Law School

 285.

There are times, I will admit, that I wish I had followed my Mother's advice and gone to law school. This is one of those times. In making the honest attempt to adhere to Mustang's rigorous physical therapy program, I am back in the saddle, spinning indoors and listening to a podcast on US Foreign Policy during the Nixon administration. Needless to say there is more honesty in my production of cycling wattage than in the propaganda fed to the mainstream media - and in turn to the American population - during that vile era. I know this as a result of NOT studying constitutional law but playing football and learning leadership skills in a military school of great renown. Had I of become a lawyer, or politician as Mom also urged, by this time in our suspect history such actions as bigotry, hypocrisy, racism, hate speech, misinformation, gaslighting and anything remotely related to white supremacist ideology would be punishable offenses, felonies if committed with criminal intent. My tears of regret spill from my forehead like a waterfall's mist as I formulate the assignment due on Hartaugh's desk by noon tomorrow.

Does Alexander Goldson have ties to organized crime? Does his rap sheet, somewhat thin from my initial scan, show any history of cooperation with groups known to prefer metaphorical snow over coal, ivory vice ebony? Can I embellish his biography to include the possibility and further promote this pathetic agenda so Hartaugh might be more inclined to partner up with him? The trick, of course, is to take any bit of possible connection, no matter the degree, and run with it like a tailback to daylight. Running from the darkness into the brilliant sunlight. Blind them by the light. I like this not-so-subtle from of manipulation, especially with the intended result being the transport of Hartaugh to the nearest penal institution.

Davis informs us that Goldson is chomping at the bit to get started. Seems he suffers from a condition known as impatience syndrome, one's inability to wait until the chances of success are at their favorability apex. In our world such often violent rash behavior, common with street thugs and bullies, is known as being a Sonny Corleone.

I decide to add some celebrity testimony to the fictional affidavit, and why not?

Sensing the finish line approaching I put on as powerful a kick as I am able. Considering that I am working with a leg and a half instead of the standard issue pair of functioning pistons, the effort feels genuine and legit. My heart rate insists that we have reached the red zone of intensity and that we should throttle back as a safe response to the quick visit to the holy hot land of maximal output. Interestingly, I comply, satisfied with the results, however brief, "I'll be back," I vow with my very best Terminator impression.

After a quick shower and a banana-strawberry protein smoothie I head to my desk to author the document, fully engaged and focused on its dual-purpose. Julie is still working, gathering local and international intelligence, trying to make sense of the binary chatter and sorting it into manageable file formats, alert levels and code translations. She is a master at linking innuendo to reality, gossip to actionable intel. I open the intelligence report template and sit looking at its nothingness, recognizing the need for caution.

Julie approaches asking about my workout. "Getting better all the time," I respond.

"Outstanding," she compliments while handing me a single sheet of copy-paper, "I hate to be the one to burst your bubble of endorphin flow, but you need to have a look at this."

I read, cringe and crumble.

"Should have gone to law school."