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August 5, letter to Frank Michel, Houston Chronicle

In our eleven-minute conversation you were as smooth as you have always been, Frank.  We had a collegial talk, as two guys who have, over the years, smoked many a cigar, taken a bike ride or two, and always stayed in touch.  You and Fred King were my mentors, after all, back in the old days…

Do you remember how I met you two back in 1992?

I had had it with military intelligence and political games, and decided I didn’t want to return to my posting in Washington, D.C.  I decided to take a safe, reflective job at a Catholic high school struggling to make enrollment in Houston’s inner city.  The nearest business was an old garage renovated to a mortuary for dead gang bangers.  I’d gone from the Cold War to the Crack Wars.

In the fall of 1991, a gang from the hood started roughing up, beating up, then finally holding up my kids, while the teachers and clergy looked at the Stations of the Cross and pretended not to see Brother Jesus’ schoolchildren spit out blood and piss their pants as their clothes, jewelry and money.  On a Friday afternoon this pack of thugs posted lookout on both ends of Mt. Carmel Road, then sent a fire team onto the school bus that was about to take the boys’ basketball team and the cheerleaders to a game.  The leader pulled a gun.  The latest of many robberies, but the first with a firearm.  Kids pissed their pants, things got taken, and the thugs got gone.  Mother Mary’s shrine was fifty feet to the front, the main office was fifty feet to the right, and other students were all around.  This was a demonstration robbery, the crest of a wave of violent acts, and it was intended to demonstrate ownership of our school.

Know what the cops did?  Nothing, because they didn’t give a damn.  Know what the Church did?  Nothing, because it didn’t give a damn, either.  The priest/principal, Father Young, went and hid in the confessional and absolved himself of cowardice every time he felt its pangs.  Know what I did?  I waited until noon on the following Monday to see what the priest and his staff had done, and of course, it was nothing.  People seldom do anything effective when they’re afraid.  I cornered the priest in his office, slammed the door behind me, and terrified him into surrendering control of the school for the next three hours – until the end of the day.

With a paper in hand certifying my authority, I began to pull students out of classes and pluck the threads of information I needed.  I made every one of them two promises:  First, that I would not reveal their identities under any circumstances, even under threat of death; second, that I would burn them to the utmost if they fucked with me by being evasive about identifying the gang, because there can’t be a school and a gang in the same place.

In three hours I interviewed about fifteen students, drew the conclusions, typed a one-page report identifying the gunman by name, home address, telephone number and school affiliation – then called the police to pick it up.  They did so, and I thought they’d go after the gunman like, well, gangbusters.  Silly me.  They didn’t get off their asses to make the pick-up for ten days.  All the while the word on the street was that I was going to be gunned down.  Not that it surprised me.  The same afternoon I broke the case I told my best student, Sarah Hollingshead, that I’d be a hero or a dead man in a week.

What is it that makes men so afraid of death, Francois?  Well, that dark angel is hovering nearer than I like nowadays, and you’re all over the place on what you want to do with “Private Jessica, the media and the military.”  Today you said that you’ve already been doing talks on the Jessica scam for months.  I know, buddy, I’m the one who told you it was a scam on the weekend of April 5/6.  You said there’s a 60-40 chance that I’m right about the 3/7 Cavalry, but aren’t sure it will come out.  I guess that means you’re saying there’s a conspiracy.  You said you understood how Thom Shanker at the New York Times felt about being under pressure from above, because you were.  I remember you mentioning that when we talked after I returned from Ft. Stewart, Georgia, too.

You say you agree with my email predictions that I’ll have a best seller if I’m right, that powerful people are going to be upset if I’m right…, but that I’m “probably” not in danger of assassination like Dr. Kelly since I’m not embarrassing my government like he was.

Yep, you’ve accepted my premises and are running from my conclusions because those conclusions are an indictment of the Chronicle’s half-steps and back-sliding.  OK, buddy, tomorrow we’ll see what you’re made of.

You finished our talk by saying that you and David Langworthy haven’t discussed the Private Jessica essay, but I know you have.  You said you would talk about it later today.  I asked if I could call back tomorrow to check for your decision.  You said sure.  I asked if you would call me back if I couldn’t get you but left my number.  You said “you bet.”

I’m not betting on you Francois.  Like the 3/7 Cavalry, you are a sad reality.  You’ve already rationalized; you’re gone, and the rest is just formalities.

Captain May

“Words are wise men’s counters, they do but reckon with them, but they are the money of fools.” – Thomas Hobbes.  I’m betting that Hobbes is right.

 

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