As soon as I found out I had pending charges and the police were going to arrest me, I’d called my brother Ramsey. He’s the most level-headed person I know and always has good advice.

Of course, he’d advised me to get out of the military ASAP. It was a crushing blow.

“Look, you’re due to extend or end your terms of service and you said you were putting out feelers for the private contracting gig,” he’d said, practical as always. “Don’t they pay well? Isn’t that what you wanted to do?”

“Well, yeah,” I’d said, exasperated that he was making so much sense but still wasn’t telling me what I wanted to hear. “But that was back when…”

I’d trailed off, not wanting to finish. But Ramsey knew me, and he knew the situation.

“Back when you thought you had a choice,” he finishes me for me.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

And back when I was refusing to admit it was real. Sure, the idea of training newbies to do what’s become second nature for me to do in the SEALs— and getting paid a hell of a lot more to teach it than to do it— sounded appealing, in theory. But in reality, I loved being a SEAL alongside my brothers and friends.

I wasn’t sure I was ready to leave. But now it looked as if I didn’t have a choice. I guess it’s just one more thing my mom has robbed me of, along with a childhood and a peaceful existence. And, I’m reminded, as I join my criminal defense lawyer to talk about a plan to get me released from jail— my freedom.

 

“It’s nice to see you again, Jensen,” says Dylan, as he sits down at the small wooden table in the conference room.

Enough thinking about my mom and all the ways she’s ruined my life. That’s never caused me anything but fucking heartache, and I’m determined not to let it take me off my focus of fighting these charges.

“You too,” I tell him, although I want to add, I was beginning to think you’d never show up.

Instead, I say, “I’ve been waiting to talk to you.”

“I know you’re nervous about your arraignment. Everyone always is,” Dylan says. “But don’t worry. I have full faith that you’ll be out of here as soon as that hearing is over.”

“It’s not that. I’ve been needing to talk to you about my case.”

Again, I let unspoken thoughts remain unspoken. Unspoken thoughts like: You’ve said some things I’m not too fond of, and I want to set you straight.

Even though Dylan has been assigned to represent me for free, I know that doesn’t mean I have to go along with everything he says. I’m free to fire him and have another lawyer assigned, or to hire one with money out of my own pocket.

Which is fine because it’s not like I’m hurting for money. I just want to make sure my lawyer listens to me and defends my case the way I want it to be defended.

“Jensen, we don’t have a lot of time. We need to go out there and tell the judge we’re ready for your arraignment hearing to be called…”

“I understand,” I tell him, and stop there instead of finishing with that you’re in a rush and you’re shuffling through my case as one of many. “But this is important to me. When we first met, you mentioned using a PTSD defense and I said I wasn’t that into the idea.”

“Uh huh,” Dylan says absent-mindedly as he flips through my file, highlighting something.

“But what I should have said is that I really do not want you to use that defense. The more I’ve had time to think about it— and thinking is about the only thing I've been able to do in here— the more certain I am. I don’t have PTSD. I’m not crazy.”

“Jensen,” Dylan says, looking straight into my eyes. “A PTSD diagnosis does not mean ‘crazy.’”

“I know, I’m sorry,” I sigh, frustrated.

Crazy is burning everything my dad ever owned in front of me, simply because I mentioned his name. Simply because I was mad at her for leaving him— for leaving us. My mom is crazy. I’m not crazy. But any kind of official diagnosis is too close for comfort for me. I’m not anything like my mom, and I never will be.

“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” I try to explain to Dylan. “I just mean that everyone thinks that anyone who has been to war has PTSD, and that’s just not always the case—”

“Jensen, you haven’t only been to war. You’ve seen traumatic and life-altering things there. You’ve experienced very bad things.”

“So has everyone who has been to war,” I say, exasperated beyond belief at this point. “But it doesn’t mean I have PTSD.”

“It’s the best defense anyway,” Dylan says, perplexed. “If it helps you, you should use it. Not resist it.”

“Dylan. I’m serious. I want you to just defend the case and please don’t give me some PTSD diagnosis along with a potential criminal record.”

“Fine. Okay Jensen.” But he doesn’t say it very convincingly. “But today’s hearing has nothing to do with any of that. You’re just pleading guilty and bail is being set, or not. In your case, as I’ve said, I highly suspect it won’t be. You’ll walk out free until your next hearing date. And then we’ll have plenty of time to talk defense strategy.”

