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Lavender Blue Panties Ch. 01

By: Saintosos



Silky blue panties suddenly flying through the air and coming to rest on the court document you are reading will always grab your attention.

Lisa Gomez Alexander, a member of my wife's hospital fund-raising committee, had never said more than hello to me before she walked into my small law office unannounced that Monday afternoon. Her vocal hostility preceded her as she had peremptorily demanded that my secretary point her toward the door to my office.

"If you're not man enough for that rotten cunt of a wife, get her a chastity belt or lock her in a cage," Lisa Gomez Alexander screamed.

As I scrambled from behind my desk to close my office door, my immediate concern was the violence I was seeing in this woman's eyes. She was dangerous.

Of course, I softened my voice in an effort to ease her angst as I protested that I had no knowledge of the subject of her accusation. She fell into a chair sobbing uncontrollably.

"I found those panties in my husband's coat pocket when he came home from a hospital board meeting last night," she mumbled through her pain. "It was time to send that suit to the cleaners."

"But what makes you think my wife is involved?" I asked as fear began to make a knot in my stomach.

I am Steve Harvey and my wife is Julia, the devoted homemaker, practicing psychologist and university prof.

If I have a vice, it's devoting too much business time to cataloging Julia's breadth and scope of abilities and seemingly unlimited capacities for life. She excels in her profession while providing the leading force in our community's basic affairs. Furthermore, Julia is a formidably beautiful woman soon to remark her 40th birthday; or this would not be a story worth telling.

As Lisa Gomez Alexander recovered her composure and began relating what she knew about the sinister panties seemingly threatening us from the middle of my desk, I incongruously experienced a brief flash of awareness that Julia was the most perfect and always the most satisfying love partner any man could desire.

"I have been uncomfortable many times at parties and charity dinner-dances when Jeff and Julia seem absorbed and at times oblivious of you and me," Lisa said, her voice on a downward curve once more to a growl.

Jeff Alexander and his wife were majority owners of several TV stations along the West Coast. Of more import, moreover, they were listed in Fortune 500.

Then came the venom again. Lisa called my manhood into question and lost no steam as she disparaged my professional success and recognition as a lawyer. Inescapably, I was her choice for the assessment of blame in the affair of which I continued to be less than informed. Her demeaning lecture, however, had hit its mark.

Without a doubt, I was beginning to register my humiliation. I became fearful that she would tap into my long sealed reservoir of anger.

And yes! I'm a small town lawyer, more of a CPA, pushing 40 whose life revolves around his wife and daughters. Oh, yes! I confess that I struggle to net $75,000 a year while my wife pays taxes on more that $200,000. Again, I hasten to add that the discrepancy most certainly weighs on my consciousness.

"Mrs. Alexander," I began tentatively. "Let's attempt to withhold judgment until we know something substantial.

At the moment, I pointed out, all we had was a pair of blue panties that resembled underwear that my wife owns. My best lawyering persona was beginning to emerge.

"Now, let's be intelligent about this," I reasoned, at the risk of sounding pedantic. "What proof do you have that these panties are my wife's?"

"The stupid bitch had her name embroidered on the crotch," she answered. Lisa Gomez Alexander's eyes flared in a mixture of incredulity and naked contempt.

As I said, I'm a tax lawyer and parliamentary adviser at school board and city council meetings.

That's hardly the emotion churning cauldron that trial lawyers face daily. 

Without belaboring the point, when faced with the question of my avoiding the stresses of courtroom drama, I sketch a carefully prepared though fraudulent scenario of my always having been constitutionally reluctant to engage in any form of confrontation. 

Carefully conditioned restraint, achieved with professional guidance after a brutal incident in high school, had rendered me almost physically defenseless. But there are limits, and those long practiced behavioral harnesses can break if stressed beyond tested norms. 

I live with a subcurrent of apprehension.

"See for yourself," Lisa Gomez Alexander cried as she jerked the panties from the desk.

There, in an exaggeration of offense, on the gusset was emblazoned in red stitching, "JAH." 

Knowing that I cannot afford to "get mad" does not mean that I cannot irrationally "get mad"! When I began to tremble involuntarily, my mind began to gauge emotions that I had hoped would never again be a problem. As a reached for the thin material to examine the crotch, I suddenly withdrew my hand without touching the garment.

"I wish the earth would open up a pit of fire and brimstone and swallow all of you slimy bastards," Lisa Gomez Alexander hissed as she arose from the chair and spat a stream of saliva across the desk.

Leaving the panties on my desk, Lisa Gomez Alexander walked wearily toward my office door. Before she departed, she turned and tearfully asked me to call her after I had considered the evidence and investigated further. I could only nod, and she slowly left my office.

I sat in my desk chair staring out the window until the blue of evening began to shroud our mountains. Then I flipped open my cell phone.

Jenkins answered immediately. Jenks had taught Medieval and Renaissance History until the recent change in administration at the university. He and Julia had been faculty colleagues almost as long as Julia and I had been married. After 22 years, he was witnessing the academic disconnect from Europe and Western Civilization. The new president was dropping his courses, offering him an unpalatable diet of freshman and sophomore survey courses.

Fortunately, Jenks had always been a gunsmith and gun shop owner, and he would suffer no loss in quality of life. But he had become a dear friend to me and my family. Julie particularly benefited from his circumspect analysis of the bitter faculty politics. Jenks had on occasion had prevented Julie from injuriously overreacting or acting prematurely.

I had felt his anguish as a friend and valued client.

Now I needed more than a friendly ear. His ever present ebullience, however, was like a sedative.

"Hey! I was just tasting a new batch of home brew," he crowed. "Come by on your way home and I'll send some of the poison for Julie to sample."

"Jenks? Do you still have that Glock you offered Bill for $400?" I asked, my voice strange without inflection.

End of CH. One.

TO BE CONTINUED

Lavender Blue Panties Ch. 02



Julia Harvey's Monday had proceeded very well until 3 p.m. All who knew Doctor Harvey would affirm that her resolute utilitarian cheerfulness could never be untracked by any mundane existential occurrence. Exuberant professionalism marked her personality and a gilded steel will power enabled her gifted intellect.

Julia's husband, Steve, called Harve by close friends with a long shared history, had almost sparked her ire that morning as she poured her first cup of coffee. He had attempted begin the day with a timid complaint that she was never home for dinner. 

But she managed to protect her bright forecast for the day with a quick, masterful exercise in subtle control. With only a narrowing of the eyes and pursing of the lips, Julia could serve him with fair warning. She was considerate of his welfare by always prepared to prevent him from offending her with inappropriate questions about her personal life.

"The girls and I haven't seen you at night for six weeks," he had said that morning, obviously preparing to discuss her all consuming professional life. Her endless weeks of marathon 12-hour days were negatively compounded by four to six-hour nightly board meetings for one of her volunteer community committees.

Steve had reacted that morning with the requisite respect and silenced his protest when she brought him to heel. Dr. Julia Harvey almost laughed contemptuously as her husband seemed to study her practiced disciplinary smirk. 

So pleased was she with the result of her patented painless "hubby whip" that she gratuitously brushed his lips with hers as she strode from the kitchen, slid under the wheel of her Mercedes and accelerated away with determination and purpose. 

No eventuality short of a family health catastrophe would ever have the audacity to challenge Dr.Julia Harvey's perception of self worth and earned station.

But they would have been wrong late Monday after the clocks recorded 3 p.m. Her spirit became dark as she terminated the first phone call at 3:05 p.m.and began to slide into an abyss of unmitigable terror as she ended the second at 3:08 p.m. 

