Chapter 8 | Eyeforeplay

Chapter 8 - The Legal System

On Friday, February 17th, I arrived in Atlanta after ten long hours. As a child, I could never have imagined myself someday living in this city. The city’s existence first became known to me from watching the movie Cyborg (1989). The Hartsfield–Jackson International is unlike any other airport in the world. It’s the busiest in the world, with over 100 million people flying in and out each year. The logistics is the best feature of the airport. Terminals are connected by a local subway system; each terminal equals one subway station. It’s impossible to get lost.

This is in sharp contrast to the Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, where a network of illogical bus lines must be used to travel among different terminals. Over the years, I almost missed many flights leaving Paris. It appears the Charles de Gaulle Airport was built to be inefficient on purpose; to create unnecessary government jobs instead of convenience for the passengers. The French are the work inefficiency experts; going on strike because of a threat that the thirty-eight-hour work week would increase to a forty-hour work week. At least they are known to be great lovers. I guess all this extra time away from work is needed to learn and practice this type of social skill.

I turned on my cell phone while the plane was taxiing to a gate and received an urgent text message from František (Frank) Přibyl’s daughter, Karolina, stating Frank was in trouble and she needed my help. The message was vague and didn’t give me any additional details. I had known Frank since 1998 when he began to fix my car. We didn’t start to talk or hang out until I met my wife, in 2005. Romana also knew Frank; he was fixing her old car on a bi-monthly basis and helped her purchase another vehicle once her old “lemon” totally fell apart. She had so many breakdown stories and remembered very well the thousands of dollars wasted on the old Nissan. In 2004, Frank helped her to buy a 1999 Ford Taurus 3.0, Flex Fuel. This car was such a great and low-maintenance vehicle that my mom still drives it to this day. As of 2017, the Ford has accumulated almost 300 thousand miles on the original engine. I responded to the message, but Karolina refused to give me any specific details over the phone. We agreed to meet the next day at the Starbucks located in Tucker, about halfway between Marietta and Snellville, where she lived.

I had no luggage except for one carry-on bag and going through the immigration/customs was a breeze. An alarm went off at the last security checkpoint. The TSA officer opened the luggage and looked into a plastic bag full of Czech candy. He laughed, then closed the bag. The candy bag hid countless sweets, like Tatranky, Miňonky, Milena chocolate, Studentská Pečet, Lázeňské oplatky, Kinder eggs. It was taking about half the space in the carry-on bag. To my relief, the officer didn’t discover the illegal Kinder eggs I forgot to declare at customs. Some insurance wizard, together with government bureaucrats, determined the small toy parts inside the eggs pose a choking hazard. What happened to parental responsibility? When I was a child, Kinder eggs were one of the most popular candy/toys on the market. I’ve never heard of or seen kids dying from consuming or playing with the products. The small mechanical toys had to be assembled. This actually helped children to develop patience and fine motor skills, not to mention the endless fun when playing, collecting and exchanging the toys with other kids.

Romana, with the kids and Eva, Zack and their daughters, left on the day I returned, to go skiing at Snowshoe, WV, for a week. It was difficult to understand why my wife didn’t wait for me to come back. She knew I wanted to go with them well in advance. Luckily, I called Milan, who again agreed to pick me up at the airport. He picked me up more than two hours after the agreed time. I was tired, irritated, and barely able to control my emotions while talking with Milan during the drive home.

“What are you doing? Why are you not going faster than 55mph?” I almost yelled.

“I am saving gas. You drive yourself home next time,” he answered, and tried to appease me by going faster.

“What are you doing? You’re following way too closely. Do you want to get us killed?” I said.

We were going back and forth like this until we drove off the Delk Road exit on I-75. This was the strangest ride from the airport to date. My thought process was way faster than normal; I said something to Milan and before he had a chance to react, I asked him something else. Finding the UFO books was the mission of the evening, so we first drove to my mom’s house. To look and don’t ask was the best strategy to find the books, since the NSA might have bugged Mom’s house as well. I tried not to think about being in the Reality TV game show since the producers and the audience would have known all my thoughts and actions live, as they were happening, and any kind of disguise or sneakiness would have been pointless.

“Here it is, one of the books found!” I said in excitement. I continued to search for the second book in a small bookshelf standing next to the main entrance door but, unfortunately, the second book was nowhere to be found. Then I saw seven original Rychlé Šípy scout magazines, printed in 1969, 1970, and 1971. The magazines reached cult status because they were banned by the Communists within a few years after the 1968 Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia. The paper prints were discolored yellow, with some of the cover pages detached, and looked way different than they had around thirty years ago, the last time my eyes saw them. I placed the magazines on top of the UFO book, had dinner consisting of a healthy home-cooked meal full of vegetables, and asked Milan to give me a ride home.

