Our Living Mind

By Lewis Holt

Most people think of "the mind" as something that "the brain does" ... as merely a term basically, for describing the brain's cognitive-activity. However the mind is really a thing in and of itself. It is literally an energy. In fact, it is a body of energy. A body of energy that is literally, "inhabiting<

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Rose Books
• Release date: Dec 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798987441213

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Prologue

On Wednesday, March 21, 2012, the following updated article appeared on page 6 of the late afternoon edition of the gossip-prone New York Press:

Mouthpiece Mayhem in the Mid-Eighties

Once again, prominent litigation attorney Brian Bradford was in a bloody confrontation with Mr. John Edison, the Chief Executive Officer of ZeiiMed, the world’s largest health insurance company.

The police confirmed that on Sunday night, Mr. Bradford shot and killed two ZeiiMed security guards inside Mr. Edison’s apartment at 60 East 84th Street and possibly injured others. He also put two bullets into Mr. Edison, who was taken to the hospital and is expected to recover.

Another two men were found dead by the curb on Eighty-Fourth Street, not far from Edison’s apartment building, but no proof has developed that Mr. Bradford killed them. A police sergeant was shot in the neck at the same location. It was confirmed by reliable sources that Mr. Bradford did not cause the neck wound and actually assisted in stopping the loss of blood. The sergeant is expected to survive. Mr. Bradford was once well respected by the NYPD because he turned into the authorities the killer of Detective Jack Jarrett, who was viciously murdered at JFK airport in 2008.

Mr. Bradford told police that ZeiiMed started the current mayhem by detonating a bomb carried by a drone outside his office. Independent reports confirmed an explosion at 40 Wall Street.

Several years ago, Mr. Bradford and Mr. Edison engaged in a barbarous encounter in the Central Park Ramble that injured both. What could possibly have caused this savage lawyer to escalate his vendetta against Mr. Edison into another vicious clash, while taking the lives of several other people along the way?

Our investigation has not uncovered an answer, but recent events inside the Supreme Court at 60 Centre Street disclosed some information. For the second time, Mr. Bradford commenced a lawsuit against ZeiiMed. He was actually in Court obtaining testimony from ZeiiMed over the past week. It remains a mystery why Mr. Bradford was unsatisfied with resolving his differences in the Courtroom and proceeded to kill, maim and disable his opponents outside the Courtroom.

Mr. Bradford was arrested by the police on Sunday night after his rampage. He is currently awaiting arraignment at Rikers Island. The criminal trial of Mr. Bradford will hopefully provide more details about his itchy trigger finger. However, the more pressing concern of the moment is keeping the violent Mr. Bradford off the streets so his adversaries are no longer subjected to extreme injury or death by this clearly deranged person.

Most remarkably, it turns out that Mr. Bradford did not need to engage in murder and death to defeat Mr. Edison and ZeiiMed. On Tuesday, the jury returned an enormous verdict against ZeiiMed of compensatory damages in the amount of $250 million and punitive damages in the amount of $3.5 billion.

Since Mr. Bradford was incarcerated Sunday night, he was not present in the Courtroom when the verdict was announced. His able colleague, Mary Douglas, appeared as counsel for Plaintiff Martha Dudley. Mrs. Dudley had suffered severe injuries due to a faulty Hip Implant Device manufactured by ZeiiMed.

Mr. Bradford will presumably have little time to enjoy his fee from the verdict. His hideous crimes will probably result in a long-term prison sentence. Another mouthpiece in mothballs. We can only hope this is a new trend. Rather than killing all the lawyers, maybe imprisoning them one by one will prove sufficient.

I

Two Weeks in Early April 2012

One

Without any human interaction to assist in focusing my attention, my brain tended to randomly wander from one unsolvable, paranoia-induced crisis to the next. I couldn’t control it. Rational thinking was impossible. I worried to the point of insanity over any and all topics that unpredictably invaded my thoughts and increased my anxiety, without any hope of a rational resolution.