As she had prepared to walk from her office in the psych building to the lecture theater in the administration building, her office phone had chirped twice at 3:03. She had paused with purse under her arm to answer, though annoyed that she would be late for the initial faculty meeting with the new university president.

Her first caller was Jenkins, her long time colleague and friend, a veteran prof over at history.

"Jenks, could I call you later," she began,"I am late for a meeting of the chairs with the new president."

"I won't keep you long," Jenkins answered tersely. "I have one question for you, Jules,'Why does Harve want to by a Glock all of a sudden?"

Your husband's devoting 20 years to scathing denouncements of guns and gun sellers then asking me to sell him a gun raises all kinds of speculations, Jenkins reminded Julia.

"What the hell is a Glock," Julia guffawed spontaneously.

"My dear, a Glock is a small piece of metal that fits into one's hand and spits very lethal little pellets called bullets,"Jenkins said,unrelentingly serious.

First reactions are telling, and Jenks tensed when Julia characteristically responded with a dismissive laugh.

Julia snorted, "What nonsense! My little Harve would never find the nerve to buy a gun."

"Jules? I can say what I am about to say because I have loved you and Harve for 25 years," Jenkins said, his voice weighted with apprehension and sadness. "Jules, listen to me! I know! And I urge you to get your head out of your ass before it's too late. Your gaming Harve might already be beyond reason."

Julia permitted silence to prevail. After a significant time during which she did not respond to Jenkins' warning, she looked at her watch and said she was late for her meeting with the new president. Jenkins broke the connection abruptly.

As Julia slowly replaced the receiver, the phone chirped again at 3:06. She was annoyed, thinking Jenkins was persisting with his intervention in her affair. She answered and began with a blistering reproach intended for Jenkins until the voice at the other end of the line hammered her sensibilities with an unexpected demand.

"Dr. Harvey! Shut up and listen to me!" It was the officiously impertinent young woman, the powerful personal assistant with the whisky voice who served as liaison between her and a variegated congregate of business associates. 

Without a doubt, the pugnacious academic had caught the money bug. Julia had never known persons like these, unsmiling men and women who, for understandable reasons, always remained unheralded while in the midst of tedious multi faceted financial projects. They breathed, tasted and talked money. Becoming enamored with the surrealistic beauty of money was a new and challenging prospect for Dr. Julia Harvey.

"Representatives of my managing principals will meet you and Alexander at 7 p.m. tonight at the Miles farm," the voice directed. "Do you understand?"

"What's this about?" Julia rasped, fear balling uncomfortably in her belly. With more than $300 million in federal development funds driving the negotiations, Julia knew that "whisky voice" would not have called her at her office had the situation not become threatening in some manner.

Indicating that the topic was not open for discussion, the woman ended the call with flat voiced directive for Julia and Jeffery Alexander to "be there on time."

Julia stared at the phone as if it had become a formidable adversary. Then she pulled her cell phone from her purse and pressed the single key that would connect her to Jeffery Alexander.

"What is it, Julia?" Jeffery Alexander whispered as he answered. "I can't talk now."

"Jeff, we've been ordered to attend a meeting with the 'managing principals' tonight a seven," she said hurriedly, her voice tight with the unaccustomed tension.

"Damn! Not tonight!" Jeffery wheezed. "All hell has broken loose over here."

Jeffery quickly warned Julia that his wife and her attorney were invading his offices as he spoke threatening him with personal and financial ruin.

"Lisa knows! She knows about us," Jeffery whispered. "They're coming back after a break in the torture. I've got to go."

He broke the connection after directing her to meet him on the Walmart parking lot a 6:30. They would drive to the Miles farm together in his SUV. Her Mercedes would be too pretentious and draw attention of anyone who saw them on the country roads.

Intrigue had brought with it a strange spirit charged fugue that Julia had never experienced. Though the reward for enduring the risks and strains this fugue could be the equivalent of the veritable "King's Ransom," Julia was beginning to perceive danger and sense chaos, realizations heretofore in the realm of fantasy. 

At times, usually just after the witching hour, she would awaken sticky from a coating of sweat, filled with flashes of fear that defied her great intellectual control. As the sun appeared over the mountains, however, she always was able to restore her fantasy vision of the different life she would buy with her share of $300 million.

As she trotted across the quadrangle toward the administration building, she glanced up at the heavy black clouds suddenly drooping with rain. 

And it seemed apropos that with each of the phone conversations her day had begun to darken emotionally, summarily summoning an unfamiliar foreboding.

Juggling the import of the two phone calls evoked an ill defined set of strange contradictory and contending delusions. Against the back drop of the potentially damaging meeting with the new university president, this was an unwelcome and troubling channel of existence for Julia.

Being late for any event was anathema to Julia. Punctuality equated with "good faith" in Julia's Catholic conditioned mentality; and most certainly, for a post modern woman determined to gear herself fundamentally to 21st Century mores and taboos, this unwanted contrarian stream of archaic governance had recently begun to trigger a perceived humiliation at the most inconvenient moments.

Dr. Julia Harvey was indeed a child of destiny. She had been caught in a cultural whiplash between the ruling theological core values that prevailed before the 1960 presidential election and the competing monolithic forces that won that pivotal victory. 

President Bernice Hampton Sharif's introductory address to her faculty had progressed to the 20-minute mark when Julia paused in the hallway outside the door of the mini theater that also serves as a lecture hall. As she peered through the glass slit in the door, she realized that her jeopardy with the new status leader could not be any more threatening; therefore, she wheeled resolutely on her three-inch heel and strode toward the parking lot.

Suddenly, the import of the telephone conversation with Jenks blossomed into a scalding fear. Was Jenks serious? Had her nondescript husband inquired about buying a gun? This was too preposterous in Julia's estimation to deserve conscious thought.

But Jeffery had told her within the past hour that his wife, Lisa, knew "everything." And Jeffery, the exemplary man for all seasons, was, as her father loved to say, "Butt naked scared."

As Julia started her Mercedes and drove toward home, she was enveloped by a cold foreboding. Her hands suddenly were wet and slippery on the steering wheel. Sweat lathered her body. Such sudden changes in body functioning were foreign to her autonomic nervous system. 

Rain washed the pavement as her head lamps caught the crystallizing ornamental effect of the cascading water. And the wipers functioned as a mind numbing choral metronome, mocking her resistance to the implied weakness of the growing need for simplistic reassurance.The contemptuous blades seemed to be singing, "Pride goeth before the fall...A world awash with the waste of fools..."

Once again the force accrued from a life time religiously dedicated to building her self esteem and immeasurable self confidence arose from her subconscious depths and rescued her. With the revival of her carefully nurtured confidence came the nerve to rationalize her threatening situation. 

Some how the darkly comedic aspects of "survival of the fittest" complemented the ludicrous posturing of "social selflessness." Without a doubt, Dr. Julia Harvey had rationalized the "social justice" in her receiving $5 million for her assistance as a member of the three-person hospital board. 

After all, she was volunteering her expertise and intellectual superiority as a community service. These powerful financial exemplars required her cooperation in bringing a state of the art medical center and research institute to fruition. And compensating her for her extraordinary assistance in smoothing the process in that achievement was only fair and just.

As she turned into her residential street, she saw Harve's pickup in the drive parked in front of his garage stall. Her dash clock read 5:25 p.m. As if cued by a magisterial director, Julia's Gluteus maximus, medius and minimus muscles worked in concert to clinch her butt with resounding force. Suddenly she felt renewed and in command. 

