Cover-up

by John Feinstein

“Shhhh,” Brennan said, putting a finger to his lips. “Yes, Meeker. He’s at the center of this whole thing. When the tests came back, he told Coach Kaplow that he would take care of everything.”

  “But how?” Susan Carol asked.

  “That I’m not sure of,” Brennan said. “But with his money, he could maybe pay off someone at the lab to keep quiet for a while. It’s up to the team to report test results. And if Meeker can say the results came back too late…”

  “But sooner or later the test results will come out, right?” Stevie said.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Brennan said. “But if they come after the game, what’s the league going to do? Declare the Super Bowl a forfeit? No way. They’ll just say it’s regrettable, that we need to revisit the system and probably fine the team for being sloppy in dealing with the test results. Then Meeker will scream and yell and say we were the only team tested twice, which I know from Darin isn’t true. The Ravens were tested twice too.”

  “And no positives?” Susan Carol asked.

  “None.”

  They sat in silence for a while. “I assume,” Susan Carol finally said, “that most if not all of the team knows about this.” Brennan just nodded in response. “Won’t someone go public with it? Are you all just going to sit back and let this happen?”

  Brennan laughed—not a funny laugh, an angry one. “Go public?” he said. “If you go public, two things could happen: the first is, the entire o-line is suspended for the Super Bowl and we have no chance to win the game. Ray Lewis would sack me twelve times by halftime. Most likely they’d carry me out on a stretcher.”

  “What’s the second thing?” Susan Carol asked.

  “Oh yeah, even better than that, you become a pariah—not just on your team but in the entire league. You’re the guy who ratted out his teammates. Not only that, you’re the guy who cost your teammates the chance to get a Super Bowl ring.”

  “What about doing the right thing?” Stevie asked. “What about the fact that these guys cheated and your owner is cheating, lying, and buying people off? Should that be allowed to happen?”

  “No,” Brennan said. “No, it shouldn’t. But that’s another code among athletes—you don’t turn another guy in.”

  “Even if he’s guilty?” Susan Carol asked.

  “Even if he’s guilty,” Brennan said. “Look at Jose Canseco. When he said that steroid use was rampant in the major leagues, he became the most hated player in baseball—even though he was telling the truth.”

  “He did that to make money,” Susan Carol said. “He was selling a book.”

  “Yes.” Brennan nodded. “But the book was true. Who do you think people hate more—Canseco or the other guys who were doping? And this would be worse because it would cost a team the chance to win the Super Bowl. That’s all you’d be remembered for.”

  “You mean that’s all you’d be remembered for, don’t you?” Susan Carol said. “That’s what has you spooked.”

  “Well, of course,” Brennan said. “I don’t want to go down in history as the quarterback who turned his teammates in. And remember, there are forty-eight guys on the roster who haven’t done anything wrong. This might be the one chance any of us has to win the Super Bowl.”

  They sat in silence for a while. Stevie could understand Brennan’s dilemma.

  “Let me ask you a question,” Susan Carol finally said. “Let’s say you keep quiet. You guys win the Super Bowl. How will you feel when it’s over? Will you feel like a real champion? Or will you feel like you let people cheat your sport and get away with it?”

  Stevie added a thought: “How will you feel,” he said, “seeing Little Donnie Meeker holding the Lombardi Trophy?”

  Brennan stared at the two of them. “Are you trying to make me completely lose my mind?” he said.

  “No,” Susan Carol said. “We’re trying to make you understand why you should tell the truth.”

  “And what about after the game?” Stevie said. “When the story breaks—as you say it will—do you want to be the quarterback of the team that cheated their way to a Super Bowl title?”

  “Aaaaaah! I need time to think,” Brennan said.

  “Okay,” Stevie said. “But you have to decide what to do soon.”

  “I know,” Brennan said. He stood up. “I’ll be in touch.”

  He pulled the hood over his head and walked out of the gym.

