American Silhouettes: A Tale of Anguish Volume I

By Christian Beres Calmejane

This is Volume I of two volumes.

American Silhouettes is primarily a study in human character in its dealing with the adversity of life. The setting is America during the last quarter of the twentieth century. More specifically it focuses on the struggle of two generations of a small African American family whose destiny encounters more than its share of horrific tribulations. It is a window on life, love, happiness, suffering, and death of the members of this small vulnerable resilient family from the South, that moves to Washington, D.C. for a better life, only to find a very short interlude of happiness, followed by a deep plunge into another cycle of trauma and despair; not death though, that would be too easy; and when death finally does come, it is a liberation of the body and soul. The saga continues with the cycle of misfortune repeating itself in a new age, a new generation with the same finality as if their destiny had been wickedly predefined. From Bridgeville SC to Washington DC, and from Rome to Dakar, their saga brings to light the evil and virtuousness of man in its most natural occurrence, as a part of daily life. The story brings together various individuals of different and sometimes opposite background and describes either the passions of their encounters or the clashes resulting from their conflicts. It analyses the most wonderful passions of love, beauty and happiness, and juxtaposes the horrible ugliness of hate and abuse. It incorporates the duty and responsibility of man within the context of our society and dwells into the aberrations of its marginal sector. It is an interweaved matrix of emotional extremes. It demonstrates that evil has no color, no race, no religion, and that it transcends the social fabric of our society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 21, 2009
• ISBN: 9781467858694

Christian Beres Calmejane

Christian Beres Calmejane was born in southern France during the last years of World War II. He moved to the United States as a teen in the late fifties when his father was assigned to the French Embassy in Washington. He obtained an engineering degree from a local college and worked in Manufacturing and at the Transit agency for the last forty years. Mr. Beres Calmejane has lived in and around Washington, D.C. all along. He currently resides on the west shore of the Chesapeake Bay, in North Beach. This is his first book.

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© 2009 Christian Beres Calmejane. All rights reserved.

This book or any part thereof may not be translated or reproduced, in any form whatsoever, mechanical, photographic, or electronically, or in the form of a recording of any type whatsoever, nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise copied for public or private use without the prior written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 3/31/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4389-5458-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4389-5459-2 (hc)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Acknowledgments:

Preface

Chapter 1 - Tyrone’s Shooting

Chapter 2 - Calypso’s Arrival at Shooting Scene

Chapter 3 - Jerome’s Death

Chapter 4 - At Dr. Peck’s Clinic

Chapter 5 - Jerome’s Revenge

Chapter 6 - Cynthia Returns Home

Chapter 7 - Cynthia Goes to Washington

Chapter 8 - Eulogio

Chapter 9 - Miss Holly’s Death - Kim’s Death

Chapter 10 - Disintegration Spiral I

Chapter 11 - Tyrone at Foster Home, Bunky & Victoria

Chapter 12 - Disintegration Spiral II - Victoria’s Death

Chapter 13 - Tyrone at Ballou

Chapter 14 - Tupac - Death

Epilogue - Volume I

Acknowledgments

Les images du bonheur

nous plaisent; mais celles du

malheur nous instruisent.

Bernardin de Saint-Pierre

(Images of happiness are

pleasant to the senses; those of

misfortune teach us the lessons of life.)

To

Natacha and Alexandre

With all the love that we thrive to convey in spite of the hurdles of

daily life.

Acknowledgments: 

I want to offer my sincere thanks to Patricia Sylla for her Emergency/Trauma medical advice, Tom Crone for his technical guidance, George Burns of the WMATA Police Dept., and Paula Lee, Pat Brooks, Charmaine Fauntelroy, Laverne Mathews, and LaShawn Wolfe-Clark for sharing their personal thoughts.

Special appreciation to Diana Washington (Chouchou) for the difficult job of typing the manuscript and coping with the cryptic dictation.

In Memory of

Lisa

I knew your dear Mom,

I knew your beautiful daughter,

I never met you . . .

But in the empty void of space,

In the darkness of night,

I heard your cry,

I felt your pain.

C. B. C.

Preface 

On Friday, July 16, 1999, at approximately 9:45 P.M. a private plane went down off the coast of Massachusetts, some seven miles from Martha’s Vineyard. The plane was piloted by John F. Kennedy Jr., and carried his beautiful wife, Carolyn Bessette and her sister Lauren. The jet-set trio had planned a weekend of summer fun which included a Kennedy wedding at the family compound in Hyannisport.

During the following few days the whole nation was all ears as the Coast Guard and the United States Navy mobilized to carry out a search and rescue mission in the attempt to find the missing plane and its ill-fated occupants. As time passed on and debris started washing up on the island, the rescue effort turned into a search and recovery mission. While a glimmer of hope to find the three young people alive remained in people’s mind, that optimistic eventuality never materialized as an unmanned Navy robot found the remains of the plane fuselage in 116 feet of water, laying on the sandy bottom of the ocean. The presence of the three bodies still fastened by their seat belts was confirmed the next day by Navy divers. The remains were extricated from their watery grave and the nation mourned the death of John F. (John-John) Kennedy Jr., with some attention to the unfortunate Bessette sisters.

I was sixteen years old in 1961 when John F. Kennedy swore the presidential oath on an incredibly cold January day, and was conscious throughout the following three years of the dynamic spell the Kennedy dynasty had on Washington, America, and the World. I remember the accomplishments and failures of that administration, the launch of the Civil Rights movement, the initiation of economic aid programs at home and abroad, the Peace Corp., the Space program, the Cuban missile crisis and subsequent embargo, the botched-up Bay of Pigs invasion, the embryonic beginning of our involvement in the Vietnam conflict, but I could never impose blame to the president or his administration. Even years later, I look back in awe at the only American president who earned my respect and admiration. On November 22, 1963, when President Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, I shared the grief of the nation, and remember well the casket in state under the rotunda at the Capitol, the funeral procession, the mass at Saint Matthews’ Cathedral in Washington, and his only son John-John, as he stood there in salute next to his mother. Years later I would take my own children to visit his grave at Arlington Cemetery across the Potomac River.

