Hangman's Game (6 page)

“Your mom did it,” Freddie snaps at her. “They're looking at her pimp as an accomplice.”

Who wouldn't want this man as their legal counsel?

We squeeze through to Freddie's car, shutters clicking all the while. I feel a momentary sense of relief when the doors shut, but then I see the cameramen fan out in front of us, forming a barrier as they aim their lenses through the windshield.

“C'mon!” Freddie screams, honking the horn before we have even moved. Freddie is generally an easygoing guy, but he is prone to bursts of temper when he doesn't get his way—simply because, unlike most people, he has little practice at it. He can be particularly prone to road rage, and I have seen him lose it in a ten-second traffic jam.

He begins inching the car forward, his knuckles whitening as his grip on the wheel tightens, but the camera guys remain rooted to the ground. Samuel's killing is going to be a huge story. They must come home with footage.

“Easy, Freddie,” I say. “It's been a rough night already.”

He slaps the leather steering wheel in disgust. “Look at them! They're just standing there!”

“Easy, pal…”

Then, as if by magic, the flock disperses on its own. Or rather, it flies off and reconstitutes by the station house door.

And I see what has caused the cameramen to reorder their priorities. The star attraction has arrived.

Jai Carson, wearing the same blue tracksuit he had on at Stark's, is being escorted into the station by four uniformed officers. Bingo. This is the shot the camera guys needed, the one that will lead the morning newscast, and
SportsCenter,
and maybe even CNN. Hell, one day they might be able to license this footage to documentary filmmakers.

Freddie and I have been cleared to go.

 

CHAPTER 4

F
REDDIE DROPS ME
off at the hospital, where they tell me that Cecil is out of surgery and in serious but stable condition; I can't see him, but he is now sedated and asleep. Which sounds like a great way to be; I have been up for nearly twenty-four hours. I text Cecil's wife, Vicki, but I receive no response. I hope she is in transit from Ohio.

Feeling like last night has finally stopped happening, I take a taxi home.

I arrive at the Jefferson at 6:50 in the morning. I plop on my sofa—the Jefferson's sofa, technically, since all the furniture has come with the place. I look at my texts. No answer yet from Vicki. Nothing from my mother, still. She must be squirreled away with Aaron at his cabin. Perhaps they are awake but still in bed, listening to the birds chirp. I have only met Aaron maybe a dozen times, at breakfasts or lunches, so I can't claim to be an expert on the man. But what little I know about his biography explains why he clings to his cabin and its remove from civilization. Aaron was once a police officer but he quit the force after suffering some kind of breakdown. Now he teaches criminal justice courses. My dad, when he was alive, liked to trumpet Aaron's career change as proof of his essential weakness. “Those who can't do, teach,” said my dad, who coached high school football and taught gym during the school day.

I scroll back through my texts and come to an unread series of messages from Jessica, sent just after the shooting. She was describing for me, in barely veiled innuendo, the progress of her masturbation, until at long last she noticed I wasn't responding. After I failed to acknowledge her
Where are you?
she sent a final note that read,
I'll assume you're in post-ejaculatory slumber. 'Night
. She has no idea about the shooting. Typical of Jessica—she is quick to notice any ripple in her pond, but she can be oblivious to the broader tides.

The morning is bringing a fresh rush of text messages. Among the most recent is one from the Sentinels coach, Jerry Tanner. It is rare that he communicates with me directly; usually if I receive a text from him it is part of a blast to all the players about a change in practice schedule, or some hoary coaching aphorism he feels impelled to share.

Here's what my head coach has to say to me on this morning of tragedy:

If you are going to be at the facility today, stop in and see me. I'll be here all day.

I would have preferred inspirational blather. Or at least semantic honesty.
If you are going to be at the facility today.
I know an order when I see it.

*   *   *

I nap for three hours, on purpose. I've read that the most effective sleep comes in three-hour blocks because that interval matches a cycle of our brain rhythms. I shower, consider my breakfast options, and realize that I am in no mood to eat anything, and drive to the Sentinels' practice facility, telling myself it will be good to see people. I arrive a little after 11:00
A.M.
The facility is near the stadium, just a couple of minutes down the street from it. The stadium looms tall as I approach from the highway; it is unsettling to return to this area so soon. As I pass I see two police cars still at the crime scene. But I cruise on, following the route to the Sentinels facility no differently than I have a hundred times before. Consider it a testament to the power of muscle memory.

The main doorway of our training complex is twenty feet high and shaped like a football. The players do not walk through the football; that honor goes to visitors and business employees. Players park in a private, fenced-off lot to the side and enter through a nondescript metal door we open with a key card. TV crews are set up along the border of the player's lot, and my arrival inspires a stirring of activity.
Man walks from car to building: film to play every ten minutes, until something better comes along.

Before going up to see Tanner, I first visit Eleanor Cordero, the team's assistant public relations director. Tanner has apparently spread word that I will be coming in; Eleanor sent me a message asking that I stop by her office as soon as possible.

It is an easy choice as to which person to visit first. Cordero is a sprightly woman in her mid-twenties, with wide, gentle eyes and wavy brown hair that flies back as if she has just had a door opened in her face. She giggles easily and carries herself with an air of coy haplessness that allows her skill and efficiency to sneak up on people. I know Cordero just a little bit; she often accompanies groups of players on visits to children's wards and such places that make for positive news stories. I volunteer for these trips, even though they can be deflating for me. One of the great joys of being a football player is seeing bedridden children light up simply because we walk into the room. But then when we fan out to talk with the children one-on-one, I often see my specific kid sag at the shoulders when he learns he is stuck with the punter, and he scans the room looking for players he has actually heard of. This is when Eleanor swoops to the rescue. “Nick is one of the best punters in the game,” she will say. “He's the reason the other team has to go so far to score. We'd be in big trouble without him.” A few admiring words from her is usually enough to get the kid excited again.

