Sovereign Evils

By Dan La Fave

When battle-scarred Marine turned lawyer Rod Strong joins a small firm in Deadwood, South Dakota, little does he suspect that he’ll soon be cast on the front line in the war on drugs. Yet an e-mail by a whistleblower at the repurposed Homestake Gold Mine reveals a concealed opioid production facility almost a mile underground that puts him

• Language: English
• Publisher: Prodigal Son
• Release date: May 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734921922

Dan La Fave

Nationally acclaimed attorney and former Marine, Dan La Fave taps into his vast reservoir of experience with the Black Hills and the law to present a compelling tale of personal tragedy, corruption, vigilante justice, valor and, ultimately, redemption. Having grown up in the Black Hills and practiced law throughout the country for more than a quarter century, La Fave is uniquely qualified to weave this unforgettable story.

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Sovereign Evils

a Novel Inspired by Actual Events

by

Dan La Fave

Dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary

Mother of Mankind

and

in memoriam

Chief Red Cloud – Visionary Oglala Leader

requiescat in pacem

Prodigal Son Publishing

Caledonia, Wisconsin

Copyright

© 2020

by Dan La Fave

All Rights Reserved.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Name: La Fave, Dan, author

Title: Sovereign Evils

Description: Wisconsin: Prodigal Son Publishing, [2020]

Identifiers: LCCN 2020907296

ISBN 9781734921908 (hardcover)

ISBN 9781734921915 (paperback)

ISBN 9781734921922 (epub)

BISAC: FICTION / Christian / Suspense. |FICTION / Legal. |FICTION / Crime.

GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

Printed in the United States of America

book design by dan & lucy la fave

Front cover photo of by Pete Linforth from Pixabay

Rear cover photo showing interior of Red Cloud’s house on Pine Ridge Reservation by Clarence G. Morledge (circa 1891). Woman believed to be Pretty Owl, the chief’s wife. Denver Public Library, Western History Collection, call no. X-31434

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Part I

"Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do & die"

The Charge of the Light Brigade, Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Prologue

September 26, 1983

S

omewhere within the bowels of the National Security Agency (NSA), an analyst intercepted a diplomatic communiqué from the Iranian Intelligence Services in Tehran to the Iranian ambassador in Damascus, Syria. The lethal intent of this dispatch commended placing U.S. military personnel in Lebanon on heightened alert, as it provided an explicit directive to launch an attack on the U.S. Marines stationed at the Beirut International Airport. They included members of the 1st Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment Battalion Landing Team or BLT 1/8, part of a multi-national peacekeeping force deployed there to stabilize the Lebanese government, and to help restore order during an intense period of bloody conflict between ethnic and religious factions. Yet, the intercepted communiqué remained shrouded in secrecy until any preventive value for U.S. military personal at the Beirut airport had been lost.

Sunday, October 23, 1983, 6:22 a.m., Beirut International Airport, Lebanon

BLT 1/8 followed a relaxed daily routine that Sunday—a detail not lost on those planning to execute the lethal plan initiated by the Iranian government less than a month before. The messengers chosen to deliver that murderous directive appeared suddenly in a yellow Mercedes truck, seen turning off an access road and barreling through an open gate leading to the utilitarian four-story concrete building near the Beirut International Airport, which served as the barracks and command post for nearly 400 members of BLT 1/8.

Yet another detail well known to these couriers of death was that the U.S. Military’s Rules of Engagement prohibited the Marines positioned in Lebanon from carrying loaded weapons. Consequently, the sentries the suicide driver encountered offered only feeble resistance, consisting of a few hastily sprayed rounds from their M16A1 rifles, as the truck sped past their posts, breached a final concertina wire barrier and crashed into the lobby of the headquarters building.

Once inside, the bombers—loyal to the Iran-backed militant Shiite Muslim group Hezbollah or Party of God—detonated their deadly payload. The compressed gas-enhanced explosive cocktail, cradled in a concrete truck bed lining designed to direct the blast upwards, and packing an estimated punch equaling as much as 20,000 pounds of TNT, annihilated the structure. (Indeed, bomb experts who eventually examined the blast site rated the weapon as the largest non-nuclear blast in history.)