As the tingling notes of reassurance radiated from her fundament, she was assured that all was well and she would always prevail; for had she not devoted all of her educative resources and energies to making herself infallible. Sadly, this was the twisted reality of Dr. Julia Harvey's 22 years as a behavioral specialist, the last 12 years celebrated as an admired researcher and author as well as professor.

Sounds of the TV news at 5:30 welcomed her from the livingroom. She tightened and attempted to focus the combined totality of her cognitive, nervous and sensory systems, offense more than defense. She advanced boldly toward her husband's recliner.

"What the hell is this foolishness about your buying a gun?" Julia demanded as she strode into the room and dropped her purse on the coffee table.

Harve continued to relax in his recliner smiling and concentrating on the TV. Julia assumed a commanding stance, hands on her hips.

"Don't ignore me!" she scolded. "What in the hell would you do with a gun?"

Harve lifted his beer bottle to his lips, guzzled for three seconds, and turned to appraise his wife's threatening posture.

"I'm taking you out to dinner tonight," he announced, a hint of a taunting smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Don't try to fancy ass out of answering my question!" she shot back. "Let's get this shit cleared up about a gun."

"And, my dear, I expect you to wear your new lavender blue high cut panties for my viewing pleasure!" His eyes narrowed but he smiled thinly.

End Ch. 2 of Lavender Blue Panties.

TO BE CONTINUED



Lavender Blue Panties Ch. 03



Something had changed in Steve's elemental persona since Julia had left him in the kitchen that morning. As she studied the situation, her hauteur lifted momentarily.

"What's gotten into you, Steve?" she asked cautiously, examining his face to detect any nuance that would revive her advantage. 

Clearly a degree of existential momentum had shifted to Steve at some point during the day. But she could not assess the new balances of power sufficiently to dash boldly forward hoping to crush his resistance as usual. 

Dr. Julia Harvey, adultress and malfeasant extraordinaire, enforced zero tolerance when forced to associate with men like her husband who settled for the mean rather than take unjustifiable risks in seeking to impress the gamblers in their professions.

Before she could insist that Steve account for his newly discovered aplomb, her cell vibrated and she could see that Jeffery Alexander was the caller. She abruptly retreated to the kitchen as she put the cell to her ear and answered.

Without preamble Jeffery began to unload his rapidly mushrooming troubles. Julia sucked in her breath contemptuously and slapped him through the phone.

"Get hold of yourself, Jeff!," she commanded. He fell silent and she softened her voice as she seized the initiative.

"Why are you hiding in the kitchen," Steve called to her from the livingroom, his light mood deceptive. "It would be in your best interests to get back in here and talk to your husband."

Julia ignored Steve's interruption as she began to 

perceive the implications of Jeffery's plight. 

"It's ten minutes 'til six, Jeff," she warned almost whispering.

They must not fail to please their benefactors in the the progressive scheme to build a world class medical center and research institute. Of course if in their zealous public service they enriched themselves, such was fate.

In any event, she counseled sagely, they must not jeopardize their one chance to grab the gold ring.

"Things here at the office are on their way to hell, Jules, and I can forget about having a home," Jeffery whimpered. "There's no way I can get away from my attorneys before eight o'clock, Jules."

"Are you going wimpy on me, Jeff?" she asked with cold overtones.

After a long pause, Julia had calculated a tactical course of action.

"We can't be an hour late for the meeting at the farm," she answered thoughtfully. "So! Our only option is for me go alone and meet them as they have almost demanded."

"No!" Jeffery responded. "That's foolhardy."

Jeffery considered the unscheduled nature of the meeting at the Miles Farm to be a cause for the ultimate in caution. Though straining his credulity with all his might, Jeffery could not warm to persons Julia considered to be her "benefactors." 

Julia's assiduous lover could qualify as a replacement for her husband, but, incredibly, he had not cleared all of the hurdles in seizing a fortune. He could not offer a cogent statement to support his persistent doubts about the global financiers attempting to mastermind the building of the most ambitious public service edifice since The Garden of Eden. But he had intended to drive to a wooded area along Miles Road about a mile from the farm house and proceed on foot to make a covert inspection of the scene inside and outside the house.

Derisive laughter erupted from Julia as Jeffery stated his reasons for his discomfort with the meeting. Of course, Jeffery, weary from an afternoon of threats and belligerence, withdrew his objections to her going to the meeting alone.

"James Bond you are not!" Julia hooted. "If you had reason to believe we were dealing with killer racketeers, Jeff, you should have warned before we signed on to their scheme."

"Yeah! I know," Jeffery agreed, "it's a little late to think about that now."

"I consider it worth the risk, Jeff," she said after awhile. "I want that money, Jeff!"

"Okay! Do what you think best, Jules," he sighed. "Sorry! I've got to go now but I'll get out there as soon as I can. Okay?"

"I suppose it will have to be okay," she said, her voice low and without conviction. Then she forced a flare of confidence and assured him that, "We're acting like sophomores planning our first orgy."

With just a hint of bravado, she told him that they soon would be grinning into their mai tais somewhere on a peaceful Pacific beach while they counted collective $10 million. She paused for effect, but Jeffery remained silent.

"Cheer up!" she commanded. "All is well, and we're about to be rich."

As she ended the exchange with an effort to break Jeffery out of his defeatist mood, the line went dead. Jeffery was no longer there, and she had only a brief moment to turn her attention to an analysis of her husband's antagonistic behavior. 

Defanging this particular Lion King in his own recliner should pose no problem. She glanced at her watch. She had only seconds to deflate her husband's renewed ego. It was now 6:07. She turned on her heel and strode with determination from the kitchen through the diningroom and into the livingroom.

Steve was not in his recliner and the TV and table lamps were off. She shouted up the stairs that she wanted him to come down to hear her parting remarks; but Steve was not in the house.

Weathering an unaccustomed moment of frustration, she retrieved her Mercedes keys from her purse, tucked the purse under her arm and literally trotted to the driveway. As she slid into the Mercedes, she noted that Steve's pickup was missing.

As she eased the Mercedes out of the driveway into the street, Julia calculated that she had just enough time to stop at Victoria's Secret in the mall and still get to the Miles farm house by the specified time. 

Replacing the missing lavender blue panties was mandatory. Steve was weak, but she would not seek to better herself at this time. She must delay until she and Jeffery Alexander could score in the fantastic opportunity presented by their service on the hospital board. 

Brilliance seldom makes much difference in the real world. For instance, Dr. Julia Harvey could command $2500 for a lecture at a Las Vegas convention, but she could not divine the fact that her husband, Steve, was tailing her without making much of an effort at deception.

Steve watched as Julia eased the Mercedes into a parking space 50 feet from the north entrance to the mall and entered the massive business center on the run. He Parked a few rows farther away from the entrance and relaxed to await her return.

Steve knew without resorting to reason or logic that his wife was patronizing Victoria's Secret.

This knowledge had a mixed effect on the devastated husband of a most arrogant and disrespectful wife.

Soon she returned carrying a small package. Steve cranked up his Ford 250 and idled as she slid under the wheel of the Mercedes and soon accelerated onto the southbound Interstate. Steve was close behind her making no effort to avoid detection.

In the Mercedes, however, Julia was beginning to second guess herself. What did she know about her rich but strange co-conspirators? Only that they have money and have promised her $5 million for her vote on the three-seat hospital board.

"I could be consorting with wild dogs in a snake pit for all I know," she muttered, initiating a belated analysis of the four swarthy individuals that she had met and could identify. 

Exit 219 was coming up fast. Slowing to make the left turn off the exit ramp onto the country road, she was aware of two sets of headlights behind her. This road was designated on the county map as only a four digit number, but two miles east of the Interstate, Miles Road would intersect the county road.