Upon entering the house, I sat at the kitchen table and opened the UFO book. Sadly, this was the incorrect book; it was the one with all the empty stories, but the small article regarding the Swiss man was there in the middle of the book, at the same place according to my memories. Eduard Albert “Billy” Meier is the person’s name. We live in a digital age and this was the only information required to perform further research using a cell phone. To return the book back to Mom, to cover up the tracks that I was on to something, seemed the next logical step. I was exhausted and didn’t have any energy left to Google Bill. Loneliness and sadness overtook my emotional state of mind, the place felt so dark and empty. It was difficult to comprehend why my wife wouldn’t wait for us to go skiing together. The answer was received in the form of a letter placed on my nightstand. The letter basically stated: the kids love you, but I have no feelings for you any longer and want a divorce. I was blamed for being fired, arrested, and hospitalized. To take a shower, lie in bed, and fall asleep as quickly as possible was the only thing I was able to figure out at that moment to keep myself from dropping tears.

“They will be gone for the whole week and maybe everything will change once we see each other again,” I reassured myself, while falling asleep.

The Sun was shining into my face when I woke up the next day, at almost at 10 a.m. Jet lag is no fun. To watch TV, sleep, eat, and read books is all you want to do for a few days after an overseas trip. I read over the letter several times and couldn’t understand the reasons behind her decision. Emotionally, she was cooler than normal last year, but I didn’t see this coming at all. A loving and supportive wife should understand when her husband gets fired, arrested, and hospitalized, especially since this appeared to be a total body shutdown. The marriage therapist was pretty sure a total body shutdown had happened because of excessive stress and informed Romana of his opinion. What was the problem? Why wasn’t she supportive and understanding, especially after I assured her we’ll get through this? She became a different person once I returned home from the hospital.

I left the house at 2.15 p.m. to meet Karolina at Starbucks. Unlike the Nissan Leaf, which was bugged, the Mercedes didn’t cause chest and facial pains or any other discomforts. Using GPS didn’t seem necessary, since Starbucks coffee shops are clearly visible from the road. Depending on the Global Positioning System too often takes away the small adrenaline rush generated by the body when a person is lost. I took the Lavista Road exit, turned right, continued to drive for a few miles and turned around when the four-lane became a two-lane road surrounded by private residences. It turned out the coffee shop was hidden in a small shopping center, away from the main road. My wife and I normally split a venti-size coffee with cream, no sugar. We have done it for years, since I like paying $3.00 instead of $5.00 for the same item separated into two cups. During my early years in the USA, my sister, mom, and I frequently shared one drink while eating at fast-food restaurants. Why not, if you have unlimited refills on non-alcoholic beverages everywhere you go? Unlimited free refills were unheard of in Europe at the time. I purchased a tall coffee with cream, sat outside and closed my eyes.

Karolina and Frank’s roommate, Roman, showed up within a few minutes. I had known Roman for years but didn’t expect him to accompany Karolina to the meeting. Roman is a fun guy to hang around with, especially on ski lifts, because he always has a flask of hard liquor hidden in the interior of his jacket, close to the heart.

“Hi, Joseph, thank you so much for coming. It’s good seeing you again,” Karolina said.

I couldn’t wait for her to tell me the story.

“Hi, it’s great seeing you as well. It must have been at least ten years ago, the last time I saw you. You were a kid back then, no more than fourteen years old,” I said, while secretly admiring her beauty, especially her eyes and hair.

Her mom was Russian and she had a distinct European look, the kind of look I was used to when living in the Czech Republic.

“She has the exact same eyes with the same genuinely sincere look, the exact same color and type of hair pulled back in a bun, just like you, Ronnee. She reminds me of you so much and I wish it was you sitting here with me, drinking a cup of coffee,” I thought. I looked elsewhere to hide my emotions and continued to talk.

“Tell me, what happened to your dad?”

It appeared Karolina didn’t know where to begin or how to explain it. She looked downward, back into my face and started to talk.

“Well, Dad’s wife and the baby flew to Czech Republic for a few months to see the family. Dad went on Craigslist, met a girl and drove to Tallahassee, where he was arrested, because the girl in the ad was fourteen. It’s all over the news,” she said, and almost began to cry.

