LOVER COME BACK_An Unbelievable But True Love Story
Scott Hildreth
Lover Come Back
Scott Hildreth
Contents
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Lover Come Back Playlist
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Epilogue
A Reflection From Jessica
Also by Scott Hildreth
Dedication
To the lover that came back.
Thank you for returning, for giving me a chance, and for believing in me as much as I believe in you.
You are my one, my only, and my always.
extends clenched fist
Author’s Note
The events depicted in this book are true. The scenes are described to the best of my ability after recalling facts with my wife, family members, and friends. The narrative is a product of my experiences as well as my thoughts and opinions regarding them. The dialogue has been reproduced with the highest degree of accuracy I am able to scribe. During the drafting of this manuscript, it was reviewed by those in the know. Sentences were added, removed, or modified to maintain this accuracy. I’m certain someone will ask if I don’t bring it up, so I’m bringing it up. Yes, the fist bumps described in this book happened. All of them. In one chapter, the number seventeen will be mentioned. Yes, that happened as well.
This book may read as fiction, but rest assured, it is not.
I hope you’re able to find a way to enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed living it.
Scott
Acknowledgments
To all the people who etched a memory in the sidewalk of my life, thank you. You made this writing possible. To Carol Hall and Jennifer Campbell, you are more than Beta readers and support to my writing, you are true friends. To the many readers who wait in line at the book signings to simply get a photo or have a book signed, thank you. Your dedication and support do not go unnoticed. Without you, I wouldn’t exist. To my followers, friends, and foes on social media, thank you. The playful banter we’re able to share between (and during) writing keeps me sane and keeps life interesting. To my family, thank you for putting up with me during the living of this tale. To my wife, thank you for the unconditional love and support. To my six children, thank you for making my life worth living. Whether you realize it or not, I love you with all I am able to give. Lastly, to the late judge Wesley Brown, thank you for believing me, and believing in me.
Lover Come Back Playlist
Listen to the playlist HERE
Lover Come Back - City and Colour
Hold it Kid - The Weeks
Cry to Me - Marc Broussard
New Slang - The Shins
Broadripple is Burning - Margot & the Nuclear So & So’s
She Loves You - The Gaslight Anthem
Jolene - Ray LaMontange
First Day of My Life - Bright Eyes
Tennessee Whiskey - Chris Stapleton
Half Crazy - The Barr Brothers
Sinister Kid - The Black Keys
Midnight Rider - The Allman Brothers
Someday Baby - R.L. Burnside
Sideways - Citizen Cope
Down in the Valley -Otis Redding
Hold On - Alabama Shakes
Lonely Boy - The Black Keys
Breakdown More - Eric Hutchinson
Copyright
LOVER COME BACK 1st Edition Copyright © 2018 by Scott Hildreth
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected].
Thank you for your support of the author’s rights
Cover design by Jessica www.jessicahildrethdesigns.com
Beta readers: Carol Hall and Jennifer Campbell
Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth
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Follow me on Twitter at: @ScottDHildreth
Prologue
I dreamed of being a surfer. Of spending every daylight hour becoming one with the ocean. In the evenings, I would make custom surfboards in the back of a beachfront shop. I’d sell the hand-crafted boards in the hope of sharing my love with anyone courageous enough to attempt to tame the waves at San Diego’s infamous Black’s Beach.
My dreams, however, were squashed by the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club.
Despite my fascination with the Pacific Ocean – and my hope of becoming a surfer – my parents were moving us from San Diego to the Midwest. The decision, according to them, was in our family’s best interest. The biker gangs infiltrating Southern California were bringing drugs into the communities. With the drugs came violence.
Although my sister, brother, and I begged to stay, our pleas fell on deaf ears. My father wanted better for us than he felt Southern California was able to offer. According to him, we were moving away from the Hells Angels, Vagos, Mongols, Chosen Few, Diablos, and all the criminal activity that flourished in the wake of their obnoxiously loud motorcycles.
“It’s about time to go,” my mother said. “Get your things picked up.”
It was to be our last trip to the beach before we left on our voyage to El Dorado, Kansas. The small Midwestern town of five thousand residents was my father’s birthplace. When he was eighteen years old, he married my mother, moved to Southern California, and then joined the US Marine Corps.
Immediately thereafter, his mother and father moved to the Golden State. My mother’s parents and adult siblings followed. Our family was close-knit, and I liked that about us. We ate dinner with my grandparents on Sundays, took vacations as a group, and attended family reunions every summer – often traveling across the United States
to do so.
We may have been leaving San Diego – and the beach – but we weren’t leaving alone. The entire family – grandparents included – were coming with us. It didn’t make the move any more palatable, though. There was nothing anyone could do or say to convince me that moving away from something as fascinating and rewarding as the ocean was a good decision.
The three of us picked up our beach toys and reluctantly followed my mother. With each step, I pressed my toes firmly into the wet sand, leaving an impression that I hoped would last a lifetime.
I knew eventually the tide would simply wash my footprints away, erasing proof of my existence entirely. If I didn’t see it, however, I felt that I could convince myself it never happened. I would remain one with the beach, linked through my footprints, until the day I returned.
One day, without exception, I would do just that.
Return.
With hesitant steps, I walked up the beach, savoring each grain of sand as it pushed its way between my toes.
And, I never looked back.
Chapter One
I was forty-two years old, and lived in Wichita, Kansas. I had never returned to the beach. I wondered if my life might have taken a different turn had I chosen to do so.
I sat at my attorney’s side. We were waiting anxiously on a frail man who possessed a sharp wit, tremendous attention to detail, and a vast understanding of federal law. He could send me to prison for as much as twenty years, or he could send me for as little as five, but he had to send me. Federal law prohibited him from sentencing me to anything lesser.
At the beginning of my legal case, his age caused me concern. President John F. Kennedy appointed him to his status of Senior Federal Judge. He must have been destined to practice law, because he somehow managed to grace the earth with his presence for ninety-eight years, sixty-five of which had been spent as a federal judge.
Having presided over countless federal criminal trials, I suspected he’d seen all there was to see. Yet. During my trial, he took pause. In the end, I was pleased to have him as my judge. He proved to be open-minded and truly impartial.
As we sat in wait, I hoped he maintained these qualities during my sentencing.
My legal case had dragged out in court for four years. It cost me a quarter of a million dollars, several friendships, a marriage, and all but deteriorated my relationships with my three children.
“Will the defendant please rise,” the bailiff bellowed.
His voice echoed off the ornate wooden walls of the federal courthouse. Upon realizing my freedom could be snatched from me in a matter of minutes, my right knee began to bounce.
“Stand proud,” my attorney whispered. “Remain stoic. Win or lose, don’t give these sons-of-bitches the satisfaction of seeing any emotion.”
“Yes, Sir,” I responded.
We stood in unison.
I was a firearms collector. It wasn’t my profession. It was simply a hobby. I used it to occupy my idle time. A crutch, if you will, to help me along my path to clean living. I’d quit drinking twenty years prior. I then applied my addictive behaviors to collecting firearms. Nonetheless, I set up a business, paid my taxes, and made certain every transaction was in accordance with the law. The ATF, however, had testimony obtained from an informant that told them otherwise.
According to him, I had two million dollars in cash, and a cache of machine guns in my safe. Nothing, however, could be further from the truth.
In hope of finding the cash and machine guns, an undercover ATF agent posed as a biker and befriended me. I confided in him. I invited him into my home. We shared stories. He met my wife and children. All the while, unbeknownst to me, he was investigating me.
During the course of that three-year investigation, he had found no wrongdoing on my part. The upper echelon of the ATF was still attached to the belief that I was a criminal. They brought in another undercover agent. This time, they had a woman pose as the widow of a law enforcement officer.
She called me, asking that I give a bid on her deceased husband’s firearm collection. She explained that there were complications obtaining the funds from his retirement. She needed to sell the guns to purchase a headstone for his funeral. After visiting pawn shops and having multiple wannabe collectors offer her pennies on the dollar, I was her only hope.
