When Crazy Bob’s went bust, King found work slinging drinks before managing a nasty little bandito biker hangout where strippers shared the billing with drugs, nightly fights and the Wednesday night special—the winning stub in the midnight ticket lottery earning a free massage, and negotiated happy ending, at the massage parlor next door. From there it was on to the Dollhouse. When it closed down, King moved to the Yellow Rose. That was 1981.
The thing about King was that right from the start the Rose had rules for football players. No underage drinking. None. Half-priced drinks when players turned twenty-one. Abuse the rules, act like an asshole—rip your shirt off and hop onstage to bump and grind with the girls, like one former Longhorn star—and you were headed to the office and a chat with Uncle Don.
“I told my waitresses and floor manager, don’t let them drink, because I don’t want the scandal,” said King. “I don’t ever want to challenge or ruin anyone’s reputation.” Down went another shot of chilled vodka. “It was safe for them,” he said. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to them. I would not let people come up to the tables and bother them. We’d treat them like VIPs, even though they didn’t have money. But you know what? As soon as they graduated, that free ride was over. Full price.”
For those who wore a Texas uniform on Saturday, the Rose was a gift that kept on giving—all the free soda and food you could eat, naked girls everywhere you looked. On any given Friday or Saturday night seventy of King’s finest dancers, culled from his “entertainment base” of three hundred girls, worked the floor. Single mothers, pros and more than a few UT honeys. A good six-hour shift left between $300 and $800 in their pockets, a far cry from forty hours a week behind the counter at Whataburger.
Somebody ordered another round. King took a sip of his draft and lamented the fact times had changed. UT football players didn’t come around much anymore. Fact is, he had moved on as well. Not rich enough to retire, he managed another strip joint out near Round Rock. But he missed the old place and the chance to slip a bottle of vodka or two out the back door to a superstar after a national championship win or help reel in the next high school star with a complimentary evening at the club, watching some tasty little coeds do their thing. Run right, the system was nothing if not the sum of many moving parts. Quietly, professionally, one of its kings had done his part to give Texas an unseen edge.
“Over the years,” he said, downing the last of an ice-cold Coors Light, “I’ve done more for recruiting at UT than Mack Brown.”
“They had suffered enough. They lost their scholarships”
Two hundred and fifty-seven wins. Nineteen conference championships. Twenty-two bowl appearances. Those were the final numbers when LaVell Edwards retired in 2000 after twenty-nine seasons as head coach at BYU. Only six coaches in the history of college football had won more games. But one particular win in 1984 cemented Edwards’s status as a coaching legend—a 24–17 bowl victory over Michigan to cap an undefeated season and secure BYU’s only national championship.
The unenviable task of succeeding Edwards fell to Gary Crowton, an offensive coordinator with the Chicago Bears. Crowton arrived in Provo in 2001, and BYU appeared headed for another national title run. The Cougars got off to a 12-0 start behind running back Luke Staley, who led the nation in rushing that year with 1,596 yards and won the Doak Walker Award. Heading into the final game of the regular season, BYU was ranked seventh in the nation. But Staley broke his leg the week before the last game. Without him, BYU lost to Hawaii and then fell to Louisville in the Liberty Bowl, finishing 12-2.
Things went downhill from there. Despite a soft schedule, BYU went 5-7 in 2002, marking its first losing season since 1973. The 2003 season was even worse. BYU dropped to 4-8 and went 1-5 at home. Back-to-back losing seasons had never happened under Edwards.
“We had two losing seasons in a row,” Crowton said. “I was under a lot of pressure from the administration to get back to the national championship and to get better players.”
The pressure to win in 2004 was actually put in writing. “It happened after my third year,” Crowton said. “I got a letter from the administration that said I had to be 6-5 the next year.”
With his job on the line, Crowton changed BYU’s recruiting approach. “I had to win,” he said. “So I went out and recruited the best athletes.”