As the dust settled, Marines scrambled to unearth survivors. The death toll of 241, which included 220 Marines, 18 sailors and 3 soldiers, remains the deadliest single-day loss of life for the Corps since the Battle of Iwo Jima in 1945.

February 1984

The last Marines and other elements of the multinational peacekeeping force withdrew from Lebanon—a retreat that galvanized the resolve of radicals like Osama bin Laden to target western nations using such proven tactics in future years to repel efforts by the United States to exert its sovereign might in middle eastern affairs.

The Present

More than three decades after the Beirut bombing, the dust has yet to finally settle on the consequences of those events. Survivors still seek to extract billions of dollars from Iran for its role in supporting terrorism through the United States judicial system—rough justice though it may be.

Chapter 1

T

ears rolled down Rodney Strong’s cheeks unashamedly as he stood erect before Grave 604 in Section 59 of Arlington National Cemetery that afternoon, Friday, October 23, 2015. Before him lay a man that he’d barely known, yet with whom he’d shared so much, and ached to have shared more.

As Rod scanned the brief text on the gravestone once more, he tried to fix in his mind the image of his father, Captain Walter Patrick Strong, USMC, as he would appear now, if he still lived. To be sure, Rod had ready recall of the dated image of his father captured in his parents’ wedding photo, taken the autumn after his father had graduated from the Naval Academy in 1976. That more youthful rendering was made all the easier to conjure up in his mind’s eye knowing, as his mother had so often remarked, that Rod was a carbon copy of his dad. Both stood six feet tall, had wiry builds, punctuated by the same intense disposition, hazel eyes, brown hair, and angular facial features.

Rod’s taut jaw muscles flexed as painful memories swept over him like waves crashing on a breakwater. He had only been four when his father shipped out to Beirut, Lebanon, with 1st Battalion, 8th Marines, leaving his young wife, Rose, to mind the home front at Camp Lejeune. An Islamic suicide bomber had obliterated any homecoming, though, when he’d detonated his explosive laden truck at the Marine barracks at the Beirut International Airport thirty-two years before, to the day. Twenty fallen comrades in arms from that attack rested in the plots around his father at Arlington. So much for keeping the peace in the Middle East. How little had changed over the intervening decades. 

As his father’s face gradually faded from his mind, it was replaced by the memory of his mother sobbing uncontrollably upon first receiving news of her husband’s death. And how she’d hugged Rod tightly against her chest later that day as he looked up at her swollen red face and watched the tears cascade down her cheeks. The explanation for him would come later, along with more tears.

As Rod’s misty gaze drifted across the smartly aligned rows of graves in Section 60 to the left, he thought of the Marines and others buried there more recently who’d lost their lives fighting in Afghanistan or Iraq. And glancing down at his Naval Academy class ring, Rod was struck by the irony that both he and his father had their military careers cut short by Islamic terrorists wielding explosive devices.

Like his dad, Rod had been serving as a company commander with a Marine infantry battalion from the 8th Marine Regiment when a vehicle-borne IED attempted to take out the barracks and command building for a security post near Ramadi.

He’d been lucky; the docs had been able to cobble together his severely injured right leg with metal hardware. He’d spent the better part of a year in and out of the Naval Hospital at Bethesda, Maryland, as they reconstructed his shattered bones and gave him extensive physical therapy.

One of his enlisted Marines hadn’t been as fortunate, though, and a knot formed in Rod’s throat as he thought of the letter he’d written to his mother commending the ultimate sacrifice that her son had made in the war against terror.

Striding intently back to his rental car, Rod found himself wondering if his detour to Arlington had been a mistake. What did he hope to gain by personally visiting his father’s grave on the anniversary of his death? Hadn’t he visited the site many times during his years at the Academy, vainly reaching out for the fatherly guidance that he’d never had, nor ever would?

His mind remained clouded by these and other pressing questions as he pulled in front of the Annapolis home on Market street of his former faculty advisor in the History Department at the Naval Academy, Professor John Wicker.

Rod heard a booming voice from the open window inside, Happy birthday, lad! over the melodic strains from the Anvil Chorus of Verdi’s Il Trovatore. Wicker called out merrily, I was beginning to think I’d need to send out a search and rescue team, given the hour, as he veritably burst outside onto his front porch and squeezed Rod in a bear hug.

