by Paul Levine
"Are you all right, Ms. Kingsley?" Bobby Gallagher asked, carrying her gently toward the door.
She looked up at the shaggy haired young man with warm, sad eyes, placed her head on his shoulder, and said, "I am, now."
To this day, two of Bobby's knuckles carried a scars from Darby's canines.
In the mirror, she could see Bobby behind her. He had just stepped out of the shower and was toweling himself off.
"It's not your fault, Bobby. Now we know what a thug Jackson is. But two years ago, how could you have known? You played by the rules and did your job."
She could hear him exhale as if he had started a word, then changed his mind. "Didn't you, Bobby?"
"I paid an investigator twenty thousand dollars to find an alibi witness."
"That seems like a lot for…" She felt her hairbrush stop in mid-stroke and she turned to look at him head on. "You mean you paid for false testimony."
She tried to make eye contact, but his gaze wouldn't meet hers. "My P.I. found a limo driver who claimed he was driving Nightlife on a club-hopping tour and never lost sight of him all night. No perfume clerk, no hotel room, no rape."
"And it was false?"
"All I know is that the driver's memory improved with each thousand dollars, and by the time of the final draft of the affidavit, his statement was so convincing that Nightlife was never even charged. No messy trial, no bad publicity. The prosecutor practically apologized for our inconvenience."
"You never told me," she said, looking at her naked husband. He had started going soft around the middle, and now, his shoulders slumped. She wanted him to say more. She loved him, but even after all these years, she still didn't know exactly what made him tick. Why was he so difficult to reach?
"Does Daddy know?"
Bobby's laugh was empty and humorless. "He gave me the cash for the payoff. Your father regards his players' criminal charges as public relations problems, not moral issues."
"Don't do that, Bobby. Don't shift this to him. We're talking about you. What else have you done?"
"Everything dear old Daddy wanted me to."
"Then confront him directly. Anything else is cowardly."
Bobby blinked twice as if a flashbulb had startled him. Immediately she regretted what she had said. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I didn't mean that you're-"
"No, Chrissy, you're right." He lowered his head, and his voice was barely a whisper. "I'm afraid of your father. I owe him so much I don't know how to stand up to him, and I blame him for my own weaknesses."
"Talk to me," she pleaded. "Tell me everything."
"'What shall it profit a man,'" he said, his eyes distant and unfocused, "'if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?'"
She stared at her husband as if she did not know him. He was not one to quote Scripture. He seemed to be disintegrating before her eyes. "How have you lost your soul, Bobby?"
He didn't speak, didn't seem to be able to form the words.
"I'm not just your wife," Christine said. "I'm not just the mother of your son. I'm your best friend, Bobby."
"Locked up in the marketing office all day, you've been insulated from a lot of what's been going on."
"I read the papers. I know we've been embarrassed. And I listen to you after you have a second martini on a Saturday night, and you start whimpering that you're going to quit your job and join the Peace Corps."
"Now you're mocking me."
"I'm not! I'm trying to draw you out of your cave. I'm trying to get you to talk about your feelings. What is it you've done or think you've done?"
Men! Why do they have such difficulty expressing their emotions? Other than anger, that is.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. When he finally spoke, his voice was parched. "I've paid witnesses to leave town and others to testify about events they never saw. I've fabricated drug tests and suborned perjury. I've carried piss for your father."
"What?"
"I've peed into bottles and switched urine samples with half-a-dozen players. As far as the league knows, the Mustangs have no drug problem but suspiciously high cholesterol."
"Oh, Bobby," she said, feeling his humiliation. "Why didn't you talk to me before?"
"I've repressed it. I convinced myself how wonderful life was because I love you and Scott so much. I even like some of the work. But the fixing and cheating is eating away at me. And now, this! There's a woman in the hospital, beaten and raped, because of me."
Christine used a cane to stand up at the vanity table, then hobbled over to the bed, sitting down next to him. His eyes were red and puffy, and sitting there, naked, he looked like as vulnerable as a lost little boy. She put her arms around him and stroked the back of his neck. She would do anything to breathe life back into him. This was the man who had saved her from an abusive man, who fathered her son, who teased her and made her laugh. "Don't you understand that I love you no matter what? This only brings us closer together. Your problems are mine. Your pain is mine. We can work through this."
She held his hand as they talked, felt the warmth of him. This is what marriage was all about, she was sure. Bonding in times of crisis.
"If you want me to talk to my father, I'll-"
"No, Chrissy. This is my battle. I'm going to handle it myself."
"Fine. But don't threaten Daddy," she cautioned. "That doesn't work with him. And don't just stake out the high moral ground. You need to give him business reasons for every decision."
"I'm not crawling on hands and knees to kiss his ring. I'm through being afraid of him."
There was an edge to his voice that frightened her.
Oh Bobby, how can I protect you?
She worried that he was too undisciplined and impetuous to confront her father. When directly challenged, Daddy always lashed back.
"What are you going to do, Bobby?" she asked.
Bobby took inventory before answering, tallying the bounty of his life. His wife and son, of course, and a deep love for them both. Then, the material items. A gorgeous home with a lap pool, a Jacuzzi, and a tennis court. A garage shielding his Lexus and Chrissy's Mercedes from the Texas sun. An expense account and pension plan. Cocktail parties and business lunches and a closet full of expensive suits.
