Cover-up

by John Feinstein

  “I’ll be right down,” Kelleher said.

  He was at the door a minute later and sat in front of Stevie’s computer reading the story—occasionally pausing to laugh or nod. “It’s good,” he said. “Very good. Now you need to cut another two hundred words out of it.”

  “Whaa?” Stevie said. “You said I had a thousand words.”

  “I know. The desk called before and said they could only take eight hundred from you today because a feature on the home life of the Ravens’ cheerleaders came in long.”

  “Come on.”

  “True story. Look, Stevie, the newspaper business isn’t perfect either. We screw up just like TV people do. I’ll call them back and tell them you got Brennan and no one else did on this topic. It may help, but you have to be prepared for the answer to be no.” He was half right. The desk offered an extra hundred words.

  “Now,” he said, plopping down in the armchair next to the bed, “tell me what you were so upset about when I called before.”

  Stevie filled him in on both run-ins with Tal Vincent and Susan Carol’s reaction. “Let it go,” Kelleher said. “She’s got a lot of TV people spinning her head around, clearly. But she’s very smart and all her instincts as a human are outstanding. She’ll come around. I know that’s easy for me to say, but it wasn’t that long ago that I was fourteen. I do remember what it was like.”

  Stevie decided not to argue. He didn’t doubt that Bobby remembered what it was like, but he was sure that Kelleher would have been just as depressed if the first girl he’d ever really cared about had told him to go to hell. So instead, he told Kelleher he had to go downstairs to do Sporting News Radio with Chip Graber and asked if he wanted to come along. Kelleher said he’d love to see Graber but needed to finish writing his column on Little Donny.

  They walked to the elevator bank together, Kelleher going up, Stevie going down. When Stevie got to the second floor, he was confronted with a mob unlike any he had ever seen. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been in big crowds at major events before. But this was a new level. People were crowding around the desks and small podiums where each radio station had set up headquarters as if the stations were handing out money. He picked his way through the alleyway that had been created between the desks and podiums, pausing every few steps as another famous face went past. As he rounded the corner near the escalator that Merkin had described, he heard someone yelling, “Coming through, clear the way, please!” Bearing down on him were several very large men. Behind them was Michael Jordan. The burly men veered to the right, where Stevie saw a banner that said ESPN RADIO. Behind a glass partition he could see Dan Patrick, the SportsCenter anchor, talking into a microphone and waving at Jordan, who was apparently going to make Patrick’s show his next stop. People were shouting Jordan’s name, sticking pieces of paper as close as they could get to him given that there were bodyguards in front of him and behind him. Jordan just kept walking.

  “Wonder what he’s selling,” Stevie said aloud, forgetting that he was surrounded by people.

  “A motocross team,” someone right behind him said. He turned and, much to his surprise, saw Michael Wilbon, co-host of Pardon the Interruption and a longtime Jordan friend.

  “A what?” Stevie said.

  “Michael bought a motocross team last year,” Wilbon said. “He’s trying to drum up interest in the sport. He just did Jim Rome, now he’s doing Patrick, and then he’s going to WFAN.”

  “What are you doing here?” Stevie asked.

  “Need a column,” Wilbon said. “Michael Jordan selling motocross is definitely a column.”

  He wasn’t wrong about that.

  “You’re Steve, right?” Wilbon said. “Steve Thomas. We met in New Orleans. You were with your friend who is thirteen but looks eighteen—Susan, right?”

  “Susan Carol,” Stevie said. “She’s fourteen now and a TV star.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Wilbon said. “But being a TV star is vastly overrated.”

  He turned toward Patrick’s interview area. Stevie waved goodbye and walked a few steps down the hall until he reached another large banner with the Sporting News Radio logo. Merkin was standing there next to Chip Graber. When Graber saw Stevie approaching, he raced up to him and wrapped him up in a hug. “Look at you!” he said. “You look like you’ve grown six inches since New Orleans!”

  Then Graber grinned. “So how tall is Susan Carol these days?”

