A Life Intercepted

by Charles Martin

  “No.”

  “Then how do I get in touch with you?”

  “You want to be a quarterback? Figure it out. I don’t care if you have to send a carrier pigeon, it’s your job to find me and let me know.”

  He smiled. His honesty was disarming. “Anybody ever told you that you can be a bit demanding?”

  “Yep. And the last group of guys to register that complaint are all wearing rings that say ‘National Champion.’ ”

  He stood up and placed one hand behind his back. “Mr. Rising, would you like paper or plastic?”

  I laughed. “That’s what I thought.”

  Dalton and Audrey turned and began walking away. Audrey brushed by me, her sleeve touching my arm. When she looked up, one eyebrow was raised above the other. She didn’t voice it but her mouth said it loud and clear. Told you so. And she had. He’d done everything she’d said he would. And better. I could see what she saw in him. Plus, she’d always had a thing for quarterbacks. I watched her walk away—the sun on her face, the angle of her shoulders, the small of her back, the shape of her legs, the sun glistening on her hair.

  Prison numbs desire, it doesn’t kill it. And being around her, while it was what I wanted, was difficult.

  Our time frame was short. Eight weeks wasn’t much. Following my run with him, I was less concerned about his physical skills and strength as I was unwiring or uncoaching what had been imprinted into his mind. I’d never met Coach Damon, and he might have been a good man off the field, but he had not helped Dee. And based on the quarterback competition with his son, I’d bet he knew that. My job, and the reason Audrey had invited me into this, was to undo bad coaching. To complicate matters, we had to do everything in secret. We couldn’t set foot on the field in daylight hours, and we couldn’t use his receivers. We also did not have a lot of time, so I had to cram as much as possible in what time we had, and that process was going to make smoke come out his seventeen-year-old ears. If we were to pull this off, Dee would have to be more than a senior in high school. He was going to have to rise above himself, and he may not like me during the process.

  I had to tear him down before I could build him back up.

  The questions I wrestled with were twofold: Would he follow me far enough and trust me long enough to let the process run its course? And more importantly—would Audrey? Could she force herself to believe in me while I tore him down? The future of Dalton Rogers hung on a fragile peg—could she trust me with what she loved when she didn’t trust me?

  I had my doubts.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Wood and Ray appeared midmorning in Wood’s Suburban. His ring-around-the-collar dress shirt was soaked in sweat, meaning the AC had quit working again.

  I was tinkering with the trail bike, trying to stop the sputter. Wood said, “My phone’s been sort of busy today.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Lot of folks been asking about you.”

  “And?”

  “I had three calls yesterday from teams asking me if I still represent you.”

  “And?”

  “I told them I didn’t know and that I needed to ask you.”

  I held up my fingers, making quotation marks. “The word ‘represent,’ suggests a future. A career in football. As in, I’m headed toward one.”

  Wood nodded. “That would be correct.”

  I straddled the Honda, started it, and let it idle. It sounded better. “Then no. Not in a professional capacity.”

  “That’s what I thought, but I figured I’d better check.” I waited, sensing there was more to his statement. He put his hand on the throttle, gave it some gas, and listened as the engine wound up and then returned to idle. Nodding, he said, “I guess you don’t want to hear how all three are offering to pay you for the chance just to evaluate you. Seems your prison video is making the rounds.”

  I cut the engine. “Wood, I’m done.”

  “That may be, but a couple of the news stations are carrying a story about how the commissioner said he’d be willing to work with the authorities to get you permission to travel, and then, if need be, get you reinstated into the league. Said that given the fact that you served your sentence, he’d be willing to help you work around whatever limitations they put on you.”

  I pointed at my leg. “What’s he plan to do about that?”

  “I spoke with NFL legal this morning. Their team has looked into jurisdictional requirements, and they believe they can work with the various locales in which you’d be playing since the limitations placed on you are local and subject to state law. You’ve already complied with federal law by registering, and because you’re not living in the stadiums where you’ll be playing, only working, they believe your chances are pretty good. He also said that the league would be willing to ensure the fans’ safety by requiring and supplying a law enforcement escort every time you boarded a plane, dressed in a locker room, gave an interview, or left home. Essentially, twenty-four-hour protection.”

  “That sounds oddly familiar.”

  Obviously, Wood had been doing his homework. He continued, “The league believes the law will look at you in much the same way it looks at long-haul truckers whose workplace is the roads and highways throughout the country. Or maybe a self-employed handyman who works out of his home and does home-improvement work in another jurisdiction at other people’s homes. Truckers, handymen, and others are allowed to work wherever they want as long as they provide information concerning the places where they’ll be with whatever specificity is possible under the circumstances. Like travel routes or the general areas in which you would be working, i.e., stadiums and practice fields.”

  “And the hotels where we’d be staying before games?”

  “The law says you have to provide information about any place in which you’re staying when away from home for seven or more days, including identifying the place and the period of time you’re staying there. The league says that, in your case, they would work to ensure that you never stayed anywhere longer than seven days. In the rare event that you did, say the playoffs or something, they’d work with authorities and register you where appropriate. Even flying you home for a night, if necessary.”

