A Story for All to Read

I am often asked by literary agents and other so-called fucking experts of publishing what is the target audience of my novel Hardball. This is the kind of questions dumbshits ask others to make it look like they're smart but all they're doing is covering up their dumbness.

Anyway, it does pose an interesting query. Who would like this story? Actually the easier question is, Who would not? The fact is HARDBALL appeals to the classic
4-corner demographic. Men will be stimulated by the vivid, viable violence and the detailed descriptions of a meaningful sexual relationship. Women will be attracted to the deep and sensitive description of the romance between the two lead protagonists and the courageous independent spirit of EMILY SANCHEZ. Young people will be provoked by the challenge presented to the ultimate authority. Older folks will be inspired by the strong underlying baseball theme throughout the story.

So get off your asses America and read this story. I'm posting the first 3 chapters below. If there is anyone out there who can put this down without finishing it, I'd be surprised. In any case, your thoughts would be most appreciated. Fasten your seat belts-Here we go:


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HARDBALL
©1998
Chapters 1-3







by
andrew mark

23200 West Vail Drive
West Hills, CA 91307
818-274-8586
andyweitz3@gmail.com



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.



































Chapter 2-MAGIC

Bob hadn’t played ball in months. It was the first time in his life he could remember not playing for such a long period of time. Without baseball, there was a wide void in his life. But his mission to find and reveal the truth was emerging as his only focus. Now the only reminder he had of the game he loved so much was a special baseball he carried around with him virtually everywhere he went. The day he got that ball was etched in his mind as clearly as it was yesterday.
It was the summer of 1994. Bob was a federal law enforcement officer on assignment in Boston where a domestic terrorist group was threatening to blow up an internationally influential New England bank or some other Boston landmark. One of the most likely targets was old Fenway Park. Everyone on the force knew of Bob’s devotion to baseball so he and his partner got the assignment of attending the Red Sox and Anaheim Angels 7:05 game at Fenway. The threat received from the terrorists was serious. As such, Bob could only remain in his seat for a few batters at one sitting before tending to his mission. He must have checked every square inch of his side of the stadium for any clues of bombs, other ballistics or unexplained behaviors. Despite the many lives potentially in danger, he just couldn’t resist the Fenway snack stands where he partook in a famous Monster Dog, a mini Papa Gino’s pizza and a bowl of authentic New England Clam Chowder.
Flamethrowing Roger “The Rocket” Clemens was on the mound and, shall we say, was “bringing” it to the plate from the first pitch onward. As the legend goes, Clemens, who normally approached and sometimes exceeded the speed of 100 miles per hour with his fastball, was beyond comprehension on this night. If he regularly fired his deliveries with a shotgun, on this night he launched them with an atomic cannon. The radar gun was put to the test. He seemed to get stronger as the game wore on and the heat generated from his right arm intensified. Twice the Rocket was clocked at 106 miles per and plenty of other pitches were somewhere in three figures. Despite the noise of the crowd of nearly 40,000 at the cozy confines of Fenway Park, one could hear the catcher’s mitt popping in the right field stands, at the Green Monster high above left field and beyond.
Clemens went into the ninth inning with a perfect game. That, in the long, magnificent history of baseball has happened before. But not combined with 27 dazzling strikeouts, some by way of a curve ball or a change-up, but mostly it was the pure, unmerciful Heat of the menacing right-hander that blew the hitters away. From where Bob was sitting, a few rows up behind the Red Sox dugout, he, as he told the story years later, could have sworn he heard a humming, radio-like sound being emitted from the balls as they were launched from the hill and whizzed down Roger’s 60 foot-6-inch speedway where velocities reached seemingly supersonic dimensions.
Yes sir, that bad boy from Texas was mowing down Angels with the coldness and precision of an executioner. After just a few innings, the Angel batters reluctantly stepped into what seemed like the gallows rather than the batter’s box. Bob, seated in a perfect position to realize the dream of any boy or boy at heart, managed to catch a foul ball hit into the seats in the ninth just before Clemens fanned his 27th and final Angel. It was like some magical dream. Every hitter the fireballer faced went down swinging or just stood there helplessly. In fact, Bob was in possession of the best the Angels could do against him that night: a line drive foul ball into the stands. He had been going to ball games for over 40 years and never came close to experiencing the feel of a major league baseball that had just been in play. This one was better. It was historic. Twenty-seven strikeouts in a nine-inning regulation game is one of those rare sports records that is truly unbreakable. A pitcher cannot be any more perfect. Bob had one of only sixteen foul balls hit by the Angels during the game.
