Our kicker is an artist, kicking the ball from behind his plant foot, sending it downfield ten yards low to the ground at an angle toward our sideline. Jacks scrambles and falls on it as a pile of guys try to wrestle the ball away. For a few tense seconds, we don’t know who has the ball. The ref’s on the pile too. As I watch the melee, Jacks crawls like a cartoon character out from under the dog pile, holding the ball in the air.
Everyone jumps and slaps each other. Our kicker has monster height. He’s the tallest guy on the team, and he sweeps downfield to pick Jacks up in the air. The tingle of realization that we’re still in the game hits me. My knees are weak. We’re on to the divisional championship.
Jacks grins. He runs up to embrace me and knocks me back a few steps. My boy moves on to hug Mal. The linebackers tackle Jacks, everyone smacking him, giving him the thousand-hand slap of congratulations. Boy did something great, and I’m proud of him.
My gut tells me we’re going all the way. We keep doing great shit like this, we’re sure to take this show to the national championship. Our next game will be against the toughest team in our division. The team with the best record. The Vermont Paladins. They’re the team everyone’s picked to win the championship. To not only get there but sweep it with resounding force, knocking the Pirates off the podium. Pirates may be the defending champs, but Branson is on the road to being done despite his record numbers.
“You ready for this, boy?” I ask Jacks when everyone’s done mobbing him.
Mal runs up behind Jacks and picks him up. “Hell yeah, he’s ready!”
“To be quarterback?” Jacks asks, laughing.
“No. Not that ready,” Mal says as he runs away.
Jacks turns to me. “How’d you like that one?”
“I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Mom taught me to be a quarterback.”
“She teach you how to crawl outta the dog pile?” I throw my arm over Jacks’s shoulders and shake him. “She taught you well, bro.”
“I can’t help thinking she might be watching over us. It all feels too magical, ya know?”
“I’m pretty sure she is, Jacks. Pretty sure she is,” I say with way more emotion than I planned on, and Jacks looks grateful for my words. I’m grateful for him.
“One more game. One more and we know if we got to the championship or not.”
“All right, settle down. Get out there and clock the ball. Victory formation. Take a knee. Clock it! Clock it!”
Offense goes out, lines up in a tight vee, and snaps the ball. Mal receives it and drops to his knee. We take a knee two more times, letting the clock run out, and securing our opportunity to take the division title. Then on to the national championship.
Coach Bryant follows us into the locker room amid the chaos of happy football players, with Auntie Beulah right next to him. “It’s jus’ another game, boys. Don’t you be treatin’ it like anything else, you hear me?”
“She’s right. Keep your heads on straight.”
Once again, we hop on a late flight home, but this time I’m going to treat Jacks to some TLC. Monday morning he has to give his testimony to the grand jury. He wants me to go with him, but he doesn’t want me in the courtroom. Jared will be there too. I’m not sure what to expect, but I’m not gonna think about it now. We’re one step closer to our ultimate goals: a championship win and Paul Phelps on trial for his crimes. Just wish Jacks didn’t doubt himself so much. Makes me wonder what kind of witness he’ll make, and I honestly think I should be in the room with him for moral support.
This time, I take the inside seat in case Haines wants to brawl again, and maybe this time Jacks will take the hit. Oh, I’m so evil. Just reminds me how much I hate air travel, that I’d throw the man I love to the wolves.
“Why’re you not holding my hand?” I ask Jacks.
“For the team’s sake. I figure we can wait until we get home. Don’t want to give Haines a coronary.”
I’m torn between being angry, demanding Jacks not deny who he is, but then I see his smirk.
“I’m kidding, Irus.”
He lifts the armrest and throws his jacket over us like a blanket. We slump together and fall asleep for the rest of the way home. To hold Jacks in my arms like this is a blessing. He makes it easy for me to drift off to sleep happy.
* * * *
“Wake up, lovebirds,” Eagle says, poking at us.
