Last Shot

by John Feinstein

  “Ben, we need to get going,” Whiting said, passing the gun back to Gary.

  “Yes, of course.” Wojenski turned to Gary. “If anything goes wrong, Gary, you know what to do.”

  Gary nodded, sending a chill through Stevie. Even so, as Chip started to go out the door with Whiting in front of him and Wojenski, half-shoving him, right behind, Stevie couldn’t stop from yelling at him. “Win the game, Chip!” he said. “Win the game. Don’t worry about us! You know Kelleher will find us. He’ll be here any minute.”

  He could hear Susan Carol chiming in. “Listen to Stevie! Win the game!”

  Chip looked like he might have tears in his eyes. Wojenski shoved him through the door and turned back to Stevie. “A useless gesture. Make it your last.”

  He hovered in the doorway a moment before leaving. “Remember,” Wojenski said, “you kids are the biggest Duke fans in New Orleans tonight.”

  The two kids tried valiantly to convince Gary that someone really would come for them.

  “You don’t want to be messed up in this, Gary,” tried Susan Carol. “Cancel your bet now and get out while you can.”

  “Why do you have to do the dirty work?” offered Stevie. “You’re the one who’s going to get caught holding two kids at gunpoint when they get here. You’re the one they’re going to nail.”

  But Gary was having none of it. “Quit your yapping” was his only comment, beyond waving the washcloth gag in the air when he wanted them to shut up.

  Stevie watched the sky grow dark outside the window. Where the hell was Kelleher? Did he not get the e-mail? Did he not believe them?

  He looked over at Susan Carol. Her expression seemed calm, but Stevie noticed a small bead of sweat rolling down her temple.

  Susan Carol finally broke the silence by saying, “Gary, can’t you at least turn on the TV?”

  “Game doesn’t start until eight,” he said.

  “I know,” she said. “But we could watch something else?” She gave him her smile.

  Stevie wondered if she was up to something. Gary turned the TV to ESPN. “That okay?” he said to Susan Carol.

  “Yes, thank you very much,” Susan Carol said.

  Dick Vitale and Digger Phelps were arguing. Vitale had apparently picked Duke to win the game and Phelps was telling him that he always picked Duke. “What’s not to like?” Vitale was yelling. “Great coach, great school, great kids …”

  “But not the best team tonight,” Phelps said. “MSU has the best team.” He then launched into a breakdown of Minnesota State’s offense, all of it coming back to Chip Graber.

  “Wow,” said Stevie, his voice filled with mock wonder, “sounds like everything is riding on Graber tonight.”

  Susan Carol snorted. “Yeah, I’ll be glued to my chair for this game,” she said.

  Stevie laughed. “Hey, maybe we should have tried to get an interview with him, huh? That would have been some story.”

  “I’ll say,” said Susan Carol. Then, suppressing a giggle, she tried to sound serious. “You know, covering the Final Four hasn’t really worked out like I thought it would.”

  “I know what you mean,” responded Stevie, looking down at the duct tape holding him in his chair, then back at Susan Carol. “Don’t you hate when that happens?”

  They both gave in to hysteria at that, laughing so hard that Gary warned them to shut up. But they couldn’t stop—two days’ worth of tension was gushing out of them.

  For the next hour they listened to the game being broken down a thousand different ways. At eight o’clock Vitale and Phelps were replaced on ESPN by a cheerleading championship, and Gary flipped the channel to CBS. Jim Nantz and Billy Packer were telling the audience that this was shaping up to be one of the best championship games in years.

  The game started. Open for a three pointer early, Chip drained the shot. “Bad idea,” Gary said to the TV. Stevie and Susan Carol looked at one another. Part of Stevie wanted Chip to make every shot he took. Another part of him was terrified by what might happen if he did. Hours had passed. If Kelleher hadn’t read their e-mail before the game, it was all over. He sure wasn’t going to be checking it during the game.…

  The next ten minutes were hard to watch. Chip wasn’t shooting much. Twice he drove to the basket and had his shot blocked. Then he missed a contested three pointer. Two other times down the court, he turned the ball over on the fast break. He did block one J.J. Redick jumper, flying around a screen to deflect the ball. When TV took a time-out with 7:04 to go, Duke was leading 29–20. “It’s looking better for you guys,” Gary commented.

