Haunted By A Memory

Do you have a word? You know, a particular word that just seems to be your special word. One that always seems to suddenly stare back at you from the piece of scrap paper that lay on the table before you even though you were convinced you were doodling mindlessly. This word often appears when you are at peace with yourself and your mind is free. It is the word that you carve into a sandy beach with a piece of driftwood or a feather shed by a seagull as you sit just watching the rhythmic movement of the ocean and listening to the seductive sound of its relentless tide.

I had such a word. I do not know why it chose me nor from where it came, it just did.  My word was WITH. A simple word really, just four letters. There certainly seems to be little that is mysterious or particularly captivating about it. I have never quite figured out its symbolism to my conscious or unconscious self. I have surmised that perhaps it conveys the importance I place upon being a part of something, something meaningful, of striving to achieve a goal not just by myself but WITH others.

That seemed reasonable enough to me. That is as good as any explanation for why WITH had appeared again and again in my scribbles for as long as I can remember. Something changed about 8 years back. My word was no longer with me. It has not returned. In its place there has appeared a new word. I do not see this word in my doodles nor on any tranquil beaches. Instead, this word has imprinted itself in my thoughts and overwritten my ability to be at peace with myself. The word is disingenuous.

Up until about eight years ago I don't recall ever having heard of this word. That was when someone used it to describe me or, more accurately, my actions and behaviour with respect to a specific incident. I actually had to go and look up the word to find it's meaning. It wasn't flattering. The person who said I was disingenuous was a Judge and it was following testimony I had given about my reasons for arresting a person for drug trafficking. If you Google my name and any combination of words relating to drug trafficking then you are likely to stumble upon the Judge's written decision. It was his opinion that I wasn't forthcoming in my testimony and that I crafted it, after the fact, to fit the circumstances.

About the only thing on which the Judge and I agreed was that the guy I arrested had a lot of marihuana and cocaine stashed within a false compartment of his vehicle. His Honour wasn't buying my reasoning as to how I identified this guy and how I was convinced, without a doubt, that he was bringing a load of drugs from Quebec to Newfoundland. During my career I have lost other cases in court and I certainly made my share of mistakes along the  way. So why did this one affect me so deeply? I believe it was the fact that my integrity was being questioned and I believed unfairly so. In hindsight I probably could have done a few things better to expose the guy for what he was, a drug mule. I played an endless game of mental gymnastics, where I'd tumble and turn the actions that I took and the reasons leading to those choices, over and over in my mind. I became obsessed with reading and rereading the Judge's decision. I also replayed the trial over and over in my mind. I was stick in a loop. The here and now had no choice but to suffer as they took a back seat to those past events. Here and now encompassed family, friends, colleagues, my career, and my health.

I wrote a counter argument for every point that the Judge had cited in his decision. I thought by showing how wrong he was that I would slay my inner turmoil and recapture my professional integrity. Of course I couldn't publish my counter decision as the Judge had (I guess I could have included it on a blog but I chose not to) but I thought the simple act of writing it would be enough. Here I am almost eight years later so I guess it wasn't.

There was one very peculiar fact about that trial that has stood out in my memory. The trial was done in French, meaning that the judge, prosecuting attorney and defence counsel would be conversing in that language. Witnesses, such as myself, would have our testimony relayed by a translator. As I had arrested the guy and had spoken with him at length, I knew that English was his first language. During breaks in the trial I happened to speak informally with his lawyer and learned and he too was fluent in English. The prosecutor was bilingual but English was her first language. The Judge spoke French but he too was a native English speaker. It seemed that we had all gathered in St. John's as a show of our nation's constitutional commitment that an individual has the right to be tried in either English or French.