I kept staring into her face in disbelief, with my eyes and mouth fully opened. It took a few seconds to realize what was happening. . . “This is another piece of the puzzle the producers prepared to make the game more interesting. Everyone around me is getting sick or arrested. On second thought, the NSA might have framed Frank in order to scare me, to drive me crazy. Maybe Frank wasn’t really arrested, because he’s an actor, like everyone else.”

There were too many ifs or maybes, therefore, I had no choice but to play the game according to expectations.

“I knew your dad for almost twenty years and would never think he may do something like this. Did he know she was fourteen?” I asked.

“I spoke with him a few times since the arrest. Dad was giving me indirect answers since the phone calls were recorded. This is what I understood; he was persuaded for two days by both ‘mom and daughter’ undercover agents to drive to Florida, the email communication was hacked and slightly adjusted by the FBI agents. It seems weird and I have to research it more closely. Dad has a court date on Tuesday. Can you please go down there with me to be a character witness and drive his car back to Atlanta? There is a chance he may be placed on house arrest until the trial,” explained Karolina.

I didn’t know a great detail about Frank and we were not that close friends, we hung out two to three times per year at the most, but I felt sorry for the girl. She seemed so innocent, beautiful, sad, and helpless at the same time. It was impossible not to help her. The family was out of town and it’s not like I had at be at work on Tuesday anyway. Before I said “yes” there were a few unanswered questions.

“How did Frank treat you when you were a child? He wasn’t beating you up or anything like that, was he?”

She quickly said he had not. I wasn’t so sure since she kept looking down, away from my face, while stating her answer. Here is the reason why this question was asked; on one occasion, Frank said he slapped his then three-year-old stepson several times so hard his butt was red. He did it because the little boy kept pooping himself and, on that occasion, spread the poop all over the TV. Supposedly, from that point on, he never pooped his pants again. He presented the story as a good method of raising a child. I felt awful when hearing the story, especially since he laughed about it. If Frank was cruel to children, he deserved to be in jail for some time, even if innocent of his current charge. I felt this might have been karma for his past wrongdoings. I am a strong believer in that each person is responsible for his/her actions and associated reactions; consequently, problems caused by humanity will never be solved by imaginary gods.

The hearing was scheduled for Tuesday at 10.30 a.m. and we agreed to meet at 4 a.m. in front of Frank’s house.

During the drive home, I kept thinking about how odd the situation was. Karolina’s face appeared in front of my eyes, then changed to a facial image of Ronnee, the image I remembered from the day our eyes met at full stare in the cafeteria. Ronnee had perfect facial proportions and her wide-open eyes were looking deep into my eyes, trying to extract enormous amounts of information out of my soul within a matter of seconds. As a result, feelings and sensations which she was no longer able to control overwhelmed her mind and body. Ronnee no longer cared about the surroundings of her physical body since her mind inadvertently entered a different dimension; the dimension where everything and anything was possible, where the whole world belonged to her. Tears came out of my eyes as Ronnee’s face kept appearing in my mind. “Am I ever going to see and talk to her again? She knows that I’m forbidden to contact anyone at Argos. She probably can’t contact me because her life, like my life, is in danger. I hope she isn’t dead yet. The uncertainty regarding life and death pertaining to the person you deeply love is one of the worst feelings a human being can experience. I don’t wish this on my worst enemy.” My mind was being occupied with these and similar thoughts until I came up with the solution; to write her a letter.

A garage clicker is the most convenient and handy invention you can find around a house. I was irritated on numerous occasions when the remote was displaced or didn’t work. How inconvenient it had become, something as simple as entering and turning a key inside a lock. On this occasion, the remote worked. I parked the car and entered the house, where my thoughts resumed on the Ronnee situation: “A letter, what kind of letter, a love letter, perhaps? No, because she will think I lost my mind. She has three terrific kids and has been in what appears to be a great marriage for twenty-plus years.”

I kept going back and forth on the scope of the letter and after a few hours made up my mind, “She means a lot to me and I need to somehow warn her of the potential danger. I’ll truthfully write her about my whole life and indirectly include some of the weird events that happened in the past couple months. I’ll just write whatever enters my mind and, maybe, I’ll figure out why those recent events happened. Even if I never see and talk to her again, at least she will fully get to know the real me without any bullshit filters or images, the real Joseph, who was her past lunch companion.”

That evening, on February 18 2017, I wrote the first lines of my letter to Ronnee.

