The Wages of Sin

By Quintin Peterson

D.C. Police Officer Jacob "Doc" Holloway was recruited to
work as a narcotics undercover operative for the federally funded
Janus Project, working in conjunction with federal law
enforcement agencies' entire Special Investigations Network
(SIN). Eighteen months later, he discovered that he had merely
been a pawn of corrupt government and law enforcement
officials seeking to eliminate their competition and ensure the
continued success of their own criminal enterprises.

Now Doc Holloway has vowed to bring down these corrupt
individuals and to see to it that they reap what they have sown.

The wages of sin is death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 18, 2002
• ISBN: 9781403368119

Quintin Peterson

Quintin Peterson is the author of several plays and screenplays. He resides in Washington, DC and is a native Washingtonian. As a junior high school student, he attended the Corcoran School of Art on a scholarship. While still in high school, he was honored with the University of Wisconsin's Science Fiction Writing Award and the National Council of Teachers of English Writing Award. Upon receiving the Wisconsin Junior Academy's Writing Achievement Award, his name was included in Who's Who Among American High School Students of 1975. As an undergraduate communications major at the University of Wisconsin, he wrote and performed in two plays for stage and videotape and received a Mary Roberts Rinehart Foundation grant for his play project, Change. A National Endowment for the Arts creative writing fellowship and a playwriting grant from the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities followed. Subsequently, two of his radio plays were aired on WPFW-FM Pacifica Radio as productions of the Minority Arts Ensemble's Radio Drama Workshop '79. Mr. Peterson is a 20-year-veteran police officer with the Metropolitan Police Department and is currently assigned to its Office of Public Information as a media liaison officer. He is also a liaison between the department and members of the motion picture and television industries, acting as a script consultant and technical advisor. His debut novel, SIN, was published in October of 2000. THE WAGES OF SIN is his second novel.

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PROLOGUE

Ciudad Juarez, Mexico

Wednesday, July 22, 1986

6:47 P.M.

Pablo Pineda stood by and waited impatiently while agents assigned to the U.S. Customs station near Chamizal National Memorial Park were checking the last shipment of the day he was hauling for Samuel Boss Crockett’s Alamo Corporation from maquiladoras, Mexican assembly plants owned by non-Mexican corporations that manufacture finished goods for export to the United States. This arrangement increases the profit margins for such businesses by allowing them to take advantage of low-cost Mexican labor and advantageous tariff regulations. He was glad he was an American citizen by birth and did not have to be overworked and underpaid in sweatshops like his brothers and sisters who were born south of the border.

Pablo’s other truckloads of the day actually contained legitimate cargo, but not the seventh. No, the last shipment contained two hundred kilos of pure cocaine hidden among audio and videocassettes.

Though Pablo had brought large shipments of illegal drugs across the border into the U.S. on a regular basis, and despite the fact that U.S. Customs Agent Jesus Rivera was on the payroll of his employer, Pablo was always extremely nervous waiting for Customs to clear him through and give him the go ahead to proceed across the border. Oh, he certainly appeared to be calm, to be sure, but inside, he was a

nervous wreck.

As usual, Pablo passed the time by watching tourists visiting Chamizal Park, which commemorates the harmonious settlement of the 100-year boundary dispute between the United States and Mexico. The Chamizal Treaty of 1963 was a milestone in the diplomatic relations between the two countries sharing this border.

Pablo and his family of six had visited the park frequently over the years and he knew it well. He never tired of the Los Paisanos Gallery and the Nuestra Herencia mural depicting the history and cultural diversity of the area and the Siglo De Oro, Spanish Drama, Zarzuela and Border Folk Festivals were excellent. His wife, Maria, and his children, Carlos, Louis, Marcus, Haydee, and Pablo Junior loved these activities also, and every Sunday evening from June through August, they enjoyed the Music Under the Stars programs. All free of charge. Wonderful. He wished it was a Sunday evening right now and that he was in Chamizal Park instead of standing by at the Customs checkpoint, scared out of his wits! Still, the payday made it all worth the fretting and the risk.

Most of the crates of audio and videocassettes had false bottoms, which contained vacuum-packed kilos of cocaine covered by fresh

Mexican coffee grounds to defeat the keen sense of smell possessed by U.S. Customs narcotics-sniffing dogs. It was also helpful that Agent Jesus Rivera saw to it that the random crates they opened for inspection were ones that contained only what was listed on the manifest.