I have lived in Washington, D.C. most of my life, and over time watched the city grow and change. During the last few years I noted with anguish the constant increase in the penetration of drugs into our culture and the detrimental effect it has had on our young people. As time went on and the trade flourished, the deadly combination of drugs and the availability of guns brought with it countless deaths of young people, especially a very vulnerable group, young African Americans. This inevitable fall out has been ongoing for many years and is still occurring today with little serious attention from our leaders, at all levels of government.

America is quick to selectively criticize third world countries in their lack of liberty and the ineptitude of their corrupt governments. America often forgets its own track record, starting with the massacres of Native Americans who even today remain second class citizens, or the segregation of African Americans, where slavery left a mark which branded a People for generations. I am not looking for excuses for Indians or blacks, I am just acknowledging that, today, serious inequities still exist and even though they also affect other ethnic groups, Whites, Hispanics, Orientals, and other Non-Whites, our system has more obstacles to overcome before it can pretend to be the world’s democratic paradigm. While many of our minority citizens have succeeded extremely well and found their place in our society, we need to give special consideration for those of us who have stumbled and are still stumbling either because of past or current injustices.

This position does not imply that other countries and governments, whether industrialized or not, do not share in the same transgressions. Unfortunately I don’t think there is a single country, or a single group of individuals on this earth who can claim to not be guilty of various levels of similar unjust aberrations.

It was in Winter 1963 during the Kennedy administration when I drove down from Washington, D.C. to Miami Beach with a bunch of friends, a Cuban refugee, a couple of African students, a Senegalese, and an Ethiopian. On our way south, we took pictures in front of the restrooms in gas stations, because my African friends wanted to send pictures of the bathroom signage: ‘Men,’ ‘Women,’ ‘Colored,’ back home so as to cool off the universal admiration that their hometown friends had for America and its proclaimed freedom. We posed and smiled, and even when we were refused service in restaurants, or had to sleep in the car because they would not serve us or house us, we thought it was amusing. It was only a ten-day vacation and we were eighteen and nineteen years old. We did not truly grasp the gravity of its meaning, and the implication it entailed for the black locals who were born in these parts and who had no option but to grow up and live there.

Touching, experiencing this facet of American democracy was so unbelievable that it was difficult even though obvious to accept. But it never went away; it happened again and again in the past forty years, sometimes as an open slap in the face, an ugly reminder of a past era, but most often in subtle and cunning ways. Was I in the wrong place at the wrong time or was I just sampling a bit of true Americana? Was I trying to do the wrong thing in my association with members of other races? Was I too verbal, too aggressive in my intolerance of inequity? Was I too brash and outspoken? Or was I being negative? I don’t think so. Before you can right a wrong, you have to acknowledge and accept its existence, and then and only then, can you attempt to do something about it.

Just a few months ago, in front of Georgetown University Hospital in Washington, D.C., on Reservoir Road, where I had just left my daughter who was hospitalized, and went to catch the Metrobus on my first leg to return home, I joined the little crowd huddled in and around the bus shelter and patiently waited for the bus. It was about seven thirty on a cold fall evening. I am usually aware of my surroundings and as I waited, I noticed a little old lady, twenty feet or so away from our group trying to wave a cab which was approaching; the cab slowed down as if to stop, and when it reached the woman, accelerated away. There were no passengers inside, nor an obvious ‘off-duty’ visible sign. The scene repeated itself twice more, as I confirmed the fact that the two other cabs were surely empty and in service. By then I had left my little group at the bus stop, and as my heart beat a little faster, I walked closer to the little old lady. She was wrapped in a worn-out linen coat tightly clutching her handbag. Our eyes crossed and I could see a sense of weariness in the wrinkled timeless face. Another cab approached; I waived my arm, and the cab came to a screeching halt, the rear right door just in front of me; I opened the door, turned toward the little old lady, and noted her look of frustration as she anticipated I was going to get in, but I smiled to her and said: Your cab, Ma’am! I held the door open, looking at the annoyed eyes of the driver, while the little old lady walked around me and sat on the rear seat. Where are you going? barked the hacker; Twelfth and Missouri NW, she replied. Where? he asked again. Twelfth and Missouri NW, I echoed. As I closed the door, she looked at me with a thankful Million Dollar smile. She was African American. I wasn’t.

Our conceited society has a little further to go if it is to shed its presumptuous arrogance and truly become what it pretends to be.

So when John F. Kennedy Jr. died on Friday evening, July 16, 1999, at about 9:45 P.M. and America grieved his death a few days later, I was distressed. Sure, I grieved his death, but I also grieved the many young African Americans who were dying in vain, in silence, in obscurity, adding to the statistics in Washington, D.C. and the many other American cities. I was offended by the apathetic disregard our society as a whole has for those young black men who die daily in North West, North East, and South East DC. The local and national news could not get out of their own way to report on the details of the Kennedy plane crash and the lives of the famous legendary victims, but very seldom do they find the time to dwell on the agony of the murder and drug overdose victims which litter our city streets every night.

It was that week I started writing this narrative.

The setting is America during the last quarter of the twentieth century.

It is a window on life, love, happiness, and suffering of the members of a small vulnerable resilient African American family whose destiny encounters more than its share of horrific tribulations. The story focuses on the struggle of two generations of this family along with the people whose lives they touched either through good or through evil, either by design or by accident. Their saga brings to light the evil and virtuousness of man in its most natural occurrence, as a part of daily life. It demonstrates that evil has no color, no race, no religion, that it transcends the social fabric of our society, and that it has no national borders.