My current incarceration at Rikers Island Correctional Facility is the cause of my uncontrollable brain dysfunction and extreme discontent. In solitary confinement for twenty-three hours a day, I remain immobilized on a rusted cot that doesn’t fit my six foot, three inch frame, with nothing to do except stare at the concrete walls until lights out. No conversations, except with myself, no books, no television, no radio, no pens and no paper. The only sounds are the harrowing screams of inmates that have given up and let the madness seize control of their remaining faculties.

A comforting sleep of several hours is impossible. Constant idleness in the supine position resulted in short naps throughout the day, causing me to gaze all night into the abyss of a pitch-black cell trapped in an insomnious trance.

Obviously, this is not a simple matter of boredom caused by the repetitious cycle of predictable everyday life. In the past, I often felt a lack of interest in my routine life as a paper-pushing defense attorney in downtown New York City. Then, I encountered what I thought to be the apex of boredom when unforeseen circumstances caused me to be immobilized in a hospital bed after suffering severe injuries from a physical confrontation in the Ramble section of Central Park. At the time, I firmly believed the ultimate trip to the extremes of boredom had been realized. However, the tedium and ennui of my hospitalization were inconsequential when compared to the tortuous sensory deprivation inflicted on me by the New York City Department of Correction.

The cell is eight feet by ten feet with no windows, bright fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling and no fresh air to dilute the overpowering stench of urine. The vent above the bed provides a constant flow of forced hot air that causes the body’s perspiration to quickly turn into an unpleasant odor that doesn’t dissipate until I’m escorted in chains to a weekly shower. The door to the cell is solid metal with a slight opening at eye level and another opening at the bottom to accommodate a food tray.

It’s early April 2012, and I’ve been incarcerated in this claustrophobic confinement since my arrest about two weeks ago. I had a Bail Hearing, but the Court has not yet ruled on my bail application. The prosecutor contended that I was likely to take flight to a foreign jurisdiction rather than appear for trial. I guess the Judge is taking his time deciding the application while I rot in this hell on earth.

My confinement to the Segregation Unit resulted from my derogatory comment to a correction officer performing a cavity probe during a strip search. Also, I was told an incarcerated attorney is often subject to abuse by other inmates, if not segregated from the general population.

So, here I am, alone in my cell, lying on a cot, desperately trying to control my thoughts to avoid, for as long as possible, the inevitable plunge into depression.

Two

Luckily, my catatonic stupor was suddenly disrupted this morning by a loud clang caused by the release of the locking mechanism on my cell’s metal door. Surprisingly, the door opened hours before my usual one-hour trip to the recreation area.

Bradford, Brian Bradford, yelled a massive guard, with tattoos covering his neck and arms.

Yes, who else do you think is in here? I’m locked up like an animal and you ask if I’m still here.

Shut up. It’s prison regulations. You have a visitor and I must confirm you’re in fact Brian Bradford before I escort you to the visiting room, the guard barked.

I am Brian Bradford, but I’ll happily be anyone you like to get the hell out of here.

I heard about you. You’re the lawyer with the smart mouth. One more disrespectful comment and you’ll be missing a couple of teeth. Now, follow me. We’re going down the hall.

Do you have a comb? I’d like to look my best, I asked, just to aggravate the guard.

You were warned. I won’t say it again, the guard cautioned. Now, extend your arms for the handcuffs.

I walked with the correction officer down the corridor. The screams and howls of the other inmates accompanied us. We arrived at a door made of some transparent material, with no apparent locking mechanism.

Go in and sit down at the table. Don’t even think about doing anything else. The room has cameras everywhere and the handcuffs remain on, I was instructed.

Okay. By the way, who is visiting me, I asked.

Christ, I don’t know and I don’t care. I’m just doing my job. I was told to bring you here and I’ll break your nose if you don’t obey. That’s all I know.

No problem. I’ll do anything you ask. By the way, when are the bagels and coffee coming? I asked, just to further antagonize the guard.

Get in the visiting room now, Mr. Wise Guy.