"I think the Miles farm house is about half a mile north on Miles Road from the intersection with the county Road. She noted that the area featured many 

acres of stands of trees and a substantial percentage of the land had not been cleared of shrubs and wild berry briars.

Suddenly her adrenal gland began to work overtime when she saw the small sign located at the intersection with Miles Road. Slowing to a walking pace, she hesitated to make the turn, knowing that the turn in for the Miles farm house would be only a few hundred feet in front of her.

In the rear view mirror, she saw headlights a quarter of a mile behind her, but the glare suddenly was extinguished as she watched. She dismissed the thought of anyone behind her as she turned in to Miles Road and immediately saw the entry road for the farm house.

Now two operational problems faced her. Entry from the road was blocked by a metal gate. And the approach to the house was unpaved and obviously sloppy with recently churned mud.

Near the front of the house, though shrouded in the gloom of night, she could discern the outline and form of five cars, all black and elongated like Limos. Before she could react, the beam of a mag light blinded her, coming from the side through the diver's door glass.

"Step out of the car, please," a voice devoid of inflection instructed.

As Julia stepped away from the Mercedes, she immediately sank ankle deep into the mud.

"Sorry about that," the man mumbled as he methodically ran his hands over her body and down the outer surface of her legs, ending only when he ha completed the indignity of massaging her inner thighs under her skirt.

"She's clean," he announced to someone in the darkness beyond the gate. "No weapons and no wires."

Within seconds she had passed the gate and waded through the mud to the porch. As she climbed the three steps, a woman opened the front door illuminating Julia with the bright light from within the house.

"Take off your shoes and hose!" the woman ordered. "We're leasing this dump and I don't want to pay to clean up your mess."

Julia recognized the whisky voice. Her contact woman wasn't as young as Julia had guessed.

Julia kicked off her ruined $195 formal strap ons and peeled down her thigh highs with no thought of modesty. She was beginning to feel the cold night air and spring wetness and the fire in the fireplace beckoned her. 

Inside she could see half a dozen men of varying ages and almost as many women, all seated randomly about the room on a variety of chairs and couches. All of the women were young, though she realized age was not relevant. The solemn expressionless faces turned toward her as she stopped in front of the fireplace, thankful for the warmth.

Whisky Voice assumed a position in the center of the room and raised her arms. When all were silent, she consulted a loose leaf folder and glanced purposefully around the room.

"Jeff Alexander!" she intoned authoritatively. "Where's Mr. Alexander?"

"Who's Alexander?" a man leaning against the back wall asked lazily.

"He's one of the three hospital board votes," Whisky Voice answered.

"Since he's one of the four essential keys to unlocking this project," the man at the wall continued, "shouldn't he be here?"

"That is correct, Mr. A," Whisky Voice agreed. "Dr.Julia Harvey! Are you present?"

"I'm Dr. Harvey," Julia responded. "Jeff Alexander was delayed by last minute critical business, but he told me that he would be here by eight o'clock."

"Damn well better get his butt here," a dark featured man with a barrel chest and massive arms declared ominously.

"James Galway, the hospital district directing administrator, and Welch Holcomb, the district's attorney, are present," Whisky Voice informed the assembly as she searched the room and ended with, "As is Ms Teri Hollycroft, the district's CFO.

"We can't wait for Alexander," the monster man warned. "It's too risky to be this exposed and all in one room."

At that precise moment the front door opened with a frightening thrust. Wind driven torrential rain flooded the entryway as six large men wearing identical combat gear charged into the room waving small automatic weapons.

Whisky Voice issued what could only be described as a "Primal Scream." Her anxiety was abbreviated by the slap of a gun across her face. She slumped to floor clawing at her face as blood saturated her blouse and sprayed the throw rug.

Team work was obvious as the leader directed with nods and hand signals. Whisky Voice was lifted onto a shoulder and carried from the room on the double.

Acting in tandem, two of the assault team dragged the man who had been leaning against the back wall to the center of the room. The team leader gripped the man's chin and stared into his eyes.

"Your syndicate owes us $52 mil from the last October's luxury armament sale," the team leader hissed. "You got that much on you?"

The man struggled only to invite a smashing blow across his nose with the same gun barrel that felled Whisky Voice. Again a slight nod led to the man being dragged from the room.

Silence screamed savagely for 90 seconds after the marauders left the room and closed the door.

Julia could hear her heart pounding against the walls of her chest. But she was not aware of the ape like squeals emanating from her throat until a woman slapped her repeatedly.

Only moments after the woman had quelled her terrifying manic bursts of savage energy, Julia realized that her jeopardy was continuing. Her life threatening ordeal had not ended with the withdrawal of the paramilitary team.

Julia watched as the eleven survivors of the attack by the rival mob filed out the door. Only then did she realize that she and the hospital officials were to be eliminated.

"Absolutely not!" a man of Mediterranean appearance answered a question posed by the woman who had slapped Julia. "We can't leave these officials of the hospital district behind to talk to the FBI and the SEC and the Treasury people."

"Then this project is off the table? Right?" the woman asked, persisting in underlining the man's degree of determination.

"Ended! Kaput! Off the table!" the man echoed with a humorless laugh.

Snuff them!

Right here in the house?

Can you recommend a better place?

Okay! Wait in the car, the woman advised. She would be right with him.

It happened without delay. Julia saw two muzzle flashes immediately after the man walked out of the house and closed the door.

Fortunately, Julia was not aware as the woman methodically emptied her Ruger into the hospital district officials, all of of whom had conspired with the shooter's syndicate to defraud every level of government and tax paying society.

Dr. Julia Harvey felt nothing, though her mind closed all portals. The woman had pumped two 9 mm rounds into Julia's chest, and by all that is rational or logical, Julia should have been a fleeting memory from that point in time.

But she wasn't.

Dr.Julia Harvey kept a grim choke hold on a slim thread of life, two gaping holes in her back not withstanding.

Undoubtedly she was a survivor. Maybe her credentials as a model citizen were forever tarnished; but, beyond question, she was a survivor.

Outside the farm house, the woman who had performed as her executioner was confiscating the new lavender blue panties she had purchased at the mall on her way to her execution.

End Ch. 3

TO BE CONCLUDED



Lavender Blue Panties Ch. 04



Ambulances passed me as I sat in my pickup on the muddy shoulder of The Miles Farm Road.

To say that I was suffering from shock or in a traumatic state would be an understatement. 

The emergency vehicles had all loaded filled and zipped body bags in front of the farm house and crept slowly onto the farm road without emergency lights or sirens. And each of the three mordant vehicles moved almost indolently to the intersecting with numbered farm road and turned slowly toward the Interstate.

"Were they all dead?" I asked the state trooper standing near the open window of my pickup.

"Can't say," he answered laconically, his back tensing as he grew taller.

"The three in those ambulances were in body bags..." I persisted. "Weren't they?"

"Let's get my questions answered before we get to yours," the trooper answered. He smiled tactfully and leaned on the base of my driver's side window.

"My name is Steve Harvey," I said, "as it says on my driver's license." I paused and added, "And that's my correct address."

"Mr. Harvey, we are ten miles from town and about a hundred yards from a crime scene," he said with slow deliberation. "And we discovered you sitting here when we arrived."

We both glanced away for a moment before he finished with, "Do you want to tell me about it?"

"I am interested in the number of casualties in that farm house," I stated flatly, "because I am certain my wife is one of them."

"Go on," he prompted softly.