This morning Cordero wears a crisp black business suit and has a tall cup of Wawa coffee on her desk. Her workspace is decorated with framed pictures of her curly-haired daughter, Ana, who Eleanor must have had when she was in college. She also has, hanging on the wall behind her, a crucifix that depicts Jesus as contorted and in violent pain; it is as if, when crucifix shopping, she asked the clerk for the one that showed Jesus in the greatest agony. Cordero is such a chipper and efficient young woman that the extreme and tortured icon leaves me wondering what lurks behind her ever-present smile. I had always liked her, but I also sensed that hers was not a territory to be entered lightly. She did not do much just for the fun of it.

“I am so amazed that you are even here,” Cordero says as I take a seat across from her desk. “If I was in your place I would be running home to my mother.”

Her comment reminds me that I don't know for sure where my mother is.

“Any news on Cecil?” I ask.

“Serious but stable,” she says, and then adds, pained, “I'm so sorry, Nick. Cecil is the sweetest man. I remember the first time I met him, he was with your dad at a game. Those two just cared about you so much.”

I muster up a smile. “Thank you, Eleanor. What can I do for you?”

“You have about a thousand interview requests,” she says, with a look that is both apologetic and pleading.

“The answer to all of them,” I say, “is no.”

“I figured,” she says. “But I just wanted to let you know.”

“Now I know.” I understand that players are required by contract to talk to the media and thus promote the league, but what happened last night doesn't seem like it belongs in the sales brochure.

“How about a statement for the cameras?” she asks, as if I might find this a reasonable compromise. “It could be short, I could even write it for you. You wouldn't have to take any questions. Just a few quick words, to give them a little something and make them go away?”

“I have a plan for making them go away,” I say. “Tell them to fuck off.”

Cordero's head pulls back as if she is dodging a face slap. I normally wouldn't use such harsh language around her.

“We should at least issue a written statement,” Cordero says cautiously. “You won't have to do anything or talk to anyone except me. I'll write it up and distribute it.”

“Okay, let's do that.”

“Thank you so much, Nick,” she says, relieved. “I know this is the last thing you want to be dealing with now.”

She clicks a few keys on her desktop computer and then signals to me that she is ready to take dictation.

“What kind of statement does one make in a situation like this?” I ask.

“How about I throw out some questions to get you started?”

“Please.”

“Are you sad?”

“Sure.” And getting sadder. Three seconds in, and this process is as empty as I feared it might be.

She begins typing, her long fingernails clacking at the keyboard.

“Shocked?”

“Definitely.”

“Condolences to the families of all involved?”

“Of course.”

“Prayers?”

“Not really.” I didn't think false piety would help anyone right now.

She paused.

“Did Samuel say anything about how he is looking forward to being a Sentinel?”

Lest we forget to push the product at a time like this. “Honestly, no.”

Eleanor looks up, flummoxed.

“Can we say that you were looking forward to having him on the Sentinels?”

“Sure,” I allow. Especially since our defense could very well be fucked without him. Although perhaps that part is not for the release.

“Do you have a sense of what sort of person he was? Kind, decent…?”

“Both of those.”

“Anything else?”

“Honest. Actually, put honest first. And get rid of ‘kind.' I don't know about that, really.”

Cordero checks my eyes as if to debate the matter, but then she lets it go. It's not as if reporters will notice that the word “kind” is absent from the boilerplate.

“Anything else you'd like to add?”

I think for a moment. “Should I be saying anything about Jai?”

Eleanor shakes her head. “Not now. We're going to wait a little bit on him. Jai Carson is usually handled exclusively by Jim O'Dwyer, but this morning we put a crisis consultant on retainer, so I imagine anything we have to say about Jai will come from them.”

“A crisis consultant? Whose idea was that?”

“Arthur Gladstone himself,” Eleanor says, and that is interesting. Mr. Gladstone is notoriously hands-off with his Sentinels, but then he might be more comfortable managing a business problem than making a draft pick. “We all had a conference call at eight thirty, and their emissaries should be arriving from New York by one or so.”

“Wow.” If they've brought in these consultants, they are expecting Jai to be arrested.

“Yes. I have a couple very competent”—she holds up her crossed fingers as she says this—“junior staffers converting Conference Room B into an office for the consultants. I'll be checking up on them after we're done.”

I nod as if I've ever been in Conference Room B. It must be the province of the team's ever-growing business staff.

“In that case,” I say, “I think we've pretty well said it all.”

“Great, I'll have a draft to show you in a half hour.” She quickly types a few words and then studies them on the screen. “Maybe sooner.”

“No need, Ms. Cordero,” I say. “Just type it up and get it out there. It's news. A nation awaits.”

I walk up to the second floor, where the coaches have their offices. I don't use these stairs often. I have never been up to visit Tanner, who defers heavily on special teams to our unit coach, Perry Huff, the one holdover from the previous coaching administration. Huff has an office up here, too, but he rarely calls me in. “My favorite thing about you, Gallow,” he once told me, “is that you don't require too much attention. You're like a cactus.”

I approach the reception desk, where a heavyset woman about my mother's age, with short dark hair and librarian glasses, sits focused on her computer screen, not looking up, even though the building is nearly empty.

“Is Coach in?” I ask.

“Since six
A.M.
,” she sighs.

The poor woman. I don't know her name, but I have heard the story—the first week Tanner was on the job, she complimented him on his haircut as he walked by her desk. Tanner paused, confused, before continuing to his office. A few moments later Tanner's staff assistant came out and told the secretary, “Coach prefers that you not speak to him unless he speaks to you first. It breaks his train of thought.”

Have I mentioned that I really don't care for our coach?