Karland Bennett and B. J. Mathis were two recruits who Crowton and his staff felt could help change BYU’s fortunes. They were the stars of Berkner High’s football team in Texas. Bennett, a six-foot-one, 205-pound linebacker, was team captain. Mathis, a five-foot-seven, 170-pound running back, was an all-state kick returner. Both had scholarship offers from top programs—Bennett from Oklahoma, TCU and Arkansas; Mathis from SMU and Tulsa. But only BYU made offers to both players. So on the same day—January 22, 2004—they committed to the Cougars.
The duo was unfamiliar with the school’s strict honor code, which prohibits alcohol, sex before marriage and pornography. But Crowton personally explained BYU’s standards during his in-home visits. Most of what he told them about the honor code, however, didn’t register. Bennett later said, “It was just on a sheet of paper with everything else that we had to sign, some religious thing.”
That religious thing is actually a pretty big deal, seeing that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints owns BYU. The school’s honor code mirrors the teachings of the church, which goes as far as forbidding its members to drink coffee and tea. Still, Crowton didn’t foresee any problems. “Their high school coach told us that B.J. and Karland were ‘angels,’ ” Crowton said. “Plus, I went to their homes and talked about the high standards and told them not to come if they couldn’t do it.”
One thing was abundantly clear: Bennett and Mathis would be racial minorities in Provo. Less than 1 percent of the city’s 120,000 residents are black. But African-American college football players face a similar racial landscape at Nebraska, Oklahoma, Colorado, Kansas, Notre Dame and countless other powerhouse programs. Bennett and Mathis weren’t worried. They had thrived as teenagers in Richardson, an affluent, predominantly white suburb of Dallas. Besides, they were focused on playing in the NFL, and they were convinced BYU gave them the best chance of achieving their dreams. BYU coaches pointed out that their program had more alumni in the NFL than any school in the West except USC. Bennett and Mathis were promised a lot of playing time and visibility: the first game in the upcoming season was on national television against Notre Dame. The campus was a draw, too. Everything was new, shiny and clean, especially the football facilities. Plus, people were ridiculously friendly. Mathis was so impressed that he told his high school teammate Trey Bryant, a 305-pound junior defensive lineman being aggressively pursued by Baylor and BYU, that he should choose BYU. “This is the place,” Mathis told him.
With BYU changing its approach to recruiting, Crowton turned to his close friend Bronco Mendenhall for help. Mendenhall was the defensive coordinator at New Mexico, where he’d spent the previous five seasons building the No. 1 defense in the Mountain West Conference. The idea of moving to Provo didn’t thrill Mendenhall. His wife wasn’t excited about trading Albuquerque for Provo, either. But Crowton was one of Mendenhall’s closest friends, and when he said he needed a new defensive coordinator, Mendenhall felt obligated. His arrival coincided with the push to recruit more tough-nosed football players to Provo, a move Mendenhall supported.
“We clearly went after the athletes that year,” Mendenhall said. “I remember the meetings. ‘We need more athleticism.’ ‘We need more speed.’ ‘We need athletes.’ ”
Crowton was counting on Mendenhall to be his enforcer. “The reason I hired Bronco is because I knew he could help me honor the standards,” Crowton said. “He was a real strong guy. He wanted to build the top defense in the nation. He was challenging me, saying, ‘I can handle these guys. I can make sure they won’t get into trouble.’ ”
Karland Bennett and B. J. Mathis arrived in Provo and became roommates at the
end of July 2004, a little more than a week before the start of fall camp. Their apartment complex housed mainly freshmen football players, including eleven other African-Americans from Texas, California and Georgia. On August 8, a bunch of them ventured away from campus to the Provo Towne Center mall. It was a Sunday and there were few people at the mall. But a group of African-Americans in BYU football garb drew eyes. They were approached for autographs. Others wished them luck in the upcoming season. It felt pretty good.
Then the players spotted a cute girl. She was short but curvy, with dirty-blond hair. She didn’t seem to mind that she’d been noticed. One player approached and said that one of his teammates wanted to get to know her but was a little shy. He pointed at Karland Bennett.
