OPERATION MOCKINGBIRD

LINDA BALEtsA

Spratt & Co. LLC

Copyright 2013 by Linda Baletsa

All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America First Edition No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the authors imagination of are used fictitiously. Operation Mockingbird may be purchased online at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com and at your local bookstores. ISBN: 978-0-9894461-0-5 Cover Design by LogoWizards.com Spratt & Co. LLC November 11, 2013 Boston, MA

CHAPTER ONE

Kandahar, Afghanistan
A THUNDERING EXPLOSION ripped through the night. Matt Connellys heart jumped and then began racing. He pressed his back and arms against the wall, bracing himself, as he looked down one end of the alley and then the other. Dust filled the air, obscuring anything farther than a few feet in front of him. He began to choke and waved his hand in front of his face, trying to clear the air. The crescent-shaped moon he had seen just moments before perched above the building across the alley was now only vaguely visible through clouds of dust. There was another huge blast, and the building behind him shuddered violently against his back. Matt leaned forward and pushed himself off with the toes of his boots, propelling himself away from the structure. He landed face down in a pool of putrid water. The liquid assaulted his eyes and nose. He pushed himself up gagging and spitting just as a third explosion tore through the air. The ground trembled beneath him as the reverberating undertow of the explosion rolled past. Chunks of plaster and small rocks rained down from the sky, pounding his body and the ground around him. He covered his head with his hands and arms. Without support, he fell back into the water. He held his breath as he braced himself against the assault on his body. The objects falling from the sky continued to pummel him, purposefully pushing him deeper and deeper. A

searing pain tore through his left shoulder. He tensed but couldnt move. His eyes burned. His lungs were on fire. Matt uncovered his head and, reaching forward, pushed his head and torso up. He gasped for air and then, breathing deeply, filled his lungs. The fog before him slowly began to clear. The water beneath him began to settle. In it, Matt saw the reflection of flames licking the sky. He vaguely registered a cacophony of sounds around him. With his arms beneath him, supporting his upper body, he started to twist around. His shoulder screamed in protest. The weight on the back of his legs and lower back grew heavier, pushing him down farther and farther into the filth. The terrible screams and cries from those in the rubble behind him were the last sounds Matt heard before he fell into the murky abyss of unconsciousness.

Miami, Florida Two Months Later

skyline at night lit up with brilliant colors. A row of Art Deco hotels on South Beach. The Freedom Tower beckoning from the center of Downtown Miami. Matt smiled at the memories these pictures evoked. At Passport Control, the TSA agents eyes flickered over Matt before he swiped the passport through the reader connected to the computer. As the computer retrieved the appropriate data, the agent examined the passport carefully, flipping through the many pages of stamps. Matt saw the computer screen flash, and the agent started scrutinizing the monitor, scrolling through the data and then typing very slowly on the keyboard. Matt expelled a sigh of relief when his passport was returned and he was sent on his way. Weaving his way through the crowd, Matt dodged people embracing amid piles of luggage. Locals greeted long-lost family members in Creole, Spanish and Hebrew in the chaos that was the third largest American airport for international passengers. Occasionally, a word of English could be heard, but in most cases greetings were delivered in a heavy accent. He smiled as visitors from the Northeast, in town to escape the cold, appeared to be checking signs to make sure they had in fact arrived at a United States airport and not in some foreign country. The appreciative glances he garnered from the women he passed did not go unnoticed. Matt was 6 feet 2 inches tall, leaner than when he had started his journey and, after months in the desert, deeply tanned. His light brown hair was bleached practically blond by the sun. Matt figured he was probably being mistaken for a lawyer or an accountant returning from a relaxing vacation in the Caribbean. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. Baggage. We all have it, read the Kenneth Cole advertisement on the luggage carousel. But Matt felt rather light