  13: THIRD AND LONG

  STEVIE AND SUSAN CAROL sat and watched Eddie leave the gym, his sneakers squeaking quietly against the floor.

  “I feel bad for him,” Stevie said. “This isn’t his fault, but he’s going to have to pay the price anyway.”

  Susan Carol stood up. “You’re right. He’s trapped in a way, a little bit like Chip Graber was trapped back at the Final Four. He’s not being blackmailed, but no matter what he does, it’s going to be wrong. He can become a pariah and guarantee his team won’t win the Super Bowl, or he can help his team win a tainted victory and live with the guilt.”

  “What do you think we should do?”

  “I think we need to find a way to report the story without making Eddie the fall guy.”

  “How?”

  “I haven’t a clue, Stevie. I haven’t a clue. Come on, I have to go change before the interview sessions.”

  They found a cab and Stevie dropped Susan Carol at the Canterbury and then went straight on to the Dome. It was 8:30 when he walked into the CBS compound, which was already humming with life. He found Andy Kaplan reading the Indianapolis Star.

  “Hey! Your piece got rave reviews last night.”

  “Our piece,” Stevie corrected. “I didn’t stay up to watch it, to tell you the truth.”

  “I can get you a tape,” Kaplan said. “I hope your parents saw it.”

  Stevie had called his parents to tell them he was going to have a story on the CBS late-night show. They had planned to tape it since the show didn’t come on until after Letterman.

  “I saw your Bisciotti story online this morning,” Kaplan continued. “Good stuff. I already made a call to see if he’d come on camera and got a flat no. He doesn’t like to do TV apparently.”

  “Yeah, he told me that. He’s very friendly, but he hates the spotlight.”

  “Unlike Don Meeker, who can’t seem to stay out of it.”

  Stevie nodded. “What if we did something on Kyle Boller today?”

  Kaplan looked baffled. “The Ravens’ backup quarterback—why?”

  “For one thing, he’s a good talker. I’ve seen him. For another, he’s had to come in a couple times this year when McNair’s been hurt, and he’s played well. Who knows, it could happen again on Sunday. Plus, how many guys who were starting quarterbacks as rookies in the NFL have had to deal with becoming a backup? It’s a good story, I think.”

  “Sold,” Kaplan said. “I’ll call Kevin Byrne and set it up.”

  Stevie was proud of himself. He had come up with an idea—a good one, he thought—without Bobby Kelleher. Plus, he could probably write Kyle Boller for the Herald too. The old kill-two-birds-with-one-stone trick.

  While Kaplan went off to make arrangements for the morning, Stevie went through the buffet line, grabbing some French toast and bacon. He was tired, he realized, so he poured himself a cup of coffee. He sat down at an empty table and thought about what Susan Carol had said back in the IUPUI gym. How could they possibly find a way to break the story without forcing Brennan to out his teammates?

  The lab people would know the results—but what lab was it? Had Meeker really paid them off? Even if they found the lab, could he and Susan Carol really persuade someone to talk to them? No—they had the whole team here….

  “The doctor!” he said aloud. They certainly couldn’t use the information he had given Susan Carol as source material, but what was to stop them from making him think they could?

  He pulled out his cell phone and called Susan Carol. “Where are you?” he asked.

  “In the car, on the way over to the D
ome.”

  “We need to talk as soon as the morning session is over. I have an idea.”

  She sighed. “Why don’t we meet in your room again. Who knows how long it will take for Jamie to read his lines right.”

  “Okay. I’ll finish my CBS stuff, then go back to my room and write while I’m waiting for you.”

  “Deal.” She paused. “Stevie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Am I going to like this idea?”

  He smiled. “Probably not. But it might work.”

  The morning went quickly. Three days in, and Stevie felt like an old hand at pre–Super Bowl coverage. Of course, his job was a lot easier than most since people were hand-delivered to him to talk because of either Kelleher or CBS. There wasn’t a lot of demand for Kyle Boller during the Ravens’ session on the field, so they were able to get him one-on-one before the end of the time period. Boller was everything Stevie had hoped he would be: friendly and honest. He said if he were running the Ravens, he would have traded to get Steve McNair too. He had learned a lot of football from McNair. But yes, he hated watching from the sidelines.