  “Eight foot six,” Stevie answered.

  Graber laughed. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch up.”

  At that moment, Susan Carol’s height was the least of Stevie’s worries.

  Merkin introduced Stevie to Tim Brando, the network’s midday host. The interview was, for the most part, routine. Chip talked about the video game and adapting to life in the NBA. Brando asked Stevie about being “let go” by USTV. Stevie was happy to be able to report that even though USTV didn’t think he was pretty enough to share a set with Susan Carol, CBS thought enough of him to hire him for the week.

  “That’s a nice comeback,” Brando said.

  “Well,” Stevie said, “I may not be able to sing like Jamie Whitsitt, but I can complete a whole sentence without using the word dude.”

  That got a big laugh from Brando and Chip. When they were finished and Merkin had thanked them, Chip walked him back down the hallway. There were so many celebrities walking around that Chip, dressed in one of his “disguises”—droopy sweatshirt and baseball cap—went completely unnoticed.

  “Look over there,” Chip said, pointing to a corner where a gaggle of reporters, Minicam operators, and photographers was trying to get close to someone who looked familiar although, right at that moment, Stevie couldn’t place him.

  “Tom Cruise,” Chip said, seeing the puzzled look on Stevie’s face. “He’s got that movie deal with the owner of the Redskins.”

  They paused at the escalator. “So, are you really okay?” Chip asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Stevie said.

  Chip looked at him closely. “I’m not so sure. How has Susan Carol been with all this?”

  “Oh, she’s fine with it,” Stevie said before he realized how sarcastic his tone was.

  Chip smiled. “Let me guess, she likes Whatsitt or Whitsitt.”

  “Uh-huh. She thinks I’m being mean because I made fun of the fact that he’s a dope.”

  Chip was smiling now. “Uh-huh. And you’re not being extra hard on him because you’re jealous?”

  “Well…”

  “You two will work it out,” Chip said. “You’re good together.”

  He looked at his watch. “Damn,” he said. “I’ve got to get to some store to sign autographs. This is more work than playing.” He gave Stevie a hug. “Hang in there, kiddo,” he said.

  With that, he was gone, heading down the escalator. Stevie hoped he wouldn’t have to hang in for too long.

  Dinner wasn’t all that different from Stevie’s walk through radio row. Bobby and Tamara took him to a place called St. Elmo Steak House, which Kelleher explained was the place to eat in Indianapolis and one of the best steak houses in the country. The minute they walked in the door, it was clear Kelleher was right.

  Wayne Gretzky, arguably the greatest hockey player in history, was sitting at the bar with Mario Lemieux, who had to be in the top five himself.

  “What are they selling here?” Tamara asked when she spotted them.

  “Hockey fantasy camps,” Bobby said.

  As they were led back to their table, Stevie’s head was on a swivel. He spotted Jim Nantz and Phil Simms (his new colleagues) sitting at a large table, and Fred Couples and Davis Love—the golfers—seated right behind them.

  “Okay,” Tamara said after Bobby stopped to say hello to Couples and Love. “What are they selling?”

  “Nothing,” Kelleher said. “They like football and they’re buddies with Nantz.”

  As they followed the hostess, they came to a door being guarded by several large men. “Who’s in there?�
�� Stevie asked the woman as they turned the corner and went into another room that was much larger than the one they had just been in.

  “Michael Jordan and Tiger Woods,” she said in a hushed voice.

  “Did you know Jordan was into motocross?” said Stevie.

  “No—really?”

  On instructions from Kelleher, Stevie ordered a shrimp cocktail. When he tasted the sauce, his eyes began to water and he thought he might faint. “Oh my God!” he gasped. Bobby and Tamara laughed. They had seen this before.

  “Want to stop?” Tamara asked.

  “God, no,” Stevie said, recovering. “I might want seconds.”

  “You wouldn’t live through seconds,” Kelleher said.

  The porterhouse steak Stevie ordered was equally good. Throughout dinner, more celebrities passed by, some of them stopping to say hello to Kelleher and Mearns. A few recognized Stevie.

