by Randall Wood
“Hey, Doc.” Sam offered a smile and a hand.
“Sam, good to see you. You’re late,” Dr. Maher accused.
“Yeah, a few days. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize to me; you’re the one who needs it.”
“Point taken.”
“What held you up this time?”
Sam added some sarcasm to his reply. “Well, I was up in the mountains. You know, watching the eagles and the elk and all. Postcard scenes everywhere I turned. Then it hit me, I better get back to Michigan before the rain stops or I’m gonna miss it.”
Dr. Maher couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, you got me there. But you need to understand that this is important. If we’re gonna beat this, it’s best that you keep your treatments on schedule.”
“Labs are bad, aren’t they?” Sam asked.
Dr. Maher slumped back in the chair next to Sam and looked him in the eye. “No, no they’re not. How have you been feeling the last few days?”
Sam decided this would be a good time for the truth, at least about his health. “Not good. I’ve been pretty active. I know you told me to rest, but that’s just never been me—especially now: I have too much I want to see, so I’ve been pushing it a little. I’m tired all the time. As long as I’m doing something, I’m okay, but as soon as I sit down, I’m out. Spiked a couple of fevers a few days ago.” Sam hesitated before going on. “And the pain is worse.”
Dr. Maher took this information in silence. He had come to know Sam as well as one could in this situation. In medical school they had told him to be friendly, but don’t become a friend. It was very hard to do with someone like Sam. Sam was a proud man and also a tough one. He had always shrugged off the pain in the past. To admit to it now was something to be addressed. But they had another problem.
“Tell me about these fevers. How long do they last, and how high does your temperature get?”
“Not sure how high they get; never stuck a thermometer in my mouth. Pretty high. They last a few minutes to a few hours. Woke me up once.”
“It’s a sign of infection. Your lab work is showing that your B-cells are lower. We may have to stop the chemotherapy until they come up some.”
“Stop the chemo? Didn’t you just say we needed to stay on schedule?”
“Yes.”
“Well then how . . .” Sam realized what was being said.
“It’s a balancing act, Sam. I’d like you to stay close for a few weeks. Can you do that for me?”
Sam thought it through for a moment. They were too far into it to quit now.
“No, I already have the next trip set up.”
“Postpone it?” Maher asked. “Just a couple of weeks.”
Sam smiled at the doctor. “That would kind of defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Besides,” Sam added, “what are the odds now?”
Dr. Maher shook his head. “I don’t give odds, Sam. We fight like we aim to win. That’s all there is in my book.”
“Fair enough,” Sam agreed.
They paused for an uncomfortable silence before Maher remembered the clipboard. “Janet’s gonna bleed you some, and then poke you a couple of times. Have you out in about thirty minutes.”
“Great. Thanks, Doc.”
Maher rose and stuck out a hand.
“Next week?” he pried.
“Little after,” Sam answered.
“Okay.”
Maher turned and walked back toward the desk, scribbling in the chart. Sam turned and contemplated the steady drizzle running down the window.
• • •
Danny had contacted every source that he knew. The official police press statement was in his briefcase, along with several back articles from the local papers. Several rolls of film had been sent to his editor. He had emailed part one of his story a couple of hours ago, and now he wondered if that had been a wise decision. He really had no idea what he was going to do for part two. It was a foolish decision in hindsight. He was waiting for a call from Jack; he just didn’t want to admit it. Even if Jack did call, it didn’t mean Danny would get any useful information.
Danny knew he was being used, but so far Jack had been up front and honest about it, which was a lot more than most informants were. Was Jack an informant? Hard to say, really. True, he had told Danny things that the rest of the press had not been privy to. It had been just enough to keep Danny a little ahead of the game. Maybe it was a test? To see what Danny did with the information he was given before the real good stuff was released? Or to see if Danny had the balls to do what Jack needed? Nevertheless, the phone had yet to ring again.
He turned it off as he boarded the plane. It was a long flight back to Orlando.
The state of Mississippi holds 23,182 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 15,531 are repeat offenders.
—TWENTY-FOUR—
Sam sat in seat 14F on Northwest flight 1108 out of Detroit. He attempted to sleep, but the loud drone of the engines, combined with the constant shifting of the passenger next to him, made it impossible. Sam cracked an eyelid and assessed the man: About 5’8", two-hundred and fifty or two-hundred and sixty pounds; couple of chins; suit; also trying to sleep. Why would anyone wear a suit on a flight that left the gate at 9:14 in the evening? Sam looked over his shoulder at the rest of the plane. It was mostly dark; the majority reading or trying to sleep.
He shoved his head back into the wadded up fleece pullover he had worn to the gate. The drone of the engines traveled right through it. Rolls Royce engines. It had occurred to him, as they had climbed to altitude. They had a distinctive hum. Not surprising, since it was an Airbus plane.
He had been at the airport an hour before takeoff as was required now since 9-11. The transit through the new security gates had been long but easy, the attendants polite when the alarms went off for forgotten keys, change, and such. A young man had gone through in front of Sam, and had alarmed repeatedly, until he remembered his dog tags and pulled them from his shirt with some embarrassment. Sam remembered the feeling. Wearing the things for so long you forgot they were there. The soldier was quickly passed with a few heartfelt thank yous from both the security people and a few passengers. Something Sam was very happy to see.
