Director, the back-stabbing prick Director of the DE, fucking A.”
Ron went into a state of alert. The subject came up long before he was ready to get into it. He hurriedly jotted down the following note to Borskovich on the back of one of his business cards:
“ We know about Marsh. That’s why I’m here-to
find out more. I’ll be back. Destroy this card as quickly and secretly as possible.”
“Listen, Jimmy, I don’t know anything about those DEA problems you’re having,” Ron counseled as he smoothly and pursuant to prison security requirements, raised his hand with the encrypted business card in it and handed it to Jimmy through a small opening in the window. Right now, as your lawyer, what I can offer you is nine-eleven years off your thirty-year sentence.”
“Twenty-seven,” Jimmy corrected.
“Ah, good behavior, huh?” Bob asked.
“Damn straight,” Borskovich retorted as he read Ron’s note on the card.
“Good man. Somehow you strike me as a fella that is knawing at the bit to get out of this joint to take care of some important business. I can help you do it a lot sooner. Think about it…”
“Yeah, maybe I will,” Jimmy pondered.
“Fair enough. Just call me when you’re ready. I might stop in to see ya’ before that, if you don’t mind, to remind you of the various legal deadlines you face on your appeal,” Ron advised as he got up from his chair.
“Sure, no problem,” Oh, by the way, I wasn’t connected to the property where they searched and found the shit. I rented the guest house out back.”
“Well, I’ll certainly make a note of that.”
“Too bad,” Ron thought. “If I didn’t have to use this bullshit name, it would be one juicy appellate case to dig my teeth into.”
Ron returned to the Arizona prison during the next week. He was able to meet with Jimmy outside, within the small confines of the prisoner’s garden. The outdoor meeting was made possible by the strong work ethic displayed by Borskovich and by the long, loyal friendship Bob had with Ed Eagleton, the assistant warden at Redstone. It was one of many solid friendships Bob had developed over the years within various departments of the federal and state systems. Not as many as Marsh maybe, but Bob’s relationships were more meaningful as they were not based on money or intimidation but upon genuine loyalty and desire to help each other out during the sometimes rather frustrating times of working for the government. Such was his decades-long connection with Eagleton. They not only thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company, they were always eager to come to each other’s aid.
“We should be safe here, but we’ll have to make it quick,” Ron advised. Now tell me, Jimmy, is this asshole really skimming drugs big time?”
“Fuck that. Don’t you realize that Marsh controls nearly every major drug transaction in this country from pot to poppies? Few big shipments of shit come into the U.S. without the approval of the DEA director.”
“But Jimmy, com’on. You mean to tell me that this guy is aware of all large shipments that come into this country?”
“Oh yeah, he’s aware all right,” Jimmy said as he cynically smiled. “ Here’s the way it works, Ronnie boy. Let’s say you have 100 ton of heroin coming in on a boat to America. Have it cleared through Marsh and you’re guaranteed security through landing and initial distribution. Marsh usually takes his fee for these security services in barter only. Dope, around 25 per cent of all shipments. Sometimes, he’ll accept a cash fee, but most of the time, he wants the shit,” Jimmy told the amazed Ron, whose chin was fast approaching the floor.
“He then passes it on to his own little distribution network. Yes sir, old Vic the Prick has built up quite a little side business for himself.”
“How about the cases we’ve researched where the amount of dope in evidence mysteriously drops in large amounts between the arrest and the trial?” Ron asked.
“Yeah that’s how Marsh controls the rest of the business. If you’re a dealer who did not use Marsh’s services and get caught with your dick in your hands, just go to Marsh, and for a fee, much of the evidence against you will suddenly disappear,” Jimmy explained.
“And that’s how he fucked us up the ass. What the prick did was suddenly bail out on us because he got scared that someone was on to him. The evidence went from 250 pounds to 50 and back to 250 when the little wimp panicked,” Borskovich said disgustedly.
Ron stood there, in the middle of the prisoner cornfield, in utter amazement. “It was true,” he thought. The man trusted with the job of protecting the public from the onslaught of dangerous drugs was actually the power behind encouraging their circulation throughout the nation.
“Jimmy, I represent a federal agent who is one determined son-of-a bitch to bring this mother fucker down. To do that we need your help. You need to contact me the minute Marsh or his people contact you as we expect them to. We have every reason to believe you will soon be moved out of this prison as a result of a transfer or a bullet in your head,” Ron warned.
“The other, more appealing, alternative would be if you’re offered your freedom with a new identity and all documentation to support it. Whenever and however you’re moved, call me without delay. Here’s my pager number. Punch in 711 and I’ll know it means you’re being moved or are in danger. In the mean time, we’ll keep close tabs on you. Your testimony is the key to our success in getting Marsh,” Ron said.
“Great. What the fuck can I do from here?”
“One thing: Stay alive. Don’t ever turn your back on anyone and most certainly turn on your sirens whenever you are in a room alone with any guard. You might very well be the only witness available to testify against this asshole.”
Just then, a guard opened a nearby door from inside the prison and approached the two new partners.
“You keep your spirits up, Jimmy. We will accomplish our goals.”
Somehow, Jimmy believed Ron. He was comforted by the conviction of his new comrade.
“I’ll keep you posted, pally,” said Jimmy.
“I look forward to hearing from you.”
The guard then accompanied Borskovich back into the pen. Now, for the first time in his long criminal career, Jimmy felt nervous as he walked up the long hallway alone with a prison guard. Nervous was only the beginning of the way Ron felt as he walked out of the prison towards his car. His longtime half-a-pack a day smoking habit was now up to nearly two packs and he could hardly do anything or go anywhere without thinking that someone was watching him.