The Human Bullet. Joaquin De Torres
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Martina was the fusion chemical that made everything around him stick and function like a well-oiled machine.
“Marko, he’s awake!” Martina’s large eyes had a sparkling glint to them as she smiled. Marko looked at her not really understanding what she had just said. “Chris Cordell, the bike racer, he’s come out of his coma.” Marko’s eyes immediately lit up in recognition.
“When?”
“My nurse, Rachel, at Kaiser informed me. He’s been awake for two days, but became fully lucid just yesterday, the third day.” Martina’s smile gave off an optimistic glow. Marko nodded and closed his eyes in relief.
“And on the third day He rose again,” he whispered reverently. He turned to her with his own smile. “Has Lana kept up with her classes?” Martina nodded with a confident grin.
“Every day, no miss, since the very first day. Last night was her last time.” Marko was very satisfied with the answer.
“Has his sister been contacted?”
“No, not yet. I will contact her today.”
“Tell her everything she needs to know before we visit him.”
“I will, Marko. I’ve been keeping tabs on her. She’s going through a rough patch right now since his money dried up. He was supporting her.”
“How much?”
“Everything,” she replied. “Rent, college, spending money, transportation. She’s had to work part-time at the mall. It’s so sad, she’s all the family he’s got since their parents died. It’s a tragic story.” Martina dropped her eyes considering what she knew of the Cordell family.
“When you say ‘everything’, you mean to say all his endorsements and savings?”
“Yes. Cordell’s lifestyle mirrored that of an international playboy. He was an extreme partier and big-time spender. Mansion, eight cars, motorcycles, private jet –”
“All of that gone?” Marko asked incredulously. “In two years?”
“Three years ago, he put his finances in a personal trust contract with his agent, Nick Fender, basically a financial and medical Power of Attorney. Cordell was a big kid. Like all youths who have money and power, he thought he was going to live forever. Between his training, promos and circuit races, he didn’t want to deal with his personal accounting.”
“Oh boy, I know where this is going,” Marko huffed.
“Taxes, corporate sponsors, contracts, everything financial – Fender had full authorization to use Cordell’s money to pay his debts, invest in companies, sign endorsement contracts, materials upgrades, you name it. Fender took care of everything behind the scenes while Cordell lived the fast life.”
Marko winced and shook his head.
“Behind the scenes normally means ‘under the table.’ No one should ever sign over their fortune at such a young age,” he said.
“As you would expect, sources say that after the crash, Fender used Cordell’s fortune to pay Kaiser for all the surgeries, treatments, meds and his hospital room. Once he knew Cordell’s condition, he paid for the room for two years in advance.”
“Well, that’s good timing!” Marko said loudly, disliking the story and Nick Fender with every statement.
“He did leave money for Cordell’s sister, but only enough for two years of her university tuition and a small stipend for necessities every month. Not enough for Bay Area life. She’s had to take a bus and then BART to school.”
“Don’t tell me,” interrupted Marko, “he had the rights to all Cordell’s property, too.” Martina nodded and he winced again.
“Fender sold the mansion, the cars, the motorcycles, and the plane.”
“And where did that money go?”
“Sources believe that he pocketed it as payment for his services. He told authorities that Cordell hadn’t paid him in months. Nothing was written down, so it was plausible. But it’s all unverifiable because he normally took cash payments.”
“What about the girl? Did Fender leave her at least one of the cars?”
“Nope,” spat Martina. “Fender was exercising his rights as a diabolical asshole and basically shut her out.”
Marko nodded in understanding, displaying a look of sympathy that Martina clearly read.
“What’s her name?”
“Kayla. Kayla Cordell. A beautiful girl, but she’s had to endure this tragedy mostly by herself. She was in grief therapy for months and relied on friends for handouts. She stays in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment and is behind on rent.”
“From a mansion to a one-bedroom; from eight cars and superbikes, to riding the BART train.” Marko’s expression was now grim and building in anger. “Does she visit her brother?”
“The nurse says that she barely visits him anymore. She lives in Pleasant Hill, but she’s only come once this year.”
“Pleasant Hill?” Marko said. “That’s only three and a half miles from Walnut Creek, and she still doesn’t visit him. Poor girl must be utterly devastated.”
“The nurse told me she once asked her advice about disconnecting his life support system because she could no longer bear seeing him like that. That was the last time she visited.”
“We have to move on this now,” Marko said. “You take care of the girl, I’ll take care of Fender.”
“Sounds good,” answered Martina.
“There’s always a higher plan, Martina,” he said pensively.
“I was thinking the exact same thing,” she responded somewhat more optimistically.
“Very well,” Marko said raising his head and taking a breath, “contact Kayla, we will visit him the day after tomorrow.”
“I so love this office!” she said as she walked to one of the glass panels looking at the forest side of the campus. Marko laughed.
“Martina, you have the same glass office one floor down with the same number of windows!”
“Yes, I suppose I should be grateful.”
“Tell me, Martina, what shall we call this project?” She strolled up to one of the glass walls of the office and looked out over the vast expanse of the campus, taking in the panoramic view from one corner of the massive glass office to the other. She turned back around to him with a look of enlightenment.
“LAZARUS,” she answered. “Project LAZARUS.”
He approached the same glass wall and joined her. He loved the Bay Area, and he loved this town of San Leandro. He never got tired of admiring the MIRA-CAL campus which blended seamlessly with the quiet suburban city less than 20 miles from San Francisco Bay, and from this height, he could see the Bay Bridge, Oakland and San Francisco in the distance. He contemplated her answer deeply.
“LAZARUS. A dead man rises from the grave,” he commented with a smile. “I like it.”
“Either that, or Project Phoenix, a great bird is reborn from the ashes.” He considered her second choice.
“I like LAZARUS,” he said finally, “because it connects Christ with this famous miracle.”
“Are you saying that you are equating yourself with Jesus?” Martina smirked knowing that he would have a philosophical response, and he did not disappoint.
“Not at all. Jesus was a man, a human being who could create miracles during impossible situations. Are we not doing this through our work?” He turned to her and looked into her eyes warmly with a glint of pride. “Isn’t that who we are? MIRA-CAL?”