All the players were handsome, with athletic builds. But the girl quickly surmised that Bennett was the best looking one in the group. He looked like a GQ model. Before she knew it, he was approaching with his teammates. One by one, they introduced themselves as BYU football players. She told them her name and her age—Jane Brown,* seventeen.
Like them, Brown wasn’t from Utah and wasn’t a Mormon. She had moved with her parents from Wyoming to nearby Sandy, a Salt Lake City suburb. But she certainly knew about BYU and its clean reputation. The idea that a group of its football players were paying attention to her was flattering.
Flattery, it turned out, was a healthy thing for Brown. Privately, she struggled with insecurities and was taking antidepressants. But all she felt was excitement when Bennett started talking to her. He suggested she get some of her friends and come by his apartment later that evening to hang out and watch movies. They exchanged cell phone numbers. Bennett said he’d call her around eight.
Brown didn’t have many friends in the area, so she called her twenty-one-year-old cousin Kim Smith.† Basically, Smith was Brown’s best friend and a big sister all in one. A six-foot-one basketball player at a small college in Wyoming, Smith was home for the summer. She lived in Salt Lake City. When she heard the enthusiasm in her cousin’s voice, she said she’d be happy to tag along. At college she had dated a guy whose brother played football for BYU. Maybe he’d be at the party, Smith hoped.
It was 10:30 by the time the girls arrived at University Villa in Provo and made their way to the third-floor end unit, number 124. Bennett and Mathis showed them inside. To the left was a small kitchen area with a table and chairs. To the right four guys were huddled around a large television, playing video games on an Xbox. They were some of the same guys Brown had seen earlier at the mall. They said hello again.
Bennett offered the girls a seat on the long couch. He sat between them and grabbed a joystick. While he played, Brown made small talk, and Smith asked the others if they knew the BYU player who was the brother of the guy she used to date. None did.
After a while, a guy emerged from the living room closet wearing nothing but SpongeBob boxer shorts and holding a drink. He was seventeen, the youngest player of the group. He was clearly the clown of the bunch.
Bennett turned to his guests. “Want something to drink?” he said.
“I’d love a glass of water,” Brown said. Smith passed.
A minute later, the guy in boxer shorts came from the kitchen and handed Brown a cup. Without looking, she took a sip and nearly choked. The guy laughed. He had given her vodka. She set it down.
She repeated her request for a glass of water.
The guy in boxers disappeared to his apartment next door. He returned with a large bottle of Smirnoff. A couple players drank straight from the bottle. They offered the girls shots.
“I really don’t want to drink,” Brown said. “I just wanted water.”
Smith said she didn’t want any alcohol either.
The guys took a few more shots. Brown was surprised that BYU players were drinking. But it didn’t change her opinion of them. Plenty of people she knew drank socially—not a particularly big deal.
“Why you not drinking?” one of them said to the girls. “You scared?”
“C’mon,” another one urged.
“Fine,” Smith said. “I’ll take one shot. That’s it.”
Brown went along, taking another. With the players egging her on, she took one more for good measure.
Then one of the players suggested they all watch a “flick.” Smith got suspicious. “Flick” was code for porn in her book. While a couple guys struggled to hook up a portable DVD player, Smith and Brown talked between themselves. Then they heard two women moaning. They were on the screen having sex.
“That’s disgusting,” Smith said.
“Like, you wouldn’t do that?” one player said.
“You’re right,” Smith said. “I wouldn’t ever, ever do that!”
A couple guys smirked but didn’t challenge Smith.
Brown still hadn’t figured out that a porn disc was playing. But she finally realized otherwise when she saw two black men simultaneously having sex with one white woman on the screen.
Embarrassed, Brown looked away.
“You’d like to do that, wouldn’t you?” a player joked to Brown.
“No,” she said, flashing an awkward smile. “I’m not that type of girl.”