Bringston used his priceless memento as a handy aid in the healing and strengthening of a broken wrist he had suffered recently. Throughout any given day he could be seen squeezing and rolling the ball in his palm or tossing it lightly to himself. Playing the game with a passion since he was a small boy had already made him a master craftsman with the ball. During these few months of therapy with the baseball, he created ways to toss the ball to himself and otherwise cagily, craftily and controllably move the ball around his body and around the room. He put quirky rotations on the ball or sometimes no rotation at all to mysteriously move the ball around all kinds of places. What Bob accomplished in creating new and interesting solitary games out of the seemingly simple act of tossing around a baseball to one’s self should itself go down in baseball history.
For instance, Bob could lie on his back, stand, or sit and toss the ball up towards the ceiling with such precision, the baseball would be just fractions of an inch from the ceiling, or, by design, merely graze the ceiling before falling straight back into his hand. He would bank it off the wall, skip it off the floor or curve it around a lamp in the den as he relaxed on the couch. In addition, that silly little ball conjured up nothing but happy thoughts of smokin’ fastballs and strikeouts and served Bob as an inspiration throughout an otherwise dull, sometimes dangerous day.
The games Bringston played at work were scored with lives defended and lost. Bob Bringston was a special agent in charge of the anti-government cult enforcement division for the U.S. Treasury Department’s Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. The hardball Bob plays against his opponents during the average day on the job ain’t no little league. With all the bullets being bandied about, the battles are hard involving blood not baseballs. Somehow, though, Bringston found a way to put a baseball in the midst of his violent world. Always looking for a way to avoid using his gun, Bob discovered what a powerful weapon the baseball can be in the right hands.
Bringston was a man whose life was in constant danger. His survival depended on remaining one step ahead of the competition. To do this required focus, concentration and innovation. Bob’s creative mind led him to first use his cherished baseball while on the job in a 1996 violent conflict against a group of mad militiamen from Montana. The wacky warriors were as determined as they were desperate. They were dedicated vegetarians and got word that a team of United States Agriculture Department agents was going to inspect a large Chicago meatpacking plant.
They called themselves the Meatless Militia and five of its members took over the plant in the early morning hours soon after three high-ranking U.S.D.A inspectors had arrived. Violence certainly wasn’t part of their formula a few years prior when the Meatless Militia first organized. They were called Planting Earth and the most brutal act they performed was cutting spears off broccoli plants. Their passion for their cause resulted in their inability to hold any conventional job.
To continue their campaign, contraband was the only answer. Drugs mostly, along with some black market tobacco. Their illicit territory had to be protected and the premium for the protection was blood. Some lost. Some taken. In any case, the cost of doing business with lives as the currency had been consistently on the rise. Recent government pressure of surveillance and infiltration made things more difficult. It wasn’t even the fruits and vegetables thing anymore. It was a matter of survival and the Militia saw the desperate measure of taking over the meat plant as the only answer.
The government men were there in response to complaints that the slaughtering methods used at the plant were cruel and unsanitary. Among the accusations were that oftentimes, the animals were placed directly on the meat hooks before they had even perished. The vegans were seeking victory by slaughtering the three agents in the same fashion, but not before assuring certain demands were met. Bob and nine other agents from the ATF and FBI got the assignment. He was on the rescue team for not only his proven bravery and sharp shooting skills but his adept abilities in negotiation of hostage situations. His creative killing talents were now a legend amongst the anarchists’ community, who, respected, if did not fear him. Bringston’s decades of experience as an ATF agent with exposure to countless numbers of life-threatening situations amply prepared him to attack these tense moments with patience and calculation. Regardless, he and the others were the only ones around crazy and capable enough to handle this explosive situation.
When the team of 10 government rescuers arrived, Bob immediately took charge with no objections. He ordered the nine others, six men and three women, to surround the building to monitor and report the activity and status and communicate with each other by hand-held radio. With the reports he received from his team of agents and the briefing they all reviewed earlier that morning, Bob was armed with a considerable amount of helpful information. All 10 on the team were verse in the layout of the meat plant from the location and size of each door and window, to the amount, location and dimensions of each meat hook inside.