For the next two days, I wrote almost continuously, except for a few breaks such as to eat and nap. The inspiration was received by listening to music and walking the wooded trails of Sope Creek Park. During one of those walks I called my grandmother in Florida, who said she had been injured in a fall and didn’t feel good at all. I felt bad for her, but at this point was not surprised. I was getting used to the accidents, nervous breakdowns, and arrests that were happening to friends and relatives. It was more of a routine, like catching a cold or flu. It was a shame, because I planned to visit my grandma and two aunts in a few days. Deerfield Beach would surely provide additional inspiration. Listening to hard rock/heavy metal when writing about the fun stuff from my childhood provided the needed inspiration. Listening to love songs and Eighties pop helped me to remember many events about the four women. Many times, pure silence was the most helpful occurrence for my writings.

On Tuesday, February 21st, I woke up at 3 a.m. and drove to meet Karolina, according to the plan. We picked up another character witness, a guy named Renda, who was Frank’s friend. All his other friends refused to help him in this critical time of his life, when he needed the help most. We were the only two people willing to testify at the federal courthouse in Tallahassee, Florida.

During the five-hour drive from Atlanta to Tallahassee, the three of us had some interesting conversations. I found out a few details about my new friends. Karolina was living alone, with no boyfriend or roommate, paying rent of $1,200 per month. She recently bought a brand-new Nissan Altima and was able to negotiate a really good deal; $600 per month for five years. :-( Both Renda and I told her to return the car and move out of the apartment to her dad’s paid-off house as soon as possible. It was clear to the two of us that Frank would not be leaving prison anytime soon. Renda went through a rough divorce; his then-wife stole many valuable items from their home and on many occasions threatened to call the cops, stating she felt terrified by him. I shared stories of losing my job, the arrest/hospitalization and the situation with Romana. Both of them basically told me to file for a divorce and find somebody else. Karolina kept persuading us Frank was framed by the FBI. She was able to pull the email communication, including supporting background codes.

“You see, the times of these messages don’t match. There’s proof the communication has been modified,” she said to me and Renda.

“Look, Karolina, I am not an IT expert. I am going there to testify as a character witness and not to argue about falsified FBI evidence. Give this information to a lawyer. Frank needs a good lawyer anyway and as soon as possible. If what you’re saying is true and we start to ramble about it in the courthouse, we could end up dead. The FBI, together with friendly local law enforcement, could easily plant drugs or weapons into my car and house. I would be arrested and ‘accidentally’ killed in prison. Many agents do think they’re above the law, above the common people, and they act accordingly. If this is your plan, please let me out of the car right now. I don’t want my two daughters to grow up without their dad,” I said, and maintained my position from that point on.

“No, no, I don’t want to put us in any danger. We’ll stick to the original plan. I agree, the FBI will do whatever is necessary to keep this hidden, especially after the case received so much media attention,” Karolina reassured me.

Renda fully supported my point of view. I had good feelings Karolina would stay calm and keep her mouth shut about the emails.

About an hour away from Tallahassee, we stopped at McDonald’s to change clothes and have some breakfast. I ordered an egg white McMuffin sandwich, which appeared to be the healthiest breakfast item on the menu. In my early twenties, I experienced rapid weight gain accompanied by low energy levels due to frequently eating in fast food restaurants. In my opinion, McDonald’s is the worst offender, since they heavily advertise to children; building their future customer baseline in total disregard for people’s health and well-being. After breakfast, I changed into a black suit. For a one-day trip, Renda had brought a full-size suitcase packed with clothes. It took him about twenty minutes to change, which was a little odd.

We didn’t make any more stops until we arrived at the courthouse.

After passing through the same full body scanner used at airports, I thought to myself, “The federal government must have done something wrong to take extreme measures like this to shield itself from its citizens.”

“Everything out of your pockets and take off that watch!” an older security guard dressed in a business suit said, in an unfriendly tone of voice. Before I had a chance to react, he said, “Didn’t you hear me?”

I looked directly into his eyes and replied in a snappy but firm tone of voice, “Yes, I heard you!”

The watch caused an alert, requiring a manual scan. Shortly after, I experienced the usual facial pain symptoms and sensitivity to light in both eyes. I went to a restroom, looked in a mirror and was horrified to see the eyes fully dilated. Focusing my eyes on the middle finger placed in front of my nose only slightly helped to decrease the dilation. “Having this condition in a federal courthouse surrounded by police, detectives, and agents is a big problem. Anyone who sees my face will think I am on drugs. If Karolina starts to ramble on about the tampered FBI evidence, I’ll be picking up soaps in prison showers in no time. The hearing is about to start; what am I going to do?” I thought. I exited the restroom and kept walking with my eyes looking down towards the marble floor.