He moved with the crowd toward the departure gates, well familiar with the layout. Instead of opting for the tram, he walked toward his favorite feature of the terminal. Northwest had its own terminal in Detroit, and had chosen to include a large animated water fountain in its center. Sam had found himself sitting through an entire show when he first encountered it, and usually had the time to catch a repeat every time he flew.
The fountain looked like nothing special until the show began and a series of jets shot water in various arcs across it from a variety of directions. The speed slowly increased until the jets were leaping over and under each other, becoming too fast to follow. It was a model of both art and engineering, of which Sam was a fan. Despite it being in the middle of the terminal, Sam chose the area for its anonymity. Passengers either walked past in a hurry to make their flights, or watched the fountain. Nobody really paid attention to the people watching the fountain. He hid in plain sight.
Now seated in the cramped coach section and giving up on sleep, Sam reviewed the information on the man he was traveling to see. TJ Olson was famous for two reasons. At one time he had been the National Baseball League’s home run superstar. A young man from the state of Florida, he had grown up being groomed for greatness. His father, a former catcher for the Boston Red Sox, and his uncle, a major-league batting coach, had taught him from an early age what it took to hit a baseball. His tall frame and sharp eyes made him an outstanding hitter, and he had done well, pulling his college team to several winning seasons, and himself a quick shot at the pros.
His first two years of major league ball were not as fruitful. He was not quite ready for the speed and skill he encountered from the major-league pitchers. Lo
oking for an edge, he had turned to steroids. When he put fifteen pounds of muscle on his frame before reporting for spring training, it could not help but be noticed. But TJ worked with the best, and when it came time for testing he had always come up clean. His home runs began racking up, and the players, coaches, and fans all overlooked the growing physique of the young ball player. TJ prospered. Endorsements had come with large paychecks, and he was soon seen on various red carpets with several of Hollywood’s single females.
But TJ’s success and constant time in the spotlight brought his demons out of the closet. An athlete from a young age, TJ’s body had been able to handle the drinking and drug use that slowly had been creeping further and further into his life. After a sidewalk interview following a movie premiere, a clearly intoxicated TJ, unsteady on his feet and slurring his words, had walked to his car and drove away. It was soon on all the networks, and his rumored drug use was now confirmed. A drunk driving arrest, which had been buried since college, was soon resurrected, and TJ was in the press for some time. Sponsors soon cancelled their contracts, prompting TJ to hit the bottle even harder. A few months later he was found unconscious in his Mercedes, which he had somehow managed to drive off the road. The paparazzi swarmed and TJ’s mug shot was on everyone’s TV screen the next day. The judge had slapped him on the wrist and sent him to rehab, which, to no one’s surprise, he managed to finish in time for spring training.
Here TJ’s problems had only continued, and the years of drinking, steroids, and drug use were taking their toll. His batting average suffered, but he still managed to keep his home runs adding up. But with the press and the fans constantly hounding him, he soon turned back to the bottle. Four months into the season, he had once again been convicted of drunk driving after he drove into a parked car. Since he had both drugs and alcohol in the car and his system, the judge gave him a few days in jail that time. The sentence was shortened dramatically by the sheriff who claimed it was due to overcrowding. TJ once again shuffled off to another record-setting recovery at a celebrity rehab facility.
The pattern continued for the next three years with TJ’s plight frequently making its way onto the national TV screens. Drunk driving, fights on the baseball field and with the paparazzi were attributed to ‘roid-rage’ and more stints in rehab. He never spent long in jail and was always out in time for spring training. Despite the setbacks he had still managed to set the all-time record for home runs before quickly retiring. It was thought that with the pressures of baseball behind him, TJ might finally manage to beat the drugs and alcohol.
A young actress became pregnant and TJ found himself married. The marriage was rocky from the start, with tabloid coverage and steroid rumors adding to the fire. The police were regulars at the Olson household for various domestic disputes. Charges were always dropped. Until the night of Christmas Eve.
It was a night that America would hear about for the next two years. A call reporting an accident a few blocks from the Olson household turned up the car of TJ Olson. It was wrapped around a tree and his young wife’s body was found behind the wheel. Blood was found on both sides of the shattered windshield, as well as on the concrete leading away. Officers sent to TJ’s home had found him unconscious and bleeding on the floor of his bedroom. The press had a field day. An ambulance was summoned and brought Olson to the hospital. He was found to be highly intoxicated. When awakened and questioned he had claimed to remember nothing about the accident. He did, however, claim he wasn’t driving the car. The detective didn’t buy the story, suspecting that TJ had moved her body before walking home from the scene. He was arrested in the emergency room.
What followed was the worst example of the American judicial system ever seen. TJ spent a majority of his vast fortune on the most famous criminal lawyers in the country. The judge had foolishly allowed cameras into the courtroom, and the trial of TJ Olson became daily dirt for the American public. The jury was forced into sequestration by the judge. Every expert that could be bought was paraded across the witness stand to confuse the jury. Money was no object. No theory too outrageous.