The story brings together various individuals of different and sometimes opposite background, and describes either the passions of their encounters or the clashes resulting from their conflicts. It analyses the most wonderful passions of love, beauty and happiness, and juxtaposes the horrible ugliness of hate and abuse. It incorporates the duty and responsibility of man within the context of our society and dwells into the aberrations of its marginal sector. It is an interweaved matrix of emotional extremes.

It is a lesson of life; it is the reality of life. It is the reality of the path we follow inexorably from the day of our birth until the day we die, the day to day routine, and the hurdles we encounter along the way.

CBC

Chapter 1 - Tyrone’s Shooting 

Manuel’s body had not yet reached the ground when Tyrone heard the second loud pop of the large caliber muzzle. He staggered and lost his breath as if punched in the chest by a heavyweight boxer. He felt the sharp pain one short instant later after the bullet pierced his rib cage in the front torso, entered the right lung, and seemingly stopped on the other side, lodged in the muscle of his back.

Tyrone fell to the ground in a subconscious act of self preservation. His eyes had not yet disconnected from the horrific sight of Manuel’s skull exploding, sending pieces of brain matter into the night. Even Tupac’s Beretta in his waistband was useless; everything had happened so fast. He pulled it out, disengaged the safety, and racked it, sliding a hollow point 9mm cartridge into the chamber. The wound did not hurt any more as he lay there motionless on the ground under the BMW, where he had crawled as soon as he realized he had been shot and was the second target. He cursed under his breath as it dawned on him he had fallen into a trap; his misplaced self confidence had blinded his judgement.

After all these years of dealing and facing adversity, he truly believed he was invincible. Tyrone Beauregard, the kid who had survived the loss of the father he had never known, the loss of his beloved little sister, and as if that wasn’t enough, the loss of his mother so many years ago, subconsciously had challenged the grim reaper. He had survived his insecure adolescent years both at his own home and in foster homes, followed by his struggle to make it as a young adult in DC In spite of the hurdles, in spite of his environment, the young man had succeeded. He finished high school and grew into a man who worked hard and trained to become a professional, demonstrating along the way his perseverance, his qualities, impressing his superiors with his competence and ingenuity. And tonight, after all of these years of conscientiousness, determination and unflinching work, he laid there under his car in the dirt, bleeding from a bullet hole in the chest with two kilos of high grade cocaine stashed in the back of the driver seat of his car. He looked at his watch and noted the time: 9:45 P.M. He was supposed to meet Calypso at ten o’clock tonight. He pushed off the thought with all his might.

Manuel’s open eyes watched him in the darkness, a silly grin on his curled-up lips. Tyrone was scared. For the first time since that day ten years before, when they took him away from his mother, or rather took his mother away from him, he was scared. It wasn’t the fear of death or even the fear of pain which scared him; neither was it the fear of losing what he had struggled so hard to obtain, what he had worked so hard to build; it was the fear of losing the person he held most dearly in his heart - Calypso - the woman who awoke his sensitivity, the woman who filled the large void in his life, the woman who wanted to leave him when she found out about his illicit drug dealing activities, the woman he asked to marry, and promised this would be the last deal.

He fought her, disregarding her advice to just cancel the deal, and here he was under the car like a wounded animal, realizing much too late the insanity of his reckless action.

He knew he was in trouble, and needed to keep a clear mind if he was going to get out of this predicament. He was on his own more than ever, with no one to back him up, no one to cover him, as he made a run for it. As he laid there, motionless, waiting for the shooter to move, listening in the darkness, he heard a gurgling sound. It emanated from his own body as blood from the wound inexorably filled his right lung. An excruciating sharp pain in the lung, a sort of heavy pressure at the entry point where the bullet had broken a rib, reminded him of his vulnerability as he painfully dragged himself around the front of the car. He lay near the front wheel and remembered the previous Saturday, when, after washing the car, he painstakingly cleaned out every orifice in the alloy rim which had a way of collecting dirt and brake dust, tarnishing the finish.

He stopped breathing for a minute, and listened again. Maybe the shooter left, he hoped. His sixth sense warned him otherwise. Wishful thinking; don’t fall into the trap! He thought to himself. The shooter was surely there, and from his vantage point, would pull the trigger the moment Tyrone gave him a hint of a target. He caressed the BMW tires; he had bought them before the vacation - Michelin MZX’s - top of the line. He loved his car. He purchased it three years before from a dentist who lived in Potomac, Maryland, who was the first owner. He had all the receipts. The dentist almost changed his mind when he signed over the title; he had a hard time letting go. The car was a gem, and the price below blue book. He snatched it up without hesitation and never regretted the purchase. It was a BMW 635i, lipstick red with white leather interior, Bose stereo cassette-CD system, and equipped with a speaker’s galore. He tinted the windows, added a police scanner and mobile phone, in addition to a specially welded box under the seat where he kept the gun and cash. Someone else would be driving his car tonight, or maybe tomorrow morning, and it would not be he. He was mad, mad at himself. The keys were in the ignition. The cocaine was stashed in a secret compartment in the back rest of the front seat. He could not even go to the driver side without risking his life.

He got to the passenger’s door; it was locked. He looked across the vacant lot, and gauged the distance between the Beamer and a large commercial trash container. It wasn’t far, just about fifty-five feet, but in his condition it would not be easy. His sixth sense told him it would be suicidal to attempt this route of escape. There were no other options; the street was at least one hundred and fifty feet away, and he would be a sitting duck for the shooter. Behind him was the wall of the adjacent vacant building, and while it was close enough to reach safely, the first floor window ledges were at least six feet off the ground. Under normal circumstances he could have jumped this height with a minimal effort, but tonight, with the bullet wound, the loss of blood, the pain, and the difficulty breathing, there was no way he could make it. On the far side, a chain link fence covered with ivy concealed the shooter. He didn’t know why Manuel had selected this place for the transaction. Sure, it was in the middle of town, just three blocks from Martin Luther King Jr. Avenue, and yet it was as remote as if it were located in the middle of a forest in the Shenandoah. It was the perfect location to carry out their illicit transaction, as much as it was for the shooter to carry out his assassination. He wondered who the killer was; probably someone Manuel knew and had crossed, or just someone who had followed him, suspecting that not only would he get the drugs but also the drug money: two for the price of one. In the moonlight, he could see a couple of trees which had toppled on the fence near the center of the lot. Tyrone suspected the shooter was there, waiting for his next move. Tyrone surmised that when the time came, the shooter would come through the opening in the fence and finish the job. The shooter would not be foolish enough to jump over it now, and risk getting shot.