in the baggage department. Sure, he had some issues but, after what he had just been through, he figured his baggage was completely manageable. Baggage. We all have it. But it doesnt necessarily need to weigh you down, Matt thought, finishing the advertisement from his own perspective. He grabbed his bag, walked out of the airport and hailed a cab. TWENTY MINUTES LATER the cab pulled up at Matts childhood home in Coconut Grove, the oldest neighborhood in Miami. It was a small two-bedroom Florida bungalow originally built in the 1950s and dwarfed now by the McMansions that had popped up on either side during the last real estate boom. He paid the cab driver and smiled as he walked up the path leading to the front door. His neighbor Pierre had been true to his word and maintained the lawn while Matt was gone. The dense foliage that had laid claim to the yard for even longer than Matt was somewhat contained. After getting settled in, Matt loaded the washing machine with clothes heavy with dust and mud before grabbing a beer from the fridge. He sat down in front of the computer and booted it up. While he waited, he twisted off the bottle top and tossed it into a nearby trashcan. Going straight to email, he quickly deleted all the spam emails and other garbage that had accumulated in the months since he had last been able to check his email. He was left with several inquiries from friends concerned about his whereabouts. He sent out a brief message to everyone on his buddy list to let them know he was fine, was back in town and would catch up with them later. There was a message from adoren1105@hotmail.com that survived the purge. Alex Doren identified himself as a fellow writer and asked for a personal interview with Matt to speak about his experiences in Afghanistan. No way, he thought to

himself. If anyone was going to write about his experiences, it was going to be him. Matt had written a few pieces while he was at a U.S. Army base hospital in Afghanistan recovering from his injuries, and he wanted to get those published. Then he wanted to take a sixmonth sabbatical and write a book. A book would give him a lot more breathing space for more details and his own opinion, stuff that probably wouldnt be considered appropriate for a daily periodical. All of this, he would need to clear with his boss Dave Kagan. Matt deleted the message without responding. He had saved the best for last and settled down to read the three messages from his old friend Stephen Cross, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist from The New York Times who had always been encouraging and helpful when Matt was just starting out. He and Stephen had been in Iraq together but had separated when Stephen had left Iraq and headed to Europe for a much-deserved vacation before returning to the United States. Matt decided to make the trek to the Kandahar Province in Afghanistan before his own return and they hadnt communicated directly since. The first message brought a chuckle: Hey, buddy, Im back. I arrived last night. Four weeks since I left and Im still cleaning Iraqi sand out of every orifice. Im not sure where you are and when youll get this, but when you do, give me a call or shoot me a text. Matt smiled, tipped his beer to the computer monitor screen and leaned back to enjoy the second message: Matt, Ive been getting settled back in town. Tomorrow, I meet with my boss. Im going to try to sell her some of my material, regroup for a while here, and then head back out. Since my return, Ive been checking

out the competition. Man, I cant believe how far off the mark these guys are about whats going on in the sandbox. Our stuffs going to blow people away. Call me! The third message, dated just two week before, intrigued Matt: Matt, I heard what happened to you. By now you should be on your way back to the states. We need to talk. Call me as soon as you get this. Matt grabbed the phone and punched in Stephens cell phone number. His call was directed straight to voice mail. A computer generated voice told him that Stephens voice mailbox was full. Damn, Matt muttered. He hung up and turned back to the computer to type a reply email. Hey, Stephen. Great to hear from you! I just got back. I tried to reach you but no luck. Tomorrow I start to make the rounds myself. Im meeting with my boss in the morning. Other than that, Ill be around all day. Call me. Matt headed off to bed. Just as he started to succumb to the comfort of clean sheets, soft pillows and a real mattress, he thought about Stephens emails. That last one had sounded like he was on to something. Knowing the man as Matt did, whatever Stephen had gotten himself involved with would be good, with no small amount of danger and intrigue -- if not in reality, then certainly by the time Stephen finished telling the tale.

CHAPTER TWO

THE NEXT MORNING Matt got his Jeep and drove down to The Chronicle Building. Parking in the basement garage, he took the elevator up to the lobby where the first thing he saw was Ana Lopez. Her face lit up the moment she saw him. Hola, Matt, como estas? she said, walking up to him quickly. In Miami, where even strangers were greeted with a kiss on the cheek, Matt also received an embrace lasting long enough to communicate a familiar undercurrent of attraction. Very good, Ana, Matt replied. And you? Excellent now, she said looking into his eyes. Subtlety was an art wasted on Ana. Flirtation and sexual innuendo, on the other hand, she had long since mastered. Ana had been one of four in a secretarial pool meant to service the over-eager young journalists working for The Chronicle, one of them being Matt. She had since moved up the career ladder exponentially. Now, she was the executive assistant to Dave Kagan, the editor-in-chief and Matts boss. The job change definitely agreed with her. She was wearing a red dress that hugged her full figure in all the right places. She moved easily in shoes that most women would consider impossible for walking. Her ears and fingers shimmered with gold jewelry, glistening like the thick auburn hair hanging long and straight to the middle of her back. Her dark eyes were heavily lined and her lips were moist with freshly applied lipstick. Ay, Matt, Im so glad youre back, she continued. Its been so boring here without you. And Ive missed my happy hour buddy. Her bottom lip pushed out into an adorable pout. It was a look Matt had been the recipient of many times in the past, one that completely enthralled him. He sometimes sought to disappoint Ana just for the fun of seeing that sad face and then replacing it with one of sheer delight. He wasnt the only one,