  “Gary, is there any way you could cut the tape on my ankles? My legs are really cramping up,” Susan Carol said. Again, the smile and a little bit of a quivering lower lip.

  “No.” Gary cut her off. “Look, give it up already. You think I’m some stupid—” He stopped abruptly. There was a knock on the door. “You two keep quiet,” he hissed. “Who’s there?” he said, taking a few quick steps in the direction of the door. Stevie and Susan Carol looked at each other. Help? Should they yell?

  Apparently not. Stevie couldn’t hear the voice on the other side of the door, but whatever the person said made Gary smile.

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Gary said. He opened the door a crack.

  The next thing Stevie saw was Gary flying backward, the gun sailing out of his hand. A man burst into the room and was on top of him before he could react. The man threw a flurry of punches, making it impossible for Gary to defend himself. After a few seconds, Stevie could see Gary’s head drop back onto the carpet. The hulk was out cold.

  The man stood up and turned to Stevie and Susan Carol, whose mouths hung open in shock. He was tall, maybe about forty, and obviously stronger than he looked.

  “Who are you?” Stevie asked.

  “I’m Steve Jurgensen,” he said. He strode toward them, pulling out a small pocketknife.

  “Are you okay?” he asked as he began to cut them loose from their chairs. “We need to get you to the Dome fast.”

  18: THE FINAL SHOT

  STEVE JURGENSEN had them both free in under a minute. He spotted the roll of duct tape, then dragged Gary, still unconscious, across the room and taped him, quite securely, to the couch. He added a strip of tape over his mouth, then checked to make certain his breathing was normal.

  “We can’t take any chances on him coming to and making a phone call to warn people,” he said. “Can you kids walk all right? Circulation coming back?”

  Stevie felt a little bit wobbly, but okay. His back and legs hurt but he knew it would pass. More than anything, he was confused—very confused.

  “If you’re really Steve Jurgensen,” Susan Carol said, rolling her shoulders to loosen up, “why are you rescuing us? You’re one of the bad guys.”

  “Because you’re only half right,” Jurgensen said. “I am Jurgensen, but I’m not one of the bad guys.”

  “But you followed us yesterday,” Stevie said. “We got the license plate on your car.”

  “I followed you to try to figure out what Chip was messed up in,” Jurgensen said. “Come on. We have to get going.”

  They glanced at the TV. The clock was now under five minutes left in the first half and Duke’s lead was 10. If they didn’t get to the Dome soon and let Chip know they were all right, MSU was going to get blown out.

  He and Susan Carol followed Jurgensen to his car, and they all jumped in the front seat. Jurgensen peeled out of the parking lot but almost immediately screeched to a halt. Even though the game was under way, traffic downtown was still a mess. Jurgensen glanced at his watch. “With luck we can get there before the second half starts.”

  “Since we have some time,” Susan Carol said as Jurgensen hit the brakes again, “maybe you can explain to us what in the world is going on.”

  Jurgensen nodded. “I’ll give it my best shot. Actually, it started when you two kids managed to talk your way in to see Chip Saturday morning.”

  “How
could you possibly know about that?” Stevie said.

  “Remember the big guy who stopped you in the hallway?”

  “Mike the Giant?”

  “Yeah, him. He didn’t exactly buy your story even though Chip backed you. He went to Chip’s dad and told him about two teenagers visiting Chip, one of them claiming to be Chip’s cousin. Well, Alan obviously knew Chip didn’t have a cousin in New Orleans. He also knew Chip had been acting kind of funny all week. He hadn’t practiced well, which was unlike him. He figured something was going on but didn’t know what. He didn’t want to confront Chip with it, partly because he thought Chip would come to him when the time was right, but also because they both had a lot on their minds with a Final Four game to play that night. So, he called me.”

  “Called you?” Susan Carol said. “Why, of all people, would Coach Graber call you?”

  Jurgensen pulled around a truck that was double-parked on Canal Street. “For one thing, we’re friends,” he said. “For another, I’m his lawyer.”