I sat next to Karolina and tried to avoid any eye contact with her, Renda, and especially the agents sitting around the courtroom. Within five minutes, two detectives called Renda and me to follow them outside of the courtroom, to the hallway. We were asked to give our names, for the record. I had no choice but to cooperate, but both first and last name were misspelled when written down on a piece of paper. I told the detective to correct my last name, but left the first name misspelled on purpose. “To buy myself some time before the detectives figure out the mistake and to postpone a full background check,” were ideas that entered my mind. Fortunately, nobody said anything about the dilated eyes.

“To provide emotional support to Karolina is the main purpose of your trip,” one detective said.

“The judge will not ask you any questions anyway,” the second detective said.

A public defender with Karolina entered the hallway and, together with the two detectives, disappeared into an adjacent room, leaving us outside. Renda and I were strictly forbidden to join the group for the upcoming discussion.

“I told you,” I said to Renda, “if you come here without a lawyer, you are going to be treated like low-life. All these people you see around here live on a different planet with their own sets of rules.”

He agreed and we both returned to the courtroom. Within ten minutes, Karolina joined us, and the session began. Frank didn’t look good at all. He had aged by at least ten years and, due to lack of clean contact lenses, both his eyes were infected. He turned around, smiled at Karolina, and an agent immediately blocked Frank’s view, using his body. He was no longer able to communicate with us. As expected, Karolina was very emotional throughout the hearing and comforting her didn’t help much. At least she kept the concerns about tampered FBI evidence to herself. Posting bail or imposing house arrest were denied, as the judge sent Frank back to prison.

The public defender offered information on what to do next and invited us to his office after lunch. Lunch sounded great and nearby Backwoods Bistro was chosen as the place to eat. Renda wanted to change into gym clothes as soon as possible and took his suitcase to the restaurant. Again, it took him twenty minutes to change clothes. In the meantime, Karolina and I had much-needed alcoholic drinks. The lunch was cancelled as time became a precious commodity.

We left the restaurant and walked to the federal building, where the public defender’s office was located. A security guard asked us for our IDs and told us to write our names in the visitors’ book. Renda had left his ID in the car and I conveniently stated the same reason, fully aware my ID was in my pocket.

“There is no way I’ll give anyone my real name, not at this point,” I thought.

Luck was on my side that day; the public defender stated we were “OK” and didn’t have to present our IDs. I signed my name as illegibly as possible and we took an elevator to the office upstairs. The public defender was friendly and gave us some much-needed information on what might happen next.

We left the building and drove to the nearby prison, where Frank was incarcerated. Karolina was unable to see her dad due to missing documents. She had mailed the paperwork via registered mail to the prison’s office almost two weeks ago, but for some reason the prison did not receive the package.

It was late in the afternoon and anything to eat sounded great. We stopped at the nearest sports bar and had unhealthy but delicious fast food, consisting of burgers, fries, and wings, topped off with some light beer. To pick up Frank’s car, a 1997 black Mercedes C280, was the last stop before our drive home that evening.

At home, I couldn’t help but think about Frank and his arrest. “Everyone who is at least half intelligent knows not to respond to a Craigslist advertisement where a mom, together with her fourteen-year-old daughter, are looking to have some fun with complete strangers. It’s obviously a set up! Didn’t Frank watch the famous NBC show, To Catch a Predator? Apparently not. It appears the FBI is targeting for arrest the less intelligent people. Less intelligent people have less money than smart people. They are much easier to convict than smart wealthy people who can afford armies of good lawyers. On many occasions, the smart and powerful ones prey on children at churches, sometimes with help from the victims’ family members who, at that point, are brainwashed beyond the point of no return. Warren Jeffs is the perfect example but, unfortunately, he is just the tip of the iceberg. Most of these abusers will never get caught, since even the most respected church leaders are more than willing to cover their tracks. (On May 13 2017, Pope Francis announced that the Vatican has a 2,000-case backlog in processing clerical sex abuse cases.) Marie Collins once said, “The Church . . . wouldn't have covered up for them if they were stealing parish funds. They covered up for them if they were raping young children. How could men in leadership have done that?"

Why hasn’t the FBI conducted any undercover operations to go after the pedophile clergy? Is it because the clergy in this country is above the law, above the government?

