by Dan Koontz
For the three weeks he’d been incarcerated, The New York Times had been his only connection to the outside world, and he’d had more time than reading material. What had captivated his attention most was not the sports section, but the financial pages, specifically a new section that had been created, behind the equities, commodities, and currencies, for AVEX – the Avillage Exchange.
He devoured every story about the exchange – the absurdity of it, the legality of it, and the single commodity that was currently on offer. He read daily stories speculating what, or more accurately, who the second listing would be. Rumors had initially sprouted that James Prescott was going to go in a very different direction from his highly cerebral first commodity.
Then, as interest had just started to wane in the fledgling market during the SEC-mandated 30-day hiatus between offering one and offering two, unnamed sources within Avillage had leaked that the next orphan to go public would be an athlete. Unnamed sources were also quoted as saying that the SEC had demanded that the athlete’s ticker symbol be changed, so as not to reveal his identity.
Day by day, the pieces continued to fall into place, and it finally dawned on Melvin why he had been set up. His son was already at the top of the middle school All-American lists; he’d even been profiled briefly on Yahoo Sports six months prior. The fact that he was an orphan was a closely guarded secret by the administrators at Lincoln Junior High, but the Yahoo story had touched on his dogged dedication to his terminally-ill grandmother. With the attention to detail that had been ascribed to Prescott, Melvin knew he wouldn’t have missed that. J’Quarius was on every high-profile division I school’s radar – his initials would become immediately recognizable, if they weren’t already.
Melvin had tried convincing his attorney that there was a plot against him, but the computer’s data was too overwhelmingly convincing, complete with expertly hacked dates on which he had supposedly downloaded and uploaded data, as well as fabricated emails it looked like he’d exchanged with known pornographers going back 2 years.
~~~
J’Quarius was in counseling when Arlene and Hansford Washington arrived at the orphanage. After two sessions, the counselor had more or less come to the conclusion that J’Quarius had been pushed a little too far by a bad kid. But J’Quarius had to understand and accept the responsibility that came with his size and athletic ability. When a Chihuahua snaps, it gets scolded; when a Rottweiler snaps, it gets put down.
Arlene Washington was 43 years old. A former college basketball standout at The University of Connecticut, she understood the kind of dedication it took to reach the highest levels of athletic success. She was six feet tall, lean but with generous hips, and walked with a limping gait, trying to protect what little was what left of the cartilage in her knees.
Hansford stood a half foot taller than his wife and looked a good ten years younger than his 44 years. He had made some poor decisions early in life and didn’t get so much as a sniff from a major college after spending the last 6 months of his senior year of high school in jail for check fraud. But after his release, a local junior college coach made sure he got his GED and then took him under his wing, taught him a little about basketball and a lot about being a man, and eventually got him a transfer to a small four-year school where he earned a bachelor’s degree in sports sciences.
With that background, he’d gone on to become quite a coaching success story himself, having directed his inner city Chicago high school team to three state championships, while keeping his players out of trouble with the law and maintaining an astounding college matriculation rate among his players that was three times higher than the high school’s average.
Arlene had played briefly in the WNBA, but after meeting Hansford at a local gym, she’d fallen in love, had a child, and walked away from the game for good with no regrets.
Like J’Quarius, the Washingtons’ biological son had been a standout in middle school. He even resembled J’Quarius from certain angles. He’d gone on to make the Parade All-American team as a sophomore in high school, but a drunk driver had stolen him from his parents before he’d had a chance to start his junior year. Devastated and too old to start over with a baby, Arlene and Hansford had jumped at the chance to take in an adolescent basketball prodigy from the inner city when Avillage had come calling.
When the counselor opened the door to introduce J’Quarius to the Washingtons, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Arlene and Hansford didn’t care in the moment that they weren’t legally full parents. J’Quarius didn’t think about how and where his life might be uprooted. They all simply felt an immediate sense of wholeness, satiety for a primal human need for which they’d been starving.
~~~
Just prior to sunrise, with shades of gray evolving to dull colors, Melvin emerged from a public restroom at the corner of Wall Street and Broadway. An impressive suit that had drained the majority of his bank account covered the gym shorts and tank top he’d been wearing the night before. Wingtips replaced the high tops that he now carried in his bag.
Apart from his size, he didn’t stand out from any other upwardly mobile young executive getting to work early on an important trading day.
With a purpose in his gait, he walked the two blocks to Avillage headquarters, slid past security with the first wave of employees that came through the lobby and took the unsecured elevator to the 24th floor. From there, he hoofed it up the remaining 22 flights to the roof.
Knees throbbing and out of breath, he threw open the emergency exit and climbed down the small metal ladder to the rooftop, where he quickly shed the suit he’d been wearing. After putting his high tops back on, he removed the rope and marker from the duffel bag and tossed it next to the $600 heap of clothes.
He then laid the thick braided rope down in a straight line on the blacktop before turning back and mouthing the number of paces, as he concentrated on maintaining a constant stride length. When he reached 33, he marked the rope, tossed the marker aside and got busy tying knots.
