“May I help you?” she asked when Stevie and Susan Carol approached.
“We’re supposed to meet someone here,” Susan Carol said. “He’s about—”
“Dr. Snow?” she said, breaking in. “Are you the teenagers meeting Dr. Snow?”
“Why, yes, we are,” Susan Carol said, surprised.
“He told me to look for you,” she said. “If you walk down this hall to the right, the third door on your right is the conference room. He’s waiting for you there.”
“Thanks,” Susan Carol said.
They found the conference room and Susan Carol knocked softly, then pushed the door open. A man with graying hair and a mustache was standing across the room looking out the window when they walked in.
“You’re late,” he said in a tone that made it clear there would be no small talk during this meeting.
“Sorry,” Susan Carol said. “Traffic from downtown in the snow was slow.”
Snow didn’t seem to care one way or the other about why they were late.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said. “I’ve got a lot to do.”
Susan Carol nodded at Stevie. “This is Steve Thomas.”
“Yeah,” Snow said. “The kid from CBS.”
“And the Washington Herald,” Stevie said, knowing Snow couldn’t care less.
Snow sat down at a conference table in the middle of the room. Stevie and Susan Carol sat across from him.
“Tell me what exactly you expect to get from me here so we can move this along,” Snow said.
“You know, it’s funny, Dr. Snow, the other night you weren’t in nearly so much of a rush to get away from me,” Susan Carol said, flashing her smile for just a moment.
“The other night I thought you were in your twenties, and I’d been drinking,” he said. “Now I know you’re fourteen, I’m cold sober, and you’re trying to blackmail me. What would you like me to do, offer you some candy?”
Before Susan Carol could say anything, Stevie jumped in. “Look, buddy, don’t turn all sanctimonious,” he said, surprising himself with his use of a big word under pressure. “You got drunk and ran your mouth trying to impress someone who, even if she was in her twenties, would still have been young enough to be your daughter. You are part of a big-time cover-up right now, and the only way you can get out of it is to go on the record and tell the truth.”
Snow stared at him for a moment. “Just who do you think you are, kid? Edward R. Murrow?”
Stevie knew who Edward R. Murrow was from the movie Good Night and Good Luck. He was the CBS news anchor in the 1950s who had taken on the Communist-hunting senator Joe McCarthy and exposed him as a fraud.
“Actually, he’s Woodward and I’m Bernstein,” Susan Carol said. “But it doesn’t really matter who we are. What matters is that we know what’s going on and we want your cooperation.”
“So what are you proposing I do?” Snow said. “Go on the record, get myself fired, and turn myself into a pariah throughout the entire NFL?”
“Or a hero,” Susan Carol said.
He shook his head. “It won’t work that way. Whistle-blowers don’t become heroes until they’re dead and someone makes a movie about them.”
“You don’t have to go on the record,” Susan Carol said. “Get us documentation of the drug tests. It must exist, right? We’ll never say where we got it.”
Snow looked at her for a moment, then shook his head. “I’d be breaking the law, giving you medical records.”
“Aren’t you breaking the law knowing evidence of illegal drug use is being covered up?”
“No,” Snow said. “Just NFL rules.” He smiled weakly.
“Get us the documents,” Susan Carol said. “You aren’t the only one with access to them. People can guess all they want where we got them, but we won’t tell. Plus, we already have another source. You won’t be our only source.”
That seemed to surprise Snow. “Another source?” he said. “Who?”
Susan Carol gave him the real version of the smile. “You wouldn’t want us to tell you that, would you? If we did, how could you believe we’re going to protect you?”
He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think you’re capable of pulling this story off without me, and if you want to scream and yell when the game’s over, feel free.” He paused as if thinking over his decision.
Susan Carol leaned forward. “You know what, doctor, you’re right,” she said. “We can probably never prove the cover-up. But the drug tests will come out after the game. You know that. And when I go on TV and tell people exactly how I knew about them before the game…how will that look for you? I checked the media guide. You’re married with three children, aren’t you?”
The snarl that Snow had worn throughout most of the meeting faded. “You would do that?”
“Not if you help us.”
“I need time to think about this,” he said.
“Take all the time you want,” Susan Carol said. “But we tape our show tomorrow at noon. If you get me the documentation, I’ll run with that and there will be no need to name you at all. If not…”
“Oh…damn,” he stalled. “Give me your cell number. I will call you in the morning.”
Susan Carol wrote her cell number down and passed it to him.
“You better call early,” she said.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “I get your message. I would have to get someone in my office in Los Angeles up early to fax them to me….”
“Do what you have to do, doctor,” Stevie said, his job as tough guy made easy now by Susan Carol’s complete cornering of Snow.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, standing up and walking to the door. He turned to Susan Carol. “Fourteen?” he said. “You’re really fourteen?”
“Would you like to see my library card?” Susan Carol asked.
Snow didn’t answer. He yanked the door open and walked out.
Susan Carol looked at Stevie. “I thought that went well, didn’t you?” she said.
He shook his head and laughed. “You know what?” he said. “You’re amazing. Maybe you should show me your library card.”