While in bed, I thought of one instance involving Frank and Ronnee. On December 21 2016, during the last lunch with Ronnee, we discussed maintenance on our old cars and how expensive everything is if you go to the wrong person. Many car mechanics automatically think your pockets are bottomless and full of cash if you drive a BMW or Mercedes, regardless of the car’s age. Coincidently, Ronnee’s husband also owned an older Mercedes. I suggested Frank as the person to go to. He truly is the Mercedes expert who can figure out and fix anything, including electrical issues, for very reasonable prices. I’ve found only one other person this honest. His name is John.

“Joseph, I would like to have his phone number,” Ronnee said. Our eyes met and she looked at me in a certain way.

Her face was giving out a silent secret that could only be decoded by a person with similar feelings. A simple, genuine, loving kiss was what Ronnee craved at the moment. I felt the same and wanted to kiss her, but being in the cafeteria at work surrounded by co-workers had ruined the moment.

“Does she also want my phone number?” I thought.

To this day, I haven’t had a chance to give her my number.

I was able to give Frank’s phone number to Leah. In 2015, her daughter Maggie’s Mercedes broke down; the battery was dying. At the last minute, Leah drove the car to a shop where she didn’t know anybody and was charged almost 200 dollars to replace the battery.

“You got ripped off. I would have gladly changed the battery for you free of charge. Why didn’t you ask your husband?” I said, while writing Frank’s phone number on a sticky note.

“Even if I bought the battery, Tom would never change it. It would be sitting in the garage for weeks,” she said, in a non-caring but disappointed tone of voice.

“Leah, you really do everything around the house.” I smiled a little and continued to speak. “Call this guy if you have any kind of problems with the car.” I gave her Frank’s number.

Leah never contacted Frank, at least not to my knowledge. Maybe it’s for the best Leah and Ronnee never hooked up with Frank, as they both have teenage daughters.

There was one more story I remembered about Frank that night. About five years ago, I walked into his old mechanic’s shop located in Lawrenceville. There was a rectangular, average-size calendar hanging above his desk with an imprinted picture of a fully dressed young woman. Even though the girl was dressed, she was absolutely gorgeous: perfect hips, upper body and facial proportions, with brunette hair pulled into a bun, my favorite women’s hairstyle.

“Who is this hot girl?” I asked, while staring at the calendar with my mouth partially opened.

I closed my mouth, then continued to talk. “I really would like to have my way with her.”

Frank was sitting in his chair, he leaned back and laughed as hard as he could, then said, “That’s my daughter.”

“Really? I didn’t know that,” I said. “She is beautiful. I don’t mean any disrespect. Last time I saw her she was a kid, about fourteen years old.”

“That’s OK, man,” Frank replied.

We started to talk and I found out Karolina used to be a model. No matter which modeling agency in Atlanta hired her, it was always the same story; the owners wouldn’t give her any decent work until she had sex with them. Karolina never slept with any of the owners and eventually left the industry, disgusted and disappointed.

The next day I woke up with one purpose only, to continue to write the letter to Ronnee. Deadline for completion: only five more days remained before my wife and kids return from vacation. To my surprise, to write was not as hard as I initially thought it would be. Keeping my emotions under control was the greatest obstacle to finishing the letter. The moments experienced right after I was fired from PulteGroup kept entering and blending in my mind, together with all the beautiful memories of Ronnee. This created an emotional tornado.

“Tears are falling out of my eyes and I would do anything for a kiss,” I thought.

Mixed feelings of sadness, joy, and happiness were present when a photograph of Ronnee was projected in front of my face. I had to stop writing once I realized I would probably never speak with or see Ronnee again in my life, just like it happened with Leah. To fall asleep was the only short-term medicine that worked.

I woke up and figured out one important piece of the puzzle: “In order to write from your heart, you have to be in a different state of mind. A person has to find the key and open the door of another dimension, where everything and anything is possible, where the reality as we know it no longer exists, where time doesn’t matter and where different sets of values exist, totally different sets of values to those we’re used to in our material world.”

Since about December 2014, I had been in love with Leah, heartbroken when she left Immucor, reassured of my love for Leah once hired at PulteGroup, really heartbroken when fired from Pulte, in love with Ronnee like with no one else in my life and extremely heartbroken once fired from Argos. I was continuously in a different state of mind for over two years. The exorbitant amounts of additional chemicals and hormones my body produced for such a long time allowed me to find the key and open the door to this new dimension. There were some unexpected pleasant side effects as well, like losing over thirty pounds in eighteen months. To this day, I don’t crave sweets or junk food at all. I drink water, coffee, and eat small portions of mostly healthy foods, when hungry. Time was becoming scarce, so Mom brought me some delicious healthy home-cooked meals on multiple occasions.

