Once Upon a Life

By Frank Fashina

When a Nigerian-born doctor in America caught a ride to New Jersey with a colleague, he had no idea that the ride would culminate not in a physical destination but in interception by the FBI, who had been investigating the colleague for his involvment in federal crimes. What followed was a years-long battle with the law as he attempted to rise from his disadvantaged position and prove his innocence. He was David and the U.S. government was Goliath, and he was in for the battle of a lifetime—a battle he had to win.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543939446

Book preview

Saga

Chapter 1

The Fateful Trip

T hank God it’s Friday, I said to myself as I entered my room, a great little room on the fifth floor of the eight-story aging building known as Doctors’ Quarters.

I had experienced another hectic week in the surgical department of the District of Columbia General Hospital in Washington and was wishing for less dog work to make life miserable, as was the program for interns. I was in the third month of training as a resident in the department of internal medicine but had just been posted on a two-month elective in surgery.

Oh well, you’ll survive it. It’s not much better in your department either, except you get to make more decisions, the silent voice continued.

I hung my white coat neatly in the closet and stretched diagonally across the bed, staring at the telephone on the bedside table. I had promised to return Jeanne’s call but was still feeling upset with her.

As I loosened the knot in my tie I wrestled with the decision I needed to make concerning our relationship. Three months had passed since we reconciled, and so much had happened despite our busy schedules. She was no longer a student nurse and part-time respiratory therapist; I was no longer a medical student as I had been when we first met in the pediatric department of Greater Southeast Community Hospital in Washington two years previously.

Despite the initial magnetism between us, we were still wrestling with the relationship. She had wanted our relationship to be platonic, but I had wanted more, and after several dates we had resolved amicably to call it quits. But the original feelings had been rekindled during the summer of 1982 after I received a telephone message from her. Michael, my cousin and roommate at that time on Piney Branch Avenue in Maryland, had handed it to me.

Jeanne who? I had asked Mike, completely caught off guard by the message.

I don’t know, Mike had said blankly. Just call her. She’s been calling you since last week. I told her you won’t be back from your Oklahoma vacation till this weekend.

It had to be her, I had decided. How could I forget Jeanne Singleton after all the emotional torment she had put me through? A whole year had gone by, and she still remembered me.

Sure. I’ll call her right away.

I did and we had gone out for a drink on that same night. Several dates had followed and the relationship had begun to blossom like vegetation in fertilized soil.

It was the greatest year I had seen, having graduated from medical school in record time, a dream fulfilled. The stage was set. Likewise, Jeanne had also graduated from nursing school in the same year and started a job as a registered nurse. I had no doubt in my mind that Jeanne and I reconnecting was for a good purpose. She had even indicated during our chat that her next priority was settling down. Her sincerity was unhidden, and I realized she had finally reconsidered my previous offer to give love a chance.

Everything we did together was fun. She was a good chess player, and she was competitive in racquetball. We began steadily seeing and enjoying each other’s company a great deal, until our first argument on a Thursday night after leaving the racquetball court.

I decided I wasn’t in the right mood to call. My calling would only encourage her to come over, which would more than likely interfere with my planned weekend trip to visit with Sandra in New York. I felt I needed to cool off before attempting for the umpteenth time to help Jeanne understand the commitment I had made to my brothers regarding their college education. From a discussion with Abdul Komeh, a colleague, during lunch at the cafeteria, I had learned that he was taking a weekend trip to New Jersey, and I had asked him if I could catch a ride with him. It seemed to be a great opportunity for the visit I had promised Sandra and a good break from the hospital work load.

The telephone suddenly came to life with a shrill that shattered the stillness of the room like a fire alarm. I reached for it and adjusted the volume of the ringer. It had become a habit to turn the volume to maximum when I went into the shower, but I had completely forgotten to readjust the dial after my morning shower.

Dr. Fashina here, I answered.

I know. This is Dr. Komeh.

It was only then that I remembered he was expecting my call to confirm if I would still need a ride to New Jersey on the following morning. I hadn’t been able to call Sandra since lunch.

Hi there, I said. I just got home. I stopped on the roof top for a chicken and beer sponsored by M.S. & D.