Tyrone remembered the few times as a young boy at Miss Holly’s, when he and the other kids would play hide and seek or Cowboys and Indians, and run through alleys, jump over fences, getting the neighbors up in arms by the racket they made, shooting at each other with cap pistols . . .

If he could only make it to the trash container . . . The sensation of fear again ran up his spine; his heart was beating faster. If he just stayed there, he would lose too much blood over time and would not be able to move at all. He would eventually just pass out, and be an easy prey. He breathed slowly to gather all of his energy for the move. He had to go for it; there was no other solution. He would crawl as far as he could, staying as low to the ground as possible . . . A faraway police siren woke him up from his thoughts and reminded him he was in the city. He wished they were on their way here, coming for him.

He crept on all fours to the rear of the car; his painful breathing was strenuous and he felt a sort of numbness inside. He was tempted to just lay there and fall asleep, but he just could not give up that easily. He checked the Beretta and began to inch slowly forward. The pain in his chest was now unbearable as he coughed blood and phlegm. After moving some ten feet he slumped exhausted to the ground. He would have to run for it. He arched his back, still on all fours as a sprinter preparing to run the hundred-meter dash, breathing slowly to minimize the pain, psyching himself for the next move. Suddenly, he sprang into action running full speed toward the dumpster, firing wildly toward the fence in the general direction of the shooter. He fired again and again in impotent rage through a veil of blurred vision as he limped toward the dumpster, holding his left hand against his chest soaked with blood.

Not a single shot had been fired by the shooter who followed his prey through the gun sights, waiting until his victim reached the comfort and false security in the vicinity of the dumpster.

When the shooter finally pulled the trigger twice in succession, the two hits were accurate and deadly. The first shot hit Tyrone in the right thigh, penetrated the muscle, and shattered the femur cutting him in two. As he fell to the ground, the second bullet hit Tyrone in the head three inches above the right ear, piercing the skin, fracturing the skull, bouncing off the bone, and exiting through another bloody tear.

An unconscious Tyrone landed a couple of feet from the trash container, clutching the useless smoking Beretta in his hand.

The shooter waited one instant, stood up straight, and walked toward the motionless bodies. He was tall, dark, slender, and moved slowly at a calculated pace. He reached Manuel first, confirmed the dead man’s identity, bent over to reach the tri-gold triangular pendant hanging around his neck, and pulled it loose, snapping the chain in the process. He pumped two more bullets in the inert corpse for good measure, and spit on the corpse.

Marisa is avenged, Julio thought to himself as he turned, heading for Tyrone.

The two racing police cars jumped the curb at high speed in time to see in their headlights a man pointing a gun, ready to shoot an inert form laying on the ground. They fired off a volley from their Glocks and the shooter pulled the trigger one time as he ran off to avoid the flying bullets. The cops kept firing until the shooter, who had scrambled behind the trash container, was now out of sight. The bullets ricocheting against the steel can made enough of a racket to wake up the dead, but were not loud enough to stir either Tyrone or Manuel. The cops called for back up and an ambulance and positioned themselves behind their respective cruisers ready for any unexpected eventuality. By the time two more cruisers arrived, the shooter had disappeared into the safety of the night.

The shooter’s last discharge missed his target by a quarter inch and the bullet buried itself deep into the dirt next to Tyrone’s already bleeding skull.

Within minutes, the District of Columbia Fire Department ambulance arrived, screeching to a stop at the curb, as the cops at the scene, guns drawn, motioned the driver to stay put. During the five additional minutes it took the police to secure the area, Tyrone’s brain had begun to swell within the confines of his skull, and if drastic action was not carried out soon to relieve the pressure, he would suffer permanent irreversible brain damage. At this instant his condition was rapidly going from bad to worse. He had lost at least one liter of blood, his right lung had collapsed, and he was bleeding profusely from three equally serious wounds.

When at last, the police motioned the ambulance to move forward and the coast was clear, the heavy vehicle lurched forward over the curb, continuing along the sidewalk, across the no longer vacant lot, around the police cars with their lanterns rotating flashes of blue and red, toward the large green metal trash container, where an officer gesticulated to their attention.

Youssef El-Kebir, the Emergency Medical Technician who drove the life saving ambulance close to tonight’s two new victims was a veteran of Washington’s shooting scene. He had done two tours in Vietnam during the last three years of the war where he learned his trade as a medical technician, a young gung-ho soldier who wanted to save the world. As cared for his wounded comrades, treating the bullet wounds, healing the cuts and punctures, mending the broken bones, fighting the infections, he ended up spending more time consoling his patients as the body bag count inexorably increased. Eighteen years later he found himself repeating the same moves, performing the same procedures, and while the equipment at his disposal was orders of magnitude more sophisticated than in ‘Nam, the victims died with the same frequency, the same agony, and the same pain.

When he returned to Washington after the war, he was one of the first of the new generation of EMTs in the city who could make the difference between life and death resulting from timely response and quick professional thinking. But he knew he was getting too old to do this job now, and he wanted to believe he had become emotionally immune to the pain, immune to the suffering, immune to the recurring scenes of death and desperation of so many young black men in the city of Washington, the Nation’s Capital.

