side, shimmied down the anchor, swam five hundred yards to the pier, climbed up the pier to hail a cab, and raced for the airport. He walked through airport security with nothing but a wet suit and a wad of dollars.
On December 17, 1993, Chris Hatton had gone AWOL to Texas.
“What are you doing here?” said Lisa, surprised.
“I needed to see you.”
“You’re gonna get in really big trouble.”
“I’m already in really big trouble. So what?”
She looked into his handsome face. She reached over to touch him. “You better go back. I love you to death, and I want you to stay. But you’d be much better off if you’d just hurry up and go back.”
Pace felt Hatton knew something he wasn’t telling her. In Texas he had worn Justin roper cowboy boots and Levi’s jeans, listened to country-western and the mellower music of the 1960s and 1970s. With his move to San Diego, he was listening to Jimi Hendrix, the acid rock of the 1960s and 1970s. He began wearing sandals, shorts, a bit of a Ralph Lauren look. He even learned to dance by going to hip-hop clubs.
Chris Hatton returned to the ship on January 3, 1994, and was placed on restricted status pending “an administrative separation.” Bill Hatton wrote Chris’s commander regarding his “adopted son.”
On January 11, 1994, the commander replied, “. . . as a result of [Chris Hatton’s] multiple violations, apparent attitude of indifference, and lack of remorse, I have lost confidence in his trustworthiness and believe he lacks potential for future service.” He said Chris would be discharged toward the end of January.
“I am truly sorry to inform you of this situation, but I believe your adopted son is getting exactly what he wants—an early separation because he simply wants to take the easy way out.”
Seaman Recruit Christopher Michael Hatton was booted out of the Navy on February 11, 1994. Lisa Pace was about to graduate from high school. It was a huge defeat coupled with a huge victory.
Hatton moved back in with Pace and her mother, Hazel Franzetti. He was unemployed and drove Hazel nuts, as she came home for lunch only to find Hatton still in bed, snoozing. “This is not working,” she told Lisa. “He needs to get out. He’s a man. He needs to get a job.” He’d been home for one week.
Lisa rustled Chris from his sleep. “Are you gonna have a paycheck soon?” she said in her little girl voice.
Chris Hatton stared at the envelope in his hands. The return address read U.S. Navy. Slowly he opened the package and pulled out a roll of microfiche—his discharge “papers.” He and Lisa drove to the local library to read it. The papers pronounced “less than honorable discharge” for “misconduct—commission of serious military or civilian offense.”
As he printed out a copy of the discharge, Hatton talked as though being kicked out of the Navy was no big deal. Then he whited out the “less than” and “misconduct . . .” and altered his discharge papers to read that he had been honorably discharged. He photocopied the altered papers and placed them with his job applications.
Chris Hatton got a job with Royal Vans of Texas, a company that customized vans and was within walking distance of the Pace home. Sometimes Chris walked the half mile to work, sometimes Lisa dropped him off. On February 21, 1994, he bought a $270 bike to ride to work.
He and Lisa began to pay her mother rent. They helped buy the groceries and did chores around the house.
A box arrived addressed to Chris Hatton from the U.S. Navy. Lisa opened the box and unpacked the possessions he’d left behind after his discharge. She sorted through letters from herself, from Holly, from Brian, and letters with an Oregon postmark. Lisa slipped out one of the letters and read.
“Thanks for the flowers,” a girl had written, “you’re so sweet, hope to see you soon.”
Lisa grabbed the phone and punched out the girl’s number. “Did you have sex
On December 17, 1993, Chris Hatton had gone AWOL to Texas.
“What are you doing here?” said Lisa, surprised.
“I needed to see you.”
“You’re gonna get in really big trouble.”
“I’m already in really big trouble. So what?”
She looked into his handsome face. She reached over to touch him. “You better go back. I love you to death, and I want you to stay. But you’d be much better off if you’d just hurry up and go back.”
Pace felt Hatton knew something he wasn’t telling her. In Texas he had worn Justin roper cowboy boots and Levi’s jeans, listened to country-western and the mellower music of the 1960s and 1970s. With his move to San Diego, he was listening to Jimi Hendrix, the acid rock of the 1960s and 1970s. He began wearing sandals, shorts, a bit of a Ralph Lauren look. He even learned to dance by going to hip-hop clubs.
Chris Hatton returned to the ship on January 3, 1994, and was placed on restricted status pending “an administrative separation.” Bill Hatton wrote Chris’s commander regarding his “adopted son.”
On January 11, 1994, the commander replied, “. . . as a result of [Chris Hatton’s] multiple violations, apparent attitude of indifference, and lack of remorse, I have lost confidence in his trustworthiness and believe he lacks potential for future service.” He said Chris would be discharged toward the end of January.
“I am truly sorry to inform you of this situation, but I believe your adopted son is getting exactly what he wants—an early separation because he simply wants to take the easy way out.”
Seaman Recruit Christopher Michael Hatton was booted out of the Navy on February 11, 1994. Lisa Pace was about to graduate from high school. It was a huge defeat coupled with a huge victory.
Hatton moved back in with Pace and her mother, Hazel Franzetti. He was unemployed and drove Hazel nuts, as she came home for lunch only to find Hatton still in bed, snoozing. “This is not working,” she told Lisa. “He needs to get out. He’s a man. He needs to get a job.” He’d been home for one week.
Lisa rustled Chris from his sleep. “Are you gonna have a paycheck soon?” she said in her little girl voice.
Chris Hatton stared at the envelope in his hands. The return address read U.S. Navy. Slowly he opened the package and pulled out a roll of microfiche—his discharge “papers.” He and Lisa drove to the local library to read it. The papers pronounced “less than honorable discharge” for “misconduct—commission of serious military or civilian offense.”
As he printed out a copy of the discharge, Hatton talked as though being kicked out of the Navy was no big deal. Then he whited out the “less than” and “misconduct . . .” and altered his discharge papers to read that he had been honorably discharged. He photocopied the altered papers and placed them with his job applications.
Chris Hatton got a job with Royal Vans of Texas, a company that customized vans and was within walking distance of the Pace home. Sometimes Chris walked the half mile to work, sometimes Lisa dropped him off. On February 21, 1994, he bought a $270 bike to ride to work.
He and Lisa began to pay her mother rent. They helped buy the groceries and did chores around the house.
A box arrived addressed to Chris Hatton from the U.S. Navy. Lisa opened the box and unpacked the possessions he’d left behind after his discharge. She sorted through letters from herself, from Holly, from Brian, and letters with an Oregon postmark. Lisa slipped out one of the letters and read.
“Thanks for the flowers,” a girl had written, “you’re so sweet, hope to see you soon.”
Lisa grabbed the phone and punched out the girl’s number. “Did you have sex
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