I’m going. I’m going. Thanks for the escort. By the way, what are you doing Saturday night? I asked, and quickly entered the visiting room.

I assumed the guard would, in fact, refrain from fracturing my skull, nose, or anything else immediately before a visitor arrived, despite his statement to the contrary.

The visiting room, although much larger than a cell, had the same drab grey concrete walls. The wooden table contained so many marks and gashes it seemed unusable. The four chairs around the table were in the same state of disrepair. Against the rear wall were several vending machines with blinking red lights indicating that most selections were sold out. I sat at the table hoping, though not convinced, the chair would hold my weight.

I was anxious to meet my visitor. Hopefully, it was Mary Douglas, my friend and colleague at our law firm, with good news that the Judge had granted my bail application. The possibility of being freed created a feeling of exuberance that was difficult to control. I was jumping out of my skin.

The door to the visiting room opened. A Captain in the NYPD entered the room in full dress uniform of dark blue shirt, pants and tie. The gold bars on his shoulders, along with the gold shield of laurel wreath with five crowned peaks, were immediately recognizable. Also, the word CAPTAIN was printed on his badge in gold letters on a background of blue enamel.

I had never met him before, but his face had a haunting familiarity. It was the sparkling blue eyes set against his pale white complexion that was unusual, yet evocative.

The visitor approached me with his hand extended.

I stood.

I did my best to shake hands with the cuffs on. Although several inches shorter, he looked me right in the eyes.

Hello, Mr. Bradford, I’m Jimmy Jarrett. I understand you were a good friend of my father, Detective Jack Jarrett.

I think I need to sit down.

Yes, please. Let’s both sit. I’m sure this is quite a surprise for you.

Sitting directly across the table from him, I focused on the remarkable resemblance to his father. There was no question in my mind that he truly was the son of Jack Jarrett.

Yes, I knew your father and I walked your sister Lori down the aisle on her wedding day. The question I have is where the hell have you been for all these years? We didn’t meet at Jack’s funeral or Lori’s wedding, and no one in the Jarrett clan ever mentioned you even existed.

I know. It’s a strange and embarrassing family situation to say the least. I’ll tell you the story and try to keep to the short version.

Please proceed. I can’t wait to hear this, I said.

My sister Lori is six years younger. I’m now twenty-seven. I joined the New York Police Department at the age of twenty and quickly rose through the ranks. At twenty-four, I took the Lieutenant’s test and was awarded my single gold bar. Lori, who was eighteen at the time, had a steady boyfriend with a rap sheet a mile long. As you can imagine, there was a lot of bad blood between the boyfriend and me. One evening, I was in a 7-Eleven in the neighborhood when her boyfriend came in and proceeded to rob the place. I confronted him with my service pistol drawn. I begged him to surrender. He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a gun. I fired first and he died at the scene. Turns out his gun wasn’t loaded.

Why would he pull an unloaded gun? I asked.

I don’t know. No one knows. No one will ever know. Because of Lori, maybe he thought I would back down. It made no sense! Captain Jarrett exclaimed, in obvious frustration.

So, it’s not hard to guess that you and Lori had problems from that day forward, I observed.

You got that right. She cut me out of her life like I never existed. Three months later, she was seeing someone else and married him shortly thereafter. She was nineteen at the time. In her eyes, she no longer had a brother. Lori was convinced I gunned down the boyfriend because I hated the guy and wanted him out of her life. She also refused to speak to me at dad’s wake. So, I said a quick prayer and left. She didn’t even tell me about her wedding.

How could you not know of your sister’s wedding? I asked.

Well, my mother kind of sympathized with Lori, so I felt estranged from the entire family. After the NYPD determined that the shooting was valid, I arranged a transfer to Rome as special consultant to the National Police Force of Italy. I provided input on national security and counter-terrorism to the Carabinieri, the military force in Italy with some regular police duties. Actually, it was very challenging because the Italian authorities were way ahead of us in preventing terrorism—there were military police with semi-automatic rifles at all airports in Italy well before 9/11.