“Fine,” she said. “But it doesn’t have my birthday on it.”
14: TURNOVER!
THE TRIP BACK TO THE HOTEL didn’t take very long—at least it didn’t feel long to Stevie. They had decided that they really needed to track down Bobby and Tamara and let them know what was going on.
They held off on further discussions until Dave dropped them off in front of the Canterbury. It occurred to Stevie as they climbed out of the car and walked into the lobby that it was after eight o’clock and they hadn’t had any dinner. “I’m starving,” Stevie said.
“You want to walk over to St. Elmo’s?” she said. “It’s right next door.”
He shook his head. “We’ll never get a table.”
“Yes, we will,” she said. “Follow me.”
They walked back outside, turned right, and walked to the front door of St. Elmo. The entrance was packed with people, but Susan Carol was undeterred. They got to the maître d’ station and were greeted by a tall man in a tuxedo.
“Welcome back!” he said to Susan Carol, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek.
Susan Carol turned to Stevie and said, “Mike D’Angelo, this is Steve Thomas. You may have seen Steve on CBS last night.”
Whether D’Angelo had seen Stevie or not seemed irrelevant. He gave him a warm handshake and a smile.
“Lot of your colleagues in here,” he said to both of them. “Steve, I just sat Mr. McManus’s party a few minutes ago. Your crowd is downstairs, Susan Carol. Are you joining one of them, or would you like your own table?”
“If it’s okay, we’d like our own table,” Susan Carol said. “Is there anyplace that’s a little bit quiet?”
He nodded. “Got just the spot for you. Follow me.”
Mike D’Angelo delivered them to a booth in the back corner of the room farthest from the door of the restaurant. “No
t exactly quiet,” he said. “But as close as I can get you to it.”
“It’s perfect,” Susan Carol said. “Thank you so much, Mike.”
“Anytime,” he said. “You know that.”
He walked away. “So what’s the deal with that?” Stevie said. “When did you charm him?”
She shook her head. “Not me,” she said. “My dad. Remember I told you about the Bible study group he formed to help people addicted to sports? Mike was addicted to fantasy football—almost ruined his marriage. He heard about what Dad was doing, found some people to form a group here, and he’s completely out of all fantasy sports. My dad called him and let him know I’d be in town. I met him when I came in for dinner on Monday, and he told me I could have a table anytime I wanted all week.”
“Who’d you have dinner with on Monday night?” he asked.
She paused for just a moment. “Jamie,” she said. “We’d just met. The network wanted us to spend some time together.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I told you….”
“I know, I know,” he said.
The waiter came and they ordered right away since it was late and they were hungry. Stevie got a laugh when he asked Susan Carol if she wanted to see a wine list.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s say we get these test results tomorrow. How are we going to do this?”
“Well, I came here for the Herald, so I owe them first crack over CBS. But what about you? Will USTV be furious?”
“First, I don’t care,” she said. “Second, I’m not sure this is a story that anyone who has to negotiate TV rights with the NFL wants to touch.”
Stevie hadn’t thought about that. She was probably right. He couldn’t imagine CBS being thrilled about a story that might blow up the Super Bowl—especially if the linemen were forced to sit out the game. In fact, there was a good chance they wouldn’t be thrilled to see his name on the story if and when it broke. Oh well. Everyone had been nice to him at CBS, but he was still a writer, first and foremost.
“What do you think the chances are that Snow will actually come through?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t think he has much choice. He would be completely humiliated if I went on the air and repeated what happened the other night.”
“Yes, but we both know you can’t really do that. It all depends on whether he believes you can, and will.”
Snow struck him as the kind of guy who would protect himself before he worried about protecting anyone else. Giving them the information was his only way out—if he fell for their bluff.
Their food arrived. Stevie was wolfing down a massive porterhouse steak when he heard Susan Carol’s cell phone ring. He knew it was hers because it played the Duke fight song when it rang.
“Sorry,” she said, putting her silverware down and reaching into her pocket. She rolled her eyes when she saw the number on her screen.
“I shouldn’t answer this,” she said, shaking her head. “Hi, Tal, what is it?”
She listened for a moment. “I’m at St. Elmo’s, why?” More listening. “Right now?” And then: “I’m sitting upstairs with Stevie in the back room in the corner booth.” She listened a moment longer, then said, “Okay, fine,” and closed the phone.
“What was that?” Stevie asked.
“He’s downstairs like Mike told us, with all the other guys from our crew. He said he has to talk to me right away.”
“Oh God,” Stevie said. “He’s probably going to give you a hard time again about being with me.”
“He didn’t say anything when I said I was with you. He sounded strange—almost, I don’t know, scared.”
Stevie was about to ask her what she meant when he saw Tal Vincent approaching the table. Without so much as a hello, he slid into the booth next to Susan Carol.
“Nice to see you too, Tal,” Susan Carol said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Don’t start,” he responded. “What the hell do you think you two are up to? Have you lost what’s left of your minds, trying to blackmail a team doctor?”
Stevie and Susan Carol looked at each other. Clearly, Snow had made a move they hadn’t expected. Susan Carol gave Stevie a “stay calm” look.
