Sorry for the delay; it’s not that the episode hasn’t been in the chute for some time, it’s that I got so caught up in writing Kat’s backstory as a “special treat” for patrons (be careful what you ask for) that I let the actual story moulder for a bit. This episode is compact, but I like it for two reasons: Something important happens, and as a bonus we catch a glimpse of Captain Baldwin’s humanity.

Speaking of the backstory, I took the last week off my day job to bang out a sloppily-written long-short explaining why Kat is such a hard-ass, and perhaps to provide clues to unlocking her tightly-wound soul. Alas, it took a few days to gain any traction, and the story is not finished yet. There are two big events I still need to write, and a third I need to finish or jettison. I do have the first chunk ready to publish, however, and I will be trying to remember how to post patron-only content on the Knives site.

NaNoWriMo is coming, and I will be spending a lot of time on a different story, but I hope to keep moving Knives forward at the same time. That would be easy, were it not for the aforementioned day job. Where oh where is that $5000 per episode patron?

While we all work to find my sugar-person, please enjoy Episode 24: Conscripted.

Sweet!

Thanks!

Many years ago I was called up for jury duty. To this day I’d like to go back and do it better.

I found myself one Monday morning milling with a bunch of other regular folk in the courthouse lobby, until someone herded us into a courtroom for the process of voire dire, which means the lawyers fight within the rules to stack the jury in their favor.

It goes like this: a juror candidate steps up, the lawyers from both sides ask potentially-revealing questions, and based on the answers one side or the other throws them out. As I sat, waiting my turn, I heard questions like, “do you trust the police?” and equally leading questions from the other side. I was pretty sure my honest answers were going to disqualify me.

Finally it was my turn to step up and face the music. You know what they asked me? Nothing. Not one damn thing. Both sides profiled me; the prosecution saw a white guy, the defense saw the only non-retired-military white guy they were going to get, and just like that I was to be one of twelve deciding a man’s fate.

Short story: two guys got in a fight. Unfortunately, one was a cop. The other was a deaf hispanic man who thought he was fighting for his life and knew enough martial arts to prolong the struggle. In the end there were several police, three paramedics, a few firemen, and two dogs on the scene.

After three days of testimony, we were sent to our room to discuss. Another dude nominated himself as foreman; no one else gave a shit, so he was the guy. “Let’s start with the easy one,” he said. The gray-haired man to my right nodded. “Guilty,” he said. The foreman nodded in agreement, then read the actual charge. “Guilty?” he asked the room. There was an uncomfortable pause. Some of the members of the jury didn’t see things so clearly.

Sitting in front of each of us, ignored in the rush for power by the guilty-as-charged crowd, was a thick packet of instructions. The instructions went through the charges, count by count, with rules of evidence spelled out. “If you find A, then you must conclude B.” I pointed out that the process was spelled out in front of us. At that time I was happy for the instructions.

Most of the charges seemed clear-cut, but there were problems. For example, during the wrestling match the defendant had put his hand on the policeman’s gun. That’s a big no-no, as you might imagine. But there was a lot of reason to believe that he had no idea he was doing that. He was just grabbing, holding, trying not to be buried. And the cop? An obvious liar. I hadn’t heard the term ‘testlying’, at the time, a phrase used by the San Diego police, but cops get training in saying what’s necessary to get the conviction. At the time I thought his testimony was too clean, too perfect, and we were hearing what the textbook said to do, rather than what he actually did.

There was a pretty sharp divide between retired men and younger women. One spanish-speaking woman said that the defendant’s translator hadn’t done him any favors.

I looked through the instructions. There was nothing about how to judge the act in the absence of intent. I asked, asked again, and finally we were brought out before the judge in the presence of counsel for both sides to be told that we could split the charges and only find the guy guilty of what he actually did.

Back we went, for more discussion. “Guilty as hell” from the white-hair contingent, “It was all a misunderstanding with an asshole cop” from the female side. The jury might have hung, but for one thing I said. One thing I know to be untrue now. I said, “we are here to decide the law, not right and wrong.” The woman across the table from me nodded and cried, a compromise was reached, and we found the defendant guilty of reduced charges.

I apologize to Mr. Cervantes. Deciding right and wrong is exactly why juries exist. Juries deciding what is right has changed the course of this nation. Those packets of instructions focussed my jury early, but the word “must” was all over the place. Those instructions were carefully written to prevent the jury from thinking in terms of right and wrong. Most of the time, that’s probably helpful. Some of the time, like in the case of Mr. Cervantes, it discourages a higher ethical sense that makes us a better people.

Those packets are powerful. They give a paint-by-numbers view of the law. And sure, when a jury decides to stray from the script you get the acquittal of the cops that beat Rodney King, but you also get juries that kick racist laws in the balls. Eventually, over time, juries who believe in right and wrong make this country greater. Juries are the most powerful institution of government in this nation. As a juror, I feel like I failed my country, and I brought half a jury with me.

Sure you should vote. But you really want to serve your country? Step up when jury duty calls. Listen, think. Defend the law, but don’t forget what’s right. That’s why you’re there.

Sweet!

Thanks!

I learned two things today:

1. Yes, I can ride 30 miles without a stop.
2. It is not a good idea to embark on a 30-mile ride having eaten only a banana all morning.

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I’m not sure, but I think I just saw Stephen Hawking in a car commercial. I’m not sure what to make of that, considering he can’t drive. It’s kind of like draping a supermodel over the hood. Nothing much to do with the actual car at all. But… I’m a little proud to live in a world where great intellects can make a few bucks with commercial endorsements.

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About a week ago I decided it was best to release episodes on weekdays, so I decided to wait until Monday to unleash Episode 23. Whups. The good news is you won’t have to wait so long for the next one. This episode is more about intrigue than overt action, but Martin does do something he’s likely to regret.