I crack open an eye. Everyone is filing off the plane. With a nudge, I get Jacks upright, and we gather our things. By the time we get on the bus, I’ve worked out the kink in my neck and woken up enough to stay awake for the drive home. The bus takes us to the training facility. From there we load up in the Jeep. I’m exhausted. Once home, we both collapse on the bed. There’s a message from Kane on my phone, but I’m too tired to check. We both need our sleep for tomorrow morning’s grand jury hearing.
* * * *
Monday Morning, 6:00 a.m.
Jackson McCoy’s House
Jacks fusses with his tie. His hands shake so bad you’d think he was an alcoholic suffering from a bad case of DTs. I knock his hands away, fix his tie, and step back to check out the rest of his suit. Dark gray, single breast, simple and conservative. I’ve got to take this boy shopping, but I guess for the hearing, it’s a good choice. Jacks’s long blond hair spreads across his shoulders, soft and clean, so handsome.
“So, do you want me to braid your hair?”
“You know how to do that?”
“Yeah, my cousin, Sheree, taught me. I used to do Kane’s hair all the time.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Want some coffee? Some breakfast?”
“Fuck no, gawd…so I can have something to throw up in front of the jurors?”
“They’re just people,” I say.
“They’re folks who will decide whether I’m credible enough to indict Paul.”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to contact you again. Make you change your story.”
Jacks remains silent, still fussing with his suit jacket, buttoning and unbuttoning the front.
“Jacks?”
“He called this morning while you were in the shower.”
“What? When were you gonna tell me?”
“Um…I was hoping never.”
“What’d he say?” I ask, nervous to hear the insidious ramblings of Paul Phelps.
“Told me he loved me, and I’d do the right thing.”
“He doesn’t love you, Jacks.”
He sighs. “I know, but it was always kinda my comfort, you know. To think he loved me.”
Jacks says the last so softly it breaks my heart. I slip my arms around him, resting my chin on his shoulder, and look at our reflection in the mirror. “No one can love you like I do.”
“Funny, that’s what he said,” Jacks says bitterly, followed by a strained laugh.
“Difference is, I mean it in a healthy way without selfish motives.”
He slumps. “I know. Just bear with me here, okay?”
“Sure. Will you let me in the room with you? When you testify?”
“Irus, I—”
“Please, hear me out.”
When he doesn’t say anything more, I continue, “Jared’s testifying today too. Someone needs to be there and be strong for the both of you. There’s no way you can take care of Jared and yourself. Let me shoulder some of the burden.”
“Maddox explained grand juries to me. No one is allowed in except the jurors, prosecutor, and witness. The proceedings are supposed to be secret.”
“Then how the fuck does Paul know about it?” An uneasy feeling wells in my gut.
Jacks shrugs. “Paul’s always had powerful friends. I’m not holding out much hope.”
Like a man being led to the gallows, Jacks turns to go down the stairs, and I watch him for a moment. The glow in his eyes after the win cements in my mind the truth: the man is only truly happy on the football field. I want to make him feel that glorious all the ti
me. Bottom line is, I don’t know how or what to do to make him whole.
Jacks remains quiet in the car, fidgeting every so often, but his gaze is lost somewhere outside the window. We make it to Maddox’s office. Frank is supposed to take us to the location of the grand jury hearing in an unmarked black SUV. When we arrive, he greets us with a firm handshake and, with his limping gait, leads us to the vehicle. Maddox is already in the driver’s seat.
“Are you ready?” Maddox asks Jacks.
“No, but does it matter?”
Frank turns from the front seat. “You’re doing the right thing, Jackson. Think about Jared and all the kids you are protecting from Phelps.”
Jacks falls silent again. Out the window, the city rolls by, and I realize the route we’re taking to the courthouse is circuitous. Not the easiest or quickest path, and I wonder if Maddox knows something we don’t. Like this whole endeavor has been compromised. Will there be reporters waiting to get more juicy gossip?