though, who appreciated Ana. Back in the day, Ana had most of the single guys in the office vying for her attention -- which was exactly the way she liked it. Im glad to be back, Matt replied. And Im definitely looking forward to one of those happy hours. Well, Ill put you back in the loop, she said beaming. There it was -- the smile. As they walked through the hallways and toward Dave Kagans office, Matt could feel the energy bouncing off the walls of the newsroom. He had missed it. The phones ringing, computer keyboards crackling and reporters huddled together along the tight row of desks. The smell of burnt coffee from the morning and leftover Cuban food from lunch and then dinner for the journalists working late to meet the dreaded deadline. Finally, they got to Dave Kagans corner office. Ana stood back to let Matt go in first. Matt, Kagan said warmly as he rose from behind his enormous antique desk. Welcome back. Thanks, Dave. Its good to be here. His boss may have put on a few pounds, his blond hair may have thinned a bit, but the time since Matt had first come to the paper ten years ago had otherwise been good to the man. He was dressed in freshly pressed khaki trousers. He wore a starched white shirt that was in sharp contrast to the deeply tanned skin visible at the neckline and where his sleeves ended. A navy sweater was tied loosely around his neck. A gold Rolex glittered on his wrist from underneath the French cuffs fastened with monogrammed cuff links. Sit down, Matt, Dave said as he gestured to the empty seat in front of his desk. And, Ana, could you get us both some black coffee? Dave settled into the deep leather chair behind his desk. Out the picture window behind the editor, Matt could see all

the way across Biscayne Bay to the Venetian Islands and almost the entire length of South Beach. On one side of Kagans desk sat a flat-screen computer monitor hooked up to an ultra-thin laptop in a cradle. Advertising layouts covered the flat surfaces of the otherwise immaculate desk. Dave Kagan had been the papers editor-in-chief since before Matt had joined the staff fresh out of college. He had been a very hands-on editor, involved in every story line as it developed, and reviewing every article before it was permitted to be included in the final edition. He had been more diligent than any of the copy editors, and Matt had been the recipient of many pages bearing the red Sharpie evidence of Kagans dissatisfaction. So, Matt, how are you? Dave gestured with his chin in the general direction of Matts shoulder. Fine, Matt replied shrugging off Daves concern. A little sore, but the doctors tell me Ill be fine. Thats good to hear. I was worried about you. You took a lot of unnecessary risks in Afghanistan, Kagan continued. What the hell were you doing skipping out on the embed program? You were supposed to stay with all the other approved reporters, not run off to Fallujah and then Kandahar where you didnt have any military support. That was risky, Matt, and could have ended up much worse than it did. It wasnt that bad ... Not only was it bad, Matt, Dave interrupted, but it was also against The Chronicles orders. You should have stayed in the embed program instead of running around Afghanistan by yourself. You couldve gotten some good stuff and we would have been able to keep you safe. Good stuff? Matt snorted. Come on, Dave, those embeds got crap. They only got what the Defense Department wanted them to get.

In 2003, the Bush Administration created the embed program, which allowed only approved journalists to be in Iraq and Afghanistan and only if they agreed to be attached to military units. Nearly 600 reporters working for news agencies from around the world agreed to the terms and traveled alongside U.S. and coalition forces. Administration officials hailed the program for permitting access to the front lines and soldiers daily lives. Media watchdog groups, on the other hand, criticized its often restrictive nature and publicly worried that reporters would become indoctrinated into the military culture, develop relationships with the soldiers and then deliver stories from a military point of view instead of an objective one. Some journalists -- including Matt -- believed that the program rules only enhanced the militarys ability to limit the release of undesirable news and eschewed any involvement with the program. Listen, Matt, Kagan replied, we were one of the first participants in the embed program. From that program, we were able to get a birds-eye view of what was going on over there. In Iraq, we got stories and pictures of GI Joe and GI Jane on the front lines. Videos of the most sophisticated fighting machine in the world bombing and shootin the shit out of the bad guys. In Afghanistan, we got pictures of people proudly displaying their purple fingers on Election Day. That stuff was priceless. Matt sat up straighter in his chair. That stuff was Pentagon propaganda. Those guys were essentially acting as the governments stenographers, starting with the reporting on the search for WMDs that didnt exist and then on to how great the war was going even as more and more military personnel and civilians were being killed. Maybe, Kagan interrupted with a small smile. But our readers love that so-called Pentagon propaganda. That stuff

