Classic Passion: Origin
Copyright© 2026 by RedRambler
Interlude Two
June 22, 1962 St. Augustine’s Academy Board
Coach William O’Shanahan could already feel his shirt melting to his back as he straightens his tie in the late morning Florida heat as he climbed the marble steps of the St. Augustine’s Board of Directors building in Tallahassee. The Knights of Columbus pin on his lapel caught the sunlight, a small but significant symbol of the power he represented today.
Inside the air-conditioned foyer, four men in dark suits rose to greet him. These were the board members the Knights had quietly supported and positioned over the past three years.
“Coach O’Shanahan,” said James Moretti, extending his hand. “The journey from Rochester must have been long.”
“Not as long as the journey these boys have been on,” O’Shanahan replied, his voice carrying the weight of his military background.
They moved to a small conference room where maps of the St. Augustine’s campus and financial reports covered a table.
“We’ve secured six votes,” Moretti explained, pointing to names on a document. “With yours as proxy for Cardinal Donovan, that makes seven. Technically a majority.”
“Technically,” repeated Father Thomas Barkley, another Knight-supported board member. “But we’ve discovered complications.”
O’Shanahan’s expression remained unchanged. “Explain.”
“The financial structure is ... intricate,” said Edward Kowalski, sliding forward a folder. “There are shell corporations within shell corporations. The school appears to be owned by the diocese on paper, but the actual controlling interests are buried under layers of corporate entities.”
“Senator Carmichael’s name appears repeatedly,” added the fourth man, Dr. Richard Wilson. “Not directly, but his associates control most of the hidden ownership.”
O’Shanahan nodded slowly. He’d suspected political involvement. “The senator chairs the Appropriations Committee. Military spending.”
“And has three defense contractors in his district,” Father Barkley confirmed. “We believe St. Augustine’s isn’t just a reform school, it’s a recruiting pipeline for certain ... specialized military roles.”
The clock ticked toward their scheduled full board meeting at eleven. O’Shanahan studied the documents, his tactical mind assessing the situation.
“Then we proceed as planned,” he said finally.
Twenty minutes later, they entered the main boardroom where nine other men waited, their expressions ranging from mild curiosity to open hostility.
“Gentlemen,” began the chairman, Reginald Whitmore, a gray-haired man with cold eyes. “I understand you’ve called this emergency session to discuss ... reforms.”
“More than discuss,” Moretti replied. “We have the votes to implement them.”
Senator Carmichael’s representative, a thin man named Lambert, laughed softly. “I believe you’ll find your legal position is somewhat ... tenuous.”
For the next thirty minutes, lawyers debated ownership structures and bylaws while O’Shanahan remained silent, observing. When Lambert produced documents showing that key property assets were actually owned by separate entities beyond board control, O’Shanahan recognized the trap they’d walked into.
“Enough,” O’Shanahan said finally, reaching into his briefcase.
The room fell silent as he withdrew two documents, one bearing a red wax seal.
“A Papal edict,” O’Shanahan announced, placing it on the table. “Specifically addressing Catholic military academies that have strayed from their founding principles.”
Lambert’s face paled.
“Signed by His Holiness personally, authorizing immediate reform or excommunication of those who obstruct it.” O’Shanahan hadn’t wanted to use this nuclear option, but Thomas Hardy’s situation had accelerated their timeline.
“The Holy Father has been disturbed by reports from multiple institutions, including St. Augustine’s. This isn’t about ownership or legal structures. It’s about the soul of Catholic education.”
The chairman cleared his throat. “This is most irregular...”
“So is the hospitalization rate of your students,” O’Shanahan countered. “So is the fact that not one of you has visited the campus in the past year.”
He spread photographs across the table – boys with bruises, welts, and broken limbs.
“The Knights of Columbus stand ready to assist with the transition,” O’Shanahan said quietly. “Or we can have Cardinal Spellman address the matter publicly next Sunday.”
The silence that followed told him everything he needed to know. They had won this battle, but the war for St. Augustine’s soul was just beginning.
