O'Toole wanted to fight it and demand a public hearing, or even take the NCAA to court. But the same lawyer had advised him to accept the punishment "for now."
"We'll let this die down," he said, his arm draped around O'Toole's shoulders. "Then when there's a few different faces on the board in a couple of years, we'll come back and convince them that the punishment was far too severe. But if we fight it now, the good ol' boys with the NCAA will make you pay. Those suckers can carry a grudge," the lawyer further opined, "and their word is law when it comes to college athletics. However, go along, don't say anything inflammatory to the press, and it will actually work in your favor. Those same boys will see that you can be a 'team player,' and they'll be more sympathetic after you've done a little penance."
Karp had only learned of his friend's treatment and the lawyer's recommendation to take his medicine after the fact. "You should have called me," he'd admonished O'Toole.
"I didn't want to bother you," O'Toole replied. "This other lawyer has spent his entire career handling cases with the NCAA and seemed to know what he was doing."
"But that's part of the problem," Karp had growled. "You were being advised by someone who has a stake in not upsetting the powers that be with the NCAA. He has to deal with them a lot, which means picking his battles carefully, hoping they throw him the occasional bone. He's not about to buck the system."
"What do you think I should do?" O'Toole had asked.
"You fight them," Karp replied. "There's no guarantee they're going to be any fairer in two years than they are now. From what you've told me, the NCAA board is the arresting cop, judge, jury, and executioner. They follow their own rules, no meaningful due process, no constitutional protection, which translates into precious little fairness."
O'Toole thanked him for the advice, but in the end he'd gone with the counsel of his attorney. The next time he and Karp talked, he tried to explain that if he stirred up a lot more press, it might be tough to find a job of any kind in coaching. He had the sound of a defeated man when he called a couple of weeks later to say that he'd accepted a position teaching physical education and coaching the boys' basketball team at a high school in Mississippi.
"It'll be fun," O'Toole said, trying to put on a brave face. "It will give me a chance to get back to teaching the basics."
Karp heard the lie in his friend's voice. Fred O'Toole was never going to be content to be a high school basketball coach. His dream was to coach a college team into the finals of the NCAA tournament and win it. Karp couldn't put his finger on it, but his friend's seeming acceptance of his punishment filled him with a sense of foreboding.
However, this was a time when they both had their families and careers to manage. Sometimes months went by between telephone calls and letters. Then it was mostly catching up through Christmas cards with an O'Toole form letter, and telephone calls to wish each other a happy birthday, which always ended with vows to not let so much time go by before they talked again.
O'Toole had waited three years before appealing his suspension to the NCAA. But it was rejected without even a hearing. Two more years passed. Another appeal was made and rejected. The good ol' boys really were carrying a grudge, so O'Toole thought.
Then came the Christmas when no card or letter arrived. Karp waited until early January and then called to see what was up.
"Jenny's dead," O'Toole said, his voice sounding hollow. "Ovarian cancer. They found it in October and she died the day before Christmas. Sorry…I just haven't had the heart to let everybody know." He'd then broken down and cried while Karp, two thousand miles away, could do nothing more than offer condolences.
The death of his wife left O'Toole alone except for his brother, Mikey. The two of them had come to visit the Karp-Ciampi clan in New York, where Butch got a chance to get to know the younger O'Toole. A polite, soft-spoken young man, Mikey had been a good student, "more like you than me in that regard," Fred had said, but instead of basketball, he'd been a college baseball player.
Mikey had no illusions about taking his game to the pros after graduation. Instead, he'd followed his brother's footsteps and became a coach, paying his dues at small schools until being offered the position of head coach at the University of Northwest Idaho in Sawtooth. It was a small Division II university, but had become a respected regional baseball school under Mikey O'Toole.
Meanwhile, Fred tried to make the best of coaching high school boys, as the NCAA had shown no sign of relenting. Seven years finally passed, but even with his suspension over, it was clear that Fred O'Toole's name was mud in college basketball circles.
The day before Christmas, on the fifteenth anniversary of his wife's death, Fred arrived back at the campus of the Pac-10 school he'd been forced to leave. He walked across campus to the gym and at center court blew his brains out with the gun he'd hidden in his waistband.
There'd been a sympathetic story about Fred O'Toole in Sports Illustrated, in which a bitter Mikey O'Toole was quoted as saying that his brother had been blackballed and treated as a pariah because he'd dared to question the NCAA about an allegation issue "everyone knows is true."
"The worst part is that there are rules and even laws being broken on college campuses every day that are far worse than anything my brother might have said," Mikey O'Toole went on. "But the NCAA will do anything to save itself from embarrassment or taking a good hard look at itself."
A spokesman for the NCAA had been quoted as saying the association felt for Mikey O'Toole, but also that he was wrong. "The NCAA had a duty to maintain the integrity of the system. Coach Fred O'Toole impugned that integrity and paid the price for it."
The last time Karp had seen Mikey was at his brother's funeral. Five years later, Karp was reflecting on a telephone call that, as Yogi Berra once quipped, was "like deja vu all over again."
Mikey O'Toole told him that he'd been accused of recruiting violations and then suspended by the university pending a hearing before the American Collegiate Athletic Association, which governed the conference to which the University of Northwest Idaho belonged.
The ACAA hearing in Boise, Idaho, a short time later was "over before it began," O'Toole complained. He'd had an attorney with him-a friend from Sawtooth named Richie Meyers-but no opportunity to defend himself from the charges "or even a chance to have a public hearing at the university so that I could clear my name."
Instead, the hearing panel had immediately voted to suspend him for ten years, after which the university had fired him. Meyers had since filed a civil lawsuit with the U.S. District Court in Boise, seeking reinstatement and damages. "But more important to me is the chance to prove I didn't do what they said I did," O'Toole told Karp. "If we don't win it, I'm ruined. No one will touch me. I'm damaged goods."
"Are you guilty?" Karp had asked.
"Hell no," O'Toole replied. "I'm being set up by a player I kicked off the squad for, among other things, raping a young woman. I think the ACAA's interest in going after me is in part because of my brother and also what I said at his funeral; they're a stepchild of the NCAA, abide by all of the association's rules and regulations, and they also get some of their funding from National Big Brother. There's also something funny about the university's attitude, too, that I can't quite figure out."
"So how can I help you?" Karp asked.
O'Toole cleared his throat, clearly nervous. "Well, to be honest, Richie and I were wondering if we could visit with you in New York," he said. "Richie's a good friend-he's been doing this on contingency to help me out. He's also a fine lawyer, but he's in private practice, which in Sawtooth mostly means divorce cases, DUIs, and property disputes. He'd be the first to tell you that he hasn't done a lot of litigation, and none at the federal court level. Meanwhile, as you can imagine, the ACAA has pulled out the big guns-some suit with a tough rep named Steve Zusskin-and the university has someone else as a co-counsel, too. Richie's game, but he's also feeling a bit in over his head. He knows you by reputation, and when he heard y
ou were a friend of the family, he asked if maybe I could arrange it for him to run what we have past you."
Karp hesitated. He wanted to help, but didn't want to insert himself into a case where he really had no business. "Well, you know, most of what I've done is prosecute criminals," he pointed out. "I've done a little litigation, but there are more qualