Xavier is an ex-NFL football player who kills two elderly people in a car accident. By all rights he is guilty except that he does not remember a thing. His story goes from bad to worse as he end up in jail and then fighting for his life.Charles is a detective who at one time idolized Xavier as a player and his gut feeling tells him that there is more to the case than meet the eye. As Charles struggles to put the pieces together in Xavier’s life, his life falls apart . Proving Xavier innocents in a way helps him to believe that there are still heroes and perhaps even he may be consider one.

Xavier

A Hero No MoreBy Kenneth R. Harvey

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Kenneth R. Harvey
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-4671-1

Chapter One

Warren and Martha Morgan stood in front of the Washington Monument in awe. Martha gazed at its height and pointed a slender finger towards the sky, as Warren focused intently on the map he held in his hand. He began reciting information as though he were a tour guide. He told her, in a matter of fact way, why the monument was a different color at the top than at the bottom.

She admired the way he lovingly described all the details and facts. Shivers shot up her spine as he spoke in a rich voice. His tone reminded her of Charlton Heston playing the role of Moses who barked out the Commandments. She, unlike the Israelites, would obey him completely and without question. Warren and Martha had been married for more than forty years, and after all that time they had just now saved enough money to go on their first vacation. There was no question about Washington D.C. being their destination. It had been a dream of theirs since they had first said their wedding vows. They couldn't care less about Venice, Paris, Rome, or any other exotic European city they'd heard friends bragging about. They were Americans, and they wanted to see the heart of America.

Taking their tiny savings, they bought two airplane tickets from El Paso, Texas to Washington's Reagan National. It was the first time either of them had ever flown, and as much as Warren tried to put up a brave act, he was scared. When the plane took off, he held his wife's hand so tightly that she felt the blood stopping its circular journey and bunching up near the area that he was squeezing.

Martha, like a good wife, endured the pain and would do nothing to bring shame or embarrassment to her love. She leaned into his chest and allowed him to feel like he was squeezing her hand to protect her instead of showing his own fears. She loved him, and she knew he loved her, too. Their close bond allowed both of them to know that they'd do anything to lift the other one up, regardless of the situation. They trusted each other completely.

After an uneventful flight and landing, the couple sauntered to the baggage claim area. Warren manhandled the luggage with the swiftness of a twenty-year-old who was anxious to start his vacation. They waited for the bus to take them to their rent-a-car stop where Warren got an almost new Cadillac CTS.

He felt excited as he drove his bride around town in the upscale car. Martha protested about the cost, but Warren would hear nothing of it. Although time and life had taken their toll on Martha, her face now weather-beaten and aged, she was still his queen. After all these years, he wanted to treat her like one on their vacation.

They had planned to visit all the museums in D.C. first before touring the monuments and finally the White House. There was no particular order to see the other buildings, but they especially were looking forward to the National Museum of American History as part of their tour.

As they drove down Constitution Avenue, everything appeared grander than they had expected, and with each landmark there was a new sense of excitement. The traffic was thick and parking nearly impossible. After turning onto 18 Street and circling the block a few times, Warren found a legal parking spot and parallel parked his impressive rental.

Warren held his wife's hand and paused for a moment before opening the car door. There was no rush. They were on vacation. After the brief rainstorm had passed, they got out of the car and walked to the intersection. They waited. The light was not green and by no means would they jaywalk, especially in Washington. Martha looked at her husband and smiled. She loved that he loved his country so much. He was a good man.

Even though he couldn't join the military because of a bum leg, he believed in everything the country stood for. In the south during the 60s, when there were several groups fighting against blacks, he had always opened his home to welcome people of color.

He'd say, "As long as you're willing to be a man, then be a man."

Warren was known for hiring them to work for him, and he provided free supplies for their families.

Now even as hard work and time aged his body prematurely, he still had the deep fiery blue eyes that grew with excitement as he moved closer to one of the symbols he had often read about as a kid. Martha leaned in close and kissed him on the cheek, not able to control herself any longer. He was not a big fan of public affection, but he smiled and squeezed her hand to let her know that he appreciated her kind gesture.

As the sun began to fight its way out of the grayish, rain-filled prison, a young man with an oversized backpack hurried past them as if they were moving too slow for his liking. Two young Asian women talking loudly into their cell phones passed them also, as though Warren and Martha were invisible and they were the only people in the world whose conversation was worth hearing. A young fully-developed woman jogged hurriedly past them.

Martha glared at her and took notice of the skimpy running togs the woman wore that were at least one size too tight and revealed way too much skin. Martha wondered how much attention Warren would give her. She made a bet to herself that he would not linger to look at the young lady, and felt confident that he would prove her right.

