The American Joes

Jonas Watkins emerged from the northern Virginia office building of JW Industries into a cool misty rain. His aide called out to him and Jonas turned just as a sharp crack pierced the air. The distinguished looking gentleman moaned and slumped. Raymond Crane, the aide holding out Watkins’ hat to him, shielded Jonas with his body and caught his fall. Three security guards rapidly formed a protective circle as a second audible report was followed by the thudding sound of an impact with the ground. The bodyguards drew their handguns and scanned in all directions. One of them, a large hulk of a man, barked into his Bluetooth mike. “The man is down! Send medical aid to the rear entrance now.” A dark stain spread across the fallen gentleman’s suit coat front. Ray Crane placed the hat on his boss’s head against the quickening rainfall. Jonas looked up at his people through foggy gray eyes and said, “Feels like a damned truck just ran over me, Ray. Tell those sign wavers I’ll talk to them later.” His eyes closed as the company medical team arrived. On this drizzly fall morning in 1990, Jason Watkins, a fifty six year old self-made businessman, had fallen short of his intended peacemaking goal. He’d looked out his office window and taken note of a group of protestors holding signs proclaiming ‘Unfair to Labor’. Watkins was a billionaire business owner, but he was also very much a scrappy individualist who never shied away from a challenge. If those folks were upset, they probably had good reasons, and Jason aimed to see their questions were answered. The least he could offer as an opener was a civil conversation inside out of the rain. Whatever dropped him in his tracks had abruptly changed that plan. Ray Crane and Roberts, one of the security men, followed the medics and Jonas’s gurney onto the elevator. Ray told Roberts, “He was about to get drenched. He said his appointment could be delayed while he talked to the protestors. I grabbed his favorite hat, caught up and was about to hand it to him when this happened.” “We can’t be sure yet,” Roberts said, “but the medic told me it looked like a bullet tore through his shoulder. He’s losing a lot of blood. I called the doctor as soon as I saw him crumple. Man that was scary!” The medics continued to administer to the wounded Watkins and apply pressure to his wound. Jonas briefly opened his eyes. It was as if he was asking his aide a question in a whisper. But before Ray could lean closer to listen, Watkins closed his eyes and groaned once. Then his long, lean frame went still. The elevator doors opened and the two medics lost no time rolling his gurney to the JW emergency room. * * * Jonas lay bleeding inside the medical area with an IV drip in his right arm. Doctor Samuel Greenlee, his personal physician, had insisted he add this emergency room at the headquarters building three years ago, and it was finally paying off. Watkins lay on the crisp white cover of the room’s medical platform. Medical technicians scurried about while he drifted in and out of consciousness. Did you reach my doctor?” he asked weakly and felt the strength draining from his body. Raymond Crane loomed over Jonas and answered. “Doctor should be here any minute.” The EMT gave him a reassuring smile and said, “You’re doing fine, sir. Just relax.” Then Jonas heard him whisper to his teammate, “I think the bleeding’s finally stopped.” Yeah, right, Jonas thought. I’m probably worse than they’re letting on. The coppery smell of fresh blood concerned him, even more so now that he realized it was his own. He couldn’t pinpoint the source of his anguish, but something had set his chest on fire. It hurt like some sadist was boring a hole in his front with a dull drill. Despite the EMT’s words, this was one of the few times during his hectic fifty six years that Jonas had been genuinely scared. Watkins closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on anything but the sharp pain. They’re working on my upper chest. A heart attack wouldn’t cause me to bleed. Was I stabbed? That close to my heart? Oh god, what’s happening? He tried to concentrate, to second guess what they weren’t telling him. Then the room slipped away. Jonas stirred and opened his eyes sometime later. There was still a flurry of activity around him and Doc Sam’s comforting voice issued instructions to whoever was assisting him. Jonas dimly saw Doc’s smile, but he thought there was a look of concern. He asked, “What’s going on, Sam? How bad is it? And don’t try to smoke me.” The doctor answered, “If you follow my orders, Joe, you should be good as new in a few days. You have a clean through and through wound. I suspect it was a rifle shot from some distance. Everything is under control. Just save your energy and let me look after you.” “Shot? What?” He mulled that over and tried to fathom why anyone would want him dead. I’m not a violent man, he reasoned. I can count my enemies on one hand, and they’re business rivals I’ve bested fair and square. Watkins let his mind drift back. He’d been an orphan since the age of two, and his earliest memories were of the church-run children’s home where he’d lived through his high school years. That was a strict upbringing involving regular chores and responsibilities, labor on the home’s farm to earn his keep, and hard study to keep himself at the top of his class in school. Scholarships and after-hours work saw him through college with a business degree. Jonas drove himself relentlessly to the top and now owned major shares in multiple companies in fields as diverse as retail merchandising and building construction. He had always tried to deal with people on the basis of the strong principles the home had drilled into him. That’s the only way he knew to operate. Why would he be anyone’s target? Doctor Greenlee admonished, “You’re not an easy patient to hold down, Joe. I’m checking you into Fairfax Hospital overnight. If you do well, we’ll talk about releasing you tomorrow for some home rest. I don’t want any arguments.” Few people called him Joe. The doctor who had tended to him for more than twenty years was one of them; the others were his best friend George Adams and George’s family. While he drifted in a painful half-awareness, Joe’s mind turned to George and how he would react to this incident. Then he thought, Somebody in a frightful instant stripped me bare and reduced old Joe W. to a terrified youngster. There’s so much more I want to do in this life, wonderful plans I’ve kept putting off thinking I was somehow invulnerable. Now all that may never happen. “I hear you, Doc. Whatever you say. Just get me through this. A few days at home may even mellow my attitude.” Greenlee laughed. “Wouldn’t guarantee that, Joe, but it’ll keep you from rushing around falling on your face.” “Is Ray still here, Sam?” Joe asked. “Right here, boss,” he heard from the foot of the bed. “What can I do?” “You know how to reach George Adams over in Maryland. I need to see him.” Doctor Sam started to object then shrugged. Joe saw his moment of hesitation and smiled. By now Sam knows once I make up my mind there’s no arguing with me. Ray Crane left the room briefly, returned within minutes and handed Jonas his cell phone. “I have Mister Adams for you.” “George?” Jonas said into the instrument. “For cripe’s sake, Joe,” Adams spit out. “Whatcha get yerself into this time?” “Plenty of time to talk about that later, George. I need to see you. Doc’s sending me to Fairfax Hospital for an overnight. I’m okay, but . . . you and I need to do some serious jawing. I know how busy you are, big guy, but I need your help with a decision.” “Give me an hour at most, Joe. I’ll be dere. Hang in, pal.”