For years, he had been stuck in a web of finely spun gold. The road to ruin is paved with foie gras, he concluded. The pursuit of victory-on the field, at the ticket window, in the courtroom-had become paramount. Corruption was the handmaiden of success. He had gone along, handing up his balls along with his self-esteem. A man can rationalize almost anything.
Hey, this is the big leagues. This is the way the game is played.
Tonight, he had stood fifteen minutes under the scalding water in the shower but could not scrub himself clean. He heard terrified screams in the roar of the faucet, saw the face of an anguished woman rising from the steam. With those visions still etched in his mind, a plan began to form.
He would reclaim his manhood. Maybe he'd lose the material possessions but he'd still have what mattered most to him, the love and tenderness of his wife and son.
"I'm going to take a stand," he said. "I'm going to change my life."
"Do it," Christine said, reaching out to stroke his cheek. "But remember, it's my life, too."
"The Cowboys are America's Team. Dallas has the babes, the glitz, the uniforms. The Cowboys are the American Dream."
— Tony Kornheiser, sportswriter
9
An All Pro Quid Pro Quo
This was the day, Bobby Gallagher vowed, he would reclaim his soul. He would confront his father-in-law and climb out of the shallow grave of corruption and despair he had dug for himself.
Okay, let's put a lid on the melodrama. I made a deal with Martin Kingsley. I do whatever the hell he wants, and he overpays me for it.
Most lawyers for pro football teams are paper pushers, laboring over player contracts and sponsor deals.
Not bagmen, dishing out cash to
witnesses.
"Keep my players off the docket," Kingsley had ordered, more than once. The idea was to deep-six cases before they ever reached the courthouse door.
The lawyer as Fixer. But today I'm putting a stop all the sleazy tricks.
Ordinarily, Kingsley was the first to arrive at the Mustangs' Valley Ranch headquarters but on this morning-the day after the victory over Washington-Bobby was waiting in the anteroom at 5:35 a. m drinking black coffee from a mug he had carried in the car. Bobby had been unable to sleep and had nowhere else to go. Christine was knocked out, purring contentedly under a haze of pain killers. Kingsley seemed both surprised and pleased to see his son-in-law in the quiet of the early morning. He greeted Bobby him with the satisfied smile of a man who owns a large chunk of God's green earth.
"Helluva game, wasn't it Robert? Now, bring on the Bears. Say, did I congratulate you and Christine on your anniversary?"
"We received your gift, Martin. Thank you. It was very generous."
Damn. How do you confront with the man who just gave you first class tickets to Maui and a fully paid hotel suite? It had seemed so easy rehearsing the speech in the car, but now…
"No need to thank me," Kingsley said. "Hell, it's a selfish gift. I love Hawaii, and I'll have a suite just down the hall from you. Nothing more I'd love to do than celebrate with my family."
He winked at Bobby. The trip was one week after the Super Bowl, so Bobby had no doubt what celebration his father-in-law had in mind.
They walked together down the corridor, Bobby matching strides with the long-legged Texan. Kingsley wore his trademark black suit with silver shoulder piping, a matching gray tie, and black ostrich-skin cowboy boots. He was vital and strong with a crushing handshake and a charming personality when he chose to use them. He also could be ornery as an old mule.
Bobby took a deep breath and tried to relax. He had never confronted Kingsley before. In every major disagreement, Bobby had always backed down. Today, he vowed, it would be different.
Don't worry, Chrissy. You'll be proud of me when this day is out.
Listening to Kingsley re-live the glory of the victory over Washington, Bobby let his mind wander. How had he even gotten here? For years, he thought that the passive act of holding a ball for someone else to kick was the only thing in the world he was perfectly competent to do. He was rejected by every law school in Florida but finally secured a spot at a small college in Dallas whose accreditation was pending. He got a job pouring tar on roofs during the day and studied law at night. Even now, he could remember the choking fumes of the tar on a hot Texas day, his skin darkened by the sun and singed by drops of the boiling black liquid.
Bobby graduated from law school with what he liked to call "low honors." He got a job in the public defenders' office in Dallas and discovered he had a knack for trying cases. In his second year, he handled a case that would change his life.
"The bastard spit beer on my girlfriend," his client had told him.
"Whereupon the defendant did strike the victim on or about the head with a deadly weapon, to wit: a pool cue."
Or so said the indictment against his client.
Bobby thought it hurt his case that his client had assaulted a Dallas Mustangs defensive lineman with the pool cue. The players were still in their demi-god phase. But Bobby was masterful in closing argument, railing about the "mountain of reasonable doubt." When the jury came back with a big fat Not Guilty, Bobby was interviewed on local TV as a rising star in the local courthouse, and the next day, the new owner of the team called. "They tell me you know how to talk to a jury without polishing your words so shiny you could skate on 'em," Martin Kingsley said. "C'mon out to Valley Ranch. I'll buy you lunch and pick your brain."
