by Tim Green
"Mom, it's just a word. It's like 'cool.' "Vbu don't know if he really killed anyone. "Vbu're the one always telling me, 'Don't judge this guy and don't judge that guy.' Come on, Mom . . ."
"Touche," Cody said under his breath.
"Great, Cody," Madison replied.
"Cody," Jo-Jo said excitedly, "did you ever play against him?"
"Trane? Yeah," Cody said, taking a sip from his nearly empty can of Coors Light. "I played against him when he was a rookie. That was before I even met your mom."
"Wow! Did you hammer him like Joe Montana?" Jo-Jo wondered. Cody was famous around Texas for knocking the star quarterback out of a big playoff game.
Cody looked at Madison with a wry smile and said, "Actually, I got kicked out of the game for slamming his head against the goalpost."
"Killer!" Jo-Jo exclaimed.
Madison was too interested in the story to protest her son's choice of words. This was one she hadn't heard.
"I was covering him on the goal line," Cody explained. "The tight end picked me illegally, just slammed right into me to knock me off the coverage, and Jones scored. He slammed the ball in front of me and I got a little heated and called him a few choice words."
"Then?"
"Then he spit in my face and I slammed his head into the goalpost.
"He deserved it," Cody added matter-of-factly.
Madison got up from the couch with a slap on her knees. "Well," she said sarcastically, "I'm off to the bedroom to sew some clothes and make up a dinner recipe for tomorrow night. Maybe I can get you two a couple of beers and some raw meat to gnaw on while I'm up?"
"I'll take a beer," Jo-Jo said, lighting up.
"She's bullshitting," Cody said.
"Oh."
Jo-Jo watched his mom walk out of the room without another word, shaking her head
"They'll probably be asking her to represent the guy by the end of the week," Cody said under his breath as he finished his beer and turned his attention back to the game.
"You think?" Jo-Jo asked.
Cody shrugged and with a crooked smile said, "Why not? If I was accused of killing someone, I'd want your mom representing me."
"She already did," Jo-Jo said, reminding him with a smirk of how the two of them met.
"And she got me off, didn't she?" Cody said with a smirk of his own.
"You're crazy," Jo-Jo said, grinning.
"That's what they say."
Chapter 27
The next morning at nine o'clock Chris Pelo walked into Madison's office without knocking. Madison had undergone a transformation from the night before. Her glossy hair hung past her shoulders. A pinstripe suit and just a touch of makeup did more than make her striking; it gave her the appearance of a lawyer who was as intelligent as she was formidable.
"I just got a call from Armand Ulrich," Chris said, slumping down into one of the leather wingbacks that faced Madison's richly polished cherry desk. His feet barely reached the floor. "He wants us to fly to L. A. this morning. He wants you to represent Trane Jones."
Madison winced.
"You do owe the man a favor, Madison, and before you get started, you know as well as I do that if Ulrich is involved there's gotta be at least some reason to believe that Jones might not be the killer everyone is making him out to be."
Pelo toyed with his pale yellow outdated paisley tie and watched his partner carefully from behind his dark brown eyes, measuring the amount of resistance he was going to have to overcome. Madison looked up from her work with just the hint of a smile.
"I would imagine," she quipped, "that his reason has something to do with winning a championship, and not too much to do with Jones's reputation for moderate behavior."
"We both know what kind of man Ulrich is," Pelo countered. "He's one of the few people in this business where some things beyond a championship do matter."
"Let me get this right, Chris . . . I'm going to drop everything I'm doing because Armand Ulrich wants me in L. A. to represent one of the most reprehensible personalities that the world of sports has ever known? Okay," she said with mock enthusiasm, "when do we leave?"
"Right now," Pelo deadpanned. "He sent his Gulfstream Four and it'll be at the airport by the time we get there. And before you get sanctimonious on me, Madison, remember he's the owner of a team that two of our clients play for, as well as being the chairman of the NFL's competition committee. A working relationship with this man will mean a lot to us. And, it will help bail us out of the US/1 Today debacle. Besides, this is what you love to do. I know for a fact that you don't have anything juicier than a vehicular manslaughter on your hands right now."
