by Sean Black
Landon came loping into the kitchen, heading straight for the refrigerator. Malik was amazed at the boy’s capacity to eat and not put on so much as a pound. ‘What were the cops here for, Dad?’
‘Just something at the stadium last night.’
Kim studied him. ‘That's where you were? Someone break in?’
Malik really didn’t want to have this conversation with Landon and Katy present. He did his best to shield them from the sickness in the world.
He took a sip of coffee. ‘Yeah, a break-in. Someone goofing around. Nothing was taken. That was the head of security checking in.’
Kim stood there, hands on hips. He couldn’t get anything past her. ‘So how come he had your cell phone?’
‘I’ll tell you later, okay?’ Malik said softly, hoping his tone would convey that he didn’t want to discuss it in front of the children.
‘Uh-huh,’ said Kim. ‘Well, I’m going to shower.’ She turned to her son, who was still busy looting the refrigerator. ‘Leave some food for the rest of us, Landon.’
With Kim out of the way, Malik dug out his cell phone and scrolled to the picture folder on the display. He tapped it open. He was going to email that photo to himself so he’d have a copy. He couldn’t. The picture he’d taken last night of the grey sedan had been deleted.
6
Malik blew straight past the line of people waiting patiently in the anteroom of Allan Laird’s office. Laird was the chancellor. He had headed the committee that had appointed Malik to the job. Malik liked Laird well enough, in as much as there wasn’t anything actively to dislike about the man. He was a glass-of-milk kind of guy, the type who ended up in jobs like chancellor because they’d never held an opinion strongly enough to piss anyone else off. Laird’s secretary got up from behind her desk, attempting to block him.
‘Coach Shaw, the chancellor is in the middle of––’
But her 120 pounds was no match for Malik in full flow. She was used to blocking access, but Malik had spent years in the NBA getting the ball to the basket past ghetto-determined men who were a lot bigger than he was. He dodged round her with a polite ‘Don’t worry, Suzanne. He’s expecting me.’
He turned the handle and walked into Laird’s office. Laird was on the phone. He looked vaguely startled by Malik’s appearance, but waved him into the chair opposite. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘Be right with you, Coach.’
Many men in Laird’s position would have resented the intrusion, and reacted accordingly. Not Laird. He didn’t do ruffled, or not that Malik had seen. It was a power thing. When you held the whole deck, you deployed power differently. Power was an absence of reaction. Malik knew because he had seen the same trick from the head coaches of pro teams. There were only so many times you could lose your temper before it lost its impact. It was more effective to leave players and staff to fill in what you were thinking for themselves. As a management style, it worked.
Laird was playing another trick that Malik knew all about. Giving someone who was clearly agitated time to cool off. Laird was likely done with the call but he kept the other person on the line, asking about the man’s family and kids.
Malik used the time to study Laird’s office. There was something in particular he was looking for. He found it easily enough. Then he waited for Laird to finish the call.
Laird hung up, and smiled benevolently across the desk. ‘Coach, always a pleasure. You ready to win this for us tonight? Eleven and two. Pretty incredible.’
Malik got to the point. ‘Captain Tromso speak to you about what happened last night?’
Laird’s smile vanished. He stretched his arms into the air. His hands settled behind his head, a hostage to fortune. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Malik.’
Malik had never heard Laird use his first name before. It unsettled him. It was the language of someone who badly wanted him on-side. ‘That so?’ he said.
‘You think I’m going to ignore this but, believe me, I’m not. Whatever went on last night, innocent or not, was wholly unacceptable to me and this institution. I’m going to deal with it.’
Malik locked eyes with Laird. ‘How?’
‘Firmly,’ said Laird. ‘The individual in question has been asked to tender his resignation from the board of trustees. Furthermore, he is going to be told that he is no longer welcome anywhere on campus. His relationship with this university is over.’
Malik didn’t say anything. The rage he had felt when he’d arrived was nothing to what he felt now. He wanted to stand up, grab Laird by his fancy tie, drag him over the desk, and explain to him what ‘firmly’ meant where he came from. Malik counted to ten. Slowly. It didn’t help. Finally, he said, ‘That’s it?’
Laird leaned forward, steepling his fingers under his chin. ‘What more would you like me to do?’
Suddenly the room felt hot. Malik reached up and loosened the tie he was wearing. ‘You’re serious? What do I think you should do? I caught a kid in the shower with one of our trustees and you’re asking me what I think you should do?’
Laird appeared taken aback and, for a second, Malik took it at face value.
‘That wasn’t what I was told, Coach. Captain Tromso said that . . .’ he flicked through some notes on his desk ‘. . . shortly after midnight, this morning, campus dispatch received an agitated call from you that you had a found a young man in the shower area.’ He kept reading from the report. ‘And that, furthermore, you had seen someone flee the stadium. No one told me that you had caught both parties actually in the shower together.’
Malik knew what Laird was doing. ‘You’re playing with words, Chancellor. Okay maybe I didn't actually see them together, but you don’t have to be a genius to know what was going on. What was a grown man doing with a child ‒ not a young man, a child ‒ alone in the middle of the night?’
