by Randy Singer
“In the regular season—seven.”
“How many in that game?”
“Three.”
“And how many fumbles?”
“One.”
Harry nodded, as if the point was obvious to everyone. “I asked Mr. Henderson to bring a few TVs in so we could watch something,” he said.
Landon had noticed the television monitors in the courtroom. One was on a stand facing him; the other was off to the side, pointing toward the committee. Lots of courtrooms came equipped with television monitors, and Landon hadn’t given them a second thought—until now.
Harry pointed a remote at the television. “I’ve watched that entire championship game,” he said. “Those first two interceptions weren’t really your fault. One of ’em got batted by your own receiver. The second one, you were under a lot of pressure. And that fumble on the last drive of the game—well, you got blindsided when your protection broke down. But this third interception, on a critical drive with just a few minutes left . . . it looks pretty suspicious.”
Harry put on a pair of reading glasses and fiddled with the remote but couldn’t seem to get the video started. He passed the remote down to Henderson and mumbled something about technology. In the awkward silence, Landon fidgeted in his seat, his leg bouncing, then caught himself. He knew he had to stay calm under pressure.
“If we can get this thing to work,” Harry said as if the televisions were the Hadron Super Collider, “would you mind watching this play and telling us what happened?”
“I’d be glad to.”
Henderson hit the remote, and the video flicked on. “Figures,” Harry said.
Landon watched the nightmare for the first time in years. The night after the game, ESPN had replayed the interception over and over, though by then Landon had been too drunk to worry about it. Later, it had become a staple for ESPN’s coverage of the point-shaving scandal. Landon estimated that every sports fan in America had probably seen the play at least twenty times.
Southeastern was behind by one point and driving down the field with just under three minutes to play. Vegas had Alabama favored by four, so Landon’s team was beating the spread. Despite the prior interceptions, Southeastern’s defense and special teams had kept them in the game.
On this play, the protection was good, and Landon’s favorite receiver was running down the sideline, step for step with the defensive back. But the throw was short and well behind the receiver. The defensive back glanced over his shoulder and broke on the ball, picking it off and sprinting nearly fifty yards into the end zone. The crowd roared, and the commentators were momentarily speechless.
“You hit him right in the numbers,” McNaughten said, referring to the defensive back. “That ball must’ve been a good five yards short. Now, we’re not experts on football here. But I think this committee would like an explanation about how a quarterback with a rocket arm like yours could throw such a wounded duck.”
3
LANDON KNEW IT LOOKED BAD. He had heard it all before. But with his career on the line, he had to make them understand.
“Can I stand up and demonstrate something?” he asked.
The committee members looked at Henderson, who shrugged his approval.
Landon rose from his seat. “Mr. Henderson, would you mind standing up here for just a minute?”
The committee’s attorney furrowed his brow, hesitated, and then joined Landon in the well of the courtroom.
“Kerri, can you help me out too?”
His wife practically jumped at the opportunity.
Landon guided Kerri to a space in front of one end of the committee’s table and placed Henderson right next to her. He moved to the other end while a few lawyers on the committee crossed their arms.
“Let’s assume that Kerri’s my receiver,” Landon said. “She’s running down the sideline, looking over her shoulder just like you saw on that film. Mr. Henderson’s the defender, and he’s running right next to her. But he can’t be looking back at me or he’ll lose contact with her. So he watches her eyes to determine when I’ve thrown the ball.
“Um, Mr. Henderson, would you mind turning your head so you’re looking at Kerri?”
Reluctantly, Henderson did so.
“Now this is what we call a ‘read pass’ because I’m supposed to read the defender and decide whether to throw the ball on my receiver’s back shoulder or whether my receiver is a step or two ahead and I can throw it out in front of him. If the defender is step for step, like he was on that play, I’m supposed to throw the ball just behind my receiver and toward the sideline for what’s called a back-shoulder throw. My receiver’s looking at me, and he should slow down right at the last minute while the defender keeps going a step or two.”
As Landon was explaining, Kerri, who had been a sports announcer in college, stepped back and pretended to catch an imaginary ball. She was slender and in great shape, and the men on the panel followed her every move.
“But on this play, my receiver thought he had the defender beat, so he kept going.” On cue, Kerri took a few steps in the opposite direction. Henderson just stood there, clearly not anxious to play along. “The defender turned at just the right time to break on the ball. So what looks like a horrible pass was really just a massive miscommunication.”
Harry McNaughten tilted his head a little as if he might be buying it. He had his glasses off, holding them in his right hand. “Can we run that tape again?” he asked.
After Landon, Kerri, and Henderson took their seats, the committee watched the tape one more time.
“Hold it! Right there,” Landon said. “Just before I let go of the ball, you can see that the defender and my receiver are step for step. Now watch—I’ll throw it to his back shoulder, and the defender’s head turns right when I do. He makes a break on the ball while my receiver keeps going.”
Henderson rolled the tape forward, and it unfolded just like Landon said. McNaughten stuck out his lip as if he might be considering the matter. After a few beats of silence, he moved on to other areas of questioning. They grilled Landon for another thirty minutes and then asked if he had any closing remarks.