Bear was, in fact, one of Wicker’s nicknames, and it fit him well. A mountain of a man, almost 6’ 6", with curly salt and pepper hair, a bushy full beard, and deep dark eyes framed by dark rimmed glasses. One could more easily picture Wicker in a logging camp in the Northwest woods than holding court in a college classroom. The image was hardly what one would expect from a decorated former Navy SEAL.

Rod winced as he looked down at his watch and saw that it was almost six o’clock, and recalled that he’d promised Doc that he’d present himself sharply at 1700 for cocktails. Mercifully, they had agreed to a quiet party of two, and Doc knew better than anyone how difficult this day tended to be for Rod.

Over the years they’d known each other, Wicker had often chided Rod for dwelling on the coincidence that he had been born on the same day that his father had died—echoing sentiments his mother had frequently expressed. Both had reasoned that Rod’s birthday celebrations were, of necessity, a celebration of his father’s life—and a recognition of the joyful life-giving gift both parents had conveyed to their son. Yet, Wicker knew that since Rod had returned from Iraq, his birthdays had become all the more difficult given the added void left by his mother Rose’s sudden death in 2007. Rod had learned of his mother’s advanced cancer through her final letter to him—received while he was still deployed in Iraq—and had been robbed of a chance to even talk to her before she’d passed.

I’d like to blame beltway traffic, but I actually got to town around 1630, and thought I’d do a quick circuit around the Academy Yard before coming over, Rod began. Wicker quickly surmised what had happened next, interjecting, "And you just couldn’t help but park on Hospital Point and meander around the cemetery, right? Might as well take in Commander Cushing’s impressive 19th century monument, to name just one, and reflect on all that history stuff that you and I find so fascinating.

You know, if I didn’t have such a robust self-image, I’d have an inferiority complex, with you avoiding my company in favor of a bunch of stiffs, Doc quipped as he made his way behind the bar, produced two classic martini glasses, and began the ritual icing of the glasses, mixing and shaking of the liquor, and (heavy handed) pouring of their favored cocktail, classic dry gin martinis. Either that, or perhaps you feel unequal to the brisk repartee that will inevitably break forth anon.

We’ve walked that conversational path once or twice before now, haven’t we, Rod rejoined as he settled himself into the chair next to Doc’s piano, and scooped up a handful of pistachios—a familiar side offering during cocktail time at Doc’s. Never drink on an empty stomach, Doc had cautioned him when he’d first served him liquor as a plebe. That hadn’t prevented Rod from over-imbibing on that occasion though—or during many other epic sessions with Doc that he recalled—as a smile broke out on his face.

Now that’s what I like to see, Wicker cheered. It’s great to have you back, Rod. Can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to this visit. Plenty to talk about, that’s for sure, Wicker remarked, as he handed Rod his drink and seated himself in the chair opposite him.

It was evident to Wicker though that Rod’s soul-searching extended beyond thoughts of the parents he’d lost. Rod had been canvassing Wicker regularly via e-mail of late, as he grappled with the pressing question of what career path he would strike out upon when his clerkship with U.S. District Court Judge Carl Fisher came to an end. A decision needed to be made. January first was looming, and Judge Fisher had been insistent on Rod finally wrapping up his clerkship by year’s end at the latest.

The ironies in Rod’s present state abounded. For it had been an order entered by yet another U.S. District Court judge, the Honorable Royce C. Lamberth, that had proved to be the catalyst to his embarking on a legal career following his military career-ending injuries in Iraq. In the fall of 2007, less than a year before the IED attack on Rod’s security installation, Judge Lamberth had ordered the Islamic Republic of Iran to pay $2.65 billion to the families of the 241 servicemen killed in the Beirut bombing, including Rod’s father. Judge Lamberth had determined that Iran was responsible for the 1983 bombing, concluding that Hezbollah had been formed under the auspices of Iran’s government, and had been heavily reliant upon it in carrying out the bombing.

Rod had filled out his applications to law school as he convalesced at Bethesda Naval Hospital from his own, more recent, wounds courtesy of Islamic terrorists.

Ultimately, swayed by his parents’ hometown roots in the Chicago suburbs, Rod had opted to attend Northwestern University School of Law in Chicago, graduating in 2012. His follow-on clerkship with Judge Fisher in Rapid City, South Dakota, had been a natural progression, given their shared Marine background. Fisher had served with distinction in Vietnam before himself embarking upon a storied and successful legal career that ultimately culminated in his being appointed to the federal bench by President Reagan in 1985.