Once he had securely fastened the end of the rope to the vent cap closest to the corner of the 45-story building, he backed up, slowly, methodically, toward the center of the building.
With his eyes closed, he took in a few deep breaths to clear his mind.
Then he opened his eyes.
The sun was just peeking up over 11 Wall Street to the east. To the southwest he could see Lady Liberty in the shadow of lower Manhattan surrounded by the calm water of New York Harbor, only her torch and crown illuminated.
He then reached down to one of his socks to retrieve a scrap of newspaper that he’d clipped from the back of the sports section six weeks earlier and gently pressed the picture of J’Quarius to his lips. Then he released it to the wind and watched it flitter and float away, climbing the updrafts between the buildings.
When the clipping had disappeared from sight, his expression hardened, along with his resolve. He bounded toward the edge of the building next to the roof vent. Reaching full speed just before he took flight, he let out a cathartic scream. For the athletic career cut short. For the college dream unrealized. For the son he could never know.
Dozens of faceless suits on the street far below craned their necks toward the leonine roar and then scattered, as Melvin soared 20 feet clear of the building. His rickety knees had conceded one final athletic statement.
With a striking suddenness, his scream went silent as the rope cinched around his neck, choking off his airway.
His lifeless body, adorned in a blue tank top and gym shorts, came careening back toward the top floor of the building. A full one-story spiderweb took shape in the plate glass on the top floor of Avillage headquarters as his massive corpse slammed into the window of James Prescott’s corner office. Clearly visible from inside, through the kaleidoscopic glass, was the number 11 on the back of Melvin’s Lincoln Junior High jersey. Above it were the letters JQJ.
~~~
Ticker symbol J opened with even more fervo
r than RTJ had, as investors leapt at the once-in-a-lifetime chance to get in on the ground floor of the next Michael Jordan or LeBron James, both of whom had reached net worths in the billions. Prescott had deliberately undervalued the listing to re-energize his market, and the idea had worked to perfection. One million shares of J opened at 5, peaked briefly at 34, and then closed at 27. AVEX was the only financial news story of the day.
Melvin Brown’s death had been lost in the hype of the opening and had barely made the news the next day. Prescott tried to convince himself that a known sex offender committing suicide outside his window couldn’t have had anything to do with him, and he didn’t bother to ask any questions.
Meanwhile at the orphanage a man giving the name of Daryl Washington dropped in, looking to pick up anything J’Quarius may have left behind.
“Just one letter that came in today’s mail,” the headmistress said, handing over the envelope.
“Thanks.” Daryl said, his eyes darting nervously for the return address. Then with a suddenly relieved smile he added, “For what it’s worth J’Quarius is really happy.”
Strolling through the parking lot back to his car “Daryl Washington” placed a call to Aaron Bradford. “You were right. I got the letter. Our source at The Times intercepted the other one earlier this morning.”
“Perfect. Bring them to me unopened,” Bradford said appreciatively. He wanted to be the one to destroy the letters personally, to know for sure it was done.
He still had a scout in Mississippi watching J’Quarius’s great-grandparents’ mailbox for a potential third letter, and he’d had Melvin Brown’s apartment thoroughly searched – before the police had even positively identified his body. A healthy paranoia pervaded all of Bradford’s actions, and it had served him well throughout his career.
A week passed and no third letter was ever delivered. As a token of his appreciation, Prescott had bequeathed the chairmanship of the board of J, along with a 5% ownership stake, to Bradford. J was his now.
CHAPTER 4
Ryan found himself standing in the pouring rain at the rear bumper of the Chevy Suburban that had forever changed his life. Knowing what was coming next, he quickly ducked and looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see his daycare teacher lunging for him.
But she was nowhere to be found.
The facility wasn’t there either.
Behind him was only a long, empty road with no clear beginning. On the other side of the tangled mess of metal and glass, the road stretched on beyond the horizon with no turns and no perceptible end.
He straightened up his posture, bit down on his lower lip and, with as much courage as he could muster, finally stepped around the back end of the Chevy Suburban. Just as he did, the rain stopped – as if a faucet had been turned off – and the storm clouds melted into a star-filled sky, unobscured by the new moon.
His parent’s Honda Civic was tilted grotesquely forward with all four wheels off the ground, effectively molded to the front of the Suburban, the front windshields of the two vehicles nearly touching. Ryan bit down a little harder on his lip and concentrated on the sound of his breathing, shallow and rapid through his nose, trying to stay composed. Nerves taut, he wrapped his fingers over the passenger-side window frame, pulled himself up onto his tiptoes and stretched his neck to try and see inside.
“Ryan?”
Any other sound would have startled him. But this soft, comforting, familiar voice was instantly soothing. Ryan immediately let go – of the car door he was holding on to, of the confidence he was trying to project, of the emotions he’d been trying to suppress, of everything. He ran to his mother, standing at the side of the road with his father, and collapsed into her open arms. Sobbing, with his head still buried in his mother’s side, he reached out an arm to embrace his father as well.
“You are our everything, Ryan. You always were – but now more than ever,” Ryan’s dad said quietly, ruffling his hair the way he had every time he’d said goodbye to Ryan.
His mom gently nudged his quivering chin upward with the side of her finger to look him in his tear-filled eyes. “Make a difference,” she said. “Love. Be loved. And be happy.” She leaned down and gave him a kiss goodbye on the forehead just like she had everyday she'd dropped him off at school.
Ryan knew he couldn’t stop them, but as the tears trickled continuously down his cheeks, one by one, he bit back down on his lip and managed to whisper, “Please, don’t go.” For the first time, he felt a twinge of real pain in his lower lip. “Don’t go,” he whispered again. He could feel himself waking, and the harder he fought it, the shallower his sleep became. “Don’t go,” he heard himself whisper aloud. He was awake.
“You okay?” Sara asked, peeking her head in the door.
“Yeah,” Ryan answered, his voice cracking just slightly.
Pretty sure everything was not okay, Sara cautiously entered his room and knelt at the edge of his bed. “Honey, your lip is bleeding,” she said worriedly.
“I was just having a realistic dream, and I bit down on it. It’s ok.”
“Are you sure?” she said reaching for a tissue. “Let me see.”
He studied her face as she stared down at his lip with genuine concern, tenderly dabbing it with the tissue. “I’m sure,” he answered.
Once she was satisfied with her nursing job, Sara glanced back up to find Ryan looking her directly in the eye. “You sure you’re ok?” she asked with a confused, almost self-conscious expression.
Then Ryan did something he’d never done before in his four weeks at the Ewing household. He wrapped his arms around her and gave her an unreserved hug, resting his head on her shoulder.
“Finally,” she thought as she hugged him back, her heart soaring inside her chest. She had been so sure for so long that it would happen, but she’d just started to allow herself to question, “What if it didn’t?”
Ryan loosened his embrace, but Sara wasn’t ready yet. She continued squeezing him, blotting the corner of her eye with the tissue she still held in her hand.
For the past month she’d stood up to the Avillage board. He wasn’t ready to start his education, she’d told them. They couldn’t push him.
Over the last several days her stand had only gotten harder, as she’d felt even more alone in her fight. Thomas, frustrated by their lack of progress, had begun to make the argument that maybe they should consider starting the board’s plan. They couldn’t possibly start making less headway with him. “Do you want them to take him?” he warned. “They can. And they will.” Thomas had slept on the couch that night.
But on this nondescript Tuesday morning, when she’d least expected it, Ryan had proven her right. In every way this was a breakthrough.
~~~
“Welcome, everyone. I’d like to call to order the first meeting of the board of directors of RTJ,” Prescott announced formally at precisely eight o’clock, the history of the moment not escaping him.
The first meeting was held in the Avillage board room two doors down from the office of James Prescott, who now stood at the head of a long, sturdy oak table with a panoramic view of the financial district as his backdrop. Seated around the table were the nine other board members. Six were early investors in Avillage – business executives mostly in their sixties and seventies. Two were chief executives of mid-sized companies. And the last was a baby-faced cardiologist in his first year out of fellowship, who looked almost as out of place in a suit as he did among the company he currently kept.
“The purpose of today’s meeting,” Prescott continued, speaking without notes, “is to go over some early financial estimates, discuss some of the progress we’ve made in the six weeks since open, and, hopefully, come up with some strategies to get things headed in the right direction before we release our first quarterly report.
“I‘ve been in communication with the adoptive parents on a weekly basis. Unfortunately, we lost about four weeks in the transition from orphanage to home, but we’ve
now started most of the educational programs we’d prioritized the highest. Our boy’s actually already well ahead of where we thought he’d be in math despite the setback – he’s picking up concepts amazingly quickly.
“His tutor is billing out at 45 dollars an hour for 10 hours a week, and we’re picking that up. We’ve also got him working with an English tutor for 4 hours a week, primarily working on writing. That seems to be paying early dividends also, and she bills at the same rate.
“His mom is out of the house for four hours a day, leaving him with a Mexican-American nanny we’ve chosen, who’s got an exceptional track record for teaching conversational Spanish. He’s doing very well with that, and she only costs us 20 dollars an hour for 20 hours a week. We’ll keep the nanny until he’s fluent, but we won’t need the math or English tutors during the school year.
“His adoptive mother is playing games of strategy with him for about an hour a night, which I’m told he enjoys, and his dad is introducing him to the basics of the financial markets, obviously avoiding AVEX. Those services are of course free to us, and his parents have waived the parental stipend.
“We’re picking up the family’s healthcare by contractual obligation, which is about 900 a month, and he’ll be starting school at the Hunting Valley Academy for Math, Science and the Arts, which is clearly the top primary school in Cleveland and one of the best in the country – really a bargain at $24,000 annually.
“That puts our annual expenditures somewhere in the neighborhood of $60,000. Any questions or comments on any of that?”
“Any word yet on grade placement?” one of the executives asked. “60,000 times nine sounds a lot more palatable than 60,000 times eleven.”