June 23,1962 - Lake Sebring PD
Chief Bill Simmons checked his watch as he waited on the steps of the Lake Sebring Police Department. When the black Chevrolet pulled into the parking lot, he straightened his posture, old military habits dying hard.
Coach William O’Shanahan emerged from the vehicle with the deliberate movements of a man who’d seen combat. Though in his sixties, he carried himself with the discipline of his Force Recon days, his weathered face betraying little emotion as he approached.
“Chief Simmons,” O’Shanahan extended his hand. “Appreciate you meeting on a Sunday.”
“Call me Bill,” Simmons replied, shaking the coach’s hand firmly. “Coffee’s fresh inside.”
The station stood empty except for the weekend dispatcher. Simmons led O’Shanahan to his office and closed the door behind them. The coach settled into a chair while Simmons poured two cups from the percolator on his credenza.
“Thomas left this morning for St. Augustine’s,” Simmons said, passing a mug to O’Shanahan. “I couldn’t stop it. His grandmother had all the paperwork.”
O’Shanahan nodded grimly. “I feared as much. The board meeting bought us some leverage but change moves slowly through bureaucracy. Too slow for Thomas.”
“Tell me about the boy,” Simmons said, leaning back in his chair. “Beyond what we discussed on the phone.”
O’Shanahans eyes focused on something distant. “Thomas Hardy is a study in contradictions. Brilliant but careful not to show it. Physically capable beyond most boys his age, yet he hides his abilities until absolutely necessary.”
“Survival instinct,” Simmons observed.
“Precisely.” O’Shanahan sipped his coffee. “At the CYO, we noticed it immediately. He’d intentionally place middle of his class academically. In swimming, he’d finish strong but rarely first unless pushed. In martial arts, he’d hold back until a stronger opponent required his full ability.”
“Avoiding his grandmother’s attention,” Simmons said.
“And her wrath,” O’Shanahan confirmed. “But what makes Thomas exceptional isn’t his abilities, it’s his capacity for loyalty. The boy gives everything to those he values. Had a younger boy being bullied at the CYO once. Thomas quietly took the situation in hand. Never mentioned it, never sought credit.”
Simmons nodded. “I’ve seen glimpses of that. The way he talks about this girl Birdie.”
“Ah, Birdie Horowitz,” O’Shanahan smiled. “Her influence on him was profound. Probably saved him. Thomas has an unusual ability to absorb positive influences while deflecting negative ones.”
Simmons frowned. “St. Augustine’s specializes in breaking that kind of resilience.”
“Indeed.” O’Shanahans expression darkened. “That’s why we must move quickly. Thomas has the potential for extraordinary achievements if he survives this crucible. Military leadership, law enforcement, even politics if he wanted, though I doubt he’d have the stomach for it. His moral compass is too firmly set.”
“How long can he last there?” Simmons asked.
“Longer than most. His training will help him endure the physical aspects. Mentally...” O’Shanahan shook his head. “That place excels at breaking spirits. They’ll identify his attachments and target them. His memories of Birdie, his sense of self-worth.” The coach laughed. “However if they use the young lady to attack, Tom will most likely tear the school down.”
Simmons set down his coffee cup. “Then we need to move faster than bureaucracy allows.”
“My thoughts exactly,” O’Shanahan replied, his eyes sharpening with purpose. “The Knights’ legal team is preparing emergency custody documents. What we need is evidence of immediate danger, something recent that would compel a judge to act.”
“Like what happened with the heat stroke,” Simmons said.
“Precisely. But more immediate.” O’Shanahan leaned forward. “I have contacts inside St. Augustine’s. Former students who now work there, watching, documenting.”
“That’s risky for them.”
“Not as risky as doing nothing.” O’Shanahans voice carried the quiet authority of a man accustomed to making life-or-death decisions. “Thomas Hardy has a future worth fighting for, Chief. I intend to ensure he lives to see it.”
O’Shanahans weathered hands wrapped around his coffee mug as he leaned forward. “Edna Jones is more than just a difficult grandmother. She’s been married five times.”