Smith and Brown turned their backs to the screen and made conversation with Bennett. He seemed disinterested in the porn. Other guys were coming and going. Bennett stepped out for a second, too. When he returned, he told Smith that one of his teammates wanted to see her on the balcony. He apparently knew the guy Smith used to date. Smith stepped out, and the guy invited her to go get some fast food. She ducked back inside to let Brown know. “We’ll be right back,” she told Brown. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Brown stayed close to Bennett. He was the main reason she had gone there. At one point she told him that she wished they could go off to a late show or grab a bite to eat. But shortly after Smith left, Brown started feeling dizzy and nauseated. She had taken the antidepressant Paxil earlier that evening. Perhaps the alcohol had triggered an adverse reaction? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she suddenly felt as if she were levitating. It was a strange sensation. Scared, she turned to Bennett. “I don’t feel good.”
First he got her some water. But she needed to lie down. He steadied her and led her to his bedroom. He told her nobody would mess with her in there. It was small and dark—a desk on the left, just inside the door, and a bed to the right. Bennett helped her to his bed. She sat and he stood while they talked for a few minutes. At one point, Bennett heard snickering. Three of his teammates had snuck in the room and were watching him. “Get out,” he told them. They left. And a few minutes later, Bennett left to go find Smith. Brown passed out on his bed.
When Brown woke up a while later, she was no longer on the bed. According to police reports and grand jury transcripts, she was bent over Bennett’s desk. A guy wearing no pants was seated on it. Her face was in his lap, pressed against his genitals. Her jeans and underwear were down around her ankles. Another guy was having intercourse with her from behind.
“No,” she pleaded, trying to jerk her head away.
The guy on the desk tightened his grip, pressing his thumbs into her jaws, while moving her head up and down.
“Stop,” she cried.
The guy behind her reached around and cupped her mouth. “Shut up,” he said. Then the two men switched places.
The struggle continued, Brown crying while men kept switching positions. Her jeans and underwear came the rest of the way off. She could feel different sets of hands grabbing her from behind, along with different hands guiding her head up and down. But it was too dark to see who was doing what. And she was too weak to put up resistance.
Suddenly the bedroom door opened, and someone flipped on the light. Everyone stopped. The guy holding her head let go. She saw his face. She also turned and saw the other men in the room. None of them were wearing underwear except the guy in SpongeBob boxers.
“What the hell are you thinking?” one of
them shouted at the one who had just entered the room. “Shut the lights off. Hurry.”
Bennett started yelling, telling everyone to get out of his room and clean up the mess. There were used condoms on the floor. In the commotion, Brown wobbled out of the room and across the hall to the bathroom. She locked herself in and leaned over the tub, trying to gag herself. Her top was pulled down below her breasts. The rest of her clothes were missing.
Minutes later Bennett rapped on the door and insisted she open it. She did and he tossed her jeans at her. “Get dressed,” he said.
A few minutes later Bennett led her out of the bathroom to the outside balcony. She promptly threw up. Using Brown’s cell phone, Bennett finally tracked down Smith, who had experienced car trouble. He grabbed a couple buddies and drove Brown to the parking lot where Smith was stranded.
The moment Smith saw Brown she knew something had gone terribly wrong. Brown was crying and looked pale. While Bennett and his friends looked at Smith’s car, she comforted Brown.
“You shouldn’t have left me,” Brown whispered.
“What happened?”
“They raped me.”
Smith looked toward Bennett. Then she looked at his friends.
“They raped you or he raped you?”
“They raped me.”
Scarcely a year goes by without one or more college football programs being rocked by sexual assault charges. In 2012, players at five BCS schools were charged with sex crimes, and two Texas players—Case McCoy and Jordan Hicks—were sent home before the Alamo Bowl when a woman told San Antonio police that she had been sexually assaulted. Both players were indefinitely suspended. But they proclaimed their innocence, and neither was charged with a crime.
The System: The Glory and Scandal of Big-Time College Football Page 8