  “I’m a football player,” he said. “Not a football watcher.”

  Stevie got all he needed for both CBS and the Herald from Kyle Boller, then he and the crew went off to pick up a couple of quotes from Steve McNair and Coach Brian Billick.

  Kelleher was pleased that Stevie had come up with his own idea. “Better than what I had in mind for you…. Pretty soon, you aren’t going to need me for anything,” he said. “Which is a good thing, because Tamara and I will be tied up in writers’ meetings and doing radio all day.”

  “That’s fine,” Stevie said. “Susan Carol is free, so we’ll hang out.”

  “So you two are okay again?”

  “Oh yeah—just like old times.”

  It was one o’clock by the time Susan Carol knocked on Stevie’s door. Since the Ravens had gone first, he had been back in the room by eleven and was winding up his Herald story when she arrived.

  “Perfect timing,” he said. “I’m starved. Let’s order room service.”

  She agreed, flopping down in a chair and looking frazzled and tired. “Man, this is hard,” she said. “I’m working with a producer I can’t stand and a partner who has no clue.” She looked at him. “I can’t tell you how much I miss you on that show.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “But we’ve got more important things to worry about.”

  “True,” she said. “Call in the food order, then tell me your plan.”

  When he had, she said, “So you want me to call Dr. Snow and tell him I want to meet with him.”

  “Right. Tell him you need to discuss what he told you the other night. If he claims not to remember, remind him.”

  “What if he just says no, he won’t talk to me anymore?”

  “You tell him you’re prepared to go on air with the story and name him as the source.”

  “But I can’t possibly do that.”

  “I know that. But he might not know that. At the very least, he won’t be able to take the risk. He’ll agree to meet with you, I guarantee it.”

  “I don’t want to spend any time alone with that guy.”

  “You won’t. I’ll go with you. Not only will you not be alone, but we can tell him there are two of us prepared to go with the story.”

  “Bluff him? Okay, but what then? What are we really hoping for?”

  “We tell him if he puts us in touch with the right people—the lab guys, other people in the organization who must know—we’ll protect him as a source. If not…”

  She nodded. “It might work,” she said. “Move over so I can use the phone.”

  Stevie was quite proud of the fact that, for once, he was the one who had come up with an idea. Susan Carol had kept the card that Dr. Snow had given her at the party, which had his cell number on it. Snow must have picked up on the first ring because an instant after she had finished dialing, Stevie heard her say, “Dr. Snow? Hi. It’s Susan Carol Anderson.”

  She paused, clearly waiting to see if he remembered her.

  “Right, at the party on Tuesday.”

  She rolled her eyes as he responded. “No, not quite six feet tall.

  “The reason I’m calling is that I think you and I should talk.”

  Her face turned red at his next response. “No, not over drinks. I’m fourteen years old. I can’t drink for seven more years.

  “I understand. People get confused because I’m tall. We do need to talk, though, about what you told me the other night.”

  She listened for a moment. “If you’d like, I’ll refresh your memory. It was about drug testing and the Dreams’ offensive line….”

  Stevie thought he heard shouting coming from the other end of the phone.

  “No, actually, you never said anything about off the record,” Susan Carol finally said. “In fact, what you said was, ‘I’ll give you a scoop, gorgeous.’”

  More shouting.

  “No, I haven’t spoken to anyone about it, except my friend Steve Thomas—who is here working for the Washington Herald and CBS….”

  Now Stevie could actually hear Snow’s words: “CBS?! CBS knows about this! Are you out of your mind? Look, I was drunk, I didn’t know what I was talking about—”

  Susan Carol broke in. “I know you were drunk, doctor, but I’m pretty sure you knew exactly what you were talking about. I don’t want to embarrass you. That’s why we need to talk.”