Madison shook her head and said, "You forgot to mention that this will be the biggest legal circus since the O. J. trial."
Chris kept his lips pursed tightly beneath his rickety black mustache. A dark clump of his strawlike hair had fallen across his brown pocked forehead. He blinked before saying, "There's nothing wrong with notoriety, Madison. You don't have to pretend that it hasn't made us rich . . ."
"You're right," Madison said wearily, "We're rich. Rich enough, I think, so that we don't have to run off to L. A. at a moment's notice because Armand Ulrich thinks we're the right lawyers for the job and he's ready to call in some nebulous favor."
Chris only continued to stare.
"I know, Chris, but dammit, Trane Jones is so ... so distasteful."
"Madison," Chris said blandly, "if you want me to count off all the distasteful people you've represented, I will. But you're the criminal lawyer. You're the one who's supposed to be telling me how everyone is innocent, and everyone deserves a legal advocate . . ."
Then he got excited. "Madison, this is what you've wanted. This is what we need!" Madison's partner got to his feet. "And you should be honored that out of every lawyer in the entire country, Armand Ulrich is calling you. After this, there won't be a high-profile case where you won't be the first person called. You've been complaining since Luther's trial about not having something like this to sink your teeth into . . ."
"Okay," Madison said after a long pause. "You hit me where it counts . . . right in my childhood dream. Let me call Cody to tell him I'm going, and I'll have to stop by the house to get some things in case we end up staying overnight."
The owner's jet brought them to the Orange County airport, which was only a twenty-minute car ride from the Juggernauts' newly constructed facility. The media, blocked off from the back of the facility where practice would take place later that day, had already staked out its territory beside the bronze fountain that was the centerpiece to a red granite courtyard in front of the team's offices. After passing through a security check comprised of off-duty LAPD, the car dropped them off around back. They were led to an abandoned locker room, and Madison knew by the lockers filled with street clothes that the players must be in meetings. On the third floor, in a contemporary smoked-glass office that overlooked the three practice fields below, Ulrich greeted them warmly at his cast-bronze desk, which was sculpted by the same artist who'd created the fountain out front. His voice was low and strong and seemed to lace the room with vibration.
"Mr. Ulrich," Madison said with a warm smile, shaking the older man's massive hand. Ulrich was polite but constrained. Worry marked the forehead beneath his bald dome. The joviality that she'd seen in him the last time they met was gone.
"I think everyone knows Conrad Dobbins?" he said somberly.
Everyone did know Conrad Dobbins. He represented a substantial number of black superstars in football as well as basketball and boxing. That he'd spent time in jail for rape, felonious assault, and extortion seemed not to matter to his clients. He got them good deals, and he, like they, knew the experience of having been repressed by the white man at one point or another during their lives. Now, as Dobbins was so fond of putting it, together they sought economic revenge. Madison knew he used the same powerful arguments as the Washington brothers. But unlike the Washingtons, Dobbins was an uneducated bu
t streetwise con man.
The slick agent sat on the beige crushed velvet couch that floated in the middle of the room facing the desk. He wore an expensive cranberry suit. A diamond watch hung lazily from his whip-thin wrist. In his hand was a compact 8mm camera. He pointed it at Madison and Chris as if he was a tourist at Disneyland. Madison remembered reading somewhere that the eccentric agent had taken to carrying the small video camera with him wherever he went ever since the Rodney King incident. She suspected more than anything that it was part of his act, his created identity. Although Dobbins lowered the camera momentarily when Madison and Chris came in, he didn't bother to stand or even remove his sunglasses. He merely gave them a quiet imperious nod and then went back to filming.
"Hello," Madison said without emotion.
"I'm glad you've agreed to come," Ulrich said, shaking Chris's hand as well and directing them to the two chairs that flanked the couch before sitting back down behind his desk. The owner seemed neither to notice nor care that their whole meeting was being captured on tape.