"I followed my wife out here about seven o'clock," I said. "She was stopped by two men who patted her down at the gated driveway and escorted her into the house."

"Why did your wife come here?" he asked in practiced conversation mode.

"I don't know."

"Why did you follow here?" the trooper asked, making notes in a leather bound book.

After hesitating and staring toward the flood lighted front yard of the farm house, I answered, "I had learned this afternoon that she was cheating."

"Do you have a weapon on your person or in your vehicle, sir?" he asked, continuing in the quiet, detached mode.

I shook my head "no" and he asked me if I would step out of the pickup. He employed the word "please."

As a man in a business suit approached, the trooper turned to him and gave a brief summary of my responses. The man in the suit studied my driver's license for a moment before motioning toward an unmarked vehicle near the intersection.

Within an hour I was sitting in a 12 by 12 interrogation room at the sheriff's office. But my interrogators were not local cops. I'm still not sure who they were.

Repeatedly I asked for information about my wife, and they ignored my questions until I refused to continue discussing my life with them.

"Everyone in that house was dead or dying, Mr. Harvey," the aggressive questioner finally declared. "Eleven dead or wounded were transported to either the medical examiners lab or the emergency room."

Turning to the woman who had appeared in the doorway, he asked if she could inquire about my wife's fate.

"I'll call the ER again," she said. "I know that three women and two men of the 11 victims were transported to various hospitals."

As the woman walked away, the senior cop turned to me once more. He wasn't pleased with my answers to his questions, though I had told him everything that I knew.

At the end of another 30-minute grilling, I relaxed and told them either to charge me or 

I was walking out. Ridiculous, I know, but my ploy got results.

"I doubt that you will walk out, Mr. Harvey," the senior cope laughed. "But you can call your lawyer if you think that's necessary."

"I am my lawyer," I said wearily. "And after cooperating with you for five and half hours, I'm ready to file a petition for a writ of habeas corpus."

They knew that they could not prevent my performing the necessary legal tasks to defend myself. 

Though I did not practice criminal law, I was not unsophisticated in that particular vernacular of voodoo jurisprudence.

All of the interrogators left the room without further comment. It was 3:30 a.m., and I was feeling the first ravages of exhaustion.

Just after 4 a.m., the door opened, and I was relieved to see a friendly face. Jerry kinder was an Assistant District Attorney, the first and only home based authority I had seen all night. Though not golfing buddies, we were friendly acquaintances from as far back as college.

"Your wife was shot twice in the chest, Steve," the assistant DA said solemnly. "But according to the surgeons who worked on her at Municipal Hospital, the wounds are not life threatening."

"Could you give me a lift to the hospital?" I asked Jerry, moving toward the door.

Holding up his hand as a warning that I would not like what came next, he explained slowly and succinctly that Julia could see only her doctors and her attorney."

Julia was facing several federal and state indictments, but the shocker was Jerry's revelation that he would be filing murder charges against her.

Very soon I realized that Julia's predicament had drawn interest from the far corners of the earth, especially the cracks and crevices where heavy financial muscle resides. Lawyers representing umbrella investors, hedge funds and various venture capitalists crammed into almost every hotel room from San Francisco to Monterey.

It soon became common bar room and curb side chit chat that Julia and her lover, Jeffery Alexander were deeply into "Big Fecal Matter," as my friend Jenkins put it.

Jenks and my daughters, Julie and Helena, attended the trial with me every day and noted each condemning shred of testimony. As one hooded witness had said from the witness stand, "We were playing with stacked deck worth $400 million from which we could skim at least $100 million once the medical center began take shape. You see, the cap price being thrown about in the preliminaries was inflated by about 30 per cent."

For sure, my sweet Julia was playing in deep feces, and by the estimate of witnesses, Julia' vote on the board of directors of the hospital district would be worth $5 million. Jenks, a veteran professor of history, was a wealth of information and a fountain of expertise in explaining to a mediocre lawyer like me how anything in the world could command a price of $300 or $400 million.

Of even more brain busting significance to me was the question of how three community volunteers could so easily tap into the monstrous booty and become essential players in the monumental fraud.

Jenks devoted several hours during the trial to explaining the intricacies of financing such a bloated political monstrosity.

Once I understood the financing, Jenks began to lectures, over gallons of beer and tons of pizza, detailing how the scam worked. Jenks was more than a mentor during this period. I needed a reliable friend with his expertise if for no other reason than my sanity was threatened every day and night.

More than once during the frightening and condemning testimony of Julia's associates, Jenks insisted that sail with him a his girl friend on San Francisco Bay. I was both surprised and puzzled when I first boarded Jink's 50-foot sailing vessel. Luxury beyond my wildest imagination oozed from the ambiance of the spacious salon and the comforts of the six state rooms.

Then Jink's introduced me to expensive and perfectly sculpted friend and bunk mate. Stacy was of a species beyond my pay grade, and I enjoyed listening to her stories gathered over 15 years as a stewardess or flight attendant, depending on her story.

"If I were one to betray my integrity Stacy," I told her late one night during a drinking bout in the boat's salon, "I would punch your number and hope that you would answer the call of a mediocre lawyer who was hard pressed to maintain his sex appeal at 39 not to mention attempt to shed a few years in a brazen deception."

I liked Stacy perhaps too much; for that was the only time in all our years that Jenks had shown me his dark side. We were drunk, and I don't remember Jenks' verbatim admonishment. But I found bruises on my arm where he squeezed while telling me to display less charm in her presence.

My second conclusion when I first saw Jenks' marvel of a floating delusion of grandeur was that I did not know Jenks in any sense. Stacy had informed me with obvious admiration for Jenks that he had paid $220,000 cash for the boat and another $20,000 for added luxuries once they had taken possession.

"I was there, Steve, the night he handed over the brief case full of hundred-dollar bills," she boasted before staggering away to bed.

Though the days during the trial seemed hang agonizingly forever, the mechanics of trial craft functioned perfectly. Jerry told me later that the transcript had been so perfected that he doubted seriously if the appeal specialists would find sufficient basis to file any challenges.

Among the painfully prodding questions was the urge to inflict as much pain as possible on Jeffery Alexander. Fortunately for both Jeffery and me, the trial and the disconcerting aftermath prevented me from responding to the urge to kill, maim or at least humiliate the bastard. Revenge would become a primary topic one day, I was certain; but, in the interim, I would apply my energies to making a living and surviving. 

Finally, the last piece fell into place, and the trial ended in an anti climax. The blood thirsty vultures who had fed on the sleaze and degradation in the end were denied and orgiastic fix; for everyone knew after the first week that Julia would be convicted. 

DR.JULIA HARVEY FOUND GUILTY OF MURDER

Julia was sentenced to serve 25 years in a state correctional institution.

Jenkins said it best. Julia seemed cursed or maybe born to lose, he said as she was led away by sheriff's deputies, her delivery to state prison scheduled tomorrow afternoon after completion of her mandatory physical.

During the three weeks of listening to the incredible evidence, my daughters and I sank into a zombie-like state of corporeal denial. Witnesses for the state drove stakes through the heart of a mindless, cold killer. 

Julia, who had never touched a gun, was depicted as having held a 9 mm Ruger to the heads of her three co-conspirators, the hospital district's most powerful executive officers.The evidence was factually compelling, so perfectly orchestrated. And apparently the jury members assessed it as irrefutable; for they returned a guilty verdict within four hours.

Even Jerry Kindle, the prosecutor, stood stupefied as the jury foreman read the verdict. Jerry had expected at least a week of fierce deliberations. He admitted to me later that even though the evidence was verified and justifiable from every perspective, he found it simply to "orchestrated."