sold papers. Folks dont want to hear the doom and gloom -negative news or reports of tragedy or failure. And were struggling for survival here. We have to give the people what they want. Dave, thats bullshit, Matt protested. His comment drew a surprised look from Ana who had just arrived with two mugs of coffee. As she sat the coffee mugs down on the desk in front of Matt, she shot him a warning look before she turned and walked out the door. Matt continued despite Anas warning. The embed program lost all credibility after the truth about Jessica Lynch and Pat Tillman came out. You would have thought they would have killed the program after that. But, instead, several years later, the program is still going strong. I couldnt stomach getting involved. Matt was referring to the extreme measures the U.S. government took, at first to win popular support for the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and then later, when the wars werent going to so well, to avoid negative backlash. In the case of Private First Class Jessica Lynch, the military tried to capitalize on the capture and ultimate rescue of the first U.S. prisoner of war since World War II and the first woman prisoner by issuing press releases describing her heroic actions before she was ultimately captured. It was later determined -- and confirmed by Jessica Lynch -- that the reports were incorrect and likely attributed to the Pentagons attempts at manipulating the media. The Pat Tillman story was slightly different. In the aftermath of September 11th, Tillman left a successful professional football career to join the Army Rangers. He served several tours in Afghanistan before he died in the mountains of Afghanistan. When he was killed, the Army figured out relatively early on that he had died from friendly fire but

reported that he had been killed by enemy fire in order to avoid having to admit to the human error and to be able to exploit the memory of a beloved celebrity. Well, Matt, Dave finally said as he clapped his hands. Either way, the war in the Middle East is finally coming to an end. Military operations in Iraq have been terminated and the troops in Afghanistan will be gone by next year. Thankfully. Im not so sure about that, Matt said. Theres still a lot going on in the Middle East. The U.S. government may have declared formal military operations over and may have set a timeline for troop withdrawals, but were still going to have a presence over there -- in some form or another. And that presence is going to have some serious implications here and internationally. Maybe, Kagan replied. Ive certainly heard talk of that. But, folks are more focused on the economy now and on jobs. Those are the issues our readers want to hear about. Since when does a newspaper filter the news based on what it believes its readers want to hear? Matt tried to keep himself from shouting as he pressed on. With all due respect, Dave, our job is to inform people, tell them whats really going on -- even if its unpleasant and not necessarily what they want to hear. Still the idealist, I see. Matt, lets get serious, Dave continued. When you were here, The Chronicle was a privately held local paper owned by the Walker family. About a month after you left, the Walkers threw in the towel and sold the paper to the Armstrong Media Corporation, a public company. Now, were accountable to a board of directors and to our shareholders. John Armstrong -our CEO, Chairman of the Board and largest shareholder -expects us to consistently exceed Wall Streets earnings expectations. Armstrong calls me twice a day to remind me that

we need to cater to a much broader audience. As a result, Im constantly commissioning these surveys that tell us what our readers are most interested in. Our readers must have some interest in whats going on outside of our little Banana Republic, Matt replied. Dave smiled at the local reference to the City of Miami and its crazy politics. Yes, they do. Right now, the average person is interested in jobs and how they make up all the money they have lost as a result of the worst market crash since the Great Depression. An awkward silence filled the room. Matt knew he had screwed up. Once again, he had let his temper get the best of him. The conversation was headed downhill quickly and he wasnt sure how to apply the brakes, let alone turn the conversation around. Finally, Dave took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. But, listen, thats not to say were not interested in what youve got. Matt felt like Dave was throwing him a lifeline. Dave glanced at his watch. Go home, email me all your drafts and story ideas, whatever youre thinking about. Ill see if maybe we can use some of your material. Dave started to rise. Thanks, Dave. Matt said taking his cue and standing up. I appreciate that. When they got to the door, Matt hesitated before asking the question that had been weighing heavily on him. What about Commissioner Suarez? A few months before he had left for Afghanistan, Matt had written a series of negative -- but well-researched -- articles about City of Miami Commissioner Carlos Suarez. The articles described how Suarez had violated campaign finance laws by taking campaign contributions from convicted felons, some of