“Five?” Simmons raised an eyebrow.
“Three of those husbands died under what I’d call questionable circumstances.” The Coaches voice remained steady, matter of fact. “First was a fall down basement stairs. Second had a fatal allergic reaction to shellfish, despite having no previous allergies. The third suffered carbon monoxide poisoning from a faulty furnace.”
Simmons frowned. “But no charges?”
“Not even investigations worth mentioning. Nothing stuck, not even circumstantial evidence. She’s careful, Chief. Very careful.” O’Shanahan set his cup down. “What’s more concerning are her connections.”
“To these ‘powerful friends’ she keeps mentioning?”
O’Shanahan nodded. “She’s deeply involved with a group called the Unity Covenant. They present themselves as an interfaith organization, but they’re actually a front for something more insidious. They pull in members from various denominations, particularly those aligned with the new Radical Right conservative movement.”
“Religious extremists?” Simmons asked.
“Political extremists hiding behind religious rhetoric,” O’Shanahan corrected. “And I should note, not a single Jewish member has been identified in their ranks. Not one.”
Simmons straightened. “Thomas mentioned his grandmother was vehemently anti-Jewish. Said something about how she probably didn’t like Catholics much either.”
“That tracks with what we’ve observed,” O’Shanahan confirmed. “The Unity Covenant preaches what they call ‘traditional Christian values,’ but their literature is riddled with coded language targeting Jewish communities, Catholics, and anyone they consider outside their particular interpretation of scripture.”
“You’ve been monitoring them?”
“The Knights have. We keep tabs on organizations that masquerade as religious while promoting hatred.” O’Shanahans expression hardened. “Edna’s connections through this group extend into political circles in New York, Florida, and Washington.”
“That explains her confidence,” Simmons said.
“Yes, but there’s good news. Those connections appear to be fraying around the edges.” O’Shanahan leaned back in his chair. “Her last husband was highly placed in New York politics, but since his death, she’s been gradually losing influence. Several Unity Covenant leaders have quietly distanced themselves from her.”
“Why?”
“She’s becoming a liability. Too vocal, too extreme even for them.” O’Shanahans mouth formed a grim line. “The movement is trying to maintain respectability while advancing their agenda. Edna lacks subtlety.”
Simmons considered this information. “How does Thomas fit into all this? Why is she so determined to break him?”
“Thomas represents everything she resents. His father rejected her values. His friendship with Birdie, a Jewish girl, infuriates her. And despite her best efforts, he maintains his own moral compass.” O’Shanahan shook his head. “In her twisted worldview, his resistance is a personal affront.”
“And St. Augustine’s?”
“Perfect solution from her perspective. It’s run by people who share her ideology but hide behind Catholic trappings. They’ll attempt to remake Thomas in their image, by force if necessary.”
Simmons stood and walked to the window, watching the sparce Sunday morning traffic on Main Street. “You mentioned evidence we could use for emergency custody. What exactly do you have?”
“Financial records showing Edna’s misappropriation of Thomas’s inheritance from his mother’s family. Documentation of medical neglect. Witness statements from Rochester regarding physical abuse.” O’Shanahan paused. “And something else, Thomas isn’t actually her grandson by blood or legal adoption.”
Simmons turned sharply. “What?”
“The paperwork was falsified. I’ve spent years piecing this together.” O’Shanahans eyes held a steely determination. “Thomas Hardy doesn’t belong to Edna Jones. He never did.”
“That changes everything,” Simmons said quietly. “With the right judge...”
“Exactly.” O’Shanahan stood. “But we need to move quickly. St. Augustine’s breaks boys within weeks. Thomas is stronger than most, but everyone has a breaking point.”
June 27, 1962 - Chief Simmon’s home
The morning sun was shining bright on Lake Sebring’s quiet streets, though there was a stiff breeze as Coach O’Shanahan walked toward his rental car. He’d spent the last several nights at Chief Simmons’ home, turning the dining room table into a war room of legal documents, photographs, and testimonies. Their case against Edna Jones was gaining strength by the hour.