In a last-ditch-effort to obtain a search warrant for my home, the ATF – through her – offered to sell me a collection of firearms that included a machine gun. I couldn’t own the weapon, and I knew it. I explained the federal law governing the transportation of the weapon at length while being filmed by a hidden ATF surveillance camera.
I could, however, act as an agent for a machine gun dealer who had been my partner at several gun shows in the Midwest. A week later, after obtaining the prerequisite paperwork to transfer the weapon, I agreed to pick them up.
Upon placing the weapons in the back of my SUV, a helicopter lowered itself onto the street just ahead of me. Federal agents armed with machine guns leaped from the earth’s every orifice.
Mimicking the scenes from a Hollywood action movie, I was zip-tied, tossed into the back of a black SUV, and rushed through the city in a convoy of similar black SUVs. Upon reaching the ATF’s headquarters, I was handcuffed to a stainless-steel table.
As I watched the agents from various federal entities remove their bullet-proof vests and secure their weapons, I noticed my fellow biker walk past. He wasn’t wearing boots, jeans, and a wife-beater. He was wearing SWAT-type gear, a badge, and had a pistol affixed to his tactical belt.
While I was bound to the cold piece of steel, they obtained a search warrant. They searched my home. Upon finding nothing, they got another warrant to search my safe deposit box. After finding nothing once again, they obtained a warrant for my bank records. Then, they searched my retirement account, my investment accounts, and my business records.
Nothing, nothing, and more nothing.
I had no illegal weapons. There were no piles of cash. In fact, their searches, in their entirety, revealed no wrong doing whatsoever. The only crime that had been committed was the one they’d orchestrated.
Frustrated, they released me without any criminal charges. I was quite certain they felt foolish. I surely would have if I’d spent three years attempting to arrest a machine gun kingpin, only to find out that he was a law-abiding citizen.
A year later they charged me with possessing the machine gun. I explained to my attorney about the machine gun dealer, the licensing he possessed, and of the paperwork he’d provided. We both agreed the case would never make it to trial.
The government then offered me a sentence of probation if I plead guilty to the crime. Through my attorney, I declined, choosing to go to trial. No jury in their right mind would convict me of a crime I had no intention of committing.
That was my belief, at least.
The day before the trial was scheduled to begin, they dropped the charges entirely.
The next day, they indicted me on two counts of machine gun possession. According to their Washington D.C. specialist, the firearms they’d sold me included two machine guns. I, according to him, had improperly identified one of them.
How convenient, I thought.
Facing two charges, I was once again offered probation. You might beat one charge, but you’ll never beat them both, they taunted. Remain a free man, simply plead guilty.
I declined their offer, opting to take both charges to trial.
The trial was plagued with lost audio recordings, video recordings without audio reproduction, and witnesses – including federal agents – who were willing to perjure themselves on the witness stand.
Halfway through the first day of trial, the judge stopped the proceedings. He advised the jury that there was evidence to suggest that I was entrapped to commit the crime. He asked that they consider that the government may have coerced me to possess the machine gun. He further advised them to find innocence or guilt only after giving the entrapm
ent doctrine consideration.
On the witness stand, I lost my composure. I screamed, I cussed, and I demanded the truth be told. Despite the judge’s orders not to, I challenged the prosecuting attorney to produce the lost recordings.
During breaks from testimony, US Marshalls struggled to keep my attorney and I separated from the ATF agents. Arguments broke out. People pushed each other. Verbal mud was slung through clenched teeth from both sides.
After all the testimony, my attorney and I stood on the steps of the courthouse and smoked a cigarette. I’d given up drinking alcohol and cigarettes twenty years prior, but the stress of the trial had me smoking again. At least they didn’t drive me to drinking, I told myself.
The US Attorney walked past, giving his regards as he reached the steps.
“Looks like you’ve got this one in the bag, Mc Master,” he said.
My attorney gave a sharp nod. “The opera’s not over until the fat lady sings.”
Neither of us knew it, but she was about to sing. In the form of yet another lying witness.
When we returned to the courtroom, the US Attorney’s office called a witness that wasn’t on the witness list. My former partner. The machine gun dealer.