After eight months, the jury was weary and wanted their own lives back. The prosecution had painted a simple picture. Blood evidence in the car. The wife’s hair in the windshield on the passenger’s side. The setting of the driver’s seat and mirrors. Injuries to TJ’s head and hands. A picture of the couple out that night with drinks in hand. The dinner and bar bill from TJ’s credit card. The phone and police records. The blood test from the hospital. It had seemed like an easy case.
To the shock of the nation, TJ was acquitted on all counts. The outrage was heard across the nation on every talk show and news magazine. The prosecutors left the state in disgust. The jury members received hate mail and death threats. TJ promptly left California and returned to Florida, where as a native son, he was more welcome. A much poorer man, he began to make appearances at sports memorabilia shows, signing cards and jerseys for his few remaining loyal fans. One show was scheduled for this coming Saturday at the Germain Arena in Ft. Myers, Florida, not far from his home.
Sam had a ticket.
• • •
After a quick night’s sleep at a local hotel, Sam was up and in his rental car on the way to the arena. Passing a variety of urban sprawl, Sam was both shocked and appalled by the growth that had occurred since his last visit just a few years ago with his wife and daughter. Strip malls, shopping complexes, miles of new roads, towering condominium complexes, and several new gated communities were now in an area Sam remembered being only empty land. He weaved in and out of several dump trucks as he made his way toward the arena. The age of his fellow drivers was as expected: old.
Florida was the retirement destination of the east coast and Midwest states. A variety of license plates could be seen every time he paused at a stop light. It was “In season,” as the locals called it—plain winter to everyone else, the time when their city population grew by over one-hundred percent due to the snowbirds arriving from the north. The age took a sudden turn toward the late teens and early twenties as he approached Florida Gulf Coast University, less than a mile from the arena. Traffic picked up even more as he was also near a large outlet mall. Traffic could be a problem; he might have to re-think his exit plan.
Sam chose a parking spot out and away from the building with an easy access to the street entrance. The building was designed for all-around use. A hurricane shelter when needed, it had a steeply sloped roof of metal and a solid concrete structure. Hockey and other sports were the main draw, but the occasional show, such as today, would make use of the facility. Sam caught sight of a life-sized cardboard cutout of the man he was here to see as he walked in the entrance. Would have been handy for practice, he thought with a smile. He dug in his pocket for the ticket, and was soon waved through by a young lady working the gate. Probably a student from the college, Sam thought, as he paused at the inner entrance and took in the sight of the show.
The floor was crowded with booths and tables. Some large and covering several square feet, and some small and manned by a father-son team. Banners hung from the upper deck with the names of the various companies sponsoring the show. Names like Topps, Fleer, Upper Deck, and Naxcom, were everywhere. All names unfamiliar to Sam.
He stopped at a booth and bought a copy of a Beckett magazine and a Sports Collector’s Digest. Holding them to help blend in, he wandered from booth to booth. They seemed to be grouped by sport. Baseball was prominent, but he also saw a variety of other sports. He lingered over a large hockey collection, finding his Detroit Redwings. He smiled as he poked a Steve Yzerman bobble-head. A signed Jersey hung on the wall behind the booth and Sam was actually tempted.
The PA system squawked and Sam turned to see a man up on the small stage at the far end of the arena. He annoyingly tapped the microphone a few times before addressing the crowd.
“Hello, sports’ fans. Welcome to the Germain Arena. I know you’re all awaiting the arrival of our featured guest
. He should be along in a few minutes. But before he arrives, I would like to announce a charity drawing that will take place today. This is not in the flyer we put out; this is a new addition. For a small twenty-dollar donation, you can be entered to win a round of golf tomorrow morning at the new Renaissance Golf Club here in Fort Myers with our special guest, Mr. TJ Olson! All proceeds will go to the Fort Myers United Way. I would also like to point out that the Renaissance Golf Club has graciously offered to match all donations dollar for dollar! You may enter your name here at the front of the stage. Good luck to you all.”
Sam quickly calculated his chances of winning, even though it was not a viable option. Would be one hell of a headline though, he thought. The Renaissance—that might be just the opening he needed. He strolled the aisles of the show for another half an hour before departing. He didn’t need to see TJ’s smiling face up on the stage.
Back in his car, Sam weighed his options as he let the air conditioning remove the heat from the interior. He needed more information. Putting the car in gear, he left the arena and drove in the direction of the outlet mall. As he suspected, there were several other stores and restaurants nearby. He pulled into a gas station and topped off the tank. As he entered the store to pay, he wandered until he found a newspaper rack. Picking up a copy of the local paper, he also grabbed a few real estate magazines that were always on display. The cashier was a young man, maybe in his mid-twenties, with an intelligent look. He calmly took Sam’s bottle of Gatorade and stacks of papers, and rang them up.
“Anything else, sir?” he asked.
“Do you know where the Renaissance Golf Club is, by chance?” Sam inquired.
“Yeah, actually I do. Just take this road here past the mall and out to 75,” the cashier said, pointing. “Take 75 north to Daniels Parkway and get off going west. It’s on the right, I think.”