When did you return, I inquired.

About a year ago. The Police Commissioner, anxious to have me back, used the Captain’s test as motivation. So, here I am.

Judging by the double bars on each shoulder, I guess you passed.

Yes, I was fortunate to receive the promotion.

Well, I appreciate the family history, but what’s it got to do with me?

I’ve come to get you the hell out of here. As a Captain and son of a detective killed in the line of duty, I have the privilege of asking for a special favor from the Commissioner’s office. If history holds true, it’s usually granted with no questions asked.

You mean you’re able to pull strings to get felony charges dismissed?

It’s a lot more complicated than simply pulling a few strings, since we are bypassing the entire criminal justice system. But I believe it can be done. Remember, you generated a ton of goodwill with the NYPD. First, you turned in my father’s killer... that creep Dr. Stanley Hyman, a ZeiiMed mercenary, who murdered Dad in a public restroom at JFK and left him on the toilet. You even coerced a confession out of that bastard Hyman. Nice police work for a civilian. Second, you saved the life of Sergeant Melissa Black during the shootout with ZeiiMed’s enforcers on Eighty-Fourth Street. You and that Irish woman plugged the gunshot wound in Melissa’s neck and prevented her from bleeding to death. You deserved a medal according to my friends in the Commissioner’s office. All the brass were talking about your bravery under fire.

Thank you. I appreciate all you’re doing, but the charges against me aren’t parking violations—the prosecutor wants me incarcerated for years, I responded.

I know. But, like I said, I got one ‘Get Out of Jail Free Card’ and I’m using it on you. However, I do need a complete explanation of what led to your arrest, so I’ll know what I’m talking about.

Okay. This will take a few minutes, but I’m happy to tell you everything. To start, I filed a lawsuit in New York Supreme Court against ZeiiMed. The company sold defective hip replacement implants. The CEO of ZeiiMed was and is John Edison.

I remember now, Jimmy interrupted. "I read the New York Press every day. You have a long history with that guy."

"You’re correct, but there are a number of gaps I need to fill in. Once the trial against ZeiiMed commenced, I surreptitiously obtained several emails that proved ZeiiMed had knowledge of the defects in its Hip Implant Device, referred to as HID. At trial, ZeiiMed was confronted with the inculpatory emails. Edison, being a vengeful brute, implemented a devious plan to eradicate me, my wife Kim and the Irish woman you mentioned—her name is Meadhbh.

Sounds like this Mr. Edison is a really pleasant guy.

He’s the devil incarnate. First, an exploding drone detonated just outside my office window. I was lucky. An attorney who worked for ZeiiMed, by the name of Suzanna Nudbello, learned of Edison’s plan and called me moments before it exploded. Second, a ZeiiMed goon entered my home in Port Jefferson and stuck a knife in Dr. Joe, a friend of my wife, who was visiting. The doctor died, but Kim was able to jump in her car and escape injury. The third incident, on the same day, involved Meadhbh. As she was leaving work, a couple of ZeiiMed’s paid assassins confronted her on East Eighty-Fourth Street. I had anticipated that Meadhbh was in danger so I decided to go find her.

That’s when Sergeant Black entered the picture, Jimmy added.

That’s right. The sergeant arrived at my office just after the drone exploded outside the window. We then drove to East Eighty-Fourth Street in her squad car to find Meadhbh. We spotted Meadhbh on the sidewalk with the two bad guys walking on each side of her like armed guards. That’s when all hell broke loose. Meadhbh killed them both with a gun she carried in her handbag, but not before one of the bad guys shot Melissa in the neck as she sat in her patrol car.

Thank God you acted so quickly to save Melissa’s life, Jimmy stated.

Yes, but it wasn’t just me. As you know, Meadhbh took over for me and continued to plug the wound until help arrived. Since Edison lived just a few steps from the scene on the sidewalk, I left Meadhbh and Melissa in the squad car and went to hunt down Edison.

Sounds like your plan was to take him out, Jimmy commented.