Professor Wicker had strongly encouraged Rod to take the clerkship and had been instrumental in facilitating it. Wicker had served with Fisher in Vietnam, and the two had remained fast friends over the intervening years.

Fisher was more than happy to take on a fellow war-tested Marine who, like himself, had been drawn to the law—especially given Wicker’s imprimatur and Rod’s stellar academic credentials.

Rod had embraced the idea for two reasons. First, it had enabled him to put off a decision on where he was going to settle down to practice, and with what kind of firm. At that time, the permutations had seemed endless, and he had no clear sense of what career path best suited him.

Second, when Rod had interviewed with Judge Fisher, he could see at once that Fisher was exactly the kind of mentor that he needed.

As Rod began to feel the martini’s relaxing effects, he joined issue on the evening’s debate over his future by replaying for Doc what the good judge had said to him as he readied himself for his trip out East the day before.

__________________

Rod, you’ve reached an important crossroad in your life. And having logged almost three years in my chambers, I suspect that you won’t be surprised to hear me commend a classical solution to the decision that you face on how best to chart your future path, Judge Fisher began as he leaned back in his well-worn leather chair while running his right hand over his closely trimmed snow-white flattop—a deliberative habit that Rod had often observed as the methodical jurist tackled the latest legal puzzle to present itself.

Fisher continued, "Among my favorite paintings, the original of which hangs in the Hermitage in St. Petersburg, is one by Pompeo Batoni depicting a fifth century allegory titled Hercules at the Crossroads. You may have noticed the copy I have in my home study during one of your visits. In any event, over the past several months, as you’ve gone through the firm interview process, I’ve found myself pondering the wisdom embodied in Batoni’s work."

As Judge Fisher framed his remarks with this classical reference, Rod reflected on the many times over the past three years the judge had invoked famous literary and historical allusions as they worked together. Among the judge’s favored prompts when looking to spur Rod to research an issue more thoroughly was his invocation of George Santayana’s oft-repeated saying that, Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

To be sure, Rod was familiar with the Batoni painting. He himself had often been captivated by the pensive and taut figure of Hercules, who avoids eye contact with the two beckoning women on either side of him.

To Hercules’s right, Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, clad in a deep blue robe and bearing helmet, shield, and lance, gestures with her left hand to a distant hilltop temple at the end of a steep, winding, rocky road. With her right she points to images associated with Hercules’s famed labors resting at his feet—representing a virtuous path to achievement through labor.

To Hercules left, Venus, the goddess of love and sensual pleasure, seductively holds out a rose with her left hand, while the right one appears poised to caress, ever so delicately, Hercules’s flexed left thigh, as various symbols of pleasure lay at her feet—representing the path of vice and self-indulgence.

Batoni’s image portrays Hercules gripped by indecision as he weighs his options, though ultimately, he follows Minerva’s guidance, which leads him to renown.

While Rod was generally familiar with the allegory depicting the choice between virtue and vice, he failed to see its ready application to choosing between the two competing law firms he’d narrowed his decision to (though in reality the choice was between Judge Fisher’s hand-picked local firm and Rod’s favored firm in downtown Chicago).

I recognize that your family roots have long been grounded in the Chicago metropolitan area, Rod, Judge Fisher resumed. And that a consideration in your going to Northwestern was being able to maintain ties with the relatives and friends that you grew up with in Oak Park and River Forest. Rod nodded agreeably, thinking of a number of his classmates from Fenwick, the venerable Dominican high school that both he and his father had attended, who’d already launched professional careers in the Windy City.

I also appreciate the fact that, as a major metropolitan area, Chicago offers a veritable cornucopia of cultural attractions, from architecture to museums to world-class opera to teams in every major professional sport, Judge Fisher added. Moreover, Marshall & Ives is a powerhouse firm with a stable of Fortune 500 clients that would be the envy of any private practice firm.

Judge Fisher paused, then added, And I can imagine that a young single man such as yourself might be attracted by the prospects of an office on the 72nd floor of the Willis Tower, and the various trappings that come with working at a prestigious big-city firm.