One of his agents, Emily Sanchez, reported that one of the inspectors had already met his demise and was on gruesome display near the main entrance. His body was extended from the ceiling with a large meat hook protruding through his front torso. The radicals clearly put the body on display for strategic purposes. They called for a government representative to personally meet them in the slaughterhouse so their demands could be conveyed. No one else volunteered. Bob jumped on the opportunity.
Upon entry into the plant, Bob was greeted by two heavily armed goons who nearly strip-searched him. Their leader, standing nearby, in front of the dangling dead agent, asked about the ball in Bob’s hand. Bob explained he carried the ball around with him to squeeze it and relieve the pain in his arthritic wrist. He nervously tossed the ball around close to his body.
“Do you remember the 1994 Red Sox-Angels game where Roger Clemens struck out every hitter he faced? This is one of the balls he used to nail the last two Angel hitters,” Bob proudly proclaimed.
The leader smiled and said, “Yeah, I saw that game when I was in the cooler, I’ll never forget it. But never mind that. No more fucking around. Toss that ball to the side before your sorry ass is hanging on a hook like your friend behind me.”
“Well, excuse me, but isn’t your love of baseball in violation of vegetarian protocol? After all, the baseball itself is made from slaughtered cows and there are probably enough weenies consumed during baseball season to fill ten of these slaughterhouses, probably 20 . . . ”
“Fuck you, prick. Either you toss that ball to the side or you can join our bovine brothers on the slaughter assembly line,“ the leader screamed as his veins protruded far from the surface of his neck.
Bob sensed he was reaching the end of the line of the leader’s patience. If he was going to earn a save of the remaining U.S.D.A. agents, himself and his cherished baseball, he had to do something and do it without any further delay. During this verbal exchange, Bringston closely gauged his immediate surroundings. He was directly facing the crazed cultist about 20 feet away. Between him and Bob and slightly to Bob’s right was an empty low-hanging meat hook on a curved track less than 10 feet from the intended target. The two thugs were directly to the left of the leader about 50 feet away. According to reports received from his fellow agents, the two other militia members were in the second story of the plant holding the other two U.S.D.A. agents hostage.
“ OK, pal,” Bob cautioned,“ but I may not be as accurate as I used to . . .”
Before he finished his sentence, Agent Bringston made one spectacular pitch. He hurled the ball, without a full windup at about 70 miles per hour and it hit exactly where he intended: At the top of the meat hook chain and just below the track. Since his high school days, Bob always had speed and control as a pitcher, but never had he thrown a payoff pitch like this one. Major League pitchers from Koufax to Clemens would have been proud. In what seemed like less than a second from the time of Bob’s release, the meat hook sped down the track directly towards his adversary’s head. As he put his arms up, the hook drove through one of his arms and into his neck like a fisherman baiting his pole. As the three-inch diameter stainless steel hook plunged through the front and exited the back, large sections of neck and throat tissue were sprayed all over the floor beneath. The AK-47 he was holding was flung in the opposite direction towards Bob. Fortunately, the two goon guards were disabled for just a split second as they stood in amazement at Agent Bringston’s spectacular feat. It was just enough time for Bob to safely grab the weapon off the floor as he successfully sought refuge a few rows back behind a hooked side of beef and a large solid metal beef cart.
Once the guards realized what happened and got over the awe of Bringston’s pitch and its results, they randomly and harmlessly fired their high-powered automatic weapons in the direction where Bob had leaped. Bob’s fabled baseball was still lying harmlessly on the floor only 10 feet away. But if he stepped over to get it, he would be in view of the thugs. He needed that ball to deploy other plans and besides wanted it back for sentimental reasons. His moment came as they scampered around the plant in search of Bringston. He grabbed his ball and raced back under cover. With his cannon-like arm, Bringston hurled the baseball at the far end of the building nearly 200 feet away.
It was like a throw from the deep part of the outfield that nails a base runner speeding around third for home. The ball hit the far end aluminum wall and made a billowing noise that emanated throughout the plant. When the two thugs turned their backs on him, that was all Bringston needed. He eliminated them with a few quick rounds to the back of the head. Each time Bob ended a life, it took another bite out of his soul. Each one that died by his hand was another reminder that in striving to stop the murderers, he himself was becoming as much a cold-blooded killer as those he pursues. He couldn’t let such deep-rooted dilemmas drag him down. He was focused on detaining those two remaining radicals and protecting the safety of the two U.S.D.A. inspectors.