Here's where things turned strange. I listened and watched as the Judge posed a question to the defendant. It was obvious he had no clue what the Judge has asked so he turned to his lawyer and had him restate the question in English. All this fancy finagling to have a French trial and the only person, other than me, who didn't understand what was being said was the guy on trial. That was the most bizarre thing I had ever experienced in my career. To add insult to injury, I don't think the Judge ever realized that the defendant didn't speak nor understand French.  Nonetheless, the drug trafficking charges were thrown out by the Judge and the guy walked out of court that day a free man.

It's probably about time that I let all of this go and stop letting it affect me so much. In other words, I need to get WITH it. Writing this has been helpful but I still haven't achieved the peace and ease that I am seeking. Ultimately, I am the one who has to get over this hurdle. My wife says that no one else really cares about what happened at a fairly insignificant trial that took place eight years ago. I know she is right but like the Judge said when he referred to me: dis-is-no-genius. No I isn't!

Batman's Robin is from Shoal Harbour!

Stick with me a little as I connect the dots on this original episode of my Not So Private Tales.

Adam West was the original Batman in the TV series that ran from 1966-1968. Batman's friend in the Gotham City Police Department is Commissioner James "Jim" Gordon.  You with me so far?

I am James "Jim" Nixon. My father and brother are named Gordon. I was, a lifetime ago, a police officer. (I never achieved the rank of commissioner or anywhere even close. I was but a lowly Corporal, but we won't let that take away from my story.) You can see how I feel such a close kinship with Batman's Jim.  It's almost as if I could be him, episode after episode, sequel after sequel.

My brother-in-law, who, unless you consider his day job as web designer at a prominent AM radio station, has never acted a day in his life, His name just happens to be Adam West. I'm beginning to believe that there are no coincidences here. I am 22 years older than Adam so I feel as fatherly towards him as Commissioner Gordon does towards Batman.  Adam's closest sibling in age is 15 years his senior. It must have been a very dark night, just over 29 years ago, when our Adam was conceived.  That and the likelihood that our superhero's father left the door open when he visited the *Fortress of Solitude!

* (Writer's note -- I thought about not using this term as it is a reference to another superhero, Superman. The obvious and more suitable replacement would have been Batcave, but I figured that to use it in the context I had chosen would have been a bit too risque and not appreciated by my mother-in-law.)

My connections to the Dark Knight are irrefutable. The kinship Adam and I share is more powerful than the our province's iron horse of old, the Newfie Bullet; deeper than the now flooded iron mines on Bell Island; and taller than the iron stained rock walls of Red Cliff. Who needs the Man of Steel when we have our Man of Iron. Sure, he may not exactly fit the bill as you would envision most superheros to be. His choice of vehicle, a near powder blue Subaru, may not strike fear in the hearts of wrong doers. His tights may reveal just a little too much of our hero's package and his six pack is actually a storage compartment for Joe Louis' and May West's (no relation) cakes. Think of it as a breadbox that could also double as a bullet proof vest.

None of these disturbing visual images detract from the super guy who is Adam West. He is a crusader in the offing. His heart is huge and it is pure. He is anything but 2 faced. His wit would make The Joker jealous and he is nowhere as brooding as Bruce Wayne. It even appears that our lovable Batman has found his Robin, who goes by the alias of Susan. She is a friendly Catwoman, certainly more tigress than cougar. Together they will put the saint back in St. John's, the shine in Mount Pearl, the paradise in Paradise, the conception back in CBS(!?) I probably should have stopped at paradise. Then again, if Adam's father had done that then where would we be today? The days and nights would be a whole lot darker.

Just one last message for Adam West, my brother-in-law. There is no need to "thank" me for writing about you, nor do you need to reply/respond in anyway whatsoever. ;-) (Your wit scares me to death!) Should I need The Batman I will shine a bright light into the sky over the South Side Hills. A light that bright will need tremendous power so it will have to wait until the electricity from Muskrat Falls comes on stream. You may be much too old to be an effective crime fighter by the time that ever happens. Perhaps you and Susan should consider naming your first born son Adam. Should that happen then I will know for certain that the sequel will be better than the original!  Powie! Z-zwap!