Rod once again found himself nodding in agreement as he thought back to his memorable interview at M&I, including lunch at the posh Metropolitan Club with Chip Young, one of the junior partners from the firm’s Litigation Team, who’d recently called Rod to extend the firm’s offer to hire him. Chip had also e-mailed Rod several links to condominiums near the Michigan lakefront, as well as a list of local realtors that he recommended, to assist Rod in relocating to the City of Broad Shoulders.

I can further imagine that the idea of joining a two-attorney firm (omitting an explicit reference to Campbell & Lawrence) based in a comparatively small and remote town in the Black Hills might appear less attractive at first blush—particularly when it comes to compensation, Judge Fisher acknowledged.

Again, Rod found it hard to take issue with how Fisher had summed things up thus far. Indeed, it tracked his own thought process.

However, if one gives proper weight to honing one’s skills under an accomplished mentor, and the importance of having meaningful opportunities to practice your profession early on, then I think the best path for you is as clear as the one Hercules ultimately chose—and it isn’t one that exalts superficial trappings over substance (again omitting an explicit reference, this time to M&I), Fisher pointedly stated.

While it’s been several decades since I last worked in a law firm, I’ve had ample opportunity over my years on the bench to assess the abilities of attorneys from a wide range of backgrounds. And that includes sizing up your potential over the past three years that you’ve worked with me, Rod. The stark reality is that, given the pressures of billing and limited meaningful practice opportunities, the likelihood of you even stepping into a court room at M&I for more than a status conference anytime soon is virtually nil.

Rod wasn’t nodding at any of this, but listening intently as the judge proceeded to draw out his comparison between the two firms. In contrast, I can say with equal certitude that at Dick Lawrence’s firm, you’ll be in a courtroom helping to pick juries and try cases before a year’s out.

Judge Fisher then leaned forward, planting his forearms firmly on his desk, as he looked Rod squarely in the eyes and said bluntly, "Rod, I’ve seen far too many examples of attorneys from big city firms who I wouldn’t trust to interview a witness over the phone, much less present one at trial.

"I think the world of you, Rod, and see enormous potential in you as a courtroom lawyer. That potential won’t get developed though without meaningful practice (a phrase he slowly and carefully articulated to underscore), any more than you’d expect a promising quarterback to hone his skills by warming the bench while more senior players take all of the snaps."

Rod had to smile as Judge Fisher tapped into yet another one of his favored reservoirs of analogies, football. Given my experience, Rod, I’m able to project what your practice would likely consist of down the road at either firm. And, knowing you as well as I do, I’m certain that you’d grow frustrated and impatient with many of the menial tasks that would fall to you as an associate at a large firm. Young attorneys at big firms often get burned out and disenchanted with the law. And those that do hang around are under constant pressure to contribute to the firm’s bottom line to such an extent that their view of the law becomes largely, if not entirely, mercenary.

Rod was certainly sensitive to associate satisfaction surveys that not infrequently appeared in national law journals and arguably reinforced Fisher’s dim view of practicing at large firms.

Yet, the prospect of starting out with a mid-five-figure salary in a town whose most storied employer, Homestake Mine, had shuttered its windows more than a decade ago, seemed a poor one when weighed against the $160,000 starting salary at M&I—long recognized as a litigation powerhouse in national rankings—in a vibrant metropolitan area where new potential clients wouldn’t be as rare as hen’s teeth.

Yet, Rod did not question Fisher’s keen interest in his future, and from early on he’d earned Rod’s trust and respect. However, Fisher hadn’t grown up near Chicago, and clearly preferred a lower key rural existence, which is why he’d replanted himself in the Black Hills after he’d finished law school.

__________________

As Rod finished replaying his recent meeting with Judge Fisher for Doc’s benefit, he studied Wicker’s face to try to discern his reading of the tea leaves. As usual though, it was like trying to see through muddy water, for unlike Rod, Doc rarely wore his heart on his sleeve. Rather, like a world-class Texas Hold’em player, Doc was a study in placid introspection.