“You’re wasting your time, William O’Shanahan!”
The shrill voice cut through the peaceful morning. O’Shanahan turned to see Edna Jones marching down her front walkway, her floral housecoat billowing around her bony frame. Her face was contorted with righteous indignation, eyes narrowed to slits beneath her tightly permed hair.
“Good morning, Mrs. Jones,” O’Shanahan replied evenly, his Irish lilt deliberately pronounced. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”
“Don’t you ‘good morning’ me, you Catholic meddler.” She jabbed a finger in his direction. “I know exactly what you’re doing, sneaking around town, filling people’s heads with lies about me.”
O’Shanahan leaned against his car, arms crossed, the picture of calm. “No lies necessary when the truth is damning enough, Mrs. Jones.”
Chief Simmons emerged from his house across the street, drawn by the commotion. He crossed the road with measured steps, his off-duty clothes doing nothing to diminish his authoritative presence.
“Everything alright here, Coach?” he asked, though his eyes never left Edna.
“Perfectly fine, Chief.” O’Shanahan smiled. “Mrs. Jones was just expressing her opinions on my visit to your fair town.”
Edna’s face flushed crimson. “You’re too late. Both of you. Thomas is where he belongs now, learning discipline and respect. St. Augustine’s will straighten out all that nonsense you filled his head with.”
“Nonsense like compassion? Critical thinking? Self-respect?” O’Shanahan raised an eyebrow.
“They’ll teach him to be a man,” she spat. “Not some soft-hearted, Jew-loving weakling.”
Chief Simmons stepped forward. “Mrs. Jones, I’d advise you to moderate your language. This is a public street.”
“Or what? You’ll arrest me for speaking the truth?” She laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “My friends in Tallahassee would have your badge before sundown.”
“Those friends might be harder to reach than you imagine,” O’Shanahan commented lightly. “Senator Carmichael seems particularly busy these days. Something about campaign finance irregularities.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Edna’s face before her mask of contempt returned. “You know nothing.”
“I know St. Augustine’s hasn’t filed proper educational certification in three years,” O’Shanahan said pleasantly. “I know their medical facility lacks proper licensing. I know they’ve had seventeen unreported injuries requiring hospital care in the past eight months.”
“Lies,” she hissed, but her voice lacked conviction.
“I’ve got the hospital records, Mrs. Jones.” Chief Simmons’ voice remained professional but cold. “Broken arms. Concussions. Internal bleeding. All listed as ‘training accidents’ but bearing the hallmarks of systematic abuse.”
“Boys need discipline,” she insisted. “Thomas most of all.”
“Is that what happened to your stepson, Mrs. Jones?” O’Shanahan’s voice dropped to a dangerous softness. “Did Arthur need ‘discipline’ too? Before his unfortunate accident?”
Edna’s face went white. “How dare you...”
“Or was it just the insurance money you were after?” O’Shanahan continued, his eyes never leaving hers. “Like with husbands two, three, and four?”
“You have no proof of anything,” she snarled, but her hands trembled.
“The New York authorities might disagree,” Chief Simmons said. “They’ve reopened several investigations at my request. It’s amazing what fresh eyes can find in old case files.”
O’Shanahan stepped closer, his voice dropping so only she could hear. “Thomas isn’t your grandson, Edna. He never was. The paperwork you filed was fraudulent, and we both know it.”
“You can’t prove that either,” she whispered, but fear flickered in her eyes.
“The birth certificate you presented in Rochester lists a hospital that didn’t exist in 1948,” O’Shanahan smiled thinly. “Sloppy work, Edna. Very sloppy.”
Chief Simmons stepped forward. “We’ll have Thomas out of that school by week’s end, Mrs. Jones. And you’ll be facing questions about identity fraud, custodial interference, and child endangerment. At minimum.”
“You think you’ve won?” Edna’s voice rose hysterically. “You have no idea what they’re doing to him right now. Breaking him down. Rebuilding him. By the time your precious paperwork goes through, he won’t be the boy you remember.”