He could not help but thinking about, however, what had happened to his precious baseball. He was frantically searching on the floor for it near the far-end of the plant as he kept tabs on the terrorists whom he expected to come downstairs any moment. Just then Agent Emily Sanchez came up from behind him. She had heard the gunfire and noise of the baseball crashing against the wall and decided to march in to lend her support.
“Looking for something?“ she said.
Anytime she spoke with her sexy Latina accent, to say nothing of her effervescent aura, it always inspired Bringston. Now, however, she had the cherry on top of the sundae with the delivery of Bob’s cherished baseball. He accepted the ball; the lovely Emily would have to be encountered off the clock. He used Sanchez’ radio to order FBI agents Frank Ganji and Tim Tuttlehorn into the complex via the rear utility entrance furthest from where Bringston and Sanchez were standing to assist the team’s efforts. He briefed them as to the status and told them precisely where to place themselves within the plant in preparation of an assault on the remaining terrorists.
He wanted Ganji and Tuttlehorn because of their unequivocal will to win and their equally unflappable abilities to stop the enemy under the most difficult of circumstances. Bringston anticipated what lie ahead and how the two agents would be a vital part of the success of the operation. Bob positioned Ganji and Tuttlehorn. Then that persistent feeling of hesitation entered his gut. No matter how much he succeeded in his life and career, Bob suffered from a crippling fear of failure that oftentimes overwhelmed him. At any given moment, it has gripped him tightly like a vise, reducing him to a meek, harmless participant in whatever endeavor he was engaged. Typically, it hit him when he is on a roll, on the verge of victory and something deep down made him question his success. Sometimes his strong self-confidence squelched these deep-rooted self-doubts. Other times the failure he feared became reality. Fortunately, the guerrillas were detained upstairs by untying the two hostages before they came down. It was just enough time for Bob to do a few yoga chants, tell himself how much he liked himself and otherwise tap his plentiful well of a winning attitude. It also gave him time to think about the deployment of his plan. The kidnappers and their captives descended the stairs and walked towards their fallen brethren.
“You will pay for this,” said one as he discovered his leader grotesquely hanging from the ceiling and his two other comrades soaking in growing collections of their blood.
“Now come on,“ Bob cracked. “Is it my fault, your vegetarian friend got hooked on this place?“
“You’re a fucking comedian aren’t you? Now, drop your weapons, including that stupid ball,“ the militant demanded.
Bob and Emily immediately dropped their guns but Bob held onto his beloved baseball and went into one of his favorite subjects: the Roger Clemens/Fenway Park story.
“J.T. Snow, the last batter of the game, was up. He hit a towering fly ball right over the location in the stands where I was sitting. I thought the ball would never come down. When it did, I reached over the guy in front of me and with one bare hand, caught one of the most epic baseballs in history,“ Bob explained as he slightly changed the facts of the story for the situation before him.
“I’ll never forget the magnificent flight of this ball. As a matter of fact, the high ceiling of this slaughterhouse is just about exactly the altitude the ball reached,“ Bob said as the two terrorists seemed most interested.
“Here’s a bet. One that could save lives and get you what you want. I throw this ball as high as the ceiling and if either one of you catch it, these negotiations end, we immediately walk out of the room and see to it that all your demands are met,“ Bob proposed.
“If you miss, as I think you wimps will, the hostages are freed and you two can go as you please either now or after you’re sure we have left and that it is safe to do so,“ Bob assured them.
“You win either way. If you catch the fly ball, your noble aspirations are achieved with a lot less complications, guaranteed by your control of the two captives. If I’m right, all you lose is the hostages. You keep, however, your sorry-ass lives and freedom, at least for the time being,“ Bringston explained. “So what do you say boys? “C’mon hotshots, my mitt’s out in the car. Let’s take a break and go get it,” he urged. Or do you wait for the rest of my troops to eventually blast your fuckin’ heads off, the same way Clemens took care of his last two strikeout victims with this baseball,” Bob shouted impatiently.
As the two terrorists discussed the situation, Bob sensed they were not about to accept his wild wager. He was running out of solutions. The distraction factor though, was still available. He threw the baseball to the ceiling. The ball, at the hands of the master, went perfectly to the forty-five foot height of the ceiling without touching it. At its height, the ball was literally millimeters from the ceiling. With the backspin Bob put on it, the baseball seemed to hang up there as if in a state of suspended animation.