whom were partners in his own real estate ventures. Suarez, himself a man with a questionable past, hadnt appreciated the embarrassing allegations and had publicly threatened to destroy Matts career. It looks like hes going to return the contributions and get away with a slap on the wrist for questionable campaign finance activities. Thanks to his brother the Senator, of course. Kagan opened the door as he continued. As you may have heard since you got back, the commissioner is running for re-election and, despite all the controversy, it looks like hell win. Kagan signaled to Ana who looked up from her desk. Dont worry, Matt, Kagan rested a firm hand on Matts shoulder. The commissioner likely has more important things on his plate than his vendetta against you. But Im not going to lie to you. Youre going to have to promise to keep him out of your sights. Think you can do that? I dont know, Dave, hes an awfully appealing target, Matt replied honestly. But, I really want to focus on the Middle East. So Im sure I can play nice at least for a little while. Thats the spirit, Matt, Dave said as he slapped Matt on the back and ushered him out the door. Place nice. Life will be much easier that way. CHAPTER THREE JUST ANOTHER DAY in paradise Matt thought as he headed down to Scottys Landing to meet his old friend and neighbor Pierre Baptiste. Palm trees planted along South Bayshore Drive swayed in the gentle breeze coming off the bay. The sky was a cloudless sapphire blue. The black asphalt street gleamed from the effects of the sun. The air-conditioning was

going at full blast but the sun beating down on the roof of Matts CJ-5 Jeep Renegade created a sauna effect. Matt arrived at Scottys Landing just before 1 oclock. He parked, went in to sit at the bar and ordered a beer. Despite the heat, the marina deck and restaurant were packed. The locals were accustomed to the weather, and the tourists were not to be deterred in their pursuit of fun in the sun. The bayside restaurant was situated in the middle of a busy marina filled with boats, but had a casual laid-back atmosphere and serene setting. Every seat in the place enjoyed a view of Biscayne Bay where manatees floated by and occasionally pushed their snouts up to the surface for some air. Women in bikinis strutted their stuff between the various boats, the marina and the restaurant. Hey, stranger. Matt felt a heavy paw land on his right shoulder and turned to see Pierre grinning widely even as he sweated from the heat and the extra eighty pounds he carried. The man was clearly losing his ongoing battle with vaca frita and black beans and rice but that didnt seem to affect his disposition at all. Matt rose and allowed himself to be enveloped into a bear hug. Pain shot through Matts left shoulder and he gritted his teeth. Hey, buddy. How you doin? Matt said clapping Pierre on the back while at the same time trying to steer his face clear of the dark crescents in the armpits of his old friends shirt. Im hot as a pig on a spit. Thats how I am, Pierre said finally letting Matt go. The bigger man ran his forearm across his glistening brow. When his round face emerged, he was still smiling. His coal-black face, dark eyes and bald head were a welcome sight for Matts tired eyes. Have a seat, my brother! Matt said gesturing to the stool beside him. You look like a man in desperate need of some refreshment. He waved to the young girl behind the bar.

Janie, a Bud Light for my friend here and another for me, please. Pierre and Matt proceeded to engage in the male version of conversation, covering all the important points such as frustrating sports team performance and attractive women, peppered with brutal assaults on each others masculinity. So, how was it over there? Pierre finally asked. Intense. Really intense, Matt replied. You wouldnt believe the shit those people have been through -- still go through every day. Are you gonna tell me about it or should I just wait to read about it in The Chronicle? I met with my boss yesterday, but he didnt seem real receptive to my material. Seems the news business has changed a little since Ive been gone. They think more happy news is going to help them increase their circulation and me going in to the nitty-gritty about whats going on in Afghanistan these days doesnt fall within that category. Matt paused. Im not sure theyre going to run my stuff. Im sure youll work it out, Pierre replied. The Chronicle is lucky to have you -- and your material. I appreciate that, but I gotta tell you, Pierre. They didnt seem real eager to have me back. You think that may have something to do with your expos on Commissioner Suarez? I dont think so. Theyre trying to convince me that people around here arent interested in whats going on in the Middle East. Well, the military does seem to finally have things under control. Matt scoffed. Yeah, I wish, Pierre. Matt took a drink. Based on my experiences, the situation is worse than ever. I saw Americans and Afghan noncombatants get blown to bits --