O’Shanahan’s face darkened. “What exactly does that mean, Mrs. Jones?”
“They have special methods for stubborn cases,” she said with malicious satisfaction. “Lieutenant Shanks promised me personally. Thomas will learn his place or suffer the consequences.”
“If any permanent harm comes to that boy...” Chief Simmons began.
“You’ll what?” she sneered. “It’s all perfectly legal. I signed the permission forms myself.”
O’Shanahan and Simmons exchanged glances. The coach’s sources had warned him about Shanks, a brutal disciplinarian even by St. Augustine’s standards.
“I need to make some calls,” O’Shanahan said quietly to Simmons. “We may need to move faster than planned.”
“Do whatever you need to do,” Simmons replied. “I’ll handle things here.”
Edna watched their exchange with narrowed eyes. “Running away, O’Shanahan? Realized you’re beaten?”
O’Shanahan turned to her with a smile that never reached his eyes. “Mrs. Jones, in my years coaching boys, I’ve learned something important: the most dangerous moment isn’t when they’re down. It’s when they’ve been pushed too far and have nothing left to lose.”
“Is that a threat?” she demanded.
“No, ma’am. Just an observation about human nature.” He opened his car door. “Some people break under pressure. Others forge themselves into something stronger. Thomas is the latter type. Always has been.”
“We’ll see about that,” she muttered.
“Yes,” O’Shanahan agreed, his voice carrying an edge of steel as he slid into the driver’s seat. “We certainly will.”
As O’Shanahan drove away, his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. His sources within St. Augustine’s hadn’t reported since Tuesday. Now, with Edna’s taunting words echoing in his mind, a cold dread settled in his stomach. Thomas Hardy was strong, but every man had limits.
The coach made a sharp turn toward the nearest payphone. Time was running out.
Edna Jones & the Front Gate
Chief Simmons watched O’Shanahans taillights disappear around the corner before turning back to Edna Jones. Her smug expression sent a wave of disgust through him.
“Mrs. Jones, I strongly suggest you return home and consult with an attorney. You’re going to need one.”
“Threats from an officer of the law?” She glared at him. “I’ll have your badge.”
“Not a threat. Professional advice.” Simmons kept his voice measured despite the anger churning in his gut. “My report on Thomas’s heat stroke incident is already filed. Child Protective Services has been notified.”
“You have no right to interfere with how I raise...”
“He’s not yours to raise.” Simmons cut her off. “And we both know it.”
He turned and walked up his driveway, leaving her sputtering on the sidewalk. Inside, Simmons finished buttoning his uniform shirt and pinned his badge in place. He checked his watch, still forty minutes before his shift officially began. Just enough time to review the paperwork O’Shanahan had brought before heading to the station.
The telephone rang as he was adjusting his tie.
“Chief Simmons.”
“Chief, it’s Mary down at dispatch.” Her voice carried the unmistakable urgency of serious business. “You need to get down here right away.”
“What’s happened?”
“Got a call from St. Augustine’s. Caller wouldn’t leave his name, but said he’d phone back in fifteen minutes. Said it was about Thomas Hardy and that you’d want to take it personally.”
Simmons’s stomach tightened. “I’m on my way.”
He grabbed his hat and service revolver, then headed for his cruiser. The drive to the station took less than five minutes, though each second felt stretched to breaking.
Mary looked up as he burst through the door. “Nothing yet, Chief.”
Simmons poured himself a cup of coffee, and headed to his office, his mind racing through scenarios, none of them good. He’d known that school was bad news from the day he’d seen the medical reports O’Shanahan had shown him.
The telephone rang at exactly 9:23 AM. Mary buzzed him. “It’s your call, Chief.”
Picking up the receiver. “This is Chief Simmons.”
“Sergeant Major Milton, St. Augustine’s.” The voice was clipped, professional, with the unmistakable cadence of career military. “Speaking on an unsecured line, so I’ll be brief.”
“Go ahead, Sergeant.”
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