Pablo took a deep breath of the arid, pleasantly warm air and exhaled slowly. He rubbed a hand through his thick, short black hair. There was a time when he wore his hair long, but learned that men with short hair looked to be more honest, trustworthier. Maintaining a clean-cut appearance definitely helped him avoid suspicion. As far as Pablo was concerned, he could use all the help he could get.

Finally, U.S. Customs Agent Rivera smiled and gave him the go ahead. Pablo smiled broadly and thanked him. He climbed aboard his rig, started her up, and drove across the Bridge of the Americas and Highway 54 into El Paso, Texas.

Pablo, a great weight off his shoulders, smiled broadly. It was payday, one of the paydays that made up for the peanuts he earned as a driver. Though he stood only five feet five inches tall and weighed only one hundred twenty pounds soaking wet, his part-time job of drug smuggler made him a big man.

He was anxious to drop off his cargo and pick up his cash so that he could rush home to his beautiful wife and children. Tonight he would take them out for dinner and a movie. And later that night, when the kids were fast asleep, he and his lovely Maria would fall into each other’s arms and share a piece of heaven.

Pablo turned up the radio, which was tuned to his favorite FM station, and sang along Carlos Santana’s classic, Oye Como Va.

* * *

El Paso, Texas

July 22, 1986

7:16 P.M.

On a currently not-too-well traveled stretch of Doniphan Drive, Pablo cursed under his breath when he looked in his side-mirror and saw an El Paso PD patrol car with its emergency lights activated. Unsure if the cop wanted to pull him over, he drove on for a quarter mile until the cop activated his siren briefly and ended all doubt. Pablo cursed allowed, then pulled the truck over to the right side of the road and parked. Familiar with this drill, he stayed seated and waited for the cop to walk over.

In his side mirror, Pablo saw a tall, lean, tanned cop with chiseled features and mirrored sunglasses exit the patrol car and walk up to his truck.

What’s the problem, offi...? That was as far as Pablo got before the officer fired one round from a silencer equipped 9mm and struck him in the temple.

A man seated in the passenger seat of the patrol car sat up and looked at his partner. When the officer motioned to him, the gaunt,

scraggily looking man quickly exited the patrol car and walked over to the truck. He opened the door, pushed Pablo’s body over to the passenger side of the truck and down onto the floorboard and took his place behind the wheel. He drove away.

The officer walked back to the patrol car, got in, and followed the truck.

* * *

El Paso, Texas

Thursday, July 23, 1986

10:15 A.M.

John Baptist parked his brand new white Ford pick-up truck, with the requisite Confederate flag and rifle rack in the rear window, in front of a dilapidated home in a rural area and exited the vehicle. He walked to the front door of the shack and knocked loudly, like the police. Several moments later, a gaunt, scraggily looking man answered the door. His eyes darted from side to side as he checked out the area, making sure that Baptist was indeed alone. Subsequently, he quickly stepped aside, let his guest enter, and promptly closed and locked the door.

Nervous? John asked his host.

You goddamn, betcha, Hank Edmonds replied.

Why, Hank? Don’t you trust me anymore?

Sure I do, it’s the goddamn government I don’t trust!

Come on, said Baptist, let’s cool our heals for a minute, have a drink.

They walked into Hank’s cluttered living room. Baptist pulled a load of dirty clothes from an easy chair, dumped the laundry on the trash-strewn floor, and sat down. The filthy chair reeked of sweaty old clothes, mildew and.. .urine? Baptist ignored the stench. Off of a cluttered coffee table, which was strewn with used hypodermic syringes, a burnt spoon, used matches, and balloons of heroin, Hank grabbed a bottle of Old Grand Dad and handed it to John Baptist.

You got a glass? Baptist asked.

Dishes are dirty, Hank replied.

Baptist looked at the bottle. Oh, well, he thought. Liquor kills germs. He took a swig and handed the bottle back to him. Hank snatched it, threw his head back, and hungrily gulped from the bottle.

Any problems hijacking the drug shipment? Baptist asked.

