Officer Jones

friends to teenage romance, and then off to Columbia University with plans of one day owning a small-town newspaper and having lots of babies. That was before Saddam Hussein changed everything.

During my freshman year at Columbia, I took an internship at a start-up cable news network called GNZ. The idea of twenty-four hour news was gimmicky at the time, compared to the traditional print journalism that I aspired to. But being the uber-achiever that I was, I thought television experience would be a good resume builder. Little did I know that it would be a career launcher.

Since GNZ was in its infancy, it didn’t have the budget of its competitors like CNN. So when war broke out, they offered their one and only intern, JP Warner, the opportunity of assisting their lead international correspondent, Jonathan Horvitz, during the war coverage. This was a dream opportunity for a kid who grew up idolizing war correspondents like Ed Bradley and David Halberstam, and I was all in-I could make up the school work, this was the opportunity of a lifetime, even if my horrified parents didn’t see it that way.

As history would have it, Horvitz didn’t have the stomach for battle, and ended up hiding under the bed of our Baghdad hotel room, praying to whatever deity would listen. So, three years removed from being able to legally buy a drink, I spent six weeks providing on-camera reports from the front-line.

The Gulf War wasn’t much of a fight, as far as military conflicts go, but what it will always be remembered for was that it was the first “TV War.” It changed the war correspondent from a brave, noble observer into a television star. Lines were blurred, and some would say it was the beginning of reality TV. Although, nobody is quick to take credit for reality TV.

When I returned home, I learned that I’d become as much of a story as the war itself. I can still recite my first glorious review in the New York Globe:

Nobody came out of Desert Storm a bigger star than the youthful JP Warner. With rugged good looks, he appears more like a leading man the likes of Newman or Redford, than the typical news reporter in the image of Cronkite or Rather. He comes across as courageous, confident, honest, and outspoken. Some will question his credentials or experience, but nobody can deny he is a star in the making.

I was hooked. During my remaining years at Columbia I worked every free moment I had at GNZ, and then signed on to become an international correspondent the day after I graduated. I wanted Gwen to come with me, but she refused, remaining in New York to report for the New York Globe, and spending most of her time writing obituaries. Little did I know that I was writing an obituary for our relationship, as we drifted further and further apart. At one point I actually began to believe our relationship was holding me back. Although, in hindsight, I’m a little fuzzy as to what exactly I was being held back from. Not even when Gwen decided that we need “some time apart,” which soon changed to “a lot of time apart,” did I ever think that we wouldn’t be together one day.

That was, until I received the invitation to Gwen Delaney and Stephen DuBois’ wedding. It was the moment JP died and J-News took over completely.

I threw every tortured emotion I had into covering the most dangerous stories in the most treacherous areas of the globe. I was willingly turned into a packaged image of the news warrior, who not only ran toward the danger, but looked good doing it. I wore three days growth on my face to feed the image. Same with my wardrobe, which led to my nickname of J-News, because it was said I looked like I just stepped out of the J-Crew catalog into the war zone.

But I wasn’t all style over substance-I took on the toughest stories in places most journalists wouldn’t even think to venture. Some, my mother included, claimed I had a death wish. Maybe I did. My youthful idealism was replaced by a hard-edged and arrogant swagger that I’d convinced myself was necessary to survive in such a dangerous business. I wasn’t very well liked, but I was respected … at least I thought so.

Then last spring, I walked back onto the campus of Columbia like the conquering hero I believed I was, to be a guest lecturer in my old journalism class. When I finished my ode to myself, a pretty girl with long, raven hair and radiant green eyes rose to ask a question. I was startled by the resemblance; for a moment I actually thought it was her. Then very much like Gwen, she zinged me with a question, asking me if I’d missed being a journalist since my industry had become nothing but loud, ratings driven sensationalism.

It was at that exact moment that my midlife crisis began. And I was forced to face the truth-it wasn’t my journalistic roots driving me. And worst of all, somewhere along the way I had become just like Lauren-a self- involved self-promoter who was addicted to publicity.

The reality was that I kept feeding the J-News monster because it was the only thing that could remove Gwen from my daydreams.

Chapter 5

Shouts of “John Peter! John Peter!” shocked me back to the present. Unless I was the next contestant on the Price is Right, I had no idea why Lauren was shouting at me with such vigor.

“You promised that our lunch wouldn’t be interrupted,” she chastised.

I found this a little odd coming from someone who’d made three phone calls, sent four texts, and posted a picture of herself on Twitter since we’d arrived. “What are you talking about?”

“Your big slug friend is here.”

“What?”

Before Lauren could answer, I felt the gargantuan arms wrapping around my neck, clamping me in a headlock. It could only be one man.

When he released me from his clutches, and my breathing returned to normal, I looked up to see the smiling man who was once a professional wrestler known as Coldblooded Carter. For longer than I can remember, Jeff Carter has been my scout, confidante, bodyguard, and the man with numerous contacts throughout the world that helped uncover the stories that ratings bonanzas are made of.

“Hope I didn’t interrupt you two lovebirds,” Carter’s booming voice filled the patio.

Lauren looked at him like he was the Ebola Virus. “John Peter and I were discussing our plans for the Fourth of July, and yes, you are interrupting.”

Carter laughed, infuriating her more, before turning his attention back to yours truly. “So what are these big Fourth of July plans, JP?”

Lauren answered for me, “Following my big interview with Lamar Thompson, we are going to spend the holiday with my family in Hilton Head.”

Carter faked a look of interest. “Wow! Meeting the parents-this is a big step, JP.”

“And Hilton Head society,” I added, now also smiling.

Carter flashed his famous sly grin and I could tell he was about to jump off the top rope and drop a flying elbow on her plans.

“Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention that JP won’t be able to attend your family gathering. We have business to attend to.” He tilted his head toward the ground as if he was mourning the dead.

My ears perked up, suddenly interested in the conversation.

Lauren boiled over. This had happened before. “John Peter,” she addressed me like a mother scolding a child.

I shrugged, as if unable to stop the inevitable.

“You have a choice, John Peter-me, or that big slug. If you walk away from this table we’re over.”

Carter picked me up like a rag doll and slung me over his shoulder. “He’s not walking away … I’m carrying him.”

A rumble of laughter erupted from the other patrons. From my perch, I caught a glance of Bridget, who was unable to fight off a smile.

Carter carried me out of the patio area to a chorus of, “John Peter, get back here!”

Finally on the bustling sidewalk, he set me down.

“Thanks, I think you saved my life,” I said, meaning every word.

Carter laughed. “I have three ex-wives-I can sense when a man needs to get six time-zones away.”