"Yeah, I heard about it. What product are they promoting this time?

Zantac; for peptic ulcer.

Bribery. That’s what they’re doing to you guys. His laugh was sarcastic and brief. Anyway, are you still going tomorrow?

Listen, let me call you back. I’ve got to call my friend first.

That’s fine.

We hung up and I called Sandra. Sandra and I had been intimate friends since we met in Grenada, West Indies about six months before I first met Jeanne and had continued to be close friends even after she left Grenada for New York to work and study. She was a beautiful mixture of West Indian and German. She had visited Washington to see me two months earlier and had used the visit to a great advantage, making sure she knew the friends and relations that mattered to me. By the time her four-day visit was over she had won the hearts of Steve and Chris, my brothers, as well as my mother, who was visiting me in Maryland from Nigeria for the summer. Michael, my cousin, and Marcus, my best friend, also had been impressed by her friendly personality. Dianne, Marcus’ wife, had encouraged her to move to the Washington area. Dianne had told Sandra she shouldn’t lose a good catch like me. My friends and family were proposing marriage on my behalf and behind my back.

There won’t be any bells, guys, wedding, or engagement, I had said repeatedly, not bothering to explain why. I knew no firecrackers had ignited in my heart and that our jigsaw pieces would not fit.

Sandra answered the telephone on the third ring.

Hi girl, I said softly.

Oh, Frank! How good of you to call. I’ve been thinking about you all week, Sandra said. Her West Indian accent was melodious and sexy.

I couldn’t say the same, so I asked her how she was doing.

I talked to Diane last week, and she said you and Marcus have been working very hard, and she hasn’t seen you for a while. Diane was like a private eye for her now, apparently.

Really? I laughed quietly.

That’s not funny, Frank, she replied instantly, sounding sharp. Besides, I don’t believe that busy bee story. It’s that nurse, isn’t it?

What nurse? I faked ignorance.

You never mind, she said and wouldn’t cite the source of her information as I expected.

Listen, what are you doing tomorrow?

Nothing. I’m off from work. Why?

I was thinking about coming to visit with you for the weekend. A colleague of mine is going to Jersey tomorrow, and he’s agreed to give me a ride.

That’s great, Frank. It’s been so long since we saw each other, she said. It’s been two months or so, isn’t it?

Yes indeed, I said. I will return to D.C. on Sunday. We can play catch up and talk.

About what? She sounded a little more puzzled than excited. Give me a hint, please. You know I can’t handle suspense. Come on.

She wanted to hear about an engagement, I thought, and I wanted to tell her there would not be one. Friendship was good enough for me with her, and she needed to understand that subtle pressure didn’t work with me.

I remained silent, searching for how to express myself and then she broke the silence. OK, Frank. You know I want to see you.

Great. Then see you tomorrow around one or so.

I can’t wait. I love you, Frank.

I know, Sandra. See you tomorrow.

The tan Camaro smelled like it had only just left the dealership, but it was over two months old. The tan interior was the color of the exterior and the dashboard shined in the bright light of the sun that seeped through its opened sun roof. The speedometer registered 85 mph, and the car moved effortlessly.

Better slow down, buddy, I said. Fast cars offend cops, especially when they are new.

But sport cars are built for speeding, Komeh replied excitedly. Then more seriously he continued, You know we left an hour later than planned.

He reduced the speed minimally as he put on a Miles Davis cassette, and we listened to the beautiful music coming through the impressive sound system of the car. It could have been the effect of the music, but soon after, I reclined my seat and dozed off. In my sleep, I had two dreams. I was a patient in a surgical ward convalescing from a gunshot wound to my abdomen and in the second dream I had a stab wound to my abdomen.

I snapped back to wakefulness as Komeh applied the brakes, confused. Silly dreams, I concluded as the car came to a full stop. Komeh cut the engine off and parked close to a payphone at a gas station.

He got out of the car and entered the phone booth. I cast a casual glance at the dashboard clock which displayed 1:57 p.m. I adjusted my seat back into the upright position. The traffic on the nearby road was slow and heavy, and I realized we were somewhere near New Jersey already.