  Susan Carol waited. Stevie heard nothing coming from the other end of the phone. “Well, then, let’s find some sort of neutral spot where no one will see us.”

  She listened for a minute. “Okay, then, seven o’clock. Spell that for me.” She began writing on a phone notepad that was sitting on the night table. “All right, Steve and I will meet you there at seven.”

  She hung up.

  “And?”

  “The team is staying at a hotel out in the suburbs. Apparently there’s a YMCA just across the street where some of the players have been going to work in the weight room in the mornings. He wants to meet us there at seven tonight.”

  “Where is it?”

  She looked at the notepad. “Greenbriar. Wherever that is. Look, I have access to a car with a driver. He’ll know the area. Why don’t you meet me at the Canterbury at six-thirty so we can go from there. I’m taping the rest of the show at four o’clock. Even with Jamie’s screwups, we’ll be done in plenty of time.”

  “The driver won’t ask questions?”

  “No. What does he care if I want to go to some YMCA?”

  He nodded. “So, you don’t want me to come over at six so we can have a drink first?”

  For a split second she didn’t get it. Then she started laughing. “He said he thought I was at least twenty-two. Even if I was twenty-two, he’s like fifty or sixty or something. What is he thinking?”

  “I don’t even want to know,” Stevie said.

  Stevie walked into the Canterbury lobby just before 6:30. It was small but had plush carpeting and leather chairs and a long couch in front of a fireplace. The walls were lined with bookshelves.

  A bellman standing just inside the door said, “Good evening, sir. Are you a guest in the hotel?”

  “No,” Stevie said. “But I’m meeting a guest here in a few minutes.” He wondered if the bellman would give him a hard time.

  “Welcome,” he said. “There are hot drinks over next to the fireplace if you’d like to help yourself while you’re waiting.”

  “Oh, thank you,” he said. A hot chocolate sounded good. He was just about to sit on the couch with his hand wrapped around a mug when Susan Carol came off the elevator. She had shed her TV clothes and was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a dark blue sweater. Her overcoat was on her arm.

  “Ready?” she said.

  Stevie took a sip of the hot chocolate. It was very good. “Can I maybe sit here a minute and drink this?” he said. “The fire feels great.”

  S
he shook her head. “No time. Maybe when we come back. The car should be outside.”

  So Stevie set down his mug and followed her outside, where it had started to snow again. Several black sedans were waiting and Susan Carol walked to the first one in line. As she did, a man jumped out of the driver’s seat and came around to open the door.

  “Good evening, Ms. Anderson,” he said. “I’ve got directions to the YMCA where you need to go.”

  “Thanks, Dave,” she said. “This is my friend Steve Thomas.”

  Dave nodded at Stevie and put out a hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Ms. Anderson, it will take us about twenty, twenty-five minutes in traffic to get there.”

  “Great,” she said.

  They piled into the backseat. “Have you thought of a strategy when we get there?” Stevie asked.

  “Yes,” she said quietly, nodding in Dave’s direction in the front seat. “I think I know what to do.”

  They rode in silence through the streets of Indianapolis. It was snowing harder and traffic was crawling. Stevie didn’t mind. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to meeting Dr. Snow—aptly named, he thought, given the weather.

  They pulled up in front of a modern-looking low-slung building at a few minutes after seven.

  “How long do you think you’ll be, Ms. Anderson?” Dave asked as he opened the door for them, holding an umbrella over Susan Carol.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” she said. “But probably not more than half an hour.”

  “I’ll just wait here then,” he said. “Why don’t you take my umbrella?”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “We only have to walk a few feet to get inside.”

  Dave walked her those few feet to the front door, holding the umbrella over her head. Stevie trailed, saying nothing. When they were inside, he couldn’t resist. “Nice to be a big TV star, I guess,” he said.

  “Shut up, Stevie,” she said firmly and, he had to admit, not without justification.

  There was no sign of anyone in the lobby except for a smiling woman with gray hair at the check-in desk.