It was obviously time for Laird to up the ante. He got up, walked round his desk and perched on the corner. Malik had a feeling that this was a conversation the chancellor might have had before and that he’d used exactly the same approach to deflect it. Deny, deflect and, finally, downplay.
‘Coach, when matters like this arise I have a duty of care. Let’s assume you’re right. That something untoward was going on before you interrupted. It’s not enough to suspect. There has to be proof. Think of the damage that could be done to a man and his family. What if we, you, were wrong? The legal implications don’t bear thinking about.’
‘And what about that kid? Has anyone spoken to him?’
Laird shot Malik a benevolent smile that came off patronizing. ‘The boy is denying that anything out of place happened. Now do you see why I’m reluctant to go in all guns blazing?’
Malik looked past Laird to the trump card he had scoped out earlier. A series of silver-framed pictures of Laird’s wife and three kids, two boys and a girl, stood on a credenza behind his desk.
‘And if it had been your son, Chancellor, would you be so ready to accept that nothing happened? I know I sure as hell wouldn’t. And while we’re at it, who is this trustee? He have a name?’
Laird glared at Malik, which gave him some satisfaction. It meant he had touched a nerve. If you thought the whole thing was innocent, a misunderstanding, you didn’t react in the way Laird just had.
The glare was folded up and put away, replaced by the patronizing smile, which meant that a guy like Malik, a jock from the ghetto, could never understand the complex moral and ethical issues at play, not to mention the sensitivity of such a matter. Only Malik didn’t need to understand any of that. All he needed to appreciate was that there was right and there was wrong, and what he’d seen was all kinds of wrong.
Laird got up and walked toward the door, a clear gesture that the unscheduled meeting was over. ‘I’ll take on board what you’ve said, Coach, but I think it might be best for everyone if you left this with me. You have a game to win.’
The last thing Malik cared about right now was the game. Twenty-four hours ago that would hav
e seemed unthinkable, but a lot could change in twenty-four hours.
The two men’s eyes locked. ‘Thanks for your time, Chancellor Laird.”
Laird raised a bunched hand, as if he were about to give Malik an attaboy punch to the shoulder. Malik threw him a look to suggest that he might not have a hand if he tried it. He settled for an open-palmed pat. ‘You’re doing great work, Coach. Great work.’
7
Malik sat in his pick-up. He was angrier than when he’d arrived. He hadn’t thought that was possible. He was angry at Tromso for covering the whole thing up. He was angry at Laird for treating him as if he was making a mountain out of a molehill. But most of all he was angry at himself.
The trustees were all men with either money or serious political connections. No doubt the guy had cooked up some bullshit story about what he’d been doing. Laird had probably bought it, but he was chancellor because he was an operator. Getting the perpetrator to stand aside was probably as good as it got, especially if the kid was too scared or embarrassed to file charges, or even to admit anything had happened. And who was going to take the word of a black coach versus some buttoned-down white trustee?
Malik had been wasting his time going to see Laird. And Laird was right: he did have a job to do, a game to win. But that didn’t mean this was the last they’d heard of it. If for no other reason than that Malik had to be able to look at himself in the mirror every morning when he was shaving, he was going to figure out exactly what had happened.
He’d get some answers, and if they made him unpopular, so be it. Like the rest of the country, he had watched what had gone down at Penn State, and how Joe Paterno’s legacy had been tarnished by the sin of omission. Malik wasn’t going to let himself suffer the same fate. There was no way someone was going to turn to him one day and ask why he’d left things alone instead of satisfying himself that he’d done everything he could.
If Tromso or Laird didn’t like it, well, that was too damn bad. Malik was his own man, and he wasn’t planning on changing now.
Malik walked into the kitchen. The kids were at school and Kim was unloading the dishwasher. He grabbed some plates from the bottom rack and began to put them away. He and Kim had always shared domestic chores, much to the amusement of male buddies and teammates, who’d arrive to catch him sweeping the hallway or vacuuming the carpets. But it was that kind of marriage. A partnership. Malik was pretty sure that was one of the reasons they had lasted where so many others had failed. They’d kept it real.
‘You going to tell me what’s going on?’ she asked him, lining up some glasses in a cabinet.
He sighed. ‘That obvious?’
‘Who are you talking to?’ she said, smiling.
She sat down at the kitchen table. He sat next to her. He explained as best he could what had happened ‒ what he had seen, then how Tromso and now the chancellor were making out like it was none of his business. She listened quietly.
As he finished, he said, ‘Before you say anything, I know what I saw, Kim. I’ve been over it in my mind a dozen times since last night.’
Last night? Was it really that short a time ago? Sitting here with his wife, unburdening himself, with the watery spring Minnesota light filtering in through the window, it felt like a week had passed already.
Kim looked at him. ‘I believe you, and I trust you.’ She reached out and wrapped her hands around his.
It was what he had needed to hear. ‘So what do I do?’ he asked her. ‘I mean, I can’t just pretend it never happened.’
‘No, you can’t.’