On the writing front, Episode 24 is rolling down the release ramp. The events in that episode were not part of the original plan, but they really help the next few episodes make more sense. It also pushes off for yet another episode that will allow me to release the rest of Bags’ backstory. But it will come, I promise. In other news, I have set aside a chunk of time to whip out the next backstory; I will be reaching out to the Mighty Benefactors to see if they want Kat (as I originally promised) or whether they would prefer someone else.

Please enjoy 23: The Well

Here’s a picture of the first paragraph, to slow Facebook scrollers. This picture is certainly not worth 1000 words.

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I promised a few months ago a more detailed discussion of one of the cornerstones of the American Military arsenal, and with all the candidates saying quite correctly that their opponents are making promises without explaining just how we’re gong to pay for these new programs, I’d like to make a modest proposal.

Let’s start this little talk about the airplane with a parable. Imagine a father taking his kids to the gun store. Katie is a duck hunter, and she’s starting to excel in trap shooting as well. She needs a new shotgun to get to the next level. Young Roger loves deer hunting (he eats what he kills, of course), and needs a new rifle. Little Joey needs a semi-automatic, while Sally needs the rugged dependability of a revolver.

Naturally, they all have to have the best of each weapon.

At the gun store, the clerk helps them make wise choices and then lays the items out on the counter and totals up the price. “Holy moly,” Dad says. “I can’t spend that much. Mom would be pissed.”

“Well,” says the clerk, “If you buy five of the same type of gun, I can give you a discount.” With a smile the shopkeeper pulls out an odd-looking firearm. Shortish, largish barrel, pistol grip. “Here’s the shot-rifle-pistol guaranteed to work for all your kids!”

Dad looks at each of the kids. They’re all glum. None of them want the thing, but each believes that if they say no, they won’t get anything. Dad takes a deep breath and says, “Ok, I’ll take five.”

The shopkeeper then presents him with a bill that’s more than the five specialized guns were! “What the heck?” says Dad.

The shopkeeper heaves a weary sigh and says, “Look, a gun that does all those things is pretty impressive. But if we need to cut costs more, we can special-order ones with plastic barrels. Plastic’s really strong these days. Probably even strong enough for a rifled shotgun barrel*.”

The kids are a little bit stunned when dad says “OK”, and plunks down the credit card, without even looking at the “shipping and handling” charges on the special order, that make it even more expensive.

By now you’ve probably already figured out my little allegory. The F-35 Joint Strike Fighter is the swiss army knife that costs as much as a set of fine cutlery, but does no task well (except cost money). The branches of the military all need planes that can fly and blow stuff up, but the Air Force doesn’t land on aircraft carriers and the Marines don’t mess around with air-to-air combat. They leave that for the guys with the right tools for the job, while they pummel bad guys dug in 1000 yards from where the good guys are. It’s more than just even the planes, it’s the training of the guys flying them.

The plastic barrel? To meet budget targets, the plane was built around a single engine. No plane has ever asked for more thrust from a single engine, and parts keep breaking. Much like the first jets ever built by the Germans, our materials just can’t handle the stress from trying to squeeze so much thrust from a single engine.

And even pushing that engine to the limits of our current abilities, the plane is still woefully underpowered. In part this is because the thing is loaded down with all the gizmos and attachments the different branches need. You could make an extremely capable airplane around that engine if you decided ahead of time what its mission was.

Back to the gun store allegory: The first of the special-order guns arrives, dad pays the bill, and turns around to his kids. “Who wants to be the first?” he asks. He is met with sullen indecision. The gun has no range, no spread, no stopping power, and is cumbersome. “Maybe Joey should try it first,” ventures Katie. “It’s gonna take all my allowance just keeping the thing working.”

Now up to this point, Mom and Dad have been pretty together on this. Save money, get the kids what they need. Mom leaves most of these decisions to Dad, however. But Dad knows he has a lemon, so he goes back to the gun shop to cancel the rest of his order.

The gun shop owner is contrite. “Yeah, we’ll fix those things,” he said. “for a very reasonable price.”

“No more!” says Dad. “This deal is off!”

“Is it?” The gun guy says. “Tell you what. I’ve got a thousand dollars in chips at the nearby strip-joint/casino. Go on over there, cool off a bit, have a beer, get your head together, and come back and we’ll talk. Mom doesn’t need to know.”

Eventually Dad comes home and says “Good news, kids! You each get two rifle-shot-pistols! I know you’ll learn to love them when I take your old stuff away.”

And that’s why we have the F-35 Flying Turd.

Full disclosure: I can’t prove that politicians are taking bribes or Citizens United-style payouts to keep the program alive. But I do know that the plane is terrible. And expensive.

Here’s the modest proposal I mentioned way up at the top of this ramble: Let’s right now cut every weapons program that doesn’t work. We can start with the F-35 “Flying Turd”.

Boom! Free college for everyone!

I’m not saying we shouldn’t continue to put the best possible weapons at the disposal of our military. Quite the opposite! I’m saying only put the best possible weapons at their disposal. Maybe Katie gets her new shotgun first (Katie is the Marines). Her new weapon won’t be equalled for a long time; it’ll be a tough airframe, nimble at low speed, that can bring the hurt.

The others will have to wait their turn, but each will get a tool that’s right for their job, and one that will not be obsolete next week.

What will be the legacy of the turd? Will it be a dead-end project that yielded great tangential value by forcing us to find near-impossible engineering solutions? Or will it be the plane that kills pilots and marks the end our our air dominance?

If Dad can’t decide, maybe it’s time for Mom to put her foot down. (We’re Mom.)

___

* for those without firearms experience, a rifled shotgun barrel is stupid.

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Thanks!