Youssef had become disillusioned with this society. For many years he believed the white establishment was the culprit and the problem was racial. In his attempt to stand tall he joined Islam in the form of the black Muslims, and as he immersed himself in his new religion, he realized over time that the problem was not one of race but rather one of power, and the abuse thereof. He saw this abuse repeat itself in government at all levels, in managing, in hiring, in working, in incompetence: it was insidious, rampant, and colorless. When his black Muslim brothers, with their own hatred, their own racist disposition, stood fast in blaming the white man for everything, selectively accusing him, he rejected the group, but not the religion nor the new name he had adopted. He chose to carry the ‘cross’ in his own way, and to save as many of his ‘sons’ and his ‘brothers’ as he could.

If he could not help pass legislation to stop the guns, if he could not help the police to stop the flow of drugs, if he could not help in bettering the school system, if he could not help the parents in becoming more effective in their responsibilities of raising their children, if he could not teach mankind there was more to rearing a child than penile insertion, he could at least try to save the most needy ones at their most vulnerable moment. He could patch them up, cradle them in his arms, and try to bring them back to life, or at least keep them alive a little bit longer. Youssef had a mission, and if he had his way he would put up large posters, three feet wide by five feet tall, with a photograph of each young man who had gone through his hands, in the dark alleys, in the mangled cars, on the drug-infested streets of this great city. He would mount the posters on the Mall, yes, on the National Mall, between the Washington Monument, and the Capitol; large full size photographs of the dying young black men so this society would constantly be reminded of its failed responsibility.

After he returned from the war, Youssef started his job as an emergency medical technician, after taking long arduous classes for a couple of years, eventually graduating to become a full-fledged paramedic. He also read medical manuals, and kept up with the latest emergency medical procedures to enhance his competence and capabilities. Within the limitations associated to emergency field medical action, he could handle most situations, and while his activities were severely restricted because of directives and liability, he would push the envelope as far as he could just to keep his young patients temporarily alive. His management looked the other way when he went beyond his medical authority, at least most of the time.

What he did not realize was that he relinquished his own personal life for this important mission. Over the years he had charmed many a woman and fell in love, and so had they. But as time passed, each one became jealous, jealous of his dedication, jealous of his obsession, jealous of his mission; one after the other, they ultimately accepted defeat and left.

He routinely left home in the late afternoon and would return in the early morning after a long twelve hour shift. Once home he would talk of the night’s events, of the young victims, of the gruesome details; this is how he dealt with it, that’s how he coped. But the women in his life could only withstand this environment a few months. They would eventually leave to escape his madness as one of them called it, his dark unnatural obsession.

And then there was Rachel. Rachel was half American Indian and half African American with a dark olive complexion, high cheek bones, long straight hair, full lips, large sentimental eyes, and wide hips which would bear their children. It almost worked. She was a beautiful and rare breed, and they loved each other with a powerful passion which could not be shaken. She also shared his passion for humanity and his love for their fellow man. Youssef thought he had found his mate for life, and she felt the same. It lasted a long time, almost three years. Both wanted it to work. Both tried hard to make it work. Both wanted to get married and have children. But Rachel had married once before and her experience had left a sour memory in her soul. She wanted to make sure it would work this second time, and it would last. She truly believed she could curtail Youssef’s obsession. But Youssef was a rock; he was the rock that could not be moved. After the long-lasting initial folly of their amorous passion, she attempted to change Youssef, to help him focus sufficiently and provide a little room for their own lives and their future offspring, when the time came. She tried day after day, week after week, month after month, using her power of persuasion, using her mature woman’s intuition, using her charm, using all she had, to no avail.

Youssef did try. He started working regular hours and even switched to the day shift. The day shift stint did not last very long; he could not stand sitting in the firehouse all day, and the hospital could not afford to lose him during the key middle-of-the-night deadly hours. He tried to avoid talking about his work, or at least left out the emotionally draining details.

Over these long years with Youssef, Rachel got old. Without realizing it, she became intertwined with his obsession and almost forgot about her own life. One Saturday morning, she got out of bed and looked into the dresser mirror. A different person was returning her gaze. A woman at least ten years older stared at her from the other side of the mirror. With dark circles under her eyes and a disheveled look, it was as if she was on stand-by waiting for God knows what. She was getting older, but not moving forward. As she looked into the mirror, she recapped the situation. It took her less than one minute to objectively assess the last three years. She made her decision right there and then to leave Youssef, the man she loved. She had tried. God knew how hard she had tried.

When Youssef returned from work in the morning, she was still packing her things. He was in the middle of the living room when she walked out of the bedroom dragging her heavy suitcase. He was devastated but could not find the courage to ask her to stay; he knew he could not change his ways. Rachel feared to look into his reproachful eyes; she knew that if she did, she would not have the courage to go. She looked down to the floor and said in a pitiful tone: I am suffocating; I am getting older, going nowhere: I have to leave!

She was trying to psych herself to get mad, convinced herself she needed an excuse, but he understood. He understood too well. The knot in his throat precluded him from saying anything. He accepted her decision with resignation.

Mektoub, Inch’Allah, he thought to himself; this destiny is the will of God.

I made a chicken pasta dinner, just the way you like it, she added as she broke up, not being able to hold the tears back any longer.

It’s on the stove, she said as she walked out dragging the suitcase.

Rachel never returned. She left the keys to the apartment on the table as an unequivocal sign of the finality of her decision. Youssef never ate the chicken pasta. He stood there for a long time after she left, blaming himself for being so selfish, for having chased her away. He wrapped the pasta, bowl and all, in foil paper and put it in the freezer. It had been sitting in the corner of the freezer for almost one year now, and every time Youssef went in there to get some ice cubes he would see the bowl and dream, dream about this beautiful soul, this beautiful woman he chased away, sacrificed for his own folly.

Five times a day he would unfurl his prayer rug, religiously get on his knees facing Mecca, and would pray fervently.

Allah, Allah the merciful, I pray to you my God; please listen to your humble servant, and help me save my brothers, make me strong.