The word "orchestrated" stuck in my consciousness.

"Perfectly orchestrated" popped up many times during the three weeks of the smoothly produced trial. All of the TV talking heads seemed mesmerized by the phrase, though they considered a

verification of Julia's guilt. 

Listening to the six reputable strangers, who claimed to be eyewitness, convinced our daughters beyond the proverbial "shadow of a doubt."

Their mother was a monster, they announced to me at the end of the first week of testimony.

"Mother murdered those people as if she were swatting mesquitos," Helena sobbed during lunch after a morning session the that Friday of the first week.

When I found myself defending Julia, even scolding Helena for her lack of trust, I pulled myself up short, sensing that appeared to be a wimpy fool. Julie, our oldest daughter, only studied me with what seemed to be a mild contempt.

"Daddy, you can't have any confidence in her after what she did to you," Helena hissed.

"I would not trust Julia to handle my money or honor my marriage vows, girls," I said coldly. "But I would stake my life on the proposition that she could never commit murder."

My girls expressed their contempt for me to an uncomfortable degree when we met the day after I visited Julia in her cell at the county jail. It was the day before the deputies were to transport her to a "Correctional Facility For Women" 

somewhere out in the Central California desert. 

Jerry had arranged the unconventional face to face meeting. When he called to confirm the time for the visit, I perceived that he more than simply uncomfortable with the outcome of the trial, a very unusual reaction by any prosecutor,

As I entered her cell, Julia wanted to embrace, but I held her by her shoulders and studied her face. The absence of the zest for life was most apparent. Eyes that view the world as a magnificent cathedral of wonderment and beauty had become dulled and vacant.

"Will you permit me to say simply that I'm sorry, Steve?" she asked after several minutes of awkward attempts at conversation.

"I didn't come to forgive or permit atonement, Jules," I said evenly but without rancor.

"I see," she said, her voice suddenly flat. "Very well. Then why did you come?"

"I don't know," I answered. "I truthfully don't know."

"You owe me nothing," she stated laconically.

"Let's just say that I understand that you are going to a terrible place," I said,"and I want you to know that You can consider me as a source of support."

I wanted her to call me or write any time she needed a permissible favor or other resources.

"Why haven't the girls come?" she asked hesitantly.

"I haven't seen them since the day of the verdict," I told her.

"No. Is there a problem between them and you?" she asked.

I smiled and said,"Now I see the perceptive Julia I've always know and..." I said, stammering to a halt.

"I know," she said, and tears filled her eyes.

"Just a small matter of opinion and disagreement," I said, attempting make light of the girl's having declared me a wimp.

"What happens to me next?" she asked as I prepared to leave.

"The appeal, I presume," I answered.

The jailer opened the cell door and passed into the corridor. I turned when I heard her last words.

"Steve?"

"What?" I asked.

"My lavender blue panties! They won't let me wear my lavender blue panties where I'm going."

TO BE CONTINUED



Lavender Blue Panties Ch. 05



Page One

It's 6.am. 

How can those lavender blue panties continue to plague my life? 

Lavender blue panties shock-slapped me as I entered my kitchen, flipped on the ceiling embedded light system and reached for my coffee cup. I froze momentarily in stunned incredulity.

Those freakish pussy covering hell holders have reappeared. I kid you not. (My apologies. But only gross language will suffice here.) 

There on my breakfast table lay an open box from Victoria's Secret. And displayed daintily inside in professionally layered fashion were six ensembles of lingerie that included six changes of those damnable lavender blue panties.

Disturbingly, the girls, my adult daughters, had moved back home to Burlingame and into the two upstairs guest suites. They had accomplished this mystically swift feat even before their mother had been chained into the corrections department bus for transport to her cell in the desert.

"They're a gift from mom," my youngest daughter, Helena, laughed as she strode into the kitchen wrapped in an old housecoat, sporting some kind of hardware distributed through her hair. As she poured her coffee, I was aware of her eyes appraising me with more than passing interest.

"Your mother is in prison, Helena," I said testily. "She has no freedom to shop at Victoria's Secret for sexy gifts for her daughters."

What's going on? And I could not restrain myself from shouting that I wanted answers. 

"Your mother apparently whored herself out for years and played me for a fool," I shouted. "Now my daughters apparently are preparing to their asses on the market."

Page Two

I punctuated my outburst with a demand to see their bank statements and income tax returns. Unfortunately, my loss of control reached a destructive crescendo during which I called them whores and indicted them as co-conspirators with their mother. I waved my arm inclusively as alluded to the sudden money wash that was enveloping them.

"Am I cursed to spend my life choking on pussy money?" I asked rhetorically. "Obviously, you two bank more than the skanks that peddle their asses on street corners."

Such surging verbal violence was so unlike me. But I failed miserably when I reached my James Bond climax. My bravado collapsed just as I demanded satisfaction. My subconscious reflected my behavior informing that I appeared to my daughters as a perfect fool. Rather than retreating into the cautious trenches of my strengths, I was seeking hand to hand combat with an enemy of unknown potentials and strengths. 

I could not maintain my threatening posture or my best tax lawyer's imitation of a confident omniscient TV lawyer. You know those posturing never-lose stereotypes who are always accustomed to wielding power with the expectation of immediate results.

Page Three

Only a sympathetic bemusement framed my daughter's beautiful face as she patiently endured my uncharacteristic outburst. Some how Julie was different. At 24 she had miraculously qualified as a Nurse Practitioner, and I was proud during those 

celebratory months to see her dedication and integrity strengthen as she assumed her duties. Of course, we must agree that "integrity" for me meant Christian core values, and that should tell you something. 

You probably immediately defined and understand the generational disconnect that lies at the heart of my tragedies. Confessing that I knew of the conflict between the Christian era hegemony and the post modern 21st Century monolithic determinism obviously makes me a fool and a useless academic.

Again, just as obviously, my wife, the renowned professor of psychology and prodigy in 21st Century money lore, suffered from no residual restraints. So many times my wife had smiled patronizingly at my questions about her mounting wealth and unconscionable absences. During those disconcerting moments, Dr. Julia Harvey, the genius in behavior management, effectively thoug condescendingly would defuse my interrogation with sex.

Page Four

Dr. Julia Harvey seemed infallible in her post modern objective brilliance. By all emerging 21 Century standards Dr. Juluia Harvey was a success. Her books pparently were producing riches so unique and monumental that my mediocre tax lawyer's prowess could never qualify to administer.

True! I knew nothing of my wife's business accounts or legal affairs. All of her business Was conducted three blocks from my office in the 12-story modernist glass and steel jurisprudential citadel owned by the highly esteemed but elusive law firm designated as "Larson, Cannon, Face and Steele. 

True! I gave considerable thought to weighing and analyzing the implications. By what standards, could I condone Julia's spending more hours a week in Attorney Robert "Bobby" Steele's tower of global influence than in her offices as chairman of the psychology department of a highly regarded university.

Everyone including my daughters cautioned that my questioning her mother's hours or any facet of her behavior constituted disloyalty and lack of trust, both considered failures beneath my perceived persona as a strong man able to live comfortably with the successes of a superior wife and mother.

Page Four

Yes! Julia held sway as my superior for more than a decade. 

But, of course, Dr. Julia Harvey was in jail. No matter that I entertained gnawing doubts about the incredible twists and turns reflected in the official transcript of the trial.

Nevertheless, 

Now you see even more clearly the confusion that must prevail between my concept of being a kind and loving father and my daughters' and wife's vision of me as a comic wimp.