The only other person in the room was Dobbins's ubiquitous bodyguard. Madison knew of him because it was so unusual for an agent to have a bodyguard at all. She had no idea what the man's name was, and no one bothered to introduce him. He stood against the wall like some forgotten appliance.
"I'm sure you know better than we do what it is we're dealing with," Ulrich continued. "We hope you'll agree to help us."
"Where is Trane?" Madison said. "If I'm going to represent him I'll need to talk with him."
"What you need," blurted Dobbins from behind his 8mm, "ain't what this is about." He began to preach in a singsong rhythm that was more of a performance for the camera than it was for them. "This is about a brother who's being falsely accused . . . This is about the struggle between a athlete an' the Jewish media, between a police state an' justice, between a black man an' the white establishment."
Madison cleared her throat and looked to Ulrich for guidance.
"Conrad," the owner patiently rumbled, "we already agreed on this. We all know Madison is the best person to handle the situation. You said so yourself so cut the crap. Our interests are the same on this one."
Dobbins stared at the owner for a moment before saying, "This time, they is."
"We have an alibi for Trane," Ulrich explained to Madison, ignoring the slight. "Conrad was with him at midnight in one of the second-story private rooms of the clubhouse at the Bel Air where the--where the girl was killed. Now, we want you to handle the case. We want you to handle the media, and we want you to do everything you can to make sure Trane can continue to play while the police are sorting this whole mess out. He's out on bail right now, but we're not even sure if he can leave the state. We play Minnesota on Sunday."
"I'll get with the judge right away so he can travel," Madison said. "So you know, it will probably require the team to post several million dollars in bail as well as pay for a federal marshal to accompany the team. I worked the same deal for Luther Zorn when I represented him, and actually used the California case against the old Rams player Darryl Henley as a precedent. It shouldn't be a problem.
"And since we seem to be speaking frankly with one another," Madison continued, staring straight into the lens of Dobbins's camera, "I might as well tell you that an alibi that consists solely of Mr. Dobbins's testimony is by no means unassailable."
"Go with it, babe," Dobbins said, his words accentuated by a series of clucks and chuckles he'd picked up during a lifetime of jive double-talk. "Least you speakin truisms."
"fes," Madison replied, "and I'll require a hundred-thousand- dollar retainer in advance with another three hundred if we go to trial... in advance."
"I'll be advancing the money, Ms. McCall," Ulrich said, clearing his throat. "The team will reimburse itself from Trane's paychecks. I'll have a check for you before you leave today."
"I'm havin' a press conference at four this afternoon," Dobbins announced as he rose to his feet. "An I want you there, babe. I'm gonna pronounce Trane innocent and that he's got the female phenom for a lawyer. You like that? Female Phenom?"
Madison didn't know what to say. Dobbins now had the 8mm camera's miniscreen turned out toward her so she could see what her own bewildered face looked like through his lens.
"Mr. Dobbins," Madison said, her face clouding over, "I need very much to speak with Trane. I need to do that, and I need to speak to the district attorney. A press conference is not high on my list of priorities."
"Well, you work for Trane now, right?"
"That's correct. I'll be working for Trane."
"feah," he said with a chuckle, "so that means you work for me, too. Me an' Trane, we one and the same." Dobbins grinned at Madison while she digested that ddbit. "He's workin' right now, babe. He's gpt a game Sunday. But he'll be here to meet with you after practice, then you both can meet me in the media room for the press conference at three."
With that Dobbins left the room, his silent hulking bodyguard in close tow. The three of them were silent for a moment before the owner spoke.
"I'm sorry for that," he said solemnly. "Now you know why some people have a bad feeling about agents. But, he's right about one thing: He and Trane are unfortunately one and the same. Trust me, Trane doesn't do anything without Dobbins's approval. I'm just glad he agreed to bring you on board as Trane's attorney. Truth is, he was eager to have you. It may have more to do with publicity than anything. But whatever the reason, I'm glad you're here. I know you're competent from my own dealings with you, and quite frankly, I can't think of anyone who has the kind of experience you've had in representing athletes in these sort of. . . situations."