At first they pointed their guns at Bringston’s head. Then, just as the rest in the plant, they gazed up at the baseball as it fell back towards earth. As such, the window of opportunity presented itself. Tuttlehorn nailed one guy with a bullet in the ear and Ganji played some lethal chin music on the other, with a bullet or two in the face. In the meantime, the ball was thrown so high with so much hang time that Bringston had enough time to actually run over and make a lunging catch of the ball he lobbed up to the ceiling.
The Bringston-to-Tuttlehorn-to Ganji double play combination was as thrilling as they get. As Bob and his team of nine celebrated their big victory, he started to wonder about what just happened. Sure his baseball had a magical, mystical history, but just how far did it go and with how much power. After all, the day was saved by Bob’s pure, raw talents in not just tossing the baseball around, but management under pressure and his abilities to incapacitate his opponents by embellishing on an already fascinating baseball story. Maybe though, the legend of that wondrous baseball itself became reality. Bob was the mere conduit of the magic. Although an inanimate object, the bond between Bob and his baseball was not much unlike a long, loyal friendship. Strange as it may seem, that little globe in his hand gave him a deep sense of comfort and confidence wherever he was. Feelings so strong, so penetrating, that he resolved never to be without that ball as long as he lived.















Chapter 3-MAGNETISM

Over the two decades as a federal law enforcement agent, Bob Bringston was one who strictly complied with the myriad of rules and regulations governing those in his position. It was the easy and safe thing to do and the way he was raised by his disciplinarian father. Furthermore, playing baseball for most of his life trained him to focus on the mundane fundamentals in order to succeed. Oh sure, he was a great innovator and found creative ways out of life-threatening situations. His strategies and plans, however, were pretty much by the book.
Very much aware of the unbreakable regulation of not having sexual relations with agents within the Bureau, once, every long while, he ignored that rule over the last five years in regards to Special Agent Emily Sanchez. Agent Sanchez was far from any ordinary female. Anyone in a room that she entered was literally overcome by her physical and psychological presence. Her wonderfully shaped body was just the beginning. Her big brown eyes, inviting lips and smooth style attracted both men and women. Emily’s enthusiasm for life emanated from within her. She’s a winner and her powerfully positive aura attracted other winners over the years. Despite these dream features, her 5 foot, 7 inch frame and her perfectly distributed 131 pounds, this El Paso, Texas native from a wealthy Mexico City family, was somewhat intimidating to men. Few were at the level of her intellect. The independence streak etched deep into her spine by her father made it difficult for her to cultivate close relationships with anyone.
This University of Texas-trained lawyer made a highly respected name for herself along with a boatload of cash mostly by providing criminal defense to illegal drug dealers, distributors and growers. Defending the drug kingpins and their lieutenants was her bread and butter. It was her representation of the mushrooming market of hard-working family farmers who cultivated cannabis across the USA from North Carolina to Oregon that provided her the foundation of a solid law practice that expanded into other areas.
She first met Bob when she was working on a civil case years ago wherein a man accidentally killed his young son as he took his shotgun out of the case on the wall. He was going to show the boy the gun and clean it with his son’s help, however, he never got the chance. As he brought the gun over to where the boy was sitting, it misfired even though the safety mechanism indicated that it was engaged. The shot entered directly into the boy’s heart killing him instantly.
She accepted the case but knew it was set to be an uphill battle to prove that the gun manufacturer was liable for the death of the young child. To do so, she would need a top-notch gun expert to testify that the safety mechanism was defective and that this defect directly caused this horrible incident. The typical “whore“ who would testify as to anything for a price would do no good. She needed an expert with both competence and credibility. Her sources led her to Bob Bringston whose reputation as an ATF agent was impeccable and whose record as an expert witness for both plaintiffs and defendants was equally impressive. In all the 11 cases in which he previously testified, the side that retained him either won or did far better than expected. In other matters, the cases favorably settled before trial mainly because the other side knew Bringston was prepared to testify against them.
All one need do is see Bringston testify once to understand why juries hung on to every word he said. His cutting-edge knowledge of guns and ammunition from the barrel to the handle and his interesting and entertaining way of conveying that knowledge in court were consistently the winning factor in the cases in which he was involved.