It was, but I only ended up wounding him. Shot him twice, though. I ran out of ammunition before I had the chance to kill him. But let me back up a bit and fill in a few more details. You’ll see that everything was done in self-defense.

Okay, continue with your story. I need whatever facts you have to show you weren’t on a cold-blooded killing spree.

As I mentioned, I left Meadhbh in the police car, tending to the sergeant’s neck wound. Meadhbh gave me her FN Five-seven. I ran towards Edison’s apartment building. It’s right next to the restaurant where Meadhbh works as a bartender. The front door to the building was locked, so I shattered the glass door with one shot. Once I got to the fifth floor, I encountered two armed guards and shot both of them, but not fatally. I entered Edison’s apartment. Two more ZeiiMed thugs appeared from the kitchen with their guns blasting. After wounding them, I shot each in the head at close range as they lay on the floor.

That doesn’t help your self-defense story.

These guys were brutal murderers. If I hadn’t finished them off when I had the chance, they certainly would have shot me. I had to deal with Edison and couldn’t afford to worry about the two wounded dirt bags on the floor. It was war.

Okay. So now it’s just you and Edison left in the apart-ment.

That’s right. I had my gun pointed at him, but he tried to grab a revolver that was within his reach. I wounded him with two shots. That was it. Like I said, I wanted to kill him, but ran out of bullets. Seconds later, the police were in the apartment and I was under arrest.

What exactly are the charges against you? asked Jimmy.

A bunch of felonies. A manslaughter charge for killing the two men in Edison’s apartment, as well as assault with a deadly weapon and reckless endangerment.

At least you weren’t charged with murder—that’s important when I approach the people who have the power to get you out. I will present your self-defense story and probably omit the part about your assassination of the two guards and your premeditated intent to kill Edison, Jimmy said with a grin.

I still don’t understand this. How can the charges just disappear?

I told you. I’ve got some influence at One Police Plaza and you have a lot of goodwill in the Commissioner’s office—it should be enough to cover this one very special request. These things happen from time to time. For example, I know from my friends at the CIA that a four-star general is currently having an affair with a woman who is writing a book about his career. The situation was red-flagged by the CIA because it was learned from an anonymous source that his mistress was receiving classified information—pillow talk that typically begins with the military guy bragging about his exploits and ends with classified secrets leaked in the heat of the moment. Sooner or later, the affair and the classified information will be disclosed to the public, but the general will get off easy. He’ll probably get probation and a bunch of misdemeanors. The general didn’t kill anybody but you get the idea. Power brokers protect and take care of their own, just like the NYPD is going to help you for saving Sergeant Black and turning in my father’s killer.

So, what’s going to happen next? I asked.

I’ll tell you exactly what’s going to happen. You’ll be in this hellhole for another week or so. Then, one day a guard will come for you. At the discharge center, you’ll be given street clothes and a bus ride to the Courthouse in Manhattan paid for by the City of New York. That’s it—no one will ask any questions and you must never reveal anything I told you today. As far as you are concerned, we never met.

So the felony charges will just disappear?

That’s right. You’ll probably need to plead guilty to a misdemeanor, but you’ll be notified of the charge by mail after you get out. Just check the box next to the word, ‘guilty.’ Then, the prosecutor will notify the Court that your bail application was withdrawn due to a misdemeanor plea deal without jail time. Goodbye and good luck—I have to go now. I’ve probably been here too long already.

Well, this has been a remarkable, life-changing meeting. I don’t know how I can ever express my thanks. You saved my life.

Forget it. You earned it. By the way, don’t get into any quarrels, fights or disagreements with the correction officers. That’s about the only way you could blow this deal. Apparently, everybody knows your reputation, so some guards might try to bait you into a confrontation. Just hold your temper for once in your life and you’ll be out in no time.

You’ve done a little research on me. I understand your warning. I guarantee I’ll play nice with all the morons in here.

Jimmy didn’t say another word. He just opened the door and walked out.

The guard returned to escort me back to my cell.