  I leaned against the van, “Let’s say, just for the sake of conversation, that they can overcome the legal hurdles. What about the hurdle where the fans hate someone who’s been convicted of committing deviant acts with a minor? All of which he filmed and photographed for his later viewing pleasure. Oh, and let’s don’t forget the drugs he dumped into their systems to force their compliance. The commissioner say anything about that little detail?”

  “No.” Wood kicked the gravel with his toe. “We never really talked about that.”

  “Let me know when he does.” Ray was following our conversation with eager eyes. “Look, guys, even if I tried out, and even if, by some miracle, I made some team as probably the oldest member on their roster, every female in the stadium or watching on television would loathe my very existence, boycott team events, and sign petitions to install day cares next to locker rooms just to keep me from playing.”

  Wood countered, “ESPN, CNN, FOX—all took polls. Thirty-seven percent of the people say you’ve paid your dues. They say, ‘Let him play.’ Fifty-three percent are willing to let you back into the league if you start some foundation for battered and abused women or become a spokesperson for children who are the victims of sex crimes. Something showing you’ve learned your lesson.”

  “And what lesson might that be?”

  “The one where you’re repentant. Sorry for your crime. Hat in your hand.”

  “And what percent wanted my head on a platter?”

  Wood paused. “I’m just relaying your options.”

  “If they call back, I currently possess no professional representation. Nor do I intend to seek it.” Wood’s deflation was visible. “But chances are pretty good that I’ll still need an attorney.”

  Wood scratched his head. “I’m not sure you really
want me to do that. Other than the occasional divorce, writing of a will, or sale of a house, legal work’s been thin for several years.”

  “And agenting athletes hasn’t been?”

  Wood shrugged.

  “I’ll need you to be my attorney before I’ll ask you to talk to a team.”

  Wood frowned. “You gonna let me in on what you’re planning?”

  “On the other side of that hill lives a girl. A girl hiding in a garden in a convent surrounded by kids and a school because she’s ashamed of her past.”

  Wood turned to Ray. “You knew?”

  Ray lit his pipe.

  Wood shook his head. “I thought we were friends.” He stared through the windshield, talking to himself. “What’d I ever do to her?”

  Ray spoke through a gentle cloud of smoke. “You were his friend.”

  Wood shrugged in agreement. “Well, yeah, there’s that.”

  The night, or morning, I was arrested, I woke for my workout at four a.m. as usual, dressed, and stepped onto the elevator headed to the fitness center in the lobby. That’s the last thing I remember. I have no memory of the twenty-four hours that followed. Only that I woke up in a hotel room that was not my own surrounded by three women who were not Audrey. In truth, I can’t remember waking up, dressing, or getting on the elevator. The only reason I know that timetable is because the prosecution recounted it for the court during my trial. My last memory stopped an hour or so earlier with Audrey. “She probably doesn’t trust you any more than she trusts me.”

  He poked Ray in the shoulder. “Oh, but she trusts him.”

  I shrugged. “Evidently.”

  Wood still couldn’t believe I’d found her. “How’s she doing?”

  “Surrounded by a twelve-foot wall, but those twelve feet are nothing compared to the wall around her heart. When I get within a few feet, her skin crawls. I had hoped maybe things would be different when I got out. Maybe time had healed something. Anything.” I shook my head. “It hasn’t. My presence is painful. Like pulling off a scab, twelve years in the making. The only tie between us is this kid Dalton Rogers. She wants me to help.”

  Wood nodded. “There’s always Canada—”

  “Dunwoody, it’s a game. She’s not. Let it go.”

  “So you’re really done? Like, it’s really over? All this working out, and that throwing-in-prison thing had nothing to do with ever playing again?”

  I paused. “You remember the last meeting in New York the night before the draft? The one where they were rolling out the red carpet, promising me the world.”

  He nodded.

  “And what’d I tell you when they left the room?”

  Wood looked away.

  “Come on.”

  Wood spoke slowly. “You said that as long as you can remember, you’ve had a football in your hand. It’s your lens. Take away the football and you might as well stick an icepick in your eyes.”

  I prodded him. “But…”

  “But compared to Audrey,” he shook his head, “it’s nothing.”

  “And?”

  “And if you were ever forced to choose, she wins.”

  “And right now, I’m choosing. Audrey doesn’t trust me. Doesn’t believe in me. The only way I can get to her heart is to give up what she knows I love. To lay it down.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Wood, everyone, you included, thinks I betrayed them. None more so than Audrey. You want me to get over it. Move on. Break more records. But Audrey is broken and she doesn’t care about records. I love the game. Love it as much as ever, but if I choose the game now, then I lose her forever. Somehow I’ve got to show her that I love her more than this game.”

  “But this is your window. You’re getting older. Not younger. You’re on the bubble now. Besides, what on earth are you going to do to make money? You’re not fit for regular work, punching a clock.”

  I held up my hand. “I have no plans to ever play again.”

  He dropped his head. Dejected. “I guess maybe I thought you’d serve your time, get out, and make a go of it. Pick up where you left off. Lot of the guys were.” He tried one more dig and left it dangling. “The Rocket would have.”