Sanchez and Bringston arranged to meet in a Santa Monica coffee shop. Bob got there a few minutes before the scheduled meeting time and looked around for a woman who was by herself. Neither one of them knew what the other looked like since they had forgotten to exchange physical descriptions of each other. All Bob knew about Emily was that she was a successful lawyer of Latino heritage and based upon their brief telephone conversation had a firm, feminine and provocative voice. He walked around the eatery, asked a couple of woman who could have been her, settled in at a table facing the entryway of the restaurant and observed those arriving.
Exactly three minutes after the scheduled meeting time, she walked through the glass door. It was Emily and Bob’s gut told him so. She exuded a confidence and control that seemed to overwhelm the room. She was smartly attired in a beige Liz Claiborne business suit with a pleated skirt down to her knees. The matching jacket, adorned with brass buttons and the nearly knee-high brown suede high-heel boots added a certain chic to the pronounced curves of her chest. The first few buttons of her maroon blouse were unfastened exposing her neck and just a few inches below. She gazed at the crowd with her engaging brown eyes. Her skin was a deep, rich light brown like a finely polished piece of basswood. She had a grace and style as she strutted along the front area of the restaurant as if she expected whomever she was meeting to come up to her. She was the ultimate Queen of Cool, the epitome of the Twentieth Century Fox.
Their eyes met as Bob walked towards her. Besides his renowned expertise, Emily soon found out the other reasons why Bob was such a key ingredient to the success of any gun case. Bringston’s rugged good looks and innocent charm were mesmerizing. Even in his walk alone, Emily sensed a pure genuineness. From the moment the two sat down together, the physical and spiritual attraction to each other was quite evident. Bob looked straight into those big, beautiful brown eyes of Emily and told her,
“Let’s get something straight right now Ms. Sanchez, I will examine the firearm in question and investigate the surrounding facts of this case. If, after such investigation, I conclude that the manufacturer is liable, terrific, I will do everything scientifically possible to further your client’s claim, provided you pay my $250 per hour fee with a $ 3,000 up front retainer. If I find otherwise, however, I will tell you that you have no case and that you should save your time and money,“ he warned her.
Emily was astounded by such pure, undiluted candor.
“ Well, Bob, all I can tell you is that you are just the man I need, as an expert witness that is.”
“It appears, my dear, that I will enjoy working with you,“
At this moment, their body language was in sync; they were thinking little about the important legal business at hand and more about the feverish pitch their attractiveness for each other had reached. Right smack dab in the middle of this rather serious legal discussion, Bob boldly inquired, “ Emily, do you work out? “
“Well, gee Bob, why do you ask? “ Emily responded as she returned a smile to Bob with her luscious lips and gorgeous teeth that nearly melted Bob right in his seat.
“It’s just that you are so marvelously defined and curved, it seems to me that you would have to work pretty hard to achieve such an ideal,”
“How sweet of you to say. If you must know, I do 100 sit-ups and 35 pull-ups every other day, “ Emily informed him. “ And how about you Bob. What do you do to achieve your rather appealing shape? “ Emily asked.
“Well, Emily, one word: Baseball. Playing it, thinking it, living it,“ Bob declared with a serious, yet magical look in his wide, green eyes and the fire within them drew Emily in like a tidal wave engulfing an errant surfer. This overwhelming and competitive flame that burned so deep and so strong within Bob’s heart seemed to consume the entire coffee shop. Emily sensed it right away because she too was on a life-long pursuit to succeed. A trait instilled deep within her by her father since as far back as she can remember. It was in her early teenage years when she first learned why her father was so competitive. It was sort of the nature of his job.
Emily’s dear old dad was a drug dealer. More specifically, a drug importer/exporter. And a rather successful one. Since 1963, nearly one-third of the total marijuana shipments brought into the U.S. from south of the border was under the control of Salvador Sanchez. He moved to El Paso, Texas from Mexico City in 1960. Four years later, Emily was born. It was Salvador’s first daughter and last child. He had two sons previously. By the time he moved to Texas, Sanchez had established a North and South American empire built on cannabis that passed through his control. After all, to Salvador Sanchez, it was only natural. Since the ancient times of his Mayan ancestors, the hemp plant was an integral part of the Sanchez clan like cars are to the Fords. They grew it, smoked it and processed it into, paper, clothes, medicine and other helpful chemicals. The House of Sanchez has been acutely aware of the societal benefits of the cannabis sativa plant and how to bring those benefits to market.