“What are you talking about, Tal?” she said.
“You know what I’m talking about. Tom Snow called Mike Shupe about twenty minutes ago. He said you two were trying to blackmail him with a wild story about him coming on to you the other night.”
“He did come on to me!”
“Be quiet. He said that he was trying to be nice to you and you asked him a bunch of questions about drug testing. He said he was explaining to you what happens when someone tests positive and you somehow got the idea that he was telling you someone on the team had actually tested positive.”
“WHAT?!” Susan Carol screamed.
Now Stevie was shooting her “calm down” looks. The one thing he knew they didn’t want to do was tip their hand on the story to Vincent.
“Tal, he’s a complete liar,” Susan Carol said. “That isn’t close to what happened—”
“What happened was that he tried to pick her up,” Stevie said. “He’s a dirtbag. We just told him that if he didn’t leave her alone, we’d go public. He wouldn’t stop calling her. We had to do something.”
Vincent glared. “Then why’s he claiming blackmail?”
“I guess we scared him too much.”
“When did this become we? What have you got to do with this anyway?”
“Stevie’s my friend,” Susan Carol said. “I went to him for help because the guy wouldn’t stop calling me. He said he didn’t know I was fourteen.”
“Did you tell him you were going to go on air and accuse him of coming on to you?”
She cast her eyes downward for a moment as if embarrassed. Clearly, she had picked up the idea that letting Vincent in on the whole truth was not a good idea. “I guess I did. I couldn’t think of anything else to do to get him to go away.”
Vincent’s look softened a bit. “What’s he talking about with all this drug-testing stuff?”
“I don’t know,” Susan Carol said. “He was bragging that half the team wouldn’t be able to play without his painkillers…. Maybe that’s his way of distracting you from the fact that he’s a letch.”
Vincent leaned back into the booth’s seat cushion. “Okay, I’ll take you at your word on that. Either way, just stay away from the guy. And whatever he said to you, there’s no way it’s coming up on the air—you got that?”
Stevie could see that Susan Carol was thinking the same thing he was thinking: if the threat of exposing Snow on air was gone, they weren’t going to be getting any documents the next day. He’d out-maneuvered them.
Susan Carol took one last stab. “What if he keeps calling me?” she said.
“You come tell me and I’ll deal with him,” Vincent said. “Which is what you should have done in the first place.”
He slid out of the booth. “You know something, Susan Carol? You’ve been a pain in the butt all week. I really don’t need this teen drama. Trust me when I tell you, the people back in the office will hear about all this.”
“Trust me when I tell you, I don’t care,” Susan Carol said.
Vincent stared at her for a second, started to say something, then turned and walked off.
“Now what?” Stevie said.
Susan Carol leaned back and sighed. “What choice do we have?” she said. “Drop back ten and punt.”
By the end of dinner, they had an alternative to punting. As planned, they would bring Kelleher and Mearns into the picture. Only now they were hoping the Washington Herald and the Washington Post might both run a story about Susan Carol and her encounter with Snow. He’d deny it, but she was a credible source. And the newspapers weren’t nearly as likely to scare off the story because of a phone call. They knew it was a long shot, but it was better than nothing.
They finished dinner, thanked Mike D’Angelo, and walked back outsi
de because it was almost impossible to hear anyone on a cell phone from inside. Susan Carol got through to Kelleher and told him that she and Stevie needed to talk to them right away.
“An hour?” Stevie heard her say with a sigh. “Okay then. In the Marriott lobby at eleven o’clock.”
She was starting to hang up when he saw her nod in response to something Kelleher had said. “As a matter of fact, we have.”
Then she hung up.
“As a matter of fact we have what?”
“Gotten ourselves in trouble again,” she said. “Come on, we can sit in the Canterbury lobby and have a hot chocolate while we kill time. They’re at a party and can’t get back to the hotel until eleven o’clock.”
If the circumstances were different, Stevie might have enjoyed sitting in front of a fire sipping hot chocolate with Susan Carol sitting next to him, her legs curled up underneath her. The lobby was quiet, but they were both jumpy, looking at their watches every five minutes, except when Stevie started to look every two minutes.
Finally, at 10:45, Susan Carol said, “Come on, let’s get a cab. It’s too cold to walk.”
“What about your car?” Stevie said.
“I told Dave to take the rest of the night off.”
The doorman got them a cab. Downtown was still packed and they probably could have walked to the Marriott as quickly as they got there in the cab, but they would have been icicles by the time they arrived.
They walked into the lobby at precisely eleven o’clock and found it jammed—just as it had been all week. Kelleher and Mearns were standing right near the door, both looking concerned.
“I hope you were joking about being in trouble again,” Kelleher said. “But something tells me you weren’t.”
“Nope,” Susan Carol said. “We need a quiet place to talk.”
“Follow me,” Kelleher said.
He led them up the escalator to the second floor. They walked past radio row—quiet now, except for a couple of West Coast stations that were still on the air—around the corner, and past a room marked MEDIA HOSPITALITY, which was packed. They walked all the way down the hall, until Kelleher opened the door to one of the many conference rooms.
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