Landon thought about it for a moment and almost passed on the opportunity. What else was there to say? But he had worked so hard these past three years, and Kerri was sitting on the edge of her seat, waiting for him to pull a rabbit out of his hat. He couldn’t just stay silent.
“I appreciate the chance to come in here and answer your questions. And I want you to know that I totally trust whatever this committee decides. When I went to law school, I knew that I might never actually get a chance to practice law. If you decide that I’m too much of a risk, I’ll understand. My actions have consequences, and I’m prepared to accept whatever you say those consequences should be.
“But I can promise you this. If you recommend me, I won’t let you down. Other lawyers might take their license for granted. But every day I go to work, I’ll remember that I’m fortunate to even have a license. I’ll remember that you were willing to take a risk on me and give me a second chance. And I’ll remember what happens if I’m ever disloyal to the people who trust me. I know how much I hurt my teammates and my coaches and my family. There’s no amount of money that could ever make me do that again.”
Landon looked down at the floor, satisfied that he had said everything he wanted to say.
“Thank you,” Henderson said. “We’ll be in touch with you in a few weeks.”
///
It was a long and quiet ride home from Richmond to Virginia Beach. Landon spent the first fifteen minutes beating himself up about the answers he had given and the answers he should have given, second-guessing just about everything he had said. It was typical windshield wisdom, the clever things you think up on the drive home. Kerri tried to cheer him up by telling him how proud she was of the way he had handled the hearing. If she was ever in trouble, she said, she wanted him to be her lawyer.
“In fact, I want to sign a
contract right now. If we ever get a divorce, I’m hiring you to handle my side.”
But Landon continued to sulk. So Kerri took another approach.
“You’re right—you were terrible. They’ve probably sent an e-mail out already denying you admission to the bar, if not for being a cheat, then for being a terrible lawyer.”
“Probably,” Landon said.
“Nothing like a good pity party,” Kerri replied.
Silence took over until they crossed the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel and Landon reached over to hold Kerri’s hand. “I just can’t stand the thought of what I put you and Maddie through if I’m never going to be able to practice law,” he said softly. “I’m not very good at being Mr. Mom.”
“It’s all going to work out,” Kerri said with her usual self-assurance. “Besides, you make a great mom.”
“Thanks for being there today.”
Kerri laced her fingers through his. “You really are going to be an awesome lawyer,” she said.
“If I only get the chance.”
4
AS A BOY, LANDON REED had always loved the holiday season. His mother, a single mom raising two kids, never had much money for presents. But Christmas still meant time off from school and a few toys under the tree. When Landon reached high school, December was filled with state playoffs in football, culminating in back-to-back championships his junior and senior years. In college, the month was filled with conference championship games that led up to the bowl season.
But during the last several years, all of that had changed. Christmas in prison meant staring through the bulletproof glass at Kerri and his new baby daughter, wishing he could hold them. Only once, a few weeks after Maddie’s birth, had the guards made an exception and allowed Landon to hold her. His mom and sister visited at Christmas too, driving all the way from the Florida panhandle just to spend one hour with him—the maximum allowed under prison rules.
After his release, December brought law school final exams and the annual buildup to the SEC Championship Game. The commentators would rehash the controversy surrounding Landon’s three-interception performance. Had he thrown the game or hadn’t he? They would show each of the picks (and sometimes the fumble on the final drive for good measure), dutifully note that Landon had only pleaded guilty to throwing the regular-season games, and then state that he had been unavailable for comment on the story.
This December held its own special perils. If the Character and Fitness Committee gave him a thumbs-down, it would be one more reason to hate the month. On the other hand, a positive response could be a turning point. And it was becoming harder not to get excited about Christmas when looking at the world through the eyes of a child who had just turned five.
On the good side, Landon had obtained a few painting jobs that generated some extra income for the holidays. He watched Maddie while Kerri worked the early shift, then headed off to paint when Kerri got home. Two nights a week he was at the gym, training three local high school quarterbacks. Landon and Kerri were like two ships passing in the night throughout the entire month. And they still had no word from the Character and Fitness Committee.
By Christmas Eve, Landon’s mind was occupied with other things. At noon, he piled into the minivan with Kerri and Maddie and, as part of a local ministry, began taking presents to six separate families whose fathers were in jail. The Reeds gave the presents to the moms, who now had some Christmas gifts to give the children from their dads. The women were especially excited to see Kerri, who was something of a local celebrity as a WTRT personality. Plus, Kerri had been in their shoes. Half the time, she was choking back tears as they drove away.
On Christmas morning, Kerri rolled out of bed at four so she could be on the air by six. She hated working Christmas, but she couldn’t turn down the double pay. Besides, it was a chance to work the anchor desk—a welcome break from her normal role as a field reporter.
Landon woke with her and quietly fixed some coffee, trying not to awaken Maddie. It would be hard enough keeping her enthusiasm in check until Mommy got home at noon.