For hundreds of years, the Sanchez family pot business was respected and highly profitable throughout Mexico. Then in the early nineteen hundreds, their world was turned upside down. That’s when marijuana was declared an illegal narcotic in the U.S and soon after in Mexico. Not until Emily’s father grew into the leadership of the family did they learn to work with government rather than against it. Salvador Sanchez possessed a special talent for negotiating his way to power and wealth amidst the deep bowels of the bureaucracy in his native Mexico and in the more complex U.S. government. Soon after moving from Mexico City to the border town of El Paso, he discovered that immersion of his pot business into the American system was a bit trickier than was mastering Mexico. Salvador Sanchez learned long ago how to play the layers. Dealing with the levels of law enforcement in his native land was hardly complicated. There was always a friendly amigo around who was ready to deal his power, prestige and contacts for a little cash or contraband. There were plenty of government officials in the U.S who couldn’t resist the constant temptation either. They were just harder to find in America with its uniquely complex, multi-level bureaucratic structure. To get properly hooked into the American system as a drug dealer, one must spend a lot of time and have heavy financing. To Sal Sanchez, it was just an increased capital investment for the opportunity to profit from the U.S. cannabis consumer market, which, in the early 60’s was in the infancy of its exponential growth.
He was a fierce competitor, but unlike his competition, rarely resorted to violence. He let others get distracted by the heavy costs of killing, even when he lost his second oldest son at the hands of a rival marijuana family about a year before Emily was born. As devastated as he was by the death of his son, he did not seek meaningless revenge that he knew would only lead to a never-ending war. The result would just be a draining of resources including lives, time and money.
Emily’s Dad always taught her to trust her gut, stay focused, and never compromise her independence. When she told her father of her desire to become a lawyer, it seemed a bit risky given the nature of his business, but he saw within his daughter’s eyes a woman on a determined path. He was not about to get in the way and fully supported her throughout law school and her career. It paid off, in more ways than one. Most importantly, Emily was happy practicing law. Additionally, she was able to open her office, fresh out of law school, with a long list of criminal defense clients referred to her by her Dad. She put up a zealous legal defense for her father’s soldiers and soon, by word of mouth, was generating significant attorney fees for defending mostly pot dealers and growers across the nation. Over the years, her trial skills became razor sharp and her practice expanded into a blossoming civil practice. Inspired by her Dad, she was able to offer her clients a uniquely competitive edge with a purely feminine touch. She was a rare woman lawyer in that she did not lose one iota of that femininity and become bitter and miserable in the midst of the exclusive male club of lawyers.
Not since her father, had she ever seen a competitive flame so deep-rooted and intense as when Bob made his brief, yet revealing, statement about baseball. As he uttered it, everything seemed to freeze. Though he said just a few words, they were spoken so dramatically, yet so genuinely, it made Emily’s heart miss a beat or two.
Bob’s will to win was so strong, he even viewed losses as wins. He has yearned to win since a young lad in the 1960’s. He learned early that “losses” too were actually wins when properly examined and analyzed. Bob earned his mechanical engineering degree from Arizona State University. Besides being at the top of his class academically, Bringston was a star fireballing pitcher for the Sun Devil varsity baseball team. During one regular season game, Bringston was hammered by a UCLA hitter who went 5 for 5 against him with 2 homers. Bob’s ASU team lost a crucial game to the Bruins 7 to 6.
Bob was disappointed and frustrated but not angry, depressed or in any sort of negative frame of mind. Shortly after the big “loss“, he reduced his mental and written notes to his computer file regarding each and every pitch thrown to the UCLA slugger and the pattern of pitches thrown to other opposing hitters. He’d be able to use this vital information if, by chance, ASU made it to the College World Series against UCLA.
That chance was realized, as the Sun Devils, lead by the positive spirit of Bringston, made a furious comeback during the remainder of the regular season to qualify. They charged through the initial rounds of the World Series to meet the rival UCLA Bruins in the final Series for the national title.
Bob Bringston, the scintillating strategist, armed with his thorough research from his experience of the previous “loss “, shutdown the Bruin hitters in the opening and final games as if they had no bats: A 2-hit 3 to 1 victory in the first game and a dazzling 3-hit shutout in the finale to bring the national championship home to ASU. The ever-feared big Bruin bopper who so dominated Bringston in the regular season was shut down with only one hit in 8 at bats. Bob had him off balance each time they faced as he seemed to know what pitches the batter was expecting.