  “Don’t let the TV people get you down,” counseled David Wright, the New York Mets’ star third baseman. “Good things happen to good people. You’ll be fine.”

  Stevie realized it would now be tough for him to root for Wright to strike out when the Phillies played the Mets once the season began.

  “You’re good on the air,” Bob Costas said, pumping his hand after chatting with Kelleher and Mearns. “But I’m not sure you won’t find writing more gratifying.” That was interesting coming from someone who had made millions on TV.

  By the time dinner was over, Stevie’s spirits had lifted considerably. He was about as full as he could ever remember being, and he was amazed at all the famous people they had encountered. As they were leaving, Tamara, who seemed less impressed with all the stars than anyone, stopped dead in her tracks. “Bobby, look,” she hissed, pointing at a small man with curly, graying hair sitting in the corner. Kelleher’s eyes went wide too. “Jeez, I never thought I’d see him here,” he said.

  “Big sports fan,” Tamara said.

  “Who?” Stevie demanded as they walked out the door. “Who is that?”

  “You don’t know?” Tamara said. “That’s Billy Joel.”

  “Billy who?” Stevie said. “Who does he play—”

  “Not who—what. Piano.”

  Then it came to him. He’d heard one of his songs when his father categorically refused to change the station in the car.

  “You guys like him?”

  “Like him?” Kelleher said. “The man’s a genius.”

  Time to go home, Stevie thought. Kelleher and Mearns were morphing into his parents.

  The long day had worn him out and he went right to bed once he got back to his room. He set his alarm for seven o’clock because there was a message from someone at CBS asking that he report to the CBS work area at eight to discuss his assignment for the day. Kelleher had already suggested they meet for breakfast at 7:45. Stevie decided he’d go down a few minutes earlier than that and tell them he had to leave ahead of them to walk to the Dome.

  He fell asleep quickly, and when the alarm went off, he was still in a deep sleep. He couldn’t believe it was already morning. He forced his eyes open, stunned that it was already seven o’clock. He was reaching out to turn off the alarm when he noticed the time: 1:42. He half sat up, trying to shake the cobwebs from his head. That was when he realized the alarm wasn’t going off. It was the phone that was ringing, not the clock.

  He fumbled for the phone in the dark, suddenly fearful that maybe something bad had happened at home.

  “Hello?” he said, finally getting the receiver to his ear.

  “Stevie, we need to talk.”

  “Huh? Whaa?” He was about to say “Who is this?” when his ears made the connection to his brain. It was Susan Carol, sounding both breathless and a little bit hysterical.

  “Need to talk? When? Isn’t it the middle of the night?”

  “Yes, it is. And we need to talk now. What room are you in?”

  Now Stevie was awake. “Room? Me?”

  “Yes, Steven, you. What room are you in? I’m on my way over there now.”

  “Now?” he said, awake but still somewhat stunned by the call and the conversation. He was trying very hard to remember his room number. Finally he got it. “I’m in twelve-forty-eight,” he said, actually proud of himself for remembering.

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  The line went dead. Stevie sat there looking at the phone. He rubbed his eyes, wondering if he had been dreaming. Apparently not. It was 1:45 in the morning and Susan Carol Anderson was on her way to his room. He had to be dreaming. Except he was now wide awake.

  8: PASS DEFLECTION

  STEVIE PULLED ON SOME SWEATS, walked into the bathroom, and decided that brushing his teeth and combing his hair was a good idea. He was nervous—although he wasn’t sure why. He couldn’t imagine why Susan Carol would call him in the middle of the night and insist she had to see him right away. Guilt? Anger? Either one could wait until morning.

  He checked himself in the mirror. “You’re no Jamie Whitsitt,” he murmured, just as he heard an urgent knock. He took a deep breath and, without checking to see who it was, opened the door.

  Susan Carol was standing there, bundled in a coat that went to her knees. He stared at her until she said, “Are you going to let me in?”