Two hours later, Landon settled in to watch the morning news and thought about how blessed he was. On the screen, Kerri was gabbing about some feel-good story with a gray-haired male reporter who had outlived his TV prime, a guy you hardly noticed because your eyes were immediately drawn to Kerri’s long, dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Even though they glammed on the makeup, she still had that fresh, girl-next-door look. Landon had always believed his wife could have been a model, but she was more of a tomboy and didn’t like the anorexic look that the modeling agencies preferred. He watched the way she commanded the camera, her eyes sparkling and her face lighting up as she flashed the big smile that viewers loved. She had a lazy left eye that drove her crazy when she reviewed her own tapes, but Landon found it endearing.
Maddie woke up at seven, and Landon fixed chocolate-chip pancakes. The next five hours were the slowest of young Maddie’s life. Every noise outside their rented condo generated a mad dash to the front door to see if Mommy had come home early. Each of Maddie’s presents was lifted, shaken, and subjected to endless speculation. How the Grinch Stole Christmas held her attention for only fifteen minutes. And so, after exchanging three text messages with Kerri at a few minutes after twelve, Landon broke down and allowed Maddie to open a present.
“Why don’t you open this one first?” he suggested. It was a small, flat package that didn’t look like it would be a lot of fun. But after waiting all morning, Maddie was not going to argue.
“Okay,” she said, tearing into it. She pulled out a small card with Kerri’s handwriting on it.
“What does it say, Daddy?”
“It wants to know if you’ve been a good girl.”
The question, a no-brainer in Landon’s mind, seemed to stump Maddie. She scrunched her little face into deep concentration. “I tried,” she offered.
“Then it says that your best Christmas gift ever is waiting right outside the front door.”
Maddie looked at Landon and lowered her eyebrows in curiosity. Gifts were supposed to be wrapped and under the tree. She hustled to the front door and cracked it open a few inches. Then, with Landon standing behind her, the video camera on his cell phone rolling, she threw open the door and squealed.
Kerri was standing there, holding a furry, light-brown puppy that looked like a lion cub.
Maddie placed both hands over her mouth and let out another whoop. “Can I hold him?” she asked.
“Let’s let him run around a little first,” Kerri said. She had just picked up the little guy from their neighbors, who had agreed to take care of him on Christmas Eve so they could surprise Maddie. Kerri walked into the condo and gently placed the puppy on the carpet. He stood there for a moment, looking from one human to the next, trying to make sense of his brave new world.
“Oooh,” Maddie cooed. She knelt down next to him and started petting him. “Does he have a name?”
“That’s for you to decide,” Kerri said.
Before they opened another present, the furry little ball had darted around the condo several times, wearing himself out, and been christened with a name: Simba.
Simba was a showstopper. Maddie lost interest in anything else under the tree. In fact, it wasn’t until almost one thirty, after Simba and his new owners had taken two walks outside (and after one accident on the carpet), that the final gift was opened.
Kerri had changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, modeling the new furry slippers that Landon and Maddie had given her. “Oh, wait,” she said, “there’s one other gift I almost forgot.”
She disappeared for a moment and brought a box from the bedroom closet wrapped in Christmas-tree paper they had bought on sale after the holidays the previous year. It was the size of an old computer box, and it had Landon’s curiosity piqued. He would be a little frustrated if Kerri had violated their agreement on the amount of money they were supposed to spend on each other. They had school loans to pay,
and painters didn’t make much money.
Still, Landon smiled as he tore away the wrapping paper and opened the box, only to discover a smaller box inside. One of those routines. There were three boxes total, each separately wrapped, each smaller than the last. Inside the smallest box was a manila envelope, which was also wrapped. Inside that envelope was a smaller business envelope that was wrapped in the same green Christmas-tree paper.
Landon held it in his hand and looked up at his wife.
“Open it, Daddy,” Maddie said, squirming with excitement.
Landon’s left hand started shaking a little. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but what else could it be? And why would Kerri have gone to all this trouble if it wasn’t good news?
“Is this what I think it is?” he asked.
His wife shrugged. Always the tease.
He opened it carefully, slowly. He said a prayer. He unfolded the letter and started to read.
The Character and Fitness Committee of the Virginia Board of Bar Examiners has reviewed all material relative to the issues of character and fitness surrounding your application. The Committee finds that you have proven by clear and convincing evidence that you possess the requisite character and fitness to practice law.
He read it twice just to be sure. He wanted to pinch himself to see if he was dreaming. Kerri had tears in her eyes. Maddie was jumping and cheering. He gave them both a hug.
That night, with Simba sleeping in his crate next to their bed, Landon and Kerri celebrated their greatest Christmas ever. “After all,” Kerri said, “we can afford to have another baby now that you’re going to be a hotshot lawyer.”
5
THE DAZZLE OF CHRISTMAS turned into the dreariness of a January filled with depressing news. While waiting for the Board of Bar Examiners to affirm the recommendation of the Character and Fitness Committee, Landon bombarded local law firms and public defenders’ offices with applications. To distinguish himself from the dozens of other applicants, he put on a suit every day and personally hand-delivered the paperwork. The receptionists all smiled and politely told him they would give his application to the hiring partner, but Landon never received even the first call.