No, it was a piece of cake, Hank answered. Didn’t Champ tell ya? We dropped the truck off at the compound thirty minutes after we hijacked it. Hell, you shoulda seen Champ in that cop uniform, John. He really looked like a fuckin’ cop! Yessir. Champ Campbell may have missed his calling, I’ll tell ya. He laughed. I tell ya what: I sure would like to be a fly on the wall when Boss Crockett finds out his drug shipment is missing! Ha! That’d be a hoot! How long you think it’ll take those New York boys to blow his gall dang head off?

It can’t be soon enough, I’ll tell ya that, Baptist hissed. A low-life bastard like that sellin’ drugs to his own right here in El Paso. Shit! Sellin’ drugs to mud people is one thing, but ruinin’ the lives decent white folk is another. No, drugs is for mud people, especially the ones in Yankee cities up north, DC, New York, Philly, Baltimore, and the like. DC for sure. It’s a shame before God that niggers have turned the nation’s capital into a welfare state!

I’ll drink to that, Hank agreed, taking another swig. Things’ll be different when we’re in charge, right John?

John ignored the question and changed the subject. How about the truck driver? What did you do with the body?

Hank snorted. Boys carved that beaner up and burned him in a bonfire. Nobody’s gonna find him, I guarantee you that!

Good. His disappearance will keep people guessing. They’ll even have to consider if he ran off with the shipment himself. Baptist sipped his drink, and then changed the subject again. Have you finished training my boys?

Hank nodded. Yeah, they’s quick learners. I taught them all I know about explosives, homemade and otherwise. Yep. I’d say you got your money’s worth, John.

How about the letter bombs?

All taken care of, said Hank. He chortled. Judge Farley and Judge Schwartz are in for a big surprise!

And the big job? asked Baptist. Are we all set?

Yep, Hank Edmonds replied. "The VIN on the gasoline truck we stole has been altered, we’ve got bogus tags on her. She’s filled

with enough gasoline and ammonium nitrate mixture to make the Oklahoma City bombing look like a backyard fireworks display. Hell, just park her, apply the C-4 charges, detonators, and timer. He pointed. The timer, C-4, and detonators are in that gym bag."

John Baptist smiled.

They is just one other thing, John.

What’s that, Hank?

All you got left to do is pay me.

Of course, partner.

Baptist drew a silencer equipped .380 tucked in his pants at the small of his back and shot Hank right between the eyes. Even in death, Hank Edmonds still looked surprised.

Sorry, Hank, Baptist whispered, but there’s no room in the new republic for junkies and gutter people.

John Baptist stood and put away his pistol. He then picked up the gym bag and exited Hank’s shack.

Just as Baptist climbed into his pickup, ex-semi-pro boxer Champ Campbell, second in command of the Sons of the Republic militia, pulled up alongside of the head honcho’s vehicle in his black Dodge pickup, which was also standard equipped with a Confederate flag and rifle rack in the back window. Baptist started up the truck and rolled down the driver’s window.

I just happened to be in the neighborhood, Champ said.

John smiled. Oh, really? What, you worried I couldn’t handle that low-life junkie piece of poor white trash?

No, John, not at all, Champ assured him. Like I said, just happened to be in the neighborhood is all.

Okay, Champ. Comin’ to the weddin’?

You bet, Champ grinned. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

See ya there, Champ.

Champ nodded.

John Baptist and Champ Campbell drove away.

At two that afternoon in the Sweet Hereafter Baptist Church, the families and friends of William Gacy, a captain in the Sons of the Republic Militia, and his lovely young bride, Loretta Twain, were gathered for the wedding of the year. A fine couple they were indeed.

Dressed in his finest suit, Reverend John Baptist smiled at the young couple, then at the congregation, but it wasn’t the wedding ceremony that brought him joy. No, it was the thought of bringing the current government of the United States to its knees...financed by the profits from drugs sold to mud people in the nation’s capital, drugs heisted from Boss Crockett and the soon-to-be deceased members of the New York based Gentile crime syndicate. No doubt about it: the commander of the Sons of the Republic, their man in Washington, DC, was a genius!

Dearly beloved, said Reverend Baptist, we are gathered here today to witness the union of William Gacy and Loretta Twain in the state of holy matrimony.

* * *

Corpus Christi, Texas

July 23, 1986

7:31 P.M.