Hey, where are we? I asked as he returned to the car.

Oh, you’re up at last, he said. We’re somewhere in Bellmore. I thought I should call my friend before he leaves for work. He said he’ll meet us down the road.

Meet us? What do you mean? I asked, confused.

Yeah, I don’t quite remember the road to his house, that’s why he’ll meet us. I just have a few things to collect from him, and we’ll move on to your girl’s place.

I see, I replied, still confused.

He looked uneasy.

Why don’t we drive to the Burger King down the road and grab a sandwich? he said as he started up the engine. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.

So am I, I replied. It had become a habit for me to skip breakfast. I only ate lunch and dinner, partly because I was never hungry in the morning and because my system functioned better without breakfast.

The parking lot of the fast food restaurant was a big contrast to the adjacent mall. Komeh parked remotely in the far end close to the mall as more traffic continued movement up and down the main road. We walked across the lot and entered the Burger King.

Two fish sandwiches and a medium milkshake, please, I said to the teenage waitress, then turned around to Komeh standing a step behind me. What about you?

I’ll be right back, he said.

The distant look was back on his face as he turned to the door.

I paid the bill and took a window seat that overlooked the parking lot. A six-year-old redhead who sat beside her mother two tables away was asking her older brother for help with her sandwich. A waitress emerged from behind the counter to clean a table just being vacated. It seemed to be the quiet hour in the restaurant.

Komeh returned to the restaurant and paused to talk to the waitress now sweeping under a table. She gestured to a door behind a row of tables bearing the inscription restroom. He walked quickly to the room with a plastic bag in his hand and returned, now dressed in a blue sweat suit and white sneakers. The plastic bag remained in his hand, carrying the clothes he had just taken off, and he headed for the exit.

Hey, I shouted half aloud as he reached the glass door. What’s up?

He forced a smile through a nervous face and replied, Be right back.

Through the window I watched him walk briskly across the lot.

I sipped my milkshake slowly and in deep thought as I wondered what could be going on with the strange and suspicious look on his face and the sudden secretive attitude. A tall Caucasian lady approached a table beside mine with a cup of coffee and a black handbag. Her face was spotted with freckles and her eyes were hidden by her sunglasses. She clutched her handbag as though it contained her life savings, and I wondered silently why she looked so nervous.

As I finished my second sandwich, Komeh appeared at the door and beckoned urgently without entering. He was ahead of me by close to ten yards as I reached the exit door.

What’s up, Komeh? I shouted from behind him, bewildered.

He was holding a bulky brown manila envelope under his arm as he crossed the parking lot and steadily increased the pace between us. He slowed down briefly as he passed a gray Cadillac to wave at the man behind the wheel.

I quickened my steps after him with my half-empty cup of milkshake, and as I passed by the Cadillac, reduced my strides and bent with curiosity to see the man behind the wheels. White patches of gray streaked his black hair and his white goatee was a sharp contrast to his dark skin.

His eyes stared quizzically at me as I asked, What’s happening, brother? with a hand raised politely in greeting.

Nothing, he replied and started the engine.

I wondered whether the gray-bearded man was the friend Komeh had referred to. I had almost caught up to Komeh, and I noticed that the brown envelope he was carrying was opened and printed papers had pulled out.

What’s that you are carrying, Komeh, and what’s all the hurry about?

Suddenly, he dropped the envelope and began racing through the small crowd of people entering and leaving the parking lot. I stopped and watched the scene briefly as he disappeared then realized what he was running from.

Four men surrounded me at an uncomfortable distance, simultaneously shouting, Freeze! FBI!

I froze as my eyes registered guns that were set to fire, aimed at my chest and head, and my heart stopped beating. I stopped breathing, and I felt my head begin to expand, suddenly becoming too heavy for my neck to carry. The cup of milkshake dropped from my hand and the lid flew open as the pink content spilled on the ground beside me.

In that moment of suspense, I recalled the dreams then shut my eyes while firming up my abdominal muscles in a silly attempt to bounce off the bullets that could be fired at me. Two of the agents crowded me immediately.

Down on your face! Very slowly.