  Stevie and Susan Carol looked at one another, not quite sure what to believe anymore. Up ahead, they could see police lights. There was an accident that was tying traffic up completely. “You’re friends with the man who beat you out for the coaching job at Davidson?” Stevie said.

  This time Jurgensen laughed. “Who did you hear that story from?”

  “Dean Wojenski.”

  “What does that tell you?”

  “That it’s a lie,” Susan Carol said.

  According to Steve Jurgensen, he and Alan Graber had been best friends while assistants at Davidson. When Coach Pritchett left, the original plan was for Jurgensen to go after the job while Graber moved up to become the number one assistant. But Jurgensen hated the hours and, most of all, he hated recruiting.

  “I didn’t think I could live the rest of my life dependent on the whims of teenagers,” he said. “So Alan took the job, and I went into law.”

  “So when Coach Graber called you Saturday, what did you do?” Susan Carol asked. “What did you know?”

  “Not much,” Jurgensen said. “Alan just wanted me to keep an eye on Chip, make sure he was okay. My wife happened to mention that Chip was trying to track down Ben Wojenski, so I asked her to be sure he found him.”

  “So your wife wasn’t in on it?” Stevie asked. “Wojenski figured …”

  “That since Chip had called Christine, I was as good a diversion as any,” Jurgensen said. “That’s my guess anyway.

  “Christine told me you called, Susan Carol, so when I saw you three get in a car the next morning, I figured you were headed out to Bay St. Louis.

  “I followed you down there and back, but then you ditched me at the Dome, and I still didn’t know what was going on. So I did a little digging into Benjamin Wojenski. Hard to get into public records on a Sunday—unless you know the right people. I found out Wojenski’s house is mortgaged to the hilt. So then I got another friend to pull his phone records. Lots of calls to an 800 number that turned out to be an offshore betting service. And then I hit pay dirt.”

  “How?”

  “All sorts of calls to different numbers in the 612 area code and several to a 919 number that I recognized right away.”

  “Let me guess,” Stevie said. “Stuart Feeley.”

  “You got it.”

  “And 612 is Minneapolis, right?” Susan Carol said. “Whiting?”

  “Right,” Jurgensen said. “There were a bunch of calls to Tom Whiting’s cell. But it was the other 612 number that was really interesting.”

  They were now approaching a police checkpoint near the Dome, where police were apparently turning cars away to keep the area around the building clear. Stevie couldn’t help but think this was all going to be for nothing if they didn’t get moving soon.

  They were still a ways from the checkpoint. “Listen, guys, I don’t think we can wait any longer,” Jurgensen said. He made a hard right turn into a small side street and parked next to a fire hydrant. “We’ve got to run for it.”

  He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out three passes marked “All Access.”

  “Put these on,” he said. “You’ll need them when we get there.”

  “But wait,” Susan Carol said as they climbed out of the car.

  “I’ll tell you the rest later,” Jurgensen said as they started to run.

  “But how’d you know where to find us tonight?” Stevie said.

  He could see Jurgensen smile even as they were heading up a hill. “Your e-mail to Bobby Kelleher. Basically, you saved yourselves by sending it. I had no idea where you and Chip had gone. About seven-thirty I got a nearly hysterical call from Bobby saying he thought you were in trouble.”

  Stevie took a breath so he could talk. The Dome was now a couple hundred yards away. “Why would Kelleher call you? We told him you were in on it!”

  “Luckily, he knows me well enough to know that couldn’t be true. So he hoped I’d know what was true in your story. Your e-mail had him pretty well floored. But between what you wrote and what I found out, I think we’ve got it figured.”

  Stevie glanced at Susan Carol, who seemed to be handling the run a lot better than he and Jurgensen. He wanted to thank her for thinking to send the e-mail to Kelleher. It might have saved their lives. But they were finally approaching the gate of the Superdome, and Stevie had just enough breath to get there.