He then would always end his prayer by saying: Allah my God, please make Rachel happy.

So when Youssef’s expert hands first touched Tyrone’s tortured body, you know there was a God up there watching over him.

Youssef’s partner, George, was an equally competent EMT and both men shared in each other’s passion. Over the years they developed a bond like no other. When Youssef went on first shift a couple of years back, George had the hardest time getting over the loss of his colleague, and when Youssef returned, he couldn’t have been any happier. That night was just another night on the job. George walked over to the first victim, turned him over, saw what remained of the rear of the skull, and turned him back facing the night sky. He crossed himself and closed the victim’s eyelids rushing to his comrade’s side.

Youssef went through the standard check list and noted right away that Tyrone’s right pupil was larger than the left, but both were responsive to the beam of light he was shining on them. This indicated a severe head injury, but there was still hope. All the while George was installing an IV in Tyrone’s arm, providing instantaneous nourishment to the victim via a glucose saline solution. This would also minimize the risk of the patient going into shock. Youssef inspected the head wound and checked for pulse, respiration, and blood pressure. The blood pressure was low and his pulse was over 100; there was internal bleeding. They had to get him out of there, and quick. The head wound was serious and the pressure building up in the cerebral cavity had pushed out the fractured bone fragments allowing for some expansion of the traumatized brain. His GCS score decreased, indicative of an advancing comatose state. Youssef checked the patient’s planter reflexes. The increase in flexor tone indicated progressive neurological damage. Youssef asked George to call for air transport in view of the severity of the wound, and continued to inspect his patient. He noticed the bloody shirt and cut it open exposing the chest with the gaping hole. Youssef placed the stethoscope on the right side; no breathing sounds indicated a collapsed lung. George established an airway into Tyrone’s throat to make sure he would be able to take in air throughout the ordeal. He was concerned about the abnormal breathing. At the same time Youssef placed an air bag on the airway, pumping it rhythmically to help his patient breathe. George went back to the ambulance to get the stretcher, the defibrillator, and the EKG unit, simultaneously placing a call to Washington Hospital Center on his hand-held radio. When he returned with the equipment, he helped Youssef slide Tyrone on the stretcher. This is the way George and Youssef worked: they did not talk, they did not have to; they watched their patient and with their peripheral vision, they watched each other; they each knew what was needed, they knew what the next step was, they anticipated one another’s moves, with certainty, and tonight they both knew their young victim was walking the fine line: the fine line between life and death. They knew that if they made one single mistake, the specter of death would swoop down and take him away. They also knew that their struggle was just beginning. As if by design, Tyrone’s heart stopped. Youssef shot him up with Epinephrine to stimulate the heart, and Dopamine to raise and maintain the blood pressure. He started CPR, while George turned on the defibrillator, set the controls, and prepared the paddles. Subconsciously, in a separate mental state, Youssef was counting. He was counting, to track the elapsed time since Tyrone’s heart had stopped working, had stopped pumping life sustaining oxygen rich blood to the brain . . .

Forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one . . .

With one yank, Youssef tore Tyrone’s silk shirt off his torso, and with a pair of pliers cut the two gold chains around his neck. The chains fell to the ground in the bloody dirt below Tyrone’s battered body. Neither George nor Youssef gave second thoughts to the value of the expensive trinkets. The only valuable entity at that moment was Tyrone’s life, this young man’s life, regardless of his transgressions . . .

Seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four . . .

Tyrone’s naked chest was shining in the evening light as Youssef smeared the two paddles with cream. He looked at the high voltage light on the ‘defib’ unit and yelled, clear, into the night . . .

Eighty-seven, eighty-eight . . .

Both men stood clear as Youssef struck Tyrone’s chest with both paddles simultaneously, sending a jolt of high voltage into Tyrone’s heart. The electric shock jerked Tyrone’s upper body about six inches up and away from the stretcher; as the body fell back down, Youssef was already there listening for a pulse . . . Nothing . . .

One hundred two, one hundred three, one hundred four . . .

The ‘defib’ unit was charged up again as Youssef yelled clear! and for the second time Tyrone’s abused body suffered the insulting jolt. Youssef heard a faint heartbeat through the stethoscope and listened attentively to confirm its presence. Meanwhile George connected the cardiac leads to the portable EKG unit, and as they scanned Tyrone’s tired and beat-up heart, they noted with relief that their young victim had made it through this difficult phase.

In their arduous attempt to keep their patient alive both Youssef and George were completely oblivious to their environment, oblivious to the DC cops walking back and forth around them, marking the crime scene, taking pictures, trying to establish the bullets’ trajectories. They were oblivious to the crackle of police radios, the flashes of police lanterns, and the spotlights which inundated the area. The Medivac helicopter rumbled high above trying to identify the landing spot in the lot on the other side of the fence where no less than forty-five minutes before, a lifetime, the shooter had stood. This is when Youssef and George realized their job was almost over, and they rapidly began to prepare their patient for an orderly transfer to the flight crew. A couple of cops had lit up flares around the open landing area and the helicopter, shining its huge landing light, swooped down slowly in a tumultuous earsplitting roar of its engine. The two nurses in their flight gear, carrying a low profile aluminum stretcher, jumped to the ground before the chopper landed. Under the direction of the cops, they leaped over the fence toward the ambulance to fetch the victim of tonight’s latest shooting.

For a split second Youssef thought he was in ‘Nam again. The only thing missing was the humid heat of the jungle and intermittent barrage of gunfire.

The two flight nurses, with their aviation helmets fitted with communication equipment, told them to get out of the way as they extended the stretcher next to Tyrone and expertly transferred their patient, along with the IV tubes and bags of medicine. In seconds they were off, running across the field, back to the helicopter with Youssef on their tail giving them a summary of Tyrone’s wounds and telling them what actions both he and George had undertaken. He yelled louder and louder as they neared the chopper hoping the two nurses had captured his bits and pieces of critical information.