There were periods I was able to stop writing, turn off the computer and not think about anything. This made me happy because I wasn’t really able to do this in the past couple of months. Up until the overseas trip, thoughts of the different scenarios or trying to figure things out continuously entered my mind.

My first tennis match of the 2017 spring season was scheduled for the evening of February 23rd, at the Highland Pointe subdivision, about a twenty-minute-drive from home. My favorite black Nike sneakers were made out of cloth, the worst possible material for tennis shoes. I had no choice but to wear my other shoes, also Nike sneakers. I had not worn that pair since late 2015, as the right shoe had a defect; a line of connecting material that was hurting my foot, right above the toes. Interestingly, for the first time ever, the shoe felt perfectly fine. This was my first time playing tennis at the Highland Pointe subdivision. The development was the classic “Brady Bunch” houses built in the 1970s, with plenty of front and backyards. The houses were gently placed in the forest with the least amount of damage possible to the surrounding trees. There was a large pond next to the tennis courts. The scenery of the pond, hills, trees, and houses was beautiful.

“I wish new constructions were built this way instead of cutting down every single tree and placing the houses right next to each other. Privacy is nonexistent in those communities,” went through my mind.

A frozen, dull, and tingling feeling bothered my whole right arm for some time. With certain movements, my right wrist was hurting as well. To talk with another human being and to clear my head was the purpose of this match. I didn’t want to cancel the match until the pain was unbearable. My opponent was a well-built, mostly baldheaded man in his late forties, with a small but fresh scar on his forehead. I was able to warm up my arm and resume the game. Matt seemed normal at first, but became very irritated every time he lost a ball. At certain times he said, “Fuck this and fuck that,” and threw his racquet away. He played way above the beginner’s level of this game; to win and not have fun was his mission. He registered at this level on purpose.

“Who cares if you or I win, this is not Wimbledon’s final. It’s all about the fun,” I said, to calm him down.

He would have been a much better player if he had stopped caring about winning the game. A bad mood is the result of many mistakes.

“What if he has a gun in his car? Will he shoot me in case of a loss?” I thought.

To let him win was the medicine he needed to calm down and I gave him just that. Towards the end, Matt became a really friendly and outgoing person, the discussion was great.

It was dark during the drive back home; my eyes were hurting and the colors of neon lights and street traffic signs were brighter and sharper than normal. Seeing way better than normal was beautiful, but scary at the same time.

“Why is this happening again? Matt really was the weirdest opponent I had met to this day. Hopefully, he wasn’t an agent trying to provoke me, to get me arrested again. Romana paid for vision insurance, I better make an appointment as soon as possible.”

Again, uncertainty about what was really happening entered my mind. Everything about the possible scenarios was just speculation. It was difficult to switch my thoughts to a different subject, since I had to drive the car, to look at the road in front of me, to see all the gorgeous colors. At home, the computer became my savior as I was able to shift my thought process on writing the letter.

I had a court date scheduled for the next day and began to organize my thoughts on how to defend myself. I didn’t hire an attorney. I wasn’t too worried. My only experience with the judicial system, besides traffic, was in 2004 when I had to pay a fine for selling artwork on the street. “No big deal, it is only a misdemeanor charge. What’s the worst-case scenario anyway?” Surprisingly, I was facing a $1,000 fine and a year of incarceration, should the worst-case scenario materialize. “An attorney surely would be nice, but who cares. It doesn’t matter, because the producers or the agents are running the show anyway.”

My mind was occupied, and the phone rang; it was Renda. I told him my concerns surrounding tomorrow’s court date.

“You can’t go to any court without an attorney, don’t you know that?” Renda said. “Let me tell you a story. About ten years ago, I went to court without an attorney to settle a case related to a suspended driver’s license. All my friends told me I will pay no more than a $500 fine. I basically went there for a $700 refund since the bail was $1,200. I didn’t speak much English at the time and had a difficult time understanding the judge. ‘So, you are with Russian Mafia, right?’ the judge asked. ‘Me? No, I am Czech,’ I said. He said something that appeared to be the amount of the fine and I started to walk towards the door to exit the courtroom. A cop blocked me and stated, ‘Where are you going?’ ‘To cashier, for money,’ I said. He put handcuffs on me and said, ‘You were sentenced to eleven days in jail. So, you are a Russian Mafia, ha, ha, ha.’ This is how they wiped their asses with me.”

I listened to the whole story without saying a word.