  I stood and wiped my hands on a rag. “Wood, prison killed the Rocket. He’s dead. Buried beneath cell block D.”

  We were quiet a few minutes. Finally, he spoke. “I’m not sure I want to know the answer to this, but what’s the story with you and Dalton Rogers? You said Audrey wants to help him, but being within fifty feet of a kid is a parole violation. And it’s a one-and-done. No leniency.”

  “I’ve agreed to train him. Help him get better.”

  “You don’t need me to tell you that that’s a real bad idea.”

  “I know. That’s why I need you.”

  “And you don’t care?”

  “Didn’t say that.”

  “But you’re training him anyway.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Only way to my wife’s heart is through that kid’s arm.”

  “Even if that’s the arm that hands you over to prison authorities?”

  “Even if.”

  Wood exhaled, letting out the breath he’d been holding since they released me from prison. “Hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Never said I knew what I was doing. Just that I was doing it.”

  “Yeah, that too.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Aided by a public that had tired of high-profile athletes living above the law, my trial had been short, swift, and judicious. Georgia’s State Attorney, Ron Able, an undefeated litigator who could smell a political career following my successful conviction, requested and was assigned to the trial. Where, he had promised, it would be vigorously prosecuted.

  And it was.

  Given the sensational nature of the charges and testimony, my complete and absolute but rather weak-sounding denial—which I kept repeating and sounded like, “I did not do this. Any of it”—was dubbed by the tabloids ROCKET’S LAME EXCUSE. The sensationalism grew, and more than fifty cameras covered the trial, conviction, and sentencing. For three weeks, I essentially had my own channel. Early in the process, I was offered a very public plea deal, but to Able’s great delight, I had refused, demanding a trial by jury.

  And I got one, too.

  Judge D. S. Gainer, who had more than forty years on the bench, a flair for history, and an understanding of its events that rivaled the tombs of Alexandria, presided over both sides as well as a jury of five men and seven women. My mom mortgaged her house to pay for my defense. Stephanie Walsh, a well-respected defense attorney out of Harvard with ten years of successfully defending professional athletes, accepted my case. For about twenty-two hours we thought we had a legitimate chance at a defense, and I tried to comfort Audrey. Then the prosecution revealed the evidence.

  The State charged me with capital aggravated sexual battery, sexual battery on a minor, lewd and lascivious conduct, lewd and lascivious conduct on a minor, drug possession with intent to traffic, and intent to record such conduct—as in, make a video.

  After viewing the video, my team and sponsors promptly dumped me, Audrey quit coming to see me and refused my calls, and Judge Gainer denied bail. My trial started eight months later. During that time, other than my mother, my attorney, Ray, and Wood, I had no visitors.

  The trial was covered by every major news network and lasted eight days. I watched the proceedings with a numb, I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening-to-me look spread across my face. Ginger was the last witness called by the prosecution. Following her story, and the pounding of the nails into my coffin, Stephanie attempted a rather short cross-examination that went nowhere, which Ginger seemed to enjoy and control. In truth, Ginger ate Stephanie’s lunch and looked smugly at me in the process. Stephanie uttered the words ‘No more questions, Your Honor’ and sat down licking her wounds. Judge Gainer called for a recess, followed by closing arguments the next day. W
hen both sides rested, the judge instructed the jury and sent them out.

  While we waited on the verdict, the judge tasked a clerk with reminding me that a plea deal had been laid on the table. He, too, could see the writing on the wall, and sending that clerk was his way of telling me that the end was near.

  I declined a final time.

  During the trial, and given the explicit nature of the video, Audrey had kept her distance—from me and everyone else. She was not present in the courtroom as the prosecution laid out its case, nor as Stephanie defended ours. She showed minutes prior to the reading of the verdict.

  The jury deliberated two hours.

  When the sentence had been read, Audrey was sitting on the far end of the pew, four rows back. The only communication I had with anyone during my trial had been with Stephanie Walsh and my mom—whose heart was as broken as Audrey’s, though not quite as bitter—and an occasional word with Ray and Wood. Mom fell ill during the trial and never really recovered, dying my second year in prison. Ashamed and broken. Stephanie Walsh kept me at arm’s length, never met alone with me, and when we did, she talked only of the trial. After my imprisonment, Stephanie sued my mom and collected payment for the balance of her defense from my mom’s life insurance.

  I was convicted on four accounts and found not guilty of “intent to traffic.” The four guilty counts carried with them mandatory sentencing totaling twenty years with the possibility of parole after twelve. While the jury had found me guilty on four of the five, the court of public opinion had found me guilty on all charges—plus several hundred more. As the bus drove me through the double gates covered with razor wire, more than a thousand people stood outside screaming. One sign read BURY HIM UNDER THE PRISON!

  Walking into that prison, I stood as the angriest man on the planet. Even my sweat reeked. As the weeks melted into months, the tap root of my hatred for the woman now known as Angelina Custodia had shot downward, grown upward, blossomed, and spread, poisoning me. Audrey wasn’t the only one with a seed. After a year, it consumed and crippled me. I didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Didn’t talk. Most nights I went to sleep imagining the repeated sound of her neck snapping beneath my hands.