“Hey, Maddox? If all this stuff is supposed to be secret, then how come you busted Paul with all the media around?” I ask.
The reflection in the rearview mirror reveals Maddox grinding his teeth. I’ve hit a nerve. Well, fucking good, because I want to know what’s really going down.
“Someone in the department jumped the gun.” Maddox’s reply was terse and didn’t invite further discussion.
Like I give a fuck. “Who?”
“The US attorney said there was enough evidence to arrest him, and we did.”
“There’s something else. You didn’t want to arrest him yet.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why?” Jesus, this jackass makes me ask every damn little thing, doesn’t he?
“Mr. Beaumont, I didn’t feel my investigation was complete. Phelps has been given the heads-up, and this grand jury hearing is a waste of all our time. Especially if they come back not wanting to indict. I made Mr. McCoy very aware of this in our conversations.”
Now I understand Jacks’s worry. “You think he’s not going to be indicted?” I look at Jacks and then Maddox.
“I have a total of three witnesses for the US attorney to present to the grand jury. Twenty-three people from a wide range of backgrounds will decide if they want to send a well-known, upstanding citizen to a petit jury trial that will convict him in the eyes of the public, if not in a court of law, as a serial pedophile and sex offender. All of these witnesses are somehow related to each other, and I personally know one of them from a previous investigation. Doesn’t look promising. Looks more like I trumped a bunch of charges up against a good man.”
Maddox’s frustration level has risen, and his usually cool demeanor phases out for a brief moment. As he parks the car in the lower-level garage, he takes the time to smooth over his emotions. The man exits the car with his ice-cube persona right back in place. Frank talks with him briefly, and then gestures for us to follow him. We’re taken to a room with low tables surrounded by waiting-room-style chairs. Jared sees Jacks and jumps up nervously.
After a moment of looking at each other, Jacks smiles. Jared bounds into Jacks’s arms like a kid much smaller than his actual size. A muffled sound comes from the boy’s mouth as he hugs Jacks as tight as he can.
“I’m sorry for all those awful things I said to you,” he repeats.
“It’s all good, kid. How you holding up?”
“Good. All I have to do is tell them the truth. What Paul did to me…” Jared’s voice trails off, his bravery diminishing with each thought of Paul Phelps.
Jared whispers, “I thought I saw him, Jacks. On the way here. This is supposed to be a secret meeting, right?”
“Right. Don’t worry about it. He’s not gonna get to you. Not with me and Irus here.”
“Or wit’ me, boys. Y’all fergettin about Auntie?” Beulah asks as she crosses the threshold.
“Who can ever forget about you?” I say, giving my auntie a peck on the cheek. She smacks me in the arm with her handbag, hard.
She hugs both Jacks and Jared. “All right, so how’s this shit supposta go?”
Maddox motions for us to sit down. “We’ll each be called one at a time to give our testimony, and then we go home. Usually doesn’t take long for a grand jury to deliberate on an indictment. I’ve seen it go up to a week.”
“So after this, can we have Jared back?” Jacks asks Maddox.
“Why don’t we leave things how they are for now. You have one more play-off game to win. Possible upset for a bid at the championship. Take one thing at a time.”
Maddox makes me laugh. “Boy, you sure are into your football.”
The man relaxes for the first time I’ve ever seen. “I’m feeling the win. Feel a lot better about the win than this grand jury, but like I said. One thing at a time.”
So we settle in to wait. After about thirty minutes, a courtroom bailiff comes asking for Jared. The boy doesn’t move. Jacks stands up and pulls Jared to his feet.
“Tell the truth how you remember it and what he made you feel. They’re gonna want facts, so let ’em have it between the eyes with both barrels. Don’t question yourself, Jared. You’re doing the right thing.” Jacks pats Jared’s shoulder. The boy nods and follows the bailiff.
Once the door shuts, I clear my throat and say, “Good advice. Something you’ll be sure to follow too?”