After digesting the conversation, I said, “They gave you the maximum sentence. Tomorrow, I’ll tell the judge to postpone the case until I get a lawyer.”

Renda answered, “Yes, this is how it works here. The whole system; the judges, prosecutors, and lawyers, are hand in hand. They’ll be happy you have spent money and the judge will give you a break. This is not the end of the story. I was forbidden to wear any gold during my parole period.”

I was getting more confused. Not to wear any gold jewelry, what was wrong with that picture?

“They can’t tell you not to wear gold, don’t bullshit me,” I said, so he would tell me the truth.

“Yes, they can. I came to the courtroom wearing my gold chains and earrings. I found out later the judge placed a ban on me wearing any gold jewelry.”

We also talked about Karolina and the whole situation regarding Frank, who was facing ten years to life in prison. This harsh sentence sounded absurd to us since there was no harm done to anyone and, at age forty-eight, Frank had no prior criminal sex offender record. After the conversation ended, I couldn’t help but laugh at Renda’s arrest. It was funny until I realized the judge had no real evidence except him wearing a lot of gold jewelry, no basis to accuse Renda of being connected to the Russian Mafia. The judge obviously didn’t like his appearance, therefore gave him the maximum sentence and made up the silly gold jewelry ban to teach him a lesson. The judge knowingly violated Renda’s constitutional rights.

The sunny, cloudless morning elevated my spirit as I entered the State Court of Cobb County. For some reason, the citation stated 8 a.m. as the start time of the court session, but the door of Courtroom 1A didn’t open until 9 a.m. Playing with a cell phone, sitting around or admiring the courthouse’s architecture, were the most common activities people choose to do to kill the extra hour. The usual facial and eye pains reappeared, preventing me from reading news on my cell phone. I suspected my eyes were dilated as well. I went to a nearby restroom where my worst fears were confirmed. To return to the courtroom, to look down, to not act suspiciously and to listen to every word coming from the court officials was the perfect plan to hide the symptoms.

As a result of different time perception and elevated hearing ability suddenly experienced while sitting in the courtroom, my brain was able to simultaneously process multiple conversations coming from several different directions. From the vision perspective, everything around me became sharper and brighter, individual skin pores of people sitting next to me became clearly visible. I was scared to death; I looked towards the floor and closed my eyes.

“Nothing is over, I am probably going back to jail. The symptoms appear every time I go through a body scanner or metal detector. Have I somehow become super sensitive to electromagnetic radiation?” I thought, and tried to relax for my interview with the prosecutor.

The county had recently established a new program for first-time family violence misdemeanor offenders; a case by case evaluation and associated therapy was the requirement to have the case automatically dismissed. I was more than happy when this offer was presented to me. Of course, I accepted, received detailed instructions listing the next steps, left the building and drove home as fast as possible. The instruction package listed general conditions in lieu of prosecution:

Do not violate any laws of any governmental unit.
Do not drink alcohol.
Do not take drugs unless lawfully prescribed to you.
Avoid persons or places of disreputable or harmful character.
Support legal dependents.

I unknowingly clarified item #1 with the prosecutor before accepting the offer.

“Let’s say I accidently run a stop sign. Will you kick me out of the program?” I asked.

“No, only if you get arrested,” the prosecutor answered.

This made me happy since I religiously ignored stop signs placed at intersections such as malls, where you can clearly see the oncoming traffic from every direction well in advance. Item #2 made sense. Item #3 also made perfect sense; in fact, legalizing medical marijuana. Item #4: avoid persons or places of disreputable or harmful character.

“Hmm. . . what does that mean?” I thought. “Only in America could somebody write something this vague and ridiculous to intimidate people. Should I avoid swingers’ clubs or churches? I better avoid the churches because they are full of pedophile clergy these days. The priests and pastors would try to corrupt my good morals, that’s for sure.”

I finished the analysis and closed my eyes for a few minutes, hoping the symptoms would disappear. I woke up and the symptoms were gone. The letter – the memory, the portal to my past life, the only available means of communication left with my beloved women – had to be finished, no matter what. Every time the computer started, I inadvertently found myself in a different world.

My writings were nearing the end, love was missing in the letter. Love is the most powerful force in the Universe. Love was the reason why I wrote the letter in the first place. I had to write about my feelings for Ronnee.

“How should I write about it?” I thought.

Anything, it didn’t matter what, as long as my heart was the source, the generator of those feelings that would be transposed onto a piece of paper. I wrote without thinking, everything that entered my mind at the moment. To write about the genuine love was so easy. I really didn’t have to do anything except to feel the presence of my loved one.