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In the aftermath of battle, alliances are made and tested.

Lawyers representing umbrella investors, hedge funds and various venture capitalists crammed into almost every hotel room from San Francisco to Monterey.

It soon became common bar room and curb side chit chat that Julia and her lover, Jeffery Alexander were deeply into "Big Fecal Matter," as my friend Jenkins put it.

Jenks and my daughters, Julie and Helena, attended the trial with me every day and noted each condemning shred of testimony. As one hooded witness had said from the witness stand, "We were playing with stacked deck worth $400 million from which we could skim at least $100 million once the medical center began take shape. You see, the cap price being thrown about in the preliminaries was inflated by about 30 per cent."

For sure, my sweet Julia was playing in deep feces, and by the estimate of witnesses, Julia' vote on the board of directors of the hospital district would be worth $5 million. Jenks, a veteran professor of history, was a wealth of information and a fountain of expertise in explaining to a mediocre lawyer like me how anything in the world could command a price of $300 or $400 million.

Of even more brain busting significance to me was the question of how three community volunteers could so easily tap into the monstrous booty and become essential players in the monumental fraud.

Jenks devoted several hours during the trial to explaining the intricacies of financing such a bloated political monstrosity.

Once I understood the financing, Jenks began to lectures, over gallons of beer and tons of pizza, detailing how the scam worked. Jenks was more than a mentor during this period. I needed a reliable friend with his expertise if for no other reason than my sanity was threatened every day and night.

More than once during the frightening and condemning testimony of Julia's associates, Jenks insisted that sail with him a his girl friend on San Francisco Bay. I was both surprised and puzzled when I first boarded Jink's 50-foot sailing vessel. Luxury beyond my wildest imagination oozed from the ambiance of the spacious salon and the comforts of the six state rooms.

Then Jink's introduced me to expensive and perfectly sculpted friend and bunk mate. Stacy was of a species beyond my pay grade, and I enjoyed listening to her stories gathered over 15 years as a stewardess or flight attendant, depending on her story.

"If I were one to betray my integrity Stacy," I told her late one night during a drinking bout in the boat's salon, "I would punch your number and hope that you would answer the call of a mediocre lawyer who was hard pressed to maintain his sex appeal at 39 not to mention attempt to shed a few years in a brazen deception."

I liked Stacy perhaps too much; for that was the only time in all our years that Jenks had shown me his dark side. We were drunk, and I don't remember Jenks' verbatim admonishment. But I found bruises on my arm where he squeezed while telling me to display less charm in her presence.

My second conclusion when I first saw Jenks' marvel of a floating delusion of grandeur was that I did not know Jenks in any sense. Stacy had informed me with obvious admiration for Jenks that he had paid $220,000 cash for the boat and another $20,000 for added luxuries once they had taken possession.

"I was there, Steve, the night he handed over the brief case full of hundred-dollar bills," she boasted before staggering away to bed.

Though the days during the trial seemed hang agonizingly forever, the mechanics of trial craft functioned perfectly. Jerry told me later that the transcript had been so perfected that he doubted seriously if the appeal specialists would find sufficient basis to file any challenges.

Among the painfully prodding questions was the urge to inflict as much pain as possible on Jeffery Alexander.

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