Another city … another speech … another empty whiskey bottle; all leading to another coffee shop in the wee hours of the morning ... homage to John D. Wesley. He was an exceptional life-force that transformed the collective conscience of many, including mine.

Coming of age in the sixties, one would gather that, in an era characterized by eccentric behaviors and appalling tragedies, the expressions “moral injury” and “oasis of the heart” would have been commonly understood. Perhaps they were, but not by me. John changed that … the atrocities he endured overflowed into my life, shaping my fate forever. But this story is not about blame. It’s not about assigning blame, nor is it about guilt or innocence. That will be left to you, the reader, to decide, but ultimately the catastrophes shouldered by John escalated into a quagmire that spread a plague over a small town, its inhabitants, and its legal jurisprudence for generations. In its finality, it was a slaughter of the meek that created a quandary for this country and concluded with the deplorable deaths of two very close friends.