After taking a deep, deliberative sip, Doc set down his martini on the coffee table, and, as he leaned back in his chair, stroked his salt and pepper beard reflexively with his right hand. Seeming to echo Doc’s thoughtful expression, the penetrating gaze of Giuseppe Verdi, captured by Giovani Boldini in his famed portrait, loomed over Doc’s right shoulder. The framed replica, a constant fixture in Doc’s lair, shows the predominantly gray whiskered Verdi sporting an imposing black top hat and elegant white scarf that contrast vividly with his black coat, all set against an indistinct, dreary gray background. The poster had occupied the same prominent position in Doc’s living room, practically reigning over his vast collection of opera CDs, for as long as Rod had known him. Good old Joe Green (as Verdi’s name translates into English) had witnessed many bacchanalian celebrations over the years, as midshipmen sought refuge from the Naval Academy Yard at Doc’s home on the weekends.

On the one hand, it’s not like you’re entering into a contract as an indentured servant. So, if you went with your gut and opted for M&I, you could always move your shingle somewhere else, Doc began, having long ago read Rod’s inclination.

On the other hand, I don’t think that you could reasonably expect Campbell & Lawrence to maintain a holding pattern so that you could give M&I a whirl. And if you wave off on Dick Lawrence’s offer, I think that you can pretty much kiss that opportunity goodbye, Doc observed. "I suspect that’s why Judge Fisher leaned as hard as he did on you at your meeting yesterday.

So, as I see it, what it boils down to is essentially this: Do you have enough confidence in your own judgment that you’d be willing to disregard the considered opinion of a man with more than twenty times your experience in the practice of law who’s treated you like a son? Doc zeroed in for an argumentative kill bluntly, as if delivering a coup de grace to swiftly take out an enemy combatant—a tactic that he’d mastered as a SEAL.

I pretty much expected you’d say something along those lines, Rod responded. Even so, I’m finding it hard to embrace the idea of practicing in a hole-in-the-wall office with one middle-aged litigator, and an equally middle-aged transactional partner from the ‘Campbell’ line that I wasn’t even given an opportunity to meet during my interview at the firm, Rod gruffly remarked.

Your comments track largely along superficial lines, Rod. How about drilling down to some specifics about Dick Lawrence, who, given Judge Fisher’s remarks, sounds like a modern day Daniel Webster?

Rod begrudgingly outlined Lawrence’s CV for Doc. Dick, who had been born and raised in Deadwood, was in his mid-50s. He’d long been considered a local celebrity of sorts, having completed his wrestling career at Lead-Deadwood High School undefeated with four state titles, and graduating as class valedictorian. He’d attended nearby Black Hills State College (now a University) in Spearfish on a full academic scholarship, where he won two national championships and graduated summa cum laude with a B.A. in history. Although he’d been offered scholarships to attend private law schools out-of-state, Lawrence had opted to stay in state, getting his law degree from the University of South Dakota in Vermillion, where, in 1985, he once again graduated first in his class.

Ironically, like Rod, Lawrence had clerked for Judge Fisher before embarking on his career in private practice. Notably, Lawrence had been the first clerk hired by the then newly appointed Fisher.

Once in practice, Lawrence made a name for himself in handling high stakes cases for area businesses, including an unblemished string of more than two dozen favorable jury verdicts for Terry Peak and Deer Mountain ski resorts over a 25-year period—a detail that Judge Fisher had taken particular satisfaction in highlighting for Rod. All totaled, Lawrence had tried more than 100 cases to verdict in the thirty years that he’d been practicing, and had successfully argued dozens of appeals before both state and federal appellate courts throughout the country. He was also the youngest attorney ever elected as president of South Dakota’s state bar. And, rounding things out, Lawrence had been listed in the top tier of virtually every premier lawyer rating organization since the early 90s.

Okay, as I was saying moments ago, looks like this guy is a modern-day Daniel Webster. Now tell me, what’s there not to like about hanging your shingle alongside his? Doc inquired.

"The issue isn’t Lawrence per se, Doc, but rather the venue. Dick is a big fish in a small pond, whereas M&I is a whale in an ocean of opportunities—not to mention the fact that all my family and numerous friends live in and around Chicago. I spent enough years in isolation in the Corps. Why would I want to exile myself to the Black Hills? Absent family and friends, there isn’t any personal draw there. Did you know South Dakota ranks 46th out of 50 states in terms of population, and dead last in terms of average starting salary for teachers (a figure that Rod expected would hit close to home for Doc)? Those figures don’t exactly evidence a