My knees had already begun to buckle even before their orders were shouted, and I was grateful to be off my feet. I felt a pair of hands search through my body, now spread on the bare concrete floor, while another heavier pair locked my hands behind my back with a handcuff. A heavy voice was reading the Miranda rights to me, none of which I could register in my clouded mind. As I was hauled up to my feet the only face that I recognized was the freckled face of the lady who had clutched her handbag nervously while sipping her coffee in the restaurant that I just left, gun in hand. Her sunglasses still covered her eyes but the ridges on her forehead betrayed hostility.

FBI? I wondered.

The thick clouds finally began to clear from my head, and I found myself feeling grateful that it had been the FBI and not a bunch of gangsters.

But FBI! Why? Why anybody at all?

A good crowd of onlookers had accumulated, and they were curiously watching the drama, but there were no movie cameras recording. It had to be for real. As I was shoved into a car an agent sat next to me in the Bonneville while two others sat in front, and we headed out of the shopping area.

That was an easy one, Jake, the agent beside me said, congratulating the others. How come you guys asked for backup?

We just didn’t know what to expect, that’s all, Jake replied. We only prepared for the other guy, not the one here. But since they were together, might as well take him in for questioning. He stopped for a red light.

Dave, know what happened to the other guy? the agent next to Jake asked.

Oh, we’ll find out when we get to the office, Terry. It shouldn’t be much problem, hopefully, Dave said.

The rest of the fifteen-minute drive to the FBI office was mostly quiet. The fog in my mind had completely lifted and was now replaced by a mixture of shock, fear, and wonder. The shock was a delayed reaction to the lethal weapons that had threatened my life only a moment earlier. What if a gun had accidentally gone off? What if I’d been killed? I shuddered at the thought of death. It had come so close, and I had least expected anything like that.

What about the dreams, the nightmares: a kind of warning? I suddenly wished I could rewind the hours of time back to the morning. I wished I had simply spoken with Sandra the previous night and not considered visiting her. I wished I had dialed Jeanne instead of her. But nothing had prevented me from making the fateful trip, and now I was entangled in an FBI web and I had to think about solution. Solution, I thought, should be straightforward. They would question me, and I would tell them my story. They would confirm it and release me as soon as they realized they had the wrong man. Then my confidence began to build up.

The car parked in front of a tall building that seemed isolated on a deserted street. Through several doors, which opened electronically by an unseen control room, we finally entered an office on the second floor. Jake shut the door as soon as Dave entered, while the third agent, Terry, stayed outside making a telephone call.

I’ll read you your rights again, Jake said.

He pulled at his thick brown moustache and swept his hand through wavy hair. He was easily thirty-five. Then he peered into a small card taken from his shirt pocket and began the ceremony. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, you will be provided with one…

I waved a hand at him and he stopped. I know all that.

I was in a better state of mind now and was anxious to give a statement and be set free.

Good. Now tell us your name.

I told him. My billfold had already been removed during the search and my ID cards should have confirmed that.

What were you doing in the parking lot with the other guy that ran from us?

I told them. Everything, from the time he informed me about the trip over lunch in the hospital cafeteria to the arrest. He scribbled on a note pad as I talked without interrupting.

Finally, he asked, "Did you see the envelope he dropped?

Yes, I replied.

What was in it?

Papers, I guess. The envelope was open, but I only saw it from a distance.

What kind of papers?

They seemed liked typed literature, I said, struggling to recall if there was anything special about them. I didn’t think there was.

He looked from me to his partner and smiled meaningfully.

Well, those papers are exam papers. FLEX papers.

The words hit me with the effect of a sledge hammer, and my mouth parted for words that never came. Things were beginning to make sense finally.

FLEX papers? I asked as though I’d misunderstood him.

That’s right. Do you know anything about it? This time there was steel in his voice.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He exchanged glances with his partner again who remained quiet.

Now listen carefully. I’m willing to pretend you haven’t just lied to me so it doesn’t spoil your case in court. Again, what do you know about the exam papers? He succeeded in sounding hasty and looking mean this time.