in broad daylight no less. I also saw a lot of new construction over there -- military bases -- and that seemed to be a pretty strong indicator that the U.S. presence there is going to be significant and permanent. Dont you think people want to know about that? I dont know. Probably not. I dont, Pierre admitted. People are tired of hearing about the war and the money thats being spent over there. I know I am. I read about the big bags of cash that the CIA was dropping off at President Karzais office and it just made me sick. Sick to my stomach thinking about how that money could be used over here. Pierre shook his head. And while the U.S. government is handing over that kind of cash, I have to worry about how Im going take care of my parents as they get on or what happens if I get sick since I dont have health insurance. An uncomfortable silence fell between the two old friends. Matt was surprised to hear the big mans confession, although he shouldnt have been. Pierres parents were Haitian and had come to the United States back in the 1970s through the Dominican Republic. With only limited education, his parents had raised four children in the United States. Pierre was the oldest and ran a successful landscaping business from which he supported himself and a few other guys. Business had always seemed to be good, but Matt imagined that he struggled with making enough to provide for himself and still help out his parents who lived nearby. Both men stared out into the Bay as they sipped their drinks. So have you called Dana to let her know youre back in town? Pierre asked. Nah, man. Matt said shaking his head firmly. You know we left it on bad terms. She was pretty upset I was going. Well, I think she might have recovered from her grief.

What are you talking about? Matt said turning in his bar stool to look at Pierre directly. Have you seen her? Pierre nodded. I was at Montys about a month ago. You remember that place? Matt nodded yes. It was late in the afternoon and she came by boat. Pierre turned toward Matt and smiled. Get this. It was a Cigarette Tiger Twin Step called Dr. Feel Good. Both men grimaced. The guy at the wheel must have been about fifteen years older than Dana and looked it. But Dana, Pierre shook his head slowly from side to side. Mmm, mmm, mmm. That girl sure looked fine. Pierre paused and looked off into the distance. And ... Matt finally prodded when it seemed like Pierre had gotten lost in his thoughts. I spoke with her briefly. Pierre continued quickly. She asked about you. Pierre shot Matt a meaningful look. You should give her a call. Bad idea, my friend. You know I really didnt have a chance with her. She was just slummin it with me until someone better came along. It looks like she found her man. And a doctor no less. I bet her mama sure is proud.

AS MATT DROVE HOME from his afternoon with Pierre his thoughts drifted to his ex-girlfriend Dana Fried. She worked for the agency formerly known as the Immigration and Naturalization Services, or INS, until after September 11th when it had been absorbed by the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. She was a lawyer specializing in immigration issues in several key regions including the Caribbean. They met when Matt was researching a story on the U.S. policy on Haitian

immigrants compared to the policy on Cuban immigrants. Dana had been recommended by a friend as someone he could talk to and who could help provide some background for his story. Dana and Matt hit it off immediately and began dating just after his article was published. Their relationship was fun and passionate and, Matt had to admit, the closest thing to a real relationship hed ever had. After they had been dating for several months, Dana started talking to Matt about his career. It started as questions about how his day went and he couldnt help but he flattered she was interested in what he did. But Dana quickly moved from asking general questions about his job to offering specific career advice and then to pushing him in directions designed to advance his career down a sensible path. A path that required daily shaving, networking at various events and a new set of friends. He soon found himself being directed down a road he did not want to travel. She didnt take it very well when Matt started ignoring her guidance and any discussions about his professional progression as she liked to call it. Matt began to realize just how driven Dana was, professionally and socially. She already had the successful career, having established herself as an expert on U.S. immigration policies. She was at a point in her life when she wanted to establish herself in the center of the Miami social scene, a place her parents had long occupied. She served on several strategically chosen charity boards. She got invited to all the right events and attended most of them, mingling easily with the Miami elite. She had enough ambition for the two of them plus half the slackers in Matts own social circle. Matt was being dragged to those networking events and fundraisers that made it to the top of Danas pile of invitations.