Judge Bernard Schwartz, bone-tired from a hard day on the bench, pulled onto the circular driveway of his Ocean Drive estate overlooking Corpus Christi Bay. He parked his midnight blue 1985 V12, 5.3 Liter Jaguar XJS Coupe in front of his spacious, four-bedroom, four and ½ bathroom home, known as The White House of Corpus Christi. The judge took his suit jacket and alligator briefcase from the passenger seat and exited the car. He stopped at his mailbox and collected his mail before entering his home.

Schwartz paused in the foyer to admire himself in the decorative antique mirror. The judge looked at himself often throughout the day, whether in his private restroom or in his office or in a small vanity mirror he carried in his pocket, because he was truly enamored with himself; he loved what he saw.

He was sixty-two, but he wasn’t old, like his wife, Mera, who was five years his junior but looked ten years his senior. He looked to be in his forties and felt like a twenty-year-old. He ate right and kept in shape, mostly by playing racquetball twice a week and swimming ten lapse in his Olympic size swimming pool every day.

True, his hair was silver gray, but it was thick and full and made him look distinguished...or so his twenty-five-year-old mistress always told him. His gray hair also provided a perfect contrast to his deep, rich tan. The skin of his face was taut, his complexion unblemished, and the wrinkles so fine they could only be described as character lines.

Schwartz was exceedingly glad that he had had plastic surgery ten years earlier to get rid of his Jewish snout and replaced that humongous kielbasa with a classic nose that gave him the profile of a Greek god...or so he believed.

He smiled and marveled at his straight, white teeth, the best that money could buy. Damn, you look good, Bernie! he thought.

Bernard Schwartz tilted his head and listened to the most beautiful sound he knew: silence. Sweet, glorious silence. He sighed.

Other people minded coming home to an empty house, but not Judge Schwartz. He loved it. In fact, he found it blissful. His wife was at her bridge club and their children had grown up and moved out long ago. The only other person who could possibly ruin his bliss was Esmerelda, the cleaning woman, but she had left at 5:00 p.m., he knew. No questions, no small talk, no crises, no hassles, just silence, sweet silence. Excellent!

The judge proceeded to his study, which had built-in cedar bookcases filled with leather-bound law books on three of the four walls, and put his briefcase on the floor next to his huge cedar desk. He tossed his suit jacket over the back of the brown leather sofa and stretched.

Carrying his mail, he walked over to the bar and poured himself two-fingers of 12-year-old Scotch. He then went back to his desk, set

down his drink, and flopped down in the oversized, overstuffed forest green leather chair behind the desk.

He maneuvered his body in the big chair until he had a comfortable fit before he picked up his drink and took a swig. He put down the drink, reared back, and thumbed through his mail.

The big manila envelope from FMJA, the Federal Magistrate Judges Association, caught his eye so he tossed the other mail onto the desk, took his reading glasses from his shirt pocket, and put them on. He grabbed his sterling silver letter opener and torn into the top edge of the FMJA envelope. The parcel blew up in his face.

The letter bomb was so powerful that it blew off his hands and his head and seared and pitted his oak desk. The concussion knocked books from their shelves, blew out the bay window behind him, and propelled his chair back to the wall.

The sound of the blast carried across Corpus Christi Bay, scattering sea gulls and drawing the attention of recreational boaters. They looked at The White House of Corpus Christi and wondered to themselves and out loud to one another what the hell was going on there.

Smoldering, Judge Schwartz’s mutilated, headless corpse sat there in perfect, blissful silence...until the incessant beeping of his study’s smoke detector disturbed the peace and quiet.

Judge Quincy Farley suffered a similar fate about twenty minutes later in the den of his spacious home in Austin, Texas. His three-year-old grandson was also killed in the blast, but collateral damage such as this was acceptable.

The late, not-so-great Hank Edmonds would have been proud of his handiwork. John Baptist and Champ Campbell and their man in Washington certainly were. They enjoyed immensely the television news and newspaper reports on these two separate murders...or were they somehow connected, reporters speculated. In fact, that night John Baptist talked to the Sons of the Republic’s man in Washington on the telephone as they both watched the TV news.

Good work, Champ, he commended him.

Thank you, sir, said Champ. By the way, the package should be delivered soon. He was referring to the shipment of cocaine they had stolen from the late Gentile crime family and the Gentiles’ puppet, Boss Crockett.

