May 1, 1992

Morgan, you son of a bitch. Roland thought as the automatic hospital doors opened. The weeks of paperwork in his office are minuscule compared to the problem at hand. The call he received in his office felt like a bigger nightmare come to life than the riots. How did it come to this?

Pedestrians seated throughout the lobby like sardines filling every space of floor against a wall, doing their best to stay off the streets as the LA police tried to bring stability to the already crumbling city. All it needed was a push, and it’d be on its knees, begging for an opportunity to turn things around. Only to put itself in the same position in a matter of years. Los Angeles… the state of California would never learn.

As Roland stepped toward the receptionist's desk, he noticed she and the other people in the lobby fixated on the monitor displaying the heinous acts documented in the riot. I imagine this is what it was like in the states while stationed in Saigon. Those damn Commies are small-time compared to this. So is this Rodney King shit. The closer he moved towards the desk, tension rose in his body; he always feared the day would come, something inevitable. How did we get to this?

The receptionist turned and finally saw him before he could ring the bell on the counter. She questioned his visit. “Abbott,” he firmly said only to repeat the name several times as she browsed through the patient census in a cubby hole behind her. Once she found the paperwork for Abbott’s room number, she informed Roland to take a seat. He followed her orders and thought to himself. Focus. Remain calm. It’s never as bad as it seems. It doesn’t matter; it still happened. He should have listened. Morgan, you hardheaded bastard, you should have listened. You knew better than this; we knew better than this. We let it spiral out of control. But when did the vortex begin? How did we get to this?

Months Earlier (October 1991)

With a strong cup of black coffee brewing in his office, Morgan listened to his pupil stumble as she explained the cultural difference between Cuba and North Korea. His small coffee pot matched the size of his office. Filled with a small desk, a pair of chairs for guests, crowded by the wall-mounted bookshelf on Morgan’s left, which stretched the length of the room.

As the coffee maker chimed, Morgan twisted his chair around and poured himself a cup of joe. He grabbed a pink packet of Splenda, prompting the pupil to say: ‘You don’t use Splenda?’ The astute student always kept her eyes open for changes in her friend’s behavior and moods. Julie observed not only her friends but strangers as well.

Morgan held the Splenda between his fingers, similar to a cigarette, and tossed it in his top drawer. “I was hoping you’d notice,” he said with a sinister grin. Despite the evil look, he felt pride in watching her develop her skill throughout the last year. “Continue your talk of Cuba,” he said, waving his hand as his wedding ring reflected light at her.

“Cuba and North Korea are both socialist countries; the only difference is race,” Julie said, “and you don’t see too many North Korean immigrants.” Her comment made Morgan chuckle, followed by him taking a sip from a red USC mug. “Do they give those to all faculty?” Julie, born in Ecuador and adopted as an infant by a wealthy family, spoke English and Spanish fluently, a skill necessary for anyone living in LA. Her copper skin was a contrast to Morgan’s colder tone.

“Yes,” he said.

“Let's talk about something other than class,” Julie brushed her long dark hair behind her ear, and her piercing brown eyes gave all attention to the professor.

“Alright,” he placed his cup on his desk atop a coaster. “What is the Russian military’s primary rifle?”

“Easy, the AK 47.”

“What caliber does it use?”

“That’s the 7.62.”

“What’s the country of origin of the Panzer tank?” he asked.

“Germany,” she said. “The German word panzer means armor.”

“What’s the best way to disable one?”

“Use a Panzerschreck!” she smiled.

He laughed and clapped his hands in applause, as the muscles in his biceps flexed. Morgan didn’t look like a history professor, more like a slimmed-down linebacker. The only evidence of him being in his mid-30’s are the bags under his eyes of late-night sessions of grading papers. Or was he grading papers?

“The World War 2 era anti-tank rocket launcher, good job Jules.” He opened his bottom desk drawer where most professors keep their booze; instead, it’s the spot he kept his tools.

Morgan removed a leather case and placed it on his desk. “Your tools for tonight’s job.” He slowly pushed the case towards her, the length of which about as long as a textbook. Julie hesitated in response. “Open it,” his voice stern and unwavering.

Slowly unbuttoning the case, she rolled it open across the desk, revealing its contents. A slim Jim toolset, clean as a whistle without a single scratch. She rolled it up and put it in her backpack.

“Good luck on your assignment Jules,” he leaned forward. “Make us proud.”