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.