"I'll be damned if you aren't almost as beautiful as your mother," I whimpered. My blustering little wimp in my heart had beaten me once more.

Heavy silence hung between us for an agonizing minute. She busied herself with a minute of her finger nails progressing methodically to her toes.

At length she raised her eyes to meet mine, smiled tauntingly shrugged, turning her attention to her toe nails, her foot raised to the edge of the chair, obscenely displaying those lavender blue panties. She obviously was debating the wisdom of meeting my challenge for a show down.

"You would do well to talk to me, Julie," I said, almost whispering. "If I learn the essence before you do me the courtesy of accounting for these life shattering events, we will be beyond the fail-safe point."

Page Five

Once more I saw their mother's arrogance and obstinacy in her cold blue eyes. And I knew that I had failed. My profound urgency was to discover for how many years had served as exemplary cuckold and comic relief father.

We existed in different universes. 

"So be it," I wheezed. "You girls obviously are part of your mother's insidious rackets."

Julie studiously sipped her coffee, crossed her legs dramatically and smiled her contempt. 

Have you ever been lacerated and humiliated by pure silence? 

"We are on opposite sides in a brutal tournament."

Everyone will lose, I attempted to convey. 

Fighting to the finish leaves no margin for error, I attempted to inform her, straining to suppress my anger.

"Call Uncle Jenks,"Julie responded, smiling indulgently before her voice fell flat and unaccommodating. "You'll need to talk to mother's Independent Agent and Executor and Uncle Jenks as mother's Guardian Ad litem.

Page Six

Uncle Jenks? Agent? Guardian?

Stunned beyond pain, I was still sufficiently rational to understand that these administrative mechanics could not have been achieved in the brief time since their mother was convicted and sentenced.

Also, something didn't mesh. Yes! I am enough of a lawyer to perceive and sense that the three authority figures faced overlapping, redundant and conflicting powers. My wife's conservator, however, by the nature of the office unquestionably would have control of a treasure trove quite different in contrast and comparison to the other two.

This emerging interlocking directorate was above my pay grade.

I designated this suddenly germane mystery asset as a "treasure trove"; because the appointment of a conservator, obviously by legal necessity, would imply the existence of varietal and massive wealth. 

Ever have the sinking experience of being sexually assaulted and learning of it only after the successful conclusion of the orgasm?

Page Seven

I persisted in my demands for names and places and times. But the girls adamantly referred me to "Uncle Jenks" and their mother's Managing Agent or Conservator.

Then Julie terminated another frustrating conversation laced with veiled threats and pernicious irritants by casually tossing out the fact that her mother also was represented by an "observing and interested party in San Diego."

You need all of this variety of representation only if you have monumental holdings and wealth, I finally concluded. I needed counsel. I knew that. But who? Did I dare trust any attorney known commonly by my family, friends and associates?

But who could their mother have empowered as a Conservator? And why did she need three functionaries and an "interested observer"? The girls insisted that I must talk to "Uncle Jenks."

Suddenly I felt a change in my respiration and my cheeks glowed with an unfamiliar heat. Jenks! Of course! What a dolt I must be not to have seen it over the years.

Signs were there! No betrayal foments without form and structure.

Page Eight

At that moment, I knew that I must find and learn how to use that damnable Glock.

Now that I was rising to the level of conscious moron, I realized that soon I very likely would be engaged in a dramatic discourse of terminal mayhem. At that moment, I knew that I could not indolently get off my metaphorical elevator of humiliation at the "Moron or Idiot floor."

Apparently I had never cared sufficiently to know that I was routinely ascending and descending irrationally and considering that comic existence to be the essence of freedom and happiness. 

Obviously, all those years my wife and her lovers had been soaring through space indulging rich appetites and ambitions, living a "protean" existence of which I was oblivious. 

The word protean is helpful here. Having awareness of Proteus, a minor Greek god, has been very useful. You, see Proteus could assume whatever form or character he needed to meet a given set of circumstance. 

Proteus originated the seminal pattern for our 21st Century genius. Proteus could assume whatever identity he chose. He could be anything and everything at any time he elected to change.

Page Nine

As the author of our prevailing "situational ethics," the ancient demigod Proteus serves as godfather of the post modern rulers and their nihilistic followers.

Have you observed that successful power brokers of 2015 vintage, primarily lawyer and their derivatives such as judges and politicians, of are always in a fever to "do whatever is necessary" to enforce the dictates of their whims, material wisdom and wistful lusts?

Proteus created post modern racketeer of contemporary description.

My wife and apparently my daughters have earned degrees and certificates from Proteus' universities. 

(I realize that some readers have closed their books and stand poised to drop the course. And that saddens me. But I'll get back to the world of high roller assholes and pulsing commercial pussies after three more lines about essences.)

Solipsism! This prevails when you declare yourself to be your own god.

Page Ten

You must understand the importance of detecting solipsism. My wife became a devoted solipsist. 

Then Dr. Julia Harvey, tireless psychology professor and community service volunteer, having confirmed and anointed herself, reveled in her deified view of her own beauty; and it came to pass that she became a whore, an exemplary whore, but nevertheless a whore. 

Then, then once comfortable in her protective shell of solipsism, she promoted herself to world class racketeer and whore. As her own god, Dr. Julia Harvey was imbued with the certainty that she could always fix the dice and roll sevens, assuring that she would walk away with the pot. 

Solipsism serves as the new world order's religiosity; and to appreciate my poor efforts in relating my unworthy story, you must either be a solipsist or subscribe to dogma. 

Now I hope you will listen to my tale of ignominious defeat and rising from the ashes to sail the seven seas in my friend's 50-foot luxury brothel with sails.

Page 11

As I recall, before I paused for a moment of clarification, my oldest daughter sat at the kitchen table sipping morning coffee studying me dispassionately. My daughters had become cool and unresponsive but at the same time strangely tolerant of my outbursts.

It was if they were stoically marking time waiting for something to happen.

There were many pivotal moments during those days. Most of the events were impersonal redirectives of daily trial preparations, scheduling and performance expected during any crisis involving a criminal trial.

Sadly, I must state that this morning opened strange and sinister new avenues of humiliation and intimidation.

Monstrous incredulity personified governed this pivotal moment. 

and my daughter smirked, crossed her legs and brazenly 

And, though only a mediocre tax lawyer, I now understood that I must find sufficient smarts to avoid my wife's fate. Thoughts of bullets intruding into any part of my body did not inspire any perverse aesthetic curiosities. You must believe also that I hate the California desert and the thought of living the rest of my life in a 12 by 12 prison cell turns my feces to cement and produces menstrual-like cramps. 

Page 12

There you have it. After Julia settled into prison in the California desert, my role in this mortal coil had become frighteningly bizarre if not dangerously fatalistic.

I have by inference addressed the autonomic aspect of this chaos. That isn't sufficient, I know.

Paradox governed. In a dizzying cognitive pivot, my heretofore aloof adult daughters had spun like moral dervishes.

They dressed in porn industry certified miniskirts that frequently displayed their lavender blue panties as the mocking gusset twisted, stretched or sprawled. No! I have no erotic compulsions toward either of my daughters, but those lavender blue panties taunt me into a spontaneous rage that increasingly defies control. Julie abuses my sensibilities with her frequent displays of a very expertly merchandised body part between her legs; but Helena seems uncomfortable with the pernicious tableau.

Yes! I am determined leave the Marina manor as soon as possible. But keep in mind that bank less than $75,000 a year, and that won't buy much of an address in San Francisco. No! I don't qualify for rent subsidies as does 50 percent of the inhabitants of Baghdad by The Bay.