Jacks gives me an evil look and sits down without answering me. When I reach for his hand, he squeezes the blood from my fingertips, but I let him. He needs me here. He just can’t bring himself to say it right now.
* * * *
No one talks as Jacks paces the room. Occasionally, he punches his palm with his fist, usually after he’s looked at the clock once more. His agitation is growing. I can’t tell if it’s worry over Jared or the anticipation of his testimony that has him in knots.
Finally, Jared returns. His eyes are red-rimmed and his face looks blotchy, pale and red at the same time. The child looks at Jacks and then buries himself in Auntie Beulah’s arms.
“Oh, baby-child, Auntie’s here,” she murmurs.
“Jackson McCoy?” The bailiff asks.
For a moment, Jacks looks like he wishes the building would collapse, and I go to him out of instinct, wrapping him in my arms. I absorb the subtle tremble of his body, and I try to infuse all my confidence and faith into him. I hope it’s enough to see Jacks through this, but just to make sure, I kiss him, lingering longer than the bailiff is willing to tolerate.
“Jackson McCoy,” the bailiff says again.
“All right,” I say with much irritation.
When Jacks leaves the room, I move to comfort Jared, while Maddox sits stiffly with his hands clutching his knees. Frank joins Jared and Auntie. I can’t help staring at the door, wishing I could be there to support Jacks.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Grand Jury Hearing
Jackson McCoy
“Please state your full name for the court,” the bailiff instructs. Twenty-three pairs of eyes are glued to my face. The US attorney is there, but he’s not looking at me. I glance around. There’s no judge. The jury is a 40–60 split, male to female, and a mix of nationalities are represented. Two female jurors dab at their eyes. An older white man looks uncomfortable. He appears to be of similar age to Paul. I lick my lips. The man stares at me with such intensity, I feel like I’m under Paul’s scrutiny.
Paul’s attorney isn’t here. Neither is Paul. Neither of them are required to attend. A grand jury will preclude any need for a pretrial hearing. I better make this count. If not, Paul doesn’t get indicted. I’m of mixed emotions. This rock of guilt is permanently entrenched in the tissues of my stomach.
“Jackson Namath McCoy,” I say, a little embarrassed by my middle name, knowing it was because of the big-time crush my mother had on Joe Namath. “For his ball skills,” she always claimed. I figured it was because he was easy on the eyes in his younger years.
“And what is your profession?”
&nbs
p; “I’m an athlete.”
“A pro football player?” There’s a strange tone in the attorney’s voice, almost disdain, and I’m confused by his demeanor.
“Yes.”
“As a football athlete, have you come to know Paul Franklin Phelps in the course of your career?”
“Yes.”
“Explain to us how you met the man.”
“My mom was working two jobs and thought a football camp would be a good way to keep me occupied during the summer. So I wouldn’t be lonely. Someone had recommended a foundation run by Paul Phelps.”
“Did you like the man?”
“I didn’t meet him at first.”
“When did you meet him?”
“It was on a swimming trip organized by his foundation.”
“How old were you?”
“I was ten.”
“What was your first impression of Paul Phelps?”
“He was big. Tall, you know. I was just a scrawny kid at the time.”
“Anything else?”
“I thought he was goofy. Always playing the clown. Making us kids laugh.”
“So, you were at the pool?”
“No, we went to Five Mile Lake.”
“Did Paul introduce himself to you?”
“Yes. He asked me if I wanted to swim out to the dock. A race.”
“Who won?”
“Excuse me?”
“Who won the race?”
“I did.”
“And how did Paul celebrate with you?”
“He threw me up into the air.”
“How did he throw you into the air?”
“He had his hand on my back and stomach…he sorta hefted me into the air.”
“Any…incidental contact?”
Incidental? Is this guy trying to downplay what happened? “He cupped my rear and my…um,” I stutter. “Uh…my junk.”
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