Bobby didn't need to be asked twice. Kingsley gave him a tour of the training facilities, then began asking questions about a player who had been set up for a cocaine purchase by an informant.
As he listened, Bobby realized that he was auditioning for a job. Associate counsel, maybe work his way up to vice president for legal affairs and general counsel. Prestige, money, a fun job. Better than the hard tile floors and green metal desks in the P.D.'s office.
Bobby ran through the usual advice of attacking the credibility of the snitch, who almost certainly had a criminal record, of getting the jury upset that the cops are using scumbags to make their cases, of pleading entrapment.
"But none of that will work," Bobby said.
"So what the hell would you do?" Kingsley demanded, impatiently.
"I'd want to know who the judge is," Bobby said. "Is he a football fan? Judges are just like everybody else once they take off their robes and step down from the bench. They want to rub shoulders with celebrities and get close to the action. You'd be surprised how much mileage you could get out of a few hor d'oeuvres and some skybox seats."
Kingsley's smile stretched across his face. "Do you like cigars?" he asked, opening a wooden humidor on his desk.
At first, Bobby genuinely admired the man who was to become his boss and later his father-in-law. The charismatic Texan could be warm, generous and giving. What Bobby only realized much later was that every gift-paying off the house mortgage, the Mercedes at Christmas-came with a price.
An All Pro quid pro quo.
Martin Kingsley required unwavering, unquestioning loyalty. A willingness to follow orders without so much as a "why," "but," or "maybe."
When Bobby was hired, Kingsley was still in his honeymoon phase with the news media and the fans. He gave great interviews, allowing himself to be quoted on every subject from the length of the cheerleaders' short-shorts-"Bubba ain't paying to see no Vestal Virgins"-to his players' taunting, flaunting, swaggering style-"It ain't braggin' if you kin do it." He was country with a wink and a nod.
Slick as owl shit as they say west of the Pecos.
But the charm soon gave way to something never seen at press conferences and cocktail parties, the cold-blooded pursuit of victories and profits at any cost.
Finally, Kingsley asked why Bobby had come around so early. They were settled into the plush office, decorated in silver and blue and large enough for a decent down-and-out pass. Bobby glanced at the Super Bowl memorabilia lining the walls and wondered if he'd ever see them again.
"Nightlife Jackson," he said, evenly.
"Ah yes." Kingsley propped his cowboy boots on his desk. "Is that taken care of?"
"I wanted to talk to you first."
"Make sure bond is arranged before going downtown. I don't want him to sit in jail and miss practice."
"That's not what I wanted to talk about. It's more complex than that."
"Set a meeting with that P.R. woman we used when Buckwalter busted up that tavern. Get your investigator to find out if the woman's ever cried 'rape' before.'. Let me know when a judge is assigned to the case. If it's Wilford Adams, I'll call the old bastard myself. If it's one of those young Turks, you'll have to orchestrate some dog and pony show."
"That's not what I had in mind," Bobby said. He gripped the chair and tried not to fidget. He felt a rivulet of sweat streaking down his temple.
"No? What's your strategy?"
"Martin, this is a great opportunity to do something right, to take a stand on principle."
"I don't follow you."
"We can win without him."
"What are you talking about?"
Bobby felt jumpy, as if his chest were filled with fluttering birds. "Let's use the morals clause in his contract to cut Nightlife from the team. Make a public statement. You won't tolerate immoral behavior. From now own, the players must adhere to principles and values. Zero tolerance for violence against women, drug abuse, or criminal conduct of any kind. You'll clean out all the thugs and lawbreakers."
A moment of dead silence sucked all the air from the room. Kingsley looked at Bobby as if he were speaking some strange, foreign language.
"Cut Nightlife Jackson? Is that what you're saying?"
"We'll be s
etting an example for the league and for all the kids who look up to athletes. We'll let the whole country know you've got to be a good citizen to play for the Mustangs."
Kingsley swung his boots to the floor and leaned across his desk toward Bobby, fixing him with a look as vicious as a pit bull guarding a bone. "Nightlife would be signed by another team in an instant. We'd face him in the playoffs, for Christ's sake!"
"No one will sign him because he'll be in jail. I plan on pleading him guilty."
"The hell you will! What's gotten into you?"
Bobby wasn't sure what to say. His seduction and corruption had occurred slowly, the drip from a faucet that eventually overflows the sink. After a moment, he said, "I took an oath, Martin, but I never heard the words."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Last summer, we took Scott to Washington," Bobby said. "We did the Smithsonian, the White House, all the tourist things. I went to the Supreme Court. Hell, I'll never argue a case there, but I wanted to see it. On the front steps are these two marble statues, one representing justice the other law. I started to believe the words carved in the marble."
"What words!"
"'Equal Justice Under Law.' The blindfolded lady with the scales, the whole nine yards."
Kingsley ground his teeth and his craggy face knotted up like burled oak. When he spoke again, his voice cut the air with the hiss of a swinging scythe. "Lady Justice is a whore who can be bought and sold. A good lawyer bends Lady Justice over his desk and fucks her up the ass."
"That's pretty much what Nightlife Jackson did to Janet Petty."
"Just get down off your high horse and fix this thing. Christ, by now, you should know your job."