He signals the guard to let the judge know we’re ready.

“All right.” Just like we had plenty of time to talk today. “I just wanted to make sure I clarified my position with you.”

“Understood.”

We enter the small courtroom where the judge holds arraignment and bail hearings in the jail. She reads my charges and Dylan introduces himself, as does an assistant district attorney.

“How does the defendant plead?” asks the judge.

“My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor,” Dylan says.

“And as for bail?”

“Mr. Bradford committed a heinous battery,” says the assistant district attorney. “He mercilessly pummeled an innocent man. As you can tell by his size, and I’d also note that he has specialized military training during the course of his Navy SEAL work, it was not at all what you could characterize as an ‘even fight’…”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Dylan interjects. “Mr. Bradford is not on trial today. And of course, he has defenses to this charge, which was unfairly brought and of which he is innocent. He should be released on his own recognizance. He’s never been convicted of any crime. And he’s an upstanding member of the community.”

That part makes me have to try hard to refrain from snorting out loud. Apparently, someone who kills for a living is considered an upstanding member of the community when it comes time to set bail on their assault and battery charge. But if that’s what being conferred “veterans’ status” brings with it, I guess I’ll take it.

“Excuse me, Your Honor,” interrupts the assistant district attorney, “but Mr. Bradford is not the angel that the defense is painting him as. He’s had criminal arrests stemming from being a runaway teenager with truancy issues and some minor breaking and entering charges, and he’s gotten into some trouble while he was in the military…”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Dylan interrupts right back. “Those are juvenile records that have been sealed. And Mr. Bradford’s military history has nothing to do with civil court. He was honorably discharged after years of faithful service, in hostile war zones. The prosecution is just trying to fling mud and see what sticks, but none of this is relevant here.”

“I agree,” says the judge. “Move along to the bail portion of this hearing, please.”

I breathe a sigh of relief, glad that my past hasn’t truly caught up with me. I’m still getting away with things. I’m still coming out on top, although this is the most “upside down” I’ve ever been.

“Mr. Bradford was born and raised in Albuquerque and he has family in the area,” Dylan continues. He looks down at the part of my file he had highlighted earlier. “A mother and two brothers.”

She’s not much of a mother.

“And he works for a private contractor training new recruits at Kirtland Air Force Base, to do the same kind of pararescue work that he himself did as a Navy SEAL while in the military. If he is forced to remain behind bars, the military will suffer. It needs Mr. Bradford’s skill and expertise.”

“Then perhaps he shouldn’t have beat up a…” begins the assistant district attorney, but the judge cuts him off.

“That’s enough, counsel. Mr. Bradford, you are free to go on your own recognizance but you must report back for a pretrial conference and for all other hearings in this case."

The judge nods at me and I nod back, grateful that he's letting me go.

"Your terms of release are as follows," the judge continues."Until this case is tried, you are to avoid alcohol and establishments that sell liquor; you are to avoid illegal drugs; you are to avoid all contact with the alleged victim; you are not to use any firearms or weapons; you are to seek or maintain employment; and you are not to travel outside of the state without prior permission of this Court. Do you understand?”

“Your Honor, we have a clarification question,” says Dylan. “With regard to maintaining employment, and not using firearms or weapons.”

“Yes?”

“As I mentioned previously, my client works for a military contractor and his job involves training new recruits…”

“Oh yes, counselor. Let the record reflect that the defendant may only use weapons or firearms as necessary and pertinent to his employment. Do you understand this and all other conditions of your release, Mr. Bradford?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“You will wait in the holding cell until you are called to be discharged. We are adjourned.”

“Thanks, Dylan,” I turn to him, but he’s already putting my file into his bag.

“Gotta run,” he says. “I told you it was a no-sweat hearing. See you soon.”

“When can we meet to…”

…discuss my case further? I trail off mid-question as he disappears out of the courtroom.

I head back to the holding cell, hoping against hope that the hot lawyer chick is still there. She’s not, and my heart sinks.

Get a grip, Jensen. I shake my head and try to purge my mind of thoughts of that ass, that face. But they remain with me even after I’m discharged.

Apparently, I’m free to leave jail, but not free to stop thinking about a certain someone I met while here and will likely never see again.