Once there, he was awkwardly rubbing elbows with Miami politicos, international businessmen and professional athletes. At first, it was pretty exciting stuff, but Dana approached these events as she did her career -- with a singular focus on cultivating the relationships that would enable her to be accepted as a member of the group of professionals known as much for their connections as anything they may have accomplished. His aspirations were a lot less grand -- a hot wife, a couple of kids and an interesting job that enabled him to travel occasionally to exotic locations to report on the latest political scandal or civilian uprising. Sure, he wanted to make enough money to support his family, maybe even enough to own a boat and a house in the Keys. That was about the extent of his dreams. Aside from the occasional Art Deco pub crawl on South Beach or some random international street festival, he had little interest in the Miami social scene. His decision to leave for Afghanistan just when the problems between Dana and him were coming to a head didnt help matters. Dana saw Matts decision to run off to the Middle East, without the support of an embedded team of other reporters and heavy army escort -- and knowing his views on the situation and guessing the nature of the stories he would be writing -- as a very career-limiting move. She had always accused him of being politically tone deaf. In a moment of clarity, just days before he left, he realized that while she meant this as an insult, he did not consider her accusation a slur upon his character. He thought the opposite was true. Being politically tone-deaf was a condition he cultivated. It was, he believed, what made him a hell of a good investigative reporter. One evening as they were getting ready to attend yet another fancy charity event, she gave him the ultimatum most men were faced with sooner or later. Fish or cut bait. Get

engaged or it was over. Matt immediately identified the bait and the sharpened hook from which it was dangled. He didnt go for the lure. Instead, he used his impressive communication skills learned from years of interviewing reticent witnesses -- and the avoidance techniques learned from years of bachelorhood -to manage the situation. He paused and took her slender, well-manicured hand into his own. He glanced at her mouth, set with determination. He looked into her brown eyes, fierce with resolve. He held her stare for several seconds before bringing her hand to his lips and kissing it tenderly. He then turned her hand over, pointed to the diamond encrusted Rolex her parents had given her for her 21st birthday and finally spoke. The gala started ten minutes ago. We should get going. Dana shot him a withering glance, pulled her hand away and then surprised him with a powerful punch to the shoulder before storming out of the room. The temperature in the car on the way over was below zero on the emotional interaction gauge. By the time they arrived at the charity event, Dana still hadnt spoken. As they walked through the door, Dana fixed the first smile of the evening on her face, made her way through the crowded room and toward the table her parents were sharing with a prominent local attorney and his wife. The wife was a regular in Miami social circles and the current star of the latest Housewives of Miami series. Matt took one look at the table and then around the room and quickly determined he was in dire need of some anesthetic. He made a beeline for the bar. Several single malt Macallans later, he was still standing at the bar when Miami Commissioner Carlos Suarez showed up, accompanied by a woman Matt quickly identified as the flavor of the month. Matt watched the very married commissioner weave his way through the crowd shaking hands, slapping

shoulders and kissing the cheeks of the beautiful and powerful people. Matt scowled as he watched others around him practically genuflect to the commissioner as he moved through the room. His companion followed at a discreet distance. The week before Matt had done a series of articles about the former bad boy turned local politician. He described the commissioners associations with convicted felons, some of whom were partners in his current business ventures. He detailed the charges recently brought against Commissioner Suarez for violation of campaign finance laws for receiving campaign contributions from criminal elements. In his articles, Matt argued for the need to hold public officials if not to a higher standard, than certainly to the same standard expected of city workers. Yet, Commissioner Suarez now made his way through the crowd with the confidence of a man who felt no such compunction. He was unwittingly headed straight for Matt, a journalist the Commissioner had once suggested should commit a sex act upon himself. This was proposed in the most unseemly of terms and while the seasoned politician was unknowingly being recorded by a major network. For those who missed the seven oclock, ten oclock and even eleven oclock news, Matt proudly recounted all the details of the encounter in an article that appeared the next morning in The Chronicle. The commissioner arrived at the bar and nodded to the bartender, who proceeded to prepare the Commissioners regular. Suarez caught sight of Matt for the first time and stopped, the smile frozen on his face. The two adversaries stared at each for several seconds, neither saying a word, neither moving. Matt finally smiled slightly. The right corner of the commissioners mouth twitched. The crowd around them, aware of the significance of this chance encounter, grew quiet. The woman accompanying the commissioner bestowed a wide