The effect on me was that of panic, not at his voice or facial expression, but at his remark that he was willing to pretend that I hadn’t just lied to him. What did this mean, and what was he leading to? I wondered silently, tense.

Nothing, I repeated.

He stood from the chair and kicked back his chair with the heel of his foot. Then he slapped a heavy hand on the table dramatically with a loud bang. I jumped in my seat, startled.

Listen again. Don’t make things worse for yourself. We knew your friend was coming; we had a telephone tap on him for a long time, so you tell us for yourself your involvement and we’ll be easy on you.

The panic cleared from my head. He had lifted the panic himself. We’ve had a telephone tap on him, he had just said. Surely, if they had, and I could only wish they had, then I had no problem. My brain began to function again.

You listen, I said quietly. I’m scared like hell to be mixed up with the FBI and this whole business. But if you are trying to obtain a statement from me about my involvement, I’m sorry what I can give you is about my noninvolvement. I don’t know anything about what you’re leading to. Check your phone taps and check with Komeh himself when you find him.

Damn! he said.

Jake opened the door and left the room. Dave remained in the room, just staring at me. I did not feel uncomfortable despite his focused stare, and he looked away after a while, probably feeling frustrated.

The door opened again and the third agent came in.

Terry, Dave said. What’s the position with our man?

Oh, they picked him up. They said he was a fast runner but finally froze when he heard gunshot close behind him.

Thank God, I thought. That should clear up the confusion, and I should be released anytime.

I want to talk to Frank, Terry said. Could you give us a moment?

Sure, Dave replied, getting up immediately and shutting the door behind him as he left the room.

I guessed immediately what was happening as he whisked from his pocket a notepad and a pen. He was going to repeat the whole performance all over. He offered a handshake as he sat before me.

Frank, I’m Terry Evans. I just want to ask a few things from you, and then you can go if you cooperate. He looked straight into his blank notepad. Exactly what do you know about this business?

I’ve already told the other agent, and he took good notes, I guess. I spoke with controlled patience.

I thought so, but Jake is very impatient as he has probably demonstrated already. His voice was deceptively soothing as he tried to condemn his partner. So, if you don’t mind, let’s start over again, and you can be out of here.

I did mind, but I cooperated. I repeated everything again. Terry repeated the same questions Jake had asked, as though he had listened through a hidden microphone to the first interview, and I repeated my answers.

He continued to stare at me for a moment, undecidedly.

Check your telephone taps and talk to Komeh himself. You said they picked him up, didn’t you?

Oh, yes, he said, nodding as he answered. As a matter of fact, somebody is taking a statement from him right now.

He looked idly at the door then lowered his tone conspiratorially. See here, let’s make a deal. We want to know all the others who may be involved, and we’ll let you go.

I realized then why he had been playing nice guy. That was the whole game, I thought. Jake had discovered I had nothing to hide, and he had passed me on to him for another try.

Sorry I can’t help you. If there are others, ask your man.

I thought about Sandra. What if I asked them to call Sandra to confirm? That should help certainly. That would help me but could hurt her. I knew Sandra was an illegal alien and bringing her into the matter could easily expose her. I decided to wait for their move. Komeh would have to give the answer, and I hoped there would be no need to bring Sandra into their hands.

Terry pushed back his chair and stood. OK, Frank, we’ll do just that.

He went out of the room, and I was left alone for close to a half an hour, and I guessed they had all moved to engage Komeh.

It was Jake who spoke when they returned: Listen man, we will have to keep you guys till Monday. Your friend is not giving up his Miranda right: he’s not talking to us.

He removed his handcuffs from the table and cuffed my hands in my back.

Two days in holding, all because Komeh won’t talk, I thought. I was upset.

C’mon, let’s go.

I complied.

As we reached the hallway, I saw Komeh flanked by two agents. His face was bruised and swollen, and his sweat shirt was torn. There was no doubt he had been through a tough time, and I guessed it had occurred when he was arrested.

I cast him a hateful glance, and he avoided my eyes.

Why don’t you tell them I know nothing about this? Tell them, I said. It’s not too late.

He didn’t respond.

I don’t believe this, I said in frustration.

Let’s go, guys, an agent said behind me.