  The guard at the back door seemed very surprised to see anyone with an All Access pass arriving with the second half just under way. But the passes made it impossible for him to question them. All three of them were breathing hard when they made it into the hallway where the locker rooms were. There was almost no one around and they could hear the roar of the game coming from the floor. They sprinted to the tunnel leading to the floor. Across the way they could see a scoreboard. Duke was leading 59–50, with just under twelve minutes to play.

  “We have to get you guys someplace where we can be sure Chip will see you,” Jurgensen said.

  “Well,” Stevie said, “we’ve got All Access passes. Next time-out, we just walk over near the bench and get his attention coming out of the huddle.”

  Jurgensen nodded. “That should work.”

  They walked to the end of the tunnel that put them just yards from the MSU bench. They stood off to one side and waited for the whistle to stop play. “One more thing, real quick,” Susan Carol said, still panting a bit. “How did you get Gary to open the door for you?”

  Jurgensen smiled. “I told him I was the hotel manager and I had champagne sent by Mr. Feeley for a postgame celebration.”

  “Nice,” Stevie said.

  “Thought of it in the car on the way over,” he said. “I was counting on there only being one guy guarding you. And I wasn’t counting on that gun. I was lucky.”

  “We all were,” said Susan Carol.

  They heard a whistle. TV was going to time-out with 10:59 left. Duke’s lead was 63–53.

  As the players came to the bench and sat down facing away from the crowd, Stevie and Susan Carol started to make a move. “Hang on,” Jurgensen said. “You go too soon, he’ll be looking the wrong way. Wait until you hear the first horn.”

  During time-outs, there were two horns. The first one told the players and coaches they had thirty seconds to get back on court. The second sounded with ten seconds left and the officials would go into the huddle to break it up if the players were still lingering.

  “As soon as you hear the first horn, move very quickly,” Jurgensen said. “Walk right up to the scorer’s table, because the ball is at the other end and Chip will go right past there.”

  They nodded. And waited. Finally they heard the horn. “Go!” Jurgensen said.

  Stevie started running, Susan Carol right behind him. They were past the guard protecting the area behind the bench in an instant, Stevie yelling, “All Access!” as they went by.

  He heard a voice say, “Hey, stop them, stop those kids!”

  He didn
’t have to turn around to recognize who it was, because the voice was now familiar to him: Tom Whiting. He heard other people yell and then saw Chip turn in the direction of the commotion. He stopped as Chip turned around and, as loud as he could to be heard over the din, screamed, “We’re okay, Chip, we’re okay!” Susan Carol was jumping up and down behind him, waving her arms and screaming, too.

  Chip saw them and smiled, but just as he did, two security guards grabbed Stevie and Susan Carol. Chip started over to say something, but the second horn went off and the officials were screaming at the MSU players to get back on court. Chip hesitated. “Go play!” Stevie yelled. “Just go and win the game!”

  If he was dragged away now, it was okay. The guard was pulling him backward when he heard another voice say, “Let them go. They’ve got All Access passes. Let them go right now.”

  The voice belonged to Coach Alan Graber. It suddenly occurred to Stevie that they had never asked Jurgensen where he had gotten the All Access passes. Now he knew. “They’re with us,” he heard Alan Graber saying. “Just let them go. They’re fine.”

  The security guards looked confused. But they didn’t argue. They let go and backed away.

  “Come on, Stevie,” Susan Carol said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  That was fine with Stevie. Coach Graber smiled at them, then turned back to the court, where his team was inbounding the ball. Whiting, seated on the end of the bench, was glaring at them. But he couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t overrule his coach. Stevie wanted to say something as he walked past, but resisted. They had gotten the message to Chip. The rest was up to him.

  Stevie and Susan Carol tried to find Jurgensen, but he wasn’t in the hallway where they’d left him. Then they looked for Kelleher on press row, but he wasn’t in his seat. So they reclaimed their own seats in the overflow press section with less than six minutes to play. Those last minutes of the game might have been the most emotional moments of Stevie’s life. They’d been watching Chip slowly take control of the game. Stevie could see on the scoreboard that Graber now had 19 points. Duke’s lead was down to 73–69. “He caught his second wind a few minutes ago,” one of the writers sitting next to them said. “It’s like someone just turned him on.”