When you’ve risked your life in the world’s most dangerous places, a long life expectancy isn’t so expected. So it wasn’t a surprise that I was having a midlife crisis in just my late thirties. The only question was why it took so long.
I sat at a small table on the patio of a trendy midtown restaurant called Norvell’s, alone, but not by myself. The relentless machine of Manhattan traffic whisked behind me, filling the summer day with the majestic sounds of honking horns, which someone once described to me as urban bird chirping. The day was a spring-like seventy-two degrees with only a few clouds in the aqua sky, making it hard to imagine that thunderstorms were predicted for later this afternoon.
Across from me sat Lauren Bowden-her glowing blonde hair surrounding her angelic face. She claimed to be eleven years my junior, although my trusty reporter skills told me that her given age wasn’t the same one that was on her birth certificate.
Lauren has been what I’d loosely refer to as my girlfriend for the past year. She’s also my co-worker at GNZ (Global Newz), an international cable news network, and as long as I’m playing loose with terms, news might be a stretch when describing my industry as of late. It’s been taken over by loud, noise-driven sensationalism that my boss, Cliff Sutcliffe, glowingly refers to as newsertainment. The running joke is that GNZ used to spell news with a Z since they were a unique alternative to traditional news, but now it’s because much of their on-air talent can’t spell. But that wouldn’t be my concern for much longer.
I accidentally spent a few seconds away from showering Lauren with attention, which she not-so-subtly let me know by slamming shut her menu. She then addressed me in her southern accented voice, “John Peter, Norvell’s is world famous for its fabulous sushi. It’s the only real choice. So for the life of me, I can’t figure out why you’ve been staring so intently at that menu.”
I had hoped to buy a few more minutes hiding behind the menu. Usually she was too focused on herself to notice my avoidance techniques. Out of options, I was forced to endure a few uncomfortable moments of mundane conversation. But since I didn’t get a word in, I’m not sure the term ‘conversation’ would be accurate.
Thankfully, our waitress arrived just in time to stop the migraine that had begun to percolate behind my right eye. As usual, Lauren waited for me to order for her. But I was drawing a blank.
“What did you say you wanted again?”
“Weren’t you listening, John Peter? I said to order two sushis and two glasses of their best cab.”
Cab is what I needed, as in the yellow kind with four wheels to flee the scene. I held a long look on Lauren, before switching my glance to our waitress, who wore a no-frills uniform and a pleasant smile. A complete contrast. Her name was Bridget, which I knew because she had been our regular waitress since Lauren decided that Norvell’s was going to be
“She’ll have two orders of sushi-the hosomaki-and two glasses of your best Cabernet. I’ll take a cheeseburger and a bottle of your cheapest beer.”
Bridget fought back a grin, gathered herself, and asked me which type of cheese I desired on my burger. I made a not very funny joke about holding the cheese on the cheeseburger, which received a giggle. I settled on American cheese. I’d been to so many countries the last twenty years that American seemed exotic.
Lauren flashed me a dirty look for going against her wishes. Or perhaps for evoking the flirtatious giggle from the waitress. The
I ignored Lauren, seeking the refuge of a daydream. But I was jolted back to reality by an angry twang firing at me from pointblank range. “Are you listening to me, John Peter?”
I’ve always been confused as to why she calls me John Peter, since that’s not what JP stands for. “I’m sorry, you were talking about um … well … you know the…”
She flashed me her most displeased look. “I was talking about our trip to visit my parents in Hilton Head this weekend. It’s the Fourth of July, if you haven’t forgotten.”
I racked my brain to think if it were actually possible that I’d agreed to this. I had interviewed rogue dictators and heartless terror-mongers over the years, but I still wasn’t sure I was prepared to meet the people who created Lauren Bowden.
“I did?”
She sighed theatrically. “Yes, first we will stop in North Carolina for my big interview with Lamar Thompson, and then to Mommy and Daddy’s place. They insisted we stay with them.”
It was best not to argue. She would just claim that my forgetfulness was due to jealousy, since she was able to beat me out for the Thompson interview. The truth was, I would have refused it, due to its tabloid nature. In the world according to Lauren, this would be another example of why I’d become a dinosaur in this business, and my career was “in a dreadful decline.” Little did she know that this dinosaur was about to become happily extinct.
The interviewee in question, Lamar Thompson, first entered the limelight twenty years ago when he was a high school basketball star out of Columbia, South Carolina. At the time, he was the most celebrated and highly recruited prep basketball player in history. Lamar chose the University of North Carolina, but he never got to play a game.
On an October night of his freshman year at UNC, two weeks prior to the start of basketball season, it all ended for him. In the spirit of being young and stupid, Thompson and a couple of fellow classmates decided to spend their Friday night pulling a prank. They hid in the wooded area alongside a dark, country road in a small town outside of Chapel Hill. When an unsuspecting car drove by, they tossed a lifelike dummy onto its hood, giving the driver the impression of having struck a real person. It was followed by beer-buzzed laughs of insensitive youth and an exhilarating dash for safety.
It eventually led to a high-speed chase with police, which ended with Thompson’s car slamming into an oncoming vehicle driven by Marilyn Lacey. The mother of three was killed instantly.
There were two other people in Thompson’s car-fellow UNC classmate Brad Lynch, who died from injuries sustained in the crash, and another passenger who survived, but was never identified due to the fact he or she was a juvenile. But when word got out, it really didn’t matter who else was involved, because the only name people were talking about was Lamar Thompson … the next great thing.
Lamar’s leg was mangled in the accident, ending his promising basketball career. That was the good news for him. The bigger problem was that he was legally drunk, and despite his claims to the contrary, he was identified as the driver. He served five years in the state pen for vehicular manslaughter. The years following were no kinder to him-he was now an unemployed night watchman with a history of substance abuse.
But the reason Lamar Thompson was once again relevant, was his recent assertion that there was a fourth man in the car that night named Craig Kingsbury, and that he was the one who was drunk behind the wheel. The reason this was front-page news, and screwing up my holiday weekend, was that Craig was now Senator Kingsbury, who had just tossed his name into the ring to become the next President of the United States, and many believe the frontrunner.
Lauren grew annoyed with my distracted pause. “John Peter, where
The question was not where I was, but rather, how the hell did I get here? My old high school journalism teacher, Murray Brown, always preached that journalism went beyond the traditional who, what, where, why, and how. A great journalist tells a story, and to write the ending, one must return to the beginning. And whenever I return to the beginning of my story it always takes me back to Gwen.
Chapter 4
I first met Gwen Delaney when her family moved two houses down the street from ours in the town of Rockfield, Connecticut. We were five years old. From that point on we were inseparable. We went from childhood