Though she knew Bob only briefly, Emily sensed that powerfully positive influence Bob had over people and an entire situation. It was a force so raw, so true; she just had to tap into more of it. Bob was retained as the expert and after his examination and investigation of the firearm in question concluded there was, in fact, liability on the part of the manufacturer.
In trial, bringing that point across to the jury, Bringston was nothing short of spectacular. He was not only informative, but also entertaining. He seemed to be having an engaging conversation with the jury as opposed to the typical stiff testimony of an expert. The jury was pleasantly refreshed that they were not forced to hear another boring scientist. It appeared the jury, men and women alike, were ready to hop over the jury box barrier and give Bob a big bear hug. Instead, they gave his side a $12.9 million verdict for the plaintiffs.
It was clear to Bob that he was just one factor leading to the big verdict. Emily Sanchez, with her, thorough preparation, aggressiveness and charisma was the major force behind the big win. As Bob and Emily basked in their legal glory at a fashionable L.A. restaurant, Bob started thinking about what a great addition Emily’s winning presence would be to his law enforcement team.
“Emily, I sense that you’re ready to take your winning ways to the next level. I want you to join my ATF anti-cult team and protect the nation from the ever-growing threat of domestic terrorism,” Bob proposed.
“Whew! That’s a shocker. I am honored by your compliment, but, you know, I don’t really know much about guns and I’m not sure I could ever be a cop . . . “
“Yeah, but have you thought how much better a criminal defense lawyer you could be after working with and learning more about the other side for a few years?” Bob asked rhetorically.
“Hmmmmmm, interesting.”
“You take as much time as you want. I can tell right now though Emily, I know enough about you to be sure you have the relentless drive to win and patriotism to be a superb ATF agent. I need you on my team,” Bob appealed.
As Bringston made his pitch for the good old U.S.of A. to Emily, he reminded himself of the irony of his personality and philosophy. His deep devotion to America and its freedoms, both social and economic, was unwavering. His distaste for government and bureaucracy, however, had been on the rise the last several years. As Bob observed over the years of being on the inside, the U.S. government was on a steady path of inefficiency and ineffectiveness and squelching the individual freedoms that drive the most magnificent economic system in the history of man: free enterprise. Bob, a self-made millionaire by investing in the stock market, real estate and small businesses, had become disgusted with the heavy burden of local, state and federal taxes and regulation which had dampened his fire to invest. He knew that he was only one of millions disgruntled entrepreneurs across the nation. Social and political freedoms also seemed to be eroding as political and bureaucratic leaders were now so fully entrenched with the aphrodisiac of power. Their actions were focused on maintaining that power and doing everything to gain more, even at the expense of the core values which made our nation preeminent in the world.
One of those corrupted leaders was Victor Marsh, the head of the federal Drug Enforcement Administration. Once Bob’s mentor, he was the man who led Bringston through his training as an ATF agent and laid the solid foundation for Bob on his way to a stellar career with the Bureau. Marsh left the ATF upon appointment to the DEA. It was clear to Bob that Marsh had fully compromised his integrity in soliciting the appointment. He had heard from reliable sources that Marsh was using his DEA post unscrupulously as a stepping-stone for his acquisition of wealth and power.
Sometimes, Bringston’s distaste for government sounds similar to those he battles everyday. Bringston, in fact, has much sympathy for the adversaries he struggles against, at least in regards to their basic doctrines. It is their violence and destruction with which he vehemently differs. Though Bob lives and works in a world of violence and death, he is a man of peace and no matter how much he has lost faith in government, he would never advocate its overthrow, violent or otherwise. Bob Bringston stood for drastically reducing the size of the U.S. government, not eliminating it violently. Though he has contemplated the idea of a society without government, much like American colonial hero Thomas Paine and many thinkers since, he concluded that the structure and discipline of government are necessary. Despite the growing excessive burden of government, Bringston continued his fight for the concept of the US government, the only sovereign entity in the world foundationally devoted to the existence and rights of the individual.
After 11 years of a successful practice covering many different areas of the law, Emily was 36 years old and, frankly, bored. She had a thirst for action and was not getting it anymore in the courtroom. She knew enough about Bob to recognize that he would be one fascinating man with whom to work and she would experience a life of exhilaration as she never imagined. She didn’t need any more time to think about it. She was so comforted by the strength of Bob’s conviction and his eternal journey to victory. She decided to take the plunge by putting her law practice on hold and becoming an ATF agent.