smile upon the bartender and Matt as she caught up with her date. Matt, the commissioner said as he took the drink proffered by the bartender. Commissioner Suarez, Matt replied, nodding politely before turning to introduce himself to the politicians companion. He filed her name away for research later. The commissioner ordered a drink for the lady before turning to greet the couple standing behind Matt. The bartender scrambled to find a white zinfandel while the commissioner schmoozed with the president of a regional construction company, the recipient of the largest government contract in Miami-Dade County history, which was recently jammed through the system by none other than Commissioner Suarez. Several moments passed when Matt didnt say a word. But soon the temptation became overwhelming. Dana was nowhere in sight, and Macallan was doing the thinking. As the commissioner reached for his companions wine and turned around to pass it to her, Matt called to him. Excuse me, Commissioner Suarez. His voice sounded loud, even to himself. Some people around the bar turned to look at him, others averted their eyes even as they stayed conspicuously within earshot. Matt lowered his voice but continued. Is it true that your office spent $28,000 at the Organ Grinder in South Miami and, in particular, on a professional dancer by the name of Kiki Calle Ocho? Matt could see the horrified looks on the faces of those in the crowd. The onlookers alternated between shooting glances at Matt to stealing looks at Suarez. The commissioners date was smiling, basking in the attention and the glow of the warm

bodies pressed around them, oblivious to the fact that this might not be the type of attention that one should crave. Suarez turned slowly toward Matt as he continued. I spoke with Ms. Calle Ocho. She says shes a close personal friend of yours. The smile became a grimace as the right corner of Commissioner Suarezs mouth began to jerk. The right eye joined in and there was a veritable concert of uncontrolled activity taking over the mans face. Matt offered his nemesis his most engaging smile and took another sip from his own glass. Matt briefly looked away as he returned his glass to the napkin on the bar and reached for a small notepad in his suit jacket pocket. Matt turned back toward Commissioner Suarez just in time to see the man, throw his head and glass back, inhaling the liquid. He flung his glass to the ground and he lunged at Matt, slamming him against the back of the bar. Matt stumbled and then pushed back. The two men fell into the crowd. A woman screamed, and the onlookers in the crowd scrambled away. The men crashed to the floor. Suarez punched and kicked from underneath, as Matt tried to deflect the blows while at the same time pushing himself up and off the other man. Matt was suddenly struck in the back of the head by a blunt object. Everything after that was a bit of a blur. Matt was jerked up to his feet, escorted to an exit by two very large men and was unceremoniously thrown out of the building. Out on the sidewalk, Matt inspected the damage done to his rented tuxedo. One torn pants pocket. Missing bow tie. His head throbbed and he felt an egg rising on the back of his head but he supposed it could have been worse. He looked around, not surprised to see that Commissioner Suarez wasnt standing on the street with him. He thought

briefly about going back inside but quickly acknowledged that none of the socialites inside, including his date, would be missing him. The next day The Chronicle published Matts story reporting on the events that had transpired the night before. The day after that, though, after receiving several phone calls from Senator Suarez, the commissioners older brother and a powerful statesman, the paper put Matt on temporary leave. Management was impressed with his gutsy recklessness, or so they said behind closed doors. But the paper was the subject of intense pressure from several local politicians and many loyal constituents of Commissioner Suarez who all suggested that Matt was harassing a prominent politician who was being unfairly persecuted by the federal judicial system, a system that was clearly biased against Hispanics. Matt didnt know when things would die down. For some time he had been thinking about traveling to the Middle East. Right now was looking like a really good time. He wasnt sure how long it would be before some politician or star athlete found himself embroiled in a very public scandal and for Matts rather public interview of the commissioner to be forgotten. Matt started to make the arrangements. He tried to speak with Dana before he left. He left messages on her voice mail. He sent emails. He had flowers delivered to her office. He harassed the doormen of her apartment building, who had apparently been instructed not to let him up the elevator. He sheepishly dropped by her work where he was met with an icy stare from the receptionist. Dana wouldnt see him or take his calls. Finally, the time came for him to leave and he did without having made amends. He hated to admit it now -- but from her perspective Dana had a right to be pissed off. His altercation

with Suarez and his decision to go to Afghanistan may have been yet another in a series of career-limiting moves.

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