He backed off only when the helicopter pilot gunned the throttle. The engines of the chopper thundered as the large blades gained speed, until they reached the necessary lift to counteract gravity and raise their heavy load. As the bird flew off in an eardrum breaking rumble, Youssef watched, thinking of his young patient tied to the gurney. He slowly returned to the site of their life saving action and looked around at all the medical equipment strewn around the site along with wrappers, blood soaked gauzes, syringes, tubing, scissors, Tyrone’s silk shirt torn to shreds, and other items which had served to keep the young man alive a little while longer. His gaze switched in the direction of the shining red BMW, a very expensive car, he thought. He looked back to the ground, and among the medical supplies noticed the two gold chains he had snipped-off earlier during the procedure. They were shining in the reflections of the police lanterns. When he raised his eyes, the ugly, dirty, banged-up trash container caught his eyes. The massive rusting steel structure, used to collect trash and construction debris, solemnly stood there, in contrast to everything else.

The symbolism it represented struck Youssef smack in the middle of the face. It represented our moral values. This thirty cubic yard trash container corresponded to our abysmal moral void, and the gold chain symbolized the superficial values that we cherish so much. Youssef was overwhelmed by this realization, the realization where so many individuals in today’s society had reached such a low point of moral integrity. In disgust he picked up both chains, and threw the expensive trinkets into the container in a symbolic act of defiance. He fell to his knees in front of the stretcher still warm from Tyrone’s body, still stained with the young man’s blood. He took his surgical gloves off, threw them to the ground, and wiped his hand along the stretcher, collecting the life giving rich red liquid. He rubbed the warm blood between his fingers; it was sticky now. HIV didn’t matter now; if our society had lost its morality, its values of life, then there was no reason living.

George was walking back and forth between the ambulance and the site, putting things away, filling a red plastic trash bag with the hazardous waste, when he realized something was wrong. He saw Youssef kneeling on the ground by the stretcher, his hands gripping the handle, immobile. George walked toward his friend, weary; weary because he sensed so much anguish. When he reached him, he placed his hand on Youssef’s shoulder and felt a shudder.

What’s wrong Brother? he asked.

Youssef did not answer right away. He had enough. And while tonight was no different from any other night, he had reached his emotional saturation point; the years of pent-up distress had finally boiled over.

Three nights before, the two men had answered a call to a drive-by shooting where the intended target was missed and the stray bullet had instead found its mark on a young child. When their ambulance reached the scene, the victim, a nine-year-old girl who had been playing jump rope, was lying on the front porch of her home, a house near the corner of Savannah and Thirteenth Streets, South East. Carrying his first aid ‘tool box,’ as he called it, Youssef reached her first and knelt next to the child to take her pulse. He did not have to probe any further; her lips were blue and she wasn’t breathing. The bullet had entered her tiny left breast next to the nipple and had perforated her heart. She was cold; she had died the instant the bullet hit her, a good twenty minutes before. That’s how long it had taken them to reach her. Not that it mattered, even if they had been on the porch next to her when she was shot, there is nothing they could have done. Her mother, an authoritative big woman in her mid thirties who towered over him, waited for him to revive her child. Youssef humbly looked up at her, and as their gaze met she refused to accept the obvious message in Youssef’s stare. She did not know; she did not want to know that nothing could be done. He read her message. She wanted him to make her child live. She expected him to make her child better; she demanded it because it was her child, her only child. And this man, riding in the ambulance, was going to make everything better; he was going to revive her baby. That’s all there was to it, just like in the movies. Youssef could not tell her she was dead. He did not have the heart to tell her she would no longer see her baby jump rope on the porch of their home, she would no longer hear her baby’s laugh in the house, the happy innocent laughter of her daughter Monique . . . So he said nothing and proceeded to go through the futile motions of resuscitating the child. After abusing the lifeless body, feeling once more the burden of death, Youssef picked up the little girl in his arms and stood up. The limp body dangled with the head rolled back, the legs slumped down, and her right arm hanging, inert. With an authoritative voice, the mother tried one last time, and barked.

Well, what are you doing? Make her better, make her live!

The mother observed him, and finally accepted that her loving daughter was dead. Youssef looked into her eyes begging her to not pain herself any further, accept this unfortunate destiny, and to not torment him in the process. She saw the anguish in his eyes, almost as great as her own agony. This unfathomable despair was spun on a web of countless deaths, each of which had marked and scarred him, one death after the other, in spite of his efforts to stop the grim reaper from taking over.

Upon this realization, she broke up in total excruciating anguish, crying out loud like a wounded animal, sobbing in pain and falling to her knees, holding Youssef’s legs like a supplicant as he stood there, holding her dead child. Youssef brought his arms forward and the lifeless little body rolled against his breast as he cradled the inert form and looked up to the dark sky. Pressing the child tight against his chest, he called to God for an explanation, a sort of silent prayer which sounded like a wail of desperation. George, who stood at the base of the stairs no more than six feet away, watched the agony as it crept through his own soul.

Tonight, when George felt the shudder as he put his hand on Youssef’s shoulder, he knew something had broken inside his friend; something had irrevocably cracked. A senior police officer approached the two men and asked whether they were finished.

In a couple of minutes, responded George as the two men resumed their task of cleaning up.

Is he going to make it? asked the older cop; Youssef looked at him, surprised at the question. It was the first time a cop had asked about the welfare of a victim; not that they did not care, but they did not want to get too close to the carnage.

The kid used to work for us some years ago . . . It’s a shame that he should finish like that, he was a good kid!

He will be very lucky if he survives, he has very serious wounds. What’s his name? continued Youssef.

Tyrone, Tyrone Beauregard.

Their eyes met, veterans of sort in a continuous ugly war, ashamed of their inability to count, their inability to make a difference. Dejected, both men returned to their work.