Within moments, the young lady was down the street and around the corner. All the time, Warren never really took his eyes off the map that was in front of him. He only glanced upward to make sure he was not in the way of the jogger. Martha mentally gave herself a "high five" and smiled, proud of the fact that she knew her husband so well.

For the rest of the day, she leaned in close to him and regarded the tall buildings and people who walked hurriedly around them. Warren was her monument, and she felt blessed to be with him.

"We better find our hotel," Warren said, interrupting Martha's thoughts.

"Oh, do you think we have time for one more place?" Martha asked, her voice like the soft whine of a child.

She knew she could ask him for anything, and he would do what he could to deliver.

"What do you need, dear?" he asked smiling like a Cheshire cat.

Martha began to talk to him about a mall that one of her friends had told her about in a Virginia suburb close to D.C. The mall, Tysons Corner, was somewhat fancy but Martha had been told it would be worth the trip. Warren smiled and kissed his wife on the cheek.

"Anything for you, dear!" he replied.

While Martha knew she had a certain power over Warren, like the expensive jewelry that she hoped to see at Tysons, she also knew she should only use that power for special occasions.

Proceeding to the car, Warren looked over his shoulder, inhaled deeply, and smiled. He had done what he had wanted to do so many years ago— see the Washington Monument and White House in person. They would use the rest of their time in Washington to get to know the people and the history. They wanted to get a feel for what their tax dollars were being put to use for. However, on their first day in Washington, they had promised each other that they'd do something special.

The drive out of the district was a simple one. A taxi cab driver told them to follow Constitution Avenue west, which eventually ended up on I-66. The interstate would take them directly into Virginia, and then they were instructed to get on 267 West. They couldn't miss the exit signs for Tysons Corner.

Although there was a navigational system in the car, Warren didn't use it. He was not a man who liked too much technology, and he enjoyed doing things the old way. He often laughed when people came to him for help when there was a prolonged power shortage and the equipment they relied on so much was nothing more than a dead box.

Martha opened up a map that had been placed in the glove compartment and began to bark out directions. Like a good soldier, Warren followed. They both noticed several cars that whizzed past them or would blow horns as if they were doing something wrong. Unfazed, Warren drove the speed limit. The good thing about the Cadillac was it kept most of the sound out. Warren had never gotten a ticket and refused to start now.

The light in front of him turned red, and he eased to a stop. With both hands on the wheel, he turned and looked at his wife. She smiled at him, and he smiled back feeling a bit aroused by the way he was taking control.

He whispered, "I love you."

She smiled like a school girl with a crush. He was still the only one who could get her face to turn bright red just with a look. Warren veered onto Route 7. After resting at a signal light, he heard a honk from somewhere and realized the light must be green.

Before he pushed the accelerator to drive, Martha screamed. The only thing she saw was the front of a large black Hummer with chrome bars barreling down on them, head on.

The crash tore away most of the front of the Cadillac and killed Warren and Martha instantly. Several people gasped in horror at the sight and sound of the crash. Although the airbags had deployed, they didn't stop the force of the truck. The passenger side door was open and mangled almost beyond recognition. Warren's bloody body was wedged against the steering wheel. The accident could have been a commercial showing the durability and strength of the Hummer. Its front right fender and hood were damaged but not a mangled mess.

Several drivers brought their vehicles to a screeching halt, and about five men went into heroic mode, helping in whatever way they could, despite the chaos and car parts strewn everywhere. Black smoke began to billow out from the back of what was left of the Cadillac, which made it difficult to see. One man froze in horror as he realized that what he had just kicked out of his way was the head of Martha Morgan. It slammed up against the curb. Women on the street screamed, while two other men moved towards the Hummer to assist the driver so he could get out of his vehicle. The accident was clearly his fault, but safety came first.

The driver's door creaked and a large muscular black man tumbled out screaming. He was struggling at first but within a minute seemed to be able to stand up. The two men tried to help the driver, but he began to swing at them with the sheer might of his body. He knocked one would-be good Samaritan to the ground and tossed the other aside as if he wasn't worth the effort. He looked around like a crazed animal, and then took off running. Although he was easy to spot, no one was brave enough to follow.

Chapter Two

The buzzing sound of an alarm meshed into the dream that Charles Brown was having about his ex-wife, Deloris, yelling at him like always. Her voice turned into one long whining buzz like that of his alarm clock. Half asleep, he laughed, which was something he rarely did nowadays, but the dream's significance was too funny to ignore.

"Come on, Charles. Get up," he told himself as his conscious mind fought to reestablish itself.