  “Oh yeah, sorry,” he said. “Come on in.”

  As she walked past him into the room, Stevie felt as if she had grown a couple of inches since that morning. Maybe he was so sleepy that he was slumping. But as she took off her coat, he glanced down and saw the reason for her growth spurt: she was wearing high heels. Forgetting that she was clearly in a state of high anxiety, he pointed at them and said, “What’s the deal with the shoes?”

  She gave him an annoyed look and then looked down at her feet. “Tal Vincent,” she said. “We had to go to this big muckety-muck party tonight with a bunch of NFL corporate contributors and some people from the league and some players.”

  “Players? Don’t the players have curfews and—”

  “Not players from the Dreams or Ravens,” she said. “Other teams. Peyton and Eli Manning were there; Terrell Owens was there—”

  “Terrell Owens, I thought everyone hated him—”

  “Will you stop interrupting?! Vincent told me to wear the damn shoes, okay? He’s a jerk. You’ve got him pegged right. Now, can I sit down somewhere and tell you what’s going on?”

  “Please do,” he said, pointing to a chair next to the bed. The idea of getting her to sit was appealing. He was getting a little bit dizzy trying to look up at her.

  She sat down, her body sagging into the chair. “Do you want something to drink?” he asked. He had not seen her look this upset since she had learned her uncle had been part of the kidnapping plot at the U.S. Open tennis tournament in September.

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you. Is there a Coke in your minibar?”

  He handed her one, and after she had taken a long sip, he sat down across from her and said, “Okay, start at the beginning and tell me what in the world happened.”

  She nodded and took a deep breath. “We went to this party,” she said. “I felt completely out of place as soon as we got there. It was in some private club—a really big place—and it seemed like half the men were smoking cigars and everyone was drinking. I was getting a lot of the ‘aren’t you pretty’ and ‘you can’t possibly be fourteen’ lines you’ve heard me get before. And all I could think was, ‘If my dad knew I was here right now, he’d kill me and he’d kill Tal Vincent.’”

  “Did you think about just leaving?” he said.

  She half smiled. “Yes. But I figured I’d just get through the night and then tell Tal I wasn’t going to any more parties, that there was no way my parents would have let me come out here if they’d known this was part of the deal.”

  “So what happened next?” he said.

  She took another sip of her Coke. “I’m standing as far into a corner as I possibly can when this guy comes up. It’s obvious he has no
idea who I am. He just sees a tall girl in a dress. He says he’s doctor somebody and he works with the Dreams. I tell him who I am, thinking maybe he’ll make a connection and realize I’m fourteen and get that look off his face.

  “Well, he’s very impressed that I’m on TV. In fact, he says, ‘I should have known when I first saw you that you were on TV.’”

  “But he’s still not realizing you’re fourteen.”

  “No. I probably should have said something about the original concept being to put two teenagers on the air together. But by this time he’s going on about his job and how close he is to all the Dreams’ players, how most of them would never get on the field without his help. At one point he says, ‘I’m kind of a magician. I wave my magic needle on Sundays and everyone plays. Eddie Brennan wouldn’t have seen the field the last two months without me.’

  “So now he’s got my attention. I ask him what he’s talking about, and he tells me about all the players who need painkilling shots to play, that Brennan’s had a bad knee since November, and that if not for painkillers, half the league wouldn’t play in December and January.”

  Stevie knew players got cortisone shots and other painkillers to play, so this was no shock, although he hadn’t thought that many players did it. He let Susan Carol continue, though, falling back on his reporting experience, which told him to shut up and let someone tell a story when they were willing to do so.

  She sighed. “I’m getting to the important part.”

  He hoped so.

  “I asked him a few questions about the shots, if they were legal, if the league knew how often the players got them—that sort of thing. He gives me this look and says, ‘I’ve never given a player an illegal shot of any kind. A player gets suspended, it isn’t because of anything that comes out of my needle.’

  “Something in the way he said it made me think there was something else he wanted to tell me but, even drunk, he knew he shouldn’t.”