Excellent! exclaimed their man in Washington. We should realize a significant windfall in no time. Is Operation Thunderbolt on track?

Yes, sir, Champ responded.

He reared back in his chair and said, Good, John. We’ll talk again soon.

Their man in Washington hung up the phone. He sipped from his glass of bourbon and then smiled. Soon the enemies of the Sons of the Republic would feel their wrath and reap what they had sown.

* * *

Washington, D.C.

July 23, 1986

7:35 P.M.

D.C. Metropolitan Police Undercover Officer Jacob Doc Holloway AKA Brick Jones and his partner Jack Diehard Tilden AKA Donnell Wilson were seated at the bar of Clyde’s Restaurant in Georgetown, nursing their third round of drinks and discussing their careers as they continually, yet discreetly, checked out two luscious twenty-something women, a blonde/brunette combo, seated at the other end of the bar.

For eighteen months, Doc and Diehard had been working as deep cover operatives for the Janus Project, a federally funded narcotics operation. Both expressed their concern over the status of the operation and their eagerness to arrest the upper management of the multi-million dollar drug organization they had infiltrated, as well as the corrupt police and government officials who were their partners in crime. Subsequently, they broached the subject of life after the Janus Project.

Officer Tilden sipped his gin and tonic and asked his partner, What are you going to do when this is over?

On the job, you mean? Doc Holloway asked.

Yeah, but before you tell me about your plans for the job, tell me about your plans for Rachel. Are you going to marry her?

Doc shrugged.

Doc, I asked you once if you trusted her and you told me that you don’t trust anybody.

"And you said, ‘People who don’t trust anybody don’t know who to trust.’ I still don’t know what that means, by the way. I guess I’m not as wise as you, old man."

Tilden smirked, and then became very somber. "You will be. You will be."

Doc held up a finger and said, Yoda to Mark Hamill as Luke Skywalker, Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back, 1980. This was a game they played, quoting lines from movies to see if the other could identify the character, the actor portraying the character and the motion picture the line came from.

Jack smiled and nodded. He finished his drink and signaled to the bartender for a refill. To be honest with you, Doc, I think Rachel is bad news, worse than that busted up stripper Gretchen Miller, maybe.

Rachel’s nothing like Gretchen, Jack.

"Keep your mouth shut and pay attention for a change, Doc! They’re bad news for different reasons. Gretchen is sick and twisted and blames you for ending her career. She believes it’s your fault that she tried to kill herself for jumping out of that window and becoming a gimp...and who knows, maybe she’s right. The point is, she would kill you if she had the chance. On the other hand, I don’t believe that

Rachel would intentionally harm you, but she is a cold, selfish bitch who’s out for herself. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you can’t trust someone who only looks out for number one. Keep your eyes peeled for both of them. Watch your back, Doc. Just a word of advice, my friend, for whatever it’s worth."

I won’t argue with you, Jack.

That is wise, Jack Tilden said.

Doc Holloway smiled. Leonard Nimoy as Mr. Spock to William Shatner as Captain Kirk, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, 1982.

Jack Tilden smiled. I wasn’t playing the game just then, but you’re correct. You win, pay for my drink.

Doc chuckled. Okay. He handed the bartender a twenty and said, I’ve got this round. I’ll have another, too. And whatever those two ladies at the end of the bar are having, give them another round.

The bartender gave Tilden his refill, refilled Doc’s glass, prepared drinks for the blonde and brunette seated at the other end of the bar and delivered the drinks to them. When they inquired about it, the bartender pointed to Doc. They looked his way, smiled and nodded at him. He smiled back and raised his glass.

Smooth, Doc, Jack said. Very smooth. I’ll take the blonde.

Whatever, Doc Holloway said.

Okay, Jack said, Now tell me about your plans for your career. After the Janus Project, what comes next?"

I don’t know, Jack. Narcotics Division maybe.

"The Janus Project is going to be a tough act to follow, Doc, I know that much. But, let me tell you this, don’t settle for narcotics.

This Janus Project gig can make you a hero, so capitalize on it. Play your cards right and you can write your own ticket. Intelligence, maybe. Better yet, homicide. That’s where the money is. Tilden sipped his drink, then asked, Tell me truthfully, you’re going to miss being a big shot, aren’t you?"