Blinking sleepily, he found himself staring into the face of his little Beagle named X. From experience, X knew to let Charles sleep until the alarm went off. He got trained this way after an incident a long time ago when he made the mistake of barking before Charles was ready to get up and ended up with a shoe to the mouth. It's not that Charles had a quick temper, but there were certain moments when he should've let a sleeping giant sleep.

Charles reached out his arm, which felt like a thousand pounds, to turn off the old-fashioned clock's alarm. He liked the old-fashioned items and felt an affinity with time itself. Every night he had to wind the clock, and anyone in the room could hear it ticking as the springs did their job. To Charles, the ticking sound of a clock was a symbol of his very being. Every day he had to wind himself up. He hated his life, or at least what had become of it. During his marriage, his wife had given birth to a son whom they named Malcolm.

By the time Malcolm was five years old, Charles rarely got to see him, because his ex-wife and her new husband moved to another state. But even if they had lived in the same town, the judge would have made sure he only had a limited amount of time with his child. The reason that was given was that his job and his stress would not be a proper environment for raising a young boy. As much as Charles hated to admit it, deep down he knew the assessment was correct.

"What in the world am I doing?" he asked himself while shaking his head.

He didn't have to work today. In fact, he may not have a job at all. He screwed up big time trying to work a lead on a murder case. He took things into his own hands and didn't follow procedure. The woman was already dead, but as he unloaded his gun into the suspect, he knew it would get him into trouble.

Either way, life for him would get a lot worse but he surmised that at least one more bad guy would be off the streets. The male suspect was only twenty-two years old, white, rich, and good looking, a combination that spelled trouble from the onset.

His father owned several shopping malls, homes, and other real estate investments. Charles estimated that the suspect's father was worth close to 20 million dollars. After the autopsy, they said the woman died of an accidental death, but Charles believed otherwise—too many things didn't add up.

"Oh, well," he reassured himself, "at least I'm not spending time in some prison with a bunch of men that I put there. Life could be worse." "What do you do at 4:00 a.m. when you really have nothing to do?" he thought to himself.

It was too early to jog, so he flicked on the TV that stood on a nightstand in his bedroom. He sat there in a daze and flipped through channel after channel. Nothing grabbed his attention. His dog, X, cocked his head to the side and whined. He appeared to look at Charles as though he were a worthless piece of crap.

Charles gave him a swift tap on the head. It wasn't hard but just enough to let him know not to look at him that way again. X growled for a second, lifted his head, and then walked away like a servant that had just been disciplined by his master but was powerless do anything about it. At least he would have his dignity as he seemed to lift his tail showing Charles where to kiss.

Charles made a mental note to himself to be overly affectionate to him later and maybe make up for his wrongdoings. Although he was not a big fan of the mushy stuff, he could turn it on if he had to. Heck, he figured he had even gotten married once because of it.

Flicking through the channels, he moaned at the selections.

"Is this what the weirdos watch late at night, or early in the morning?" he mused out loud.

One minute there was an infomercial for men who wanted to make their private parts bigger, and then a moment later, a large man was selling knives and exclaiming how sharp they were. Next, he happened onto a channel showing an old black and white movie that wasn't good during its time and still wasn't good today.

"I don't really know why I had the cable installed," he sighed.

Bored with watching TV, he decided to turn it off and pick up a book. He rationalized that at least he could read until around 5:30, before going for his jog.

Walking to the manmade office that he had constructed by placing a bunch of books on a table, along with a writing pad, laptop, and trash can off to one side, he took a seat on an old black worn-out chair that he had picked up from a garage sale for a few bucks. Pushing papers aside and thumbing through a few books, he finally decided to read something that would improve his mind rather than entertain him.

Scanning through the titles, he stopped at a book called, The Principles and Power of Vision, by Dr. Myles Munroe.

"I don't remember buying this," he said, but figured he may have to find another job soon and could use some vision.

Opening the book, he read a hand scribbled note on the inner page that said that he was destined for great things. It soon became the second time he laughed today as he thought about his current situation. He felt it would be a pretty good read, even though it was one of those spiritual religious books.

"A man needs a dream; needs to have some sort of vision."

Not bad at all, Charles thought, as he examined a few pages. Some of the words he read came back to him as a book that he must have read a long time ago. The next few hours seemed to fly by quickly considering the amount of pages he had read. He noticed the sun coming up and plotted out his jogging route in his mind. Jogging had always been his form of religion, which revealed that he could push his body and in turn push his mind.

"Who knows, maybe when everything is all said and done, I could become a runner," he sarcastically thought to himself, still lamenting over his situation.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Xavierby Kenneth R. Harvey Copyright © 2011 by Kenneth R. Harvey. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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