Neither of them said anything for a moment. Then Malik said, ‘I kept thinking, what if it had been Landon in there with some weird guy? Or Katy? How would I feel if someone saw that happening to one of our kids, and turned their back?’
‘But you didn’t, did you?’ Kim said.
‘And look where it’s got me. I have a feeling that, even if I win this game tonight, Laird’s got me down as a troublemaker.’
Kim’s brow furrowed. ‘Why doesn’t he want to take it any further? So they kick the guy off the board. Big deal. He’s still out there, doing whatever he was doing before.’
Malik had a feeling they both knew the answer already. The college didn’t want to get involved. This way they could say they had acted decisively. But they hadn’t dealt with the problem: they’d just stopped it being their problem.
‘I know,’ said Malik. ‘Someone has to stop him.’
As soon as he said it, he realized he didn’t even know the name of the person they were talking about. He didn’t have a face either. Laird knew, so did Tromso, but there was no way they were going to volunteer that information.
‘You could call the state police, couldn’t you? Or the FBI?’ Kim suggested.
Malik had already thought about it. Sitting in his car after he’d seen Laird, he’d almost made the call then and there. But something had stopped him, and it wasn’t just that he didn’t have much to give them. As ashamed as he was to admit it, he didn’t want to do anything until after the game this evening.
Despite his lingering anger and resentment, he couldn’t help but get caught up in the excitement of the final game of the Wolves’ season. He might have played in bigger games, but for the kids on his team this was the pinnacle of their college career. For them it would be their high point of playing basketball, a memory to be cherished, something to tell their own kids about. They wouldn’t be going on to the NBA. This was it for them, the top of the mountain. Malik couldn’t afford to let what he’d stumbled upon ruin that. He wanted them to be able to remember finishing as winners. He owed them that. The rest would wait, and there was something to be said for allowing himself to make his next move, whatever it might be, with a clear mind.
‘Malik?’
His wife was looking at him, waiting for a response.
‘They don’t have state police here, but I’ll follow it up tomorrow. See if I can’t speak to some more people, find out if they know what’s been going on.’
Kim squeezed his hand. ‘I know you’ll do what’s right.’
8
Malik went upstairs, showered, put on slacks and a polo shirt, then headed back to college. There was less than six hours until the game started and a lot left to do. He got into his car, and drove to his office in the athletic department. He met with his assistant coaches, including Mike, whom he questioned again about the late-night text, getting the same answer he had before (‘I swear, I was home asleep the whole time, Coach’), and went over final preparations.
The game plan for the evening was already decided. Malik didn’t believe in setting out to frustrate the other team. His approach had always been simple: play fast, be aggressive, everyone to know what their job was ahead of time.
He watched some tapes of potential freshmen recruits. There was a kid from Gainesville he was desperate to have on the team, but he was pretty sure that a bigger college would land him. Despite all the noises that were made in public, all kinds of under-the-table deals were still being struck. Malik wouldn’t play that game, and if it meant he lost out, then too bad. He had seen, up close and personal, how money had tainted college sports. He always told his kids to worry about the game first, and the money would take care of itself. It was an increasingly tough pitch to make in a country where the only thing that seemed to matter, these days, was the mighty dollar.
He arrived at the stadium with ninety minutes to go before tip-off. Unlike last night, the parking lots were full, with students, alumni and locals partying. He lowered his window, and waved to people as he drove through. The smiles and whoops he got as he inched the car forward couldn’t help but make him feel good.
This was what sport was about, he thought. A way of bringing people together.
He parked and ducked in through the side door as he had last night. The corridor was crowded with people. He couldn’t help but glance at the visitors’ locker roo
m as he opened the opposite door and headed into the home-team area.
His boys were already there, some with headphones pumping rap and rock into their ears, others standing about chatting to each other or to the assistants. He worked the room, shaking hands, patting backs, offering words of encouragement to the nervous, and trying to keep a lid on one or two players who had let the mood outside carry them away. They had reached the final, and that was great, but they still had a ways to go, and while they were favorites, there was no such thing as far as Malik was concerned. You treated the opposition with respect or you paid the price.
The players went out to warm up. He could hear the crowd rise to them. As they filtered back in and sat down, Malik kept his final words brief.
Enjoy it.
Leave your game out there on the floor.
Make sure you won’t have any regrets later.
He repeated the last part, which was more for himself, a testament of faith, than for the young men huddled around him.
They were three down at the half, some sloppy defense having cost them. They huddled up one more time. Malik dug a little deeper, got a little more serious, reprimanding a few of his players.
He sensed the determination in them. By the time they went out to start the third quarter, he would have bet his home that they would win.
He was right. By the end of the third they were in the lead by five points. He kept at them, losing himself in the game as he stood at the side of the court. All thoughts of the previous evening were gone now. There was only the present. Only the here and now.
Malik, the crowd and the team were one, playing every pass, jumping for every rebound, holding their collective breath in the seconds between the ball leaving a player’s hands and whooshing through the net, or rattling off the back board.
Forty seconds to go. Up by nine. All they had to do was stay cool. It was their game to lose. He called a final time-out. He wanted to kill the pace. They needed to nag and niggle and frustrate.