Have I been cursed to repeat Lot's horrifically catastrophic downfall? Lot's wife owned the legendary brothels of Sodom and probably Gamorrah,

too. I am told by a scholar friend that Lot's wife was called Edith and that she sat or lay as the case may be on the most honored societal perch in Sodom, luxuriating in the fruits of her creative adventures in lust.

Hold! I do have a Joker to play in this Satan's sadism tournement that somewhat regains my sanity. Hear! Hear! Dr. Julia Harvey lies devastated on a bunk in prison cell in the California desert. And that always calls for a seven-up toast to my Muse of Weird Retributions.

Within a month of their mother's being cast into mortal hell for 25 years, my daughters acting jointly had paid $2.8 million cash for a five-bedroom stately two-story mansion overlooking San Francisco's Marina Green.

How could my daughters suddenly join the gilded elite of San Francisco without my having gotten at least a whiff of what was going on. I felt like an addled comic book buffoon. And that's a classic understatement.

Page?? (You Know) (I'm superstitious.)

But there was more, all of it debasing and all of it powered by abject measures of humiliation. I still had not confronted my long commiserating bosom buddy, "Uncle Jenks," And I knew that I was still compounding my risk and jeopardy by avoiding the necessary task of identifying my wife's mysterious "Conservator" and "General Managing Agent."

To add insult to injury, the girls summarily had sold the family home in Burlingame, informing me at breakfast that Attorney Steele held their mother's power of attorney. Only their mother's name, moreover, was on the purchase agreements and deed; therefore, since we continued in the eyes of a California Judge as man and wife, Steele could the house and manage the considerable proceeds.

Once again it was during that terrible that I Was informed of the sale. That same rainy morning, my older daughter informed me diffidently morning that my possessions were in the process of being moved that day to the San Francisco manor. 

First things first. I must report that Julia is not faring well in prison. And in a 

Page 14

Absolutely nothing has evolved according to any so called "natural law." As you probably know, "natural law" social theorists, those good civilization nurturing souls who fortunately seem to persist, believe with Plato that absolute immutable and indestructible models of truths stand eternally. Standing like the time resistant Roman architectural signature, somewhere in the continuum of human existence, truth stands uncreated and immutable. 

True! This persistent blue-pantie challenge to my core values has produced a malignant tendency toward degradation. No man can endure a constant assault by daughters who have become accomplished young whores idolizing their mother, who as time tells becomes more brilliant as a brothel empress. 

Methodically, I have succeeded at a snail's pace, through global legal research, in opening files and public records that depict Dr. Julia Harvey as the virtuoso capitalist in organizing the sex industry, empowering the sex worker and perfecting the product. Obviously, the universities do have a potential for enhancing the earning power of someone somewhere.

Julia's influence in West Coast film cartels has given the cartels the industrial psychology canon and behavioral legitimacy to develop merchandising systems market direction to bank billions instead of millions.

Page 15

My faith in an uncreated, omniscient and omnipotent directive truth suffers a new attack almost as the clock ticks. But I am grimly determined to survive with my soul intact. You better believe I will!

And I am increasingly aware of the now rapidly crystallizing resolve to kill my old friend, the girl's favorite power broker, "Uncle Jenks."

I keep dithering between using the Glock to lock all his joints with led pills or present him with box full of Mumbai Cobras for Christmas.

No! I have not forgotten the unnamed Managing General Agent and Conservator. I will know who they are by Wednesday. Then the curtain will go up and the ubiquitous Greek chorus will tell you all about it. Remember, the Glock has a niner clip, I am told.

Preposterous in the extreme. Any behaviorist as apposed to cognitive would contend that such a swing in my instinctual make up could never occur.

Any good cognitive would look beyond the obvious and ask about that brutal experience I endures while in high school. Maybe that would have a bearing on my probable reaction to my developing Dante's Inferno. This will have more decisive relevance later.  

Page 16

Yes! I continued to drive from the mansion by The San Francisco Marina each day to Bulingame. And I ritually performed a mundane full day's work computing, balancing and advising. And no! I still would pay taxes on less than $75,000 this year.

Surprise! The great host of lawyers muddling about out there in your world are nothing short of mediocre at best. Many must have concern about finding the money to pay the rent the end of each month. I kid you not. Since I pay the rent and bank sufficient funds keep the lights on, I must be functioning above average. Not much consolation, I agree.




Lavender Blue Panties Ch. 05



Dejevu all over again. It was early afternoon during one of my lonely sessions poring over a bar owner's books that mad woman once again descended upon me.

I heard Lisa Gomez Alexander long before her trim ass followed her nice handfuls of tits into my office. Obviously, the frightening beauty was constitutionally oriented to nurture a bile-set destined to blow all over me.

Assuredly, I agree that my ancient Greek dramatist muse has determined a date for my ravishing Lisa Gomez, salivating and pulsating until she begs for rest and nourishment. Most certainly, I will survive, prosper and spit in the faces of my tormentors as they lie sightless in their coffins.

Page 17

The only questions to be resolved, however, are concerned with identifying my enemies. Who the hell am I destined to kill. And how the hell do stay out that cell beckoning me into the California desert.

And just as certain, my ancient Greek tragedian has perfected a stratagem within which I myself will have a tree or mammoth boulder fall on me or be devoured by snarling lions or watch as the fat lady threatens to smother me by sitting on my face. I love ancient Greek dramas. There's Antigone and Electra and, oh yes, Oedipus.

No countenancing the frivolous or opening that exquisite moment of good taste, however, until I find someone who will sell me that Glock. Once that lethal little prop, undoubtedly conceived in a Truman Capote play in the 1950's, has performed its dire mission, I will be free and very rich.

Then there's my lovely wife, Julia. I never go to bed without asking Medusa to put a sore pimple on Julia's left labia. She has taught me the fine art of hating.

Are not the subtleties of Greek tragedy useful. Do you suppose some demented prison guard will taunt Julia by pulling on her lavender blue panties and strutting back and forth in front of her cell. 

Page 18

Tomorrow, I will mail Julia another package of lavender blue panties. I am becoming well acquainted with the clerk at Victoria's Secret. I wonder if she wears lavender blue panties.

You can stop here if you like and await the next chapter that should be posted tomorrow or the next day. All hereafter is nervous unwinding. 

As all sermon writers must rest for a moment, I will relate in Chapter 6 the encounter with Lisa Gomez Alexander and the particulars of the impending killer joust with my wife's three wise men, her unwisely chosen champions in perfidy.

Oh! Postscript: Lisa is no longer Lisa Gomez Alexander. Through some legal legerdemain, she now is Lisa Sebastian Gomez, the legitimately conceived heir to the Spanish fortune of a bona fide 15th Century Conquistador.

Postscript: I like Lisa as a Gomez, and I shudder to think I might have been forced to snuff her husband if she had remained an Alexander. Now perhaps my newly emerging persona will be free of the onus of adultery once that recently recharged libido is fortunate enough to lie between her legs. Is it sophomoric to anticipate fondling her wellspring of life forever? Well, at least for one night. Okay! Even during the lunch hour would be better than nothing.

No! I'm not pandering to the Hispanic pop culture! I remain a resolute Anglophyle...but all of my Devonshire relatives who have served in the English (Not British) Parliament have preferred mistresses from Barcelona. 

WILL BE CONCLUDED TOMORROW, THE EDS PERMITTING AND THE CREEK DON'T RISE...

God bless all here! For those who indulge me, I express my appreciation. For those who scorn me, thanks for reading and please continue. For those who simply don't understand me, I will do better, I promise. SLH