Officer Holloway took a swig of his brandy and Seven-Up and a drag of his Salem. He gave the question some serious thought before answering: Masquerading as convicted felon Rick The Brick Jones, he had access to fine cars, fine clothes, fine digs, and fine women. He also had clout, prestige, money to burn, and rubbed elbows with rich and powerful people. No doubt about it, Brick Jones was one of the beautiful people and being him was a blast.

Yes, Doc answered. Yes, I am.

Jack Tilden grinned. Me too, he admitted.

What about you, Jack? What are you going to do when the assignment’s over?

In a little while, I’ll be eligible for retirement and I’m getting out, Doc. This assignment has brought us face to face with some of the most evil people it has been my misfortune to have associated with. Corrupt police and government officials, criminals of all kinds...I can’t take this shit anymore, Doc. This is it for me, my last hurrah. Yep, I’m getting a desk job somewhere.

You’re shitin’ me, said Doc.

"No, I’m not, partner. You’ve got a long way to go yet, young blood. Your career lies ahead of you, mine is behind me. Besides,

I’m tired of banging my head against a brick wall, fighting a war that can’t be won.. .like we did in Vietnam."

What do you mean we can’t win? asked Doc.

The only way that we can win the war on drugs is to legalize them, Jack said.

What? Doc exclaimed.

You heard me, said Jack. That’s the only way the country got rid of liquor-based organized crime when Prohibition was repealed. Hell, alcohol is our biggest drug problem anyway. If the U.S. legalizes drugs and sets up places for druggies to buy and use their drugs, we’d be a lot better off.

You’re joking, Doc said. "This country is not going to distribute drugs and support addicts. Hell, drugs kill! Do you know how many people die every year from overdoses?"

Not as many who die as the result of alcohol, Jack retorted, or prescription drugs, for that matter. Besides, people overdose on drugs because there are no standards to control their production, dealers cut drugs with all kinds of shit. With government regulation, junkies wouldn’t have to worry about overdoses.

Are you left-wing or what? Doc interrupted.

Fuck no! Jack exclaimed. I got a quote for you to store in that high-powered brain of yours, Doc: ‘The prestige of government has undoubtedly been lowered considerably by the prohibition law. For nothing is more destructive of respect for the government and the law of the land than passing laws which cannot be enforced.’ Know who said that?

No, Doc admitted.

Diehard nodded. It was Albert Einstein.

No shit?

No shit, Doc.

Diehard firmly put his glass on the bar and looked Doc straight in the eye. Without prohibition, scum like Al Capone couldn’t have risen to power. If this country legalizes cocaine, heroin, and marijuana, like some European countries have, then the result would be the same: no scum like Mummy Jenkins, like Santos Tudor. Drug trafficking finances despots and terrorists. We have to eliminate their profits. Legalizing drugs is the only way.

I see your point, said Doc. I don’t agree with you, but I see your point.

That’s all I can ask, Doc. Jack took another sip of his drink before continuing. Yes, sir, twenty years of this is more than enough. It’s plenty, believe you me. I’ve had my fill. It’s time to move on, do something different, and enjoy life for a change. Shit, I deserve it.

There’s no denying that, Jack.

Thanks, Doc. After a pause, Diehard looked his partner in the eye and continued. So, let’s get this job done and put some bad guys behind bars, okay?

Okay, Doc agreed. He raised his glass in a toast. Sin to win, partner.

Jack smiled as he recalled the first time they had made this toast. It was about eighteen months ago, when Doc had pointed out that the

acronym for the Special Investigations Network, the various law enforcement agencies assisting them with the Janus Project, was SIN. and that they actually were committing sins to achieve something good.

Jack Diehard Tilden raised his glass and said, Sin to win. They drank and then Doc told his partner, Come on. Doc Holloway stood and proceeded toward the other end of the bar where the blonde and brunette sat. Diehard Tilden followed.

CHAPTER ONE

Suitland, Maryland

July 23, 1986

8:27 P.M.

Gretchen Miller nibbled Detective Ruben Moskowitz’s ear before she whispered into it, You’re the best, baby. It was just another of many lies she’d told him since they’d hooked up, an eternity ago it seemed to her. They had met when they were both recuperating at Prince George’s County General Hospital, he from a broken jaw, which she later learned Brick Jones was responsible for, and she from her fall from grace, as she referred to it. which Mr. Jones also was the cause of.

During