George took away the stretcher and Youssef saw a yellow object shining on the ground. The trinket which caught his eye was a gold ingot weighing at least one ounce, mounted in a gold strap. As if driven by an unknown compulsion, Youssef picked up the nugget, wrapped it in a piece of gauze, jotted down the name the cop had given him, and put it in his medical bag.

Youssef and George finished cleaning their trash and packed up the gear in the ambulance. They sat in the vehicle watching the coroner van back up to pick up the second victim. The cops had taken over their area, continuing their investigation. It was a sort of a ritual. After every intervention, when their work was over, they would sit there in the comfort of the ambulance in appreciation of their own health, their own life, knowing they had done their best, their best to save another life. George would pick up the bible that he kept on the dashboard and read a passage in an effort to cleanse his soul.

I’ve had it, George. This is the last time. I can’t do it any more.

George sat behind the stirring wheel holding the holy book in silence, starring straight ahead. He already knew it.

I am going to resign tomorrow. I am going to find Rachel. I am going to marry her if she will have me, and leave this ugly world of death, degradation, and desolation. God willing!

Meanwhile, Tyrone was flying at great speed over the Washington skyline. To the right, the lights of the Capitol twinkled in all their dazzling splendor as the helicopter swung around to avoid the restricted air space. To the left in the distance, the Washington monument majestically stood at attention, and all of the scintillating lights of the city flickered in unison as the helicopter raced some five hundred feet above North Capitol Street making its way to the hospital where the trauma and neurological-surgical teams awaited tonight’s early patient. Minutes later it landed.

Chapter 2 - Calypso’s Arrival at Shooting Scene 

As Tyrone’s helicopter skimmed over the streets of Washington, D.C., a red Mitsubishi barreled down Martin Luther King Jr. Avenue toward the scene of the shooting. A beautiful young woman drove the car at high speed through this crowded resido-commercial part of the city. Even at this late hour quite a few people went about their business or just hung around, trying to stay cool in one of the last hot and humid nights of a summer which would not go away. Calypso was worried. Tyrone was supposed to call her before the deal with Manuel but never did. Her fears were panning out as she had predicted months ago. She stayed at work late that Friday night because she wanted to stay close by in case complications materialized during Tyrone’s final, illicit business transaction. She did not get much done worrying about his whereabouts in a part of South East known to be unsafe for anyone, let alone a young man cruising in a late model BMW. She found herself playing solitaire on her desktop computer absentmindedly. She had stopped working on a complex financial report and clicked on the game icon regressing to the mindless activity. For a half-hour or so she almost forgot her troubles. Surprisingly enough, she had whizzed by and won two games, but the luck of the cards carried a contradictory message. It was nine o’clock and she walked over to the ladies room to clean up and change clothes. All the offices were dark; the staff was long gone especially on a Friday night. Even Terry, who usually stayed late, left just a little after six. When she returned to her office wearing her evening outfit, she noticed the flashing light on her answering machine. It was a cryptic communication from Tyrone telling her he was on his way to the rendez-vous. He said he would call her after the transaction and meet her at the club a little after 10:00 P.M., as planned. She was upset to have missed the call. She sensed some apprehension in Tyrone’s voice and ideated that if she had been there, she might, this last time, have been able to convince him to call the whole thing off. She was angry: Tyrone had told her at the last minute that the arrangement to recoup the drug money had changed. He said he would pick up the coke.

What? She had yelled. She got up and closed the door to her office. You promised Manuel would return a portion of the money, and you would drop the whole thing once and for all.

She was so angry that she could no longer entertain a rational discussion.

If they are any complications, I’ll stash the coke in the backrest of the driver seat, Tyrone had said as if he anticipated some unforeseen incident. She hung up the phone, unable to handle the changed conditions. She regretted her action right away but felt there was nothing to discuss.

She pushed away the dark clouds of fear which materialized in her subconscious. She could not call him because he had told her that a ringing phone raised the risk level. Regardless, it was a mobile unit permanently connected to the car; it could only be answered when the car ignition was on. She looked at the Swiss clock on her desk: it was nine twenty. She grabbed her Gucci bag, turned the office desk light off, and walked out to the elevators. She rode down to the G4 level and apprehensively offloaded, scanning the underground garage; the vast expanse reminded her of a funeral vault. The Mitsubishi was in the same stall where she had left it in the morning, except that at this late hour there were no other cars around. She got in and cranked the engine after turning the CD player off. She was in no mood for music and welcomed the company of the purring engine. She let it warm up for a few minutes, threw it in gear, and climbed the four levels to the street entrance where she used her proximity card to actuate the roll-up overhead garage door.

There was little traffic on Wilson Boulevard, nothing like early this morning when a delivery truck blocked the entrance to the garage which in turn caused the oncoming cars to back up a block further away. She drove down Wilson to the Key Bridge, meandered through the bumper-to-bumper Georgetown’s early night traffic, and turned right on the Whitehurst Freeway, taking the most rapid route across town. In the center console the clock’s red dial reminded her of the time, nine thirty five. She would arrive early at the club. She exited the short freeway span and merged toward the Kennedy Center, drove around the Lincoln Memorial by the river, and continued around Independence Avenue along the south side of the mall. She eventually merged right in front of the Tidal Basin. She slowed down perceptively to admire the Jefferson Memorial beyond the scintillating lights reflecting on the calm water. By the time she accessed the exit ramp to the Southwest Freeway, the engine hummed at 4000 RPM, tightly holding on to the road as she accelerated, searching the horizon for a patrol car waiting to make its monthly traffic ticket quota. She shifted into fifth gear only to throw it back into fourth less than a mile further as she entered the South Capitol Street exit. A thousand feet further, she reached the intersection at M Street and waited for the traffic light to change heading East to the corner of Fourth and M, SE, where an acquaintance of Tyrone had opened up a jazz club named City Lights.

In spite of Tyrone and Calypso’s advice to select a location less remote and more secure, Darryl had chosen this