"Why do you think Trane Jones is innocent?" Madison asked abruptly.
Ulrich tilted his head down and poked at his thumbnail with a pen. With just his eyes he looked up and said, "I don't know if I do think he is innocent. From what I've heard, it doesn't look gpod. The police are being very quiet about the investigation, but from what I can gather, they've got his golf club as the weapon. He tossed it in the harbor down in San Pedro. His fingerprints and her blood are on it."
"What about the alibi?" Madison asked.
"Dobbins is the only one who was with him. He's acting as if Trane's exoneration is a foregone conclusion. I don't see it that way at all, but if he is going to get off, I'd rather have it sooner than later. I've got a PR nightmare on my hands. I've already got women's groups backing up my phone sheet. In the meantime I want you to make sure he stays out on the field on Sundays, the same way you did with Luther Zorn. Without Trane, we're just another playoff team. With him ... we should be able to win it all."
"It's about winning, then?" Madison said. "Yes," Ulrich replied, raising his chin defiantly. "Isn't it with you?"
"Sometimes."
Chapter 28
Brinson didn't like Bible-thumpers, and he knew that's what Clark Cromwell was. Besides being a homicide detective for the LAPDl Brinson was an inveterate Juggernauts fan. As a kid he had loved the Rams. He had pined for them when the team moved to St. Louis until the NFL gave LA. a team of their own again. Since that time, no word in the sports page about "his" team had gone unread. So he knew all about Cromwell. He had read the quotes about how God did this and God did that every time Cromwell had a good game.
It was the same rhetoric he had heard from his sister when she was dying from leukemia. She'd gone to school in the east and married a classmate who was a Seventh-day Adventist. When she was diagnosed, they prayed. It was in God's hands, she'd told him. Both she and her husband were adamant that she would not receive the necessary bone marrow transplants to beat the disease. No one asked their two young girls how they felt about it, but Brinson could guess. Several weeks after the initial diagnosis he arrived at her bedside in a Boston suburb in time to watch her die a painful death. That sight, with her moaning and her husband exhorting God with all his worthless silent prayers, remained as an indelible scar in his mind. It convinced him that
in fact nothing was in God's hands.
Brinson thought that people who held forth all that God-talk were really hiding some pathetic internal flaw. He thought Cromwell was hiding something, so he didn't feel any pity for the powerful fullback when the dry dusty air and the hot lamp started him coughing.
"So she was your girlfriend?" Brinson asked for the fourth time.
Cromwell looked to the ceiling, gave one more cough, and replied, "Yes, I told you she was. Was."
"What happened?"
Clark shrugged and looked down. "I told you, we just broke up. It wasn't working."
"How could you not have hated her?" Brinson asked, leaning forward like a confiding friend, goading him. "Your girl, throwing herself at that low-life Jones. She was your girl . . ."
"I don't hate anyone," Clark said, his eyes glowing. "God teaches us to love each other. She wasn't my 'girl' anymore anyway."
Brinson stared malevolently. He was round-shouldered and too obese to have enough juice to take on the big clean-cut football player in a fistfight, but bulky enough not to fear him either.
"Somebody didn't love somebody very much," the detective reminded Cromwell as he cracked a pistachio. "I've got a girl with a three-iron imbedded in her brain."
Clark frowned and nodded. He knew that already. "I heard it was Trane Jones's club," he said quietly.
Brinson nodded but said, "That doesn't mean it was him that did it. . ."
"Is that what this is really about? You think I killed her?" Clark scowled, deeply offended.
"Did I say that?" Brinson countered, raising his eyebrows innocently.
"No," said Clark sullenly, "you didn't. But your questions are . . ."
The silence hung brazing in the warm light.
"I appreciate your coming in and talking with me," Brinson said, suddenly as nice as he'd been when he'd first spoken with Clark on the phone that morning.
"Can I go now?" Clark said.
Brinson nodded, "Of course. Thanks again."