Komeh, why didn’t you tell them I know nothing about this mess? I asked, fury rising in my voice, at the first opportunity I had to talk to him since we had been booked into the Gloucester County jail.

We had been driven in two different cars through strange streets until we arrived at the ancient jailhouse. Fingerprints were taken for the second time and pictures taken. We signed a few papers, and we were taken to a large cell that was built for no more than twelve but was already holding over thirty. Each of us was given a blanket and a flat old mattress before the solid metal door was finally slammed behind us.

He regarded me absently, lost in his own thoughts.

I repeated the question and finally obtained an answer, Sorry, Frank. But right now, I’ve got to think about survival, my survival. He bent his head again in thought and said, This is trouble, deep trouble.

As if I didn’t know, I thought.

But why the hell did you have to bring me along when you obviously had a mission?

He ignored me, completely absorbed in his thoughts. I stood dumbfounded for a while, staring and waiting for an answer.

He paced up and down the cell which was littered with mattresses, finally stopping at a corner where a telephone hung on the wall. Then it occurred to me I had calls to make. I hadn’t noticed much of my surrounding in my confusion and had completely missed the phone in the dimly lit cell.

I looked around more carefully and realized the condition in the cell was more appalling than I’d initially thought. The floor was bare and cold. The inmates chatted noisily above the blaring television that hung at a corner, most of them with relaxed looks. The water closet remained at an unfavorable proximity with stench of urine and feces, yet the inmates appeared nonchalant. The population in my cell seemed to be mixed, but most inmates interacted freely. I suddenly felt nervous and nauseous.

I approached the telephone as Komeh hung up and called Mike collect. He was home.

Hey Frank, he said as the operator went off the line. Where in the world are you? I’ve been calling you all day. I had you paged all over the hospital. No answer.

He had good reason to be agitated. We had planned to get together during the day as we had not seen much of each other since I moved from his apartment on Piney Branch Road in Maryland to the Doctors’ Quarters at District of Columbia General Hospital in July. We had been more than cousins; we were best friends, despite the ten years of age difference between us.

Mike, I said with a strained voice, I am not in this world. I am in hell. I’m in deep shit.

The line was quiet for a long moment. I knew he heard me and believed me instantly. He knew I wouldn’t play games with his poorly controlled blood pressure either.

Where exactly are you and what happened? he asked finally, totally ruffled.

I told him.

Well, listen, Frank. I want you to just take it easy. OK? Just leave that fool alone and don’t say anything to him. My guess is that he has something sinister on his mind. I’ll call Sandra and tell her what happened. It seems to me that sooner or later, we’ll have to bring her into the situation. I just hope she doesn’t lose her head the way people do when they hear about the FBI, especially since she has long outstayed her visitor’s visa.

Good point, I noted, sharing his hope.

I suppose the bail hearing is on Monday, right? he asked.

I guess so.

Well, let me know what the bail is, so I can come up with the money.

OK, I replied. Also, call the chief resident in surgery and tell him I won’t be able to take my call tomorrow. That would cause a riot, I knew. Any breech of schedule of calls over the weekend would.

Sure, and remember, don’t worry. Everything will be sorted out. It’s just a matter of time.

As I hung up the phone, I wondered how long it would take to sort everything out and silently began to count the hours. Time dragged very slowly the following two days. Sleep was impossible, and I became depressed. The food looked as pitiful as the tray on which it was served, and I had no problem staying alive on the half pint of boxed milk provided with the breakfast. Somehow, I felt it was the beginning of a living nightmare.

I spoke to Mike again on Monday evening. The event of the morning had been shocking. Komeh and I had been arraigned, and a bail of twenty thousand dollars had been set. An attorney had been provided for me and I had spent some time with him. He drew an outline of his defense for me in the event the grand jury indicted me.

But I don’t think they have a good case to indict you, he had said rather confidently. His weathered face did not exude as much confidence as his voice, and I wondered how much trust or hope I should have in him. "You have to think about yourself and your future. Your girlfriend must be brought in, at any cost. At this point we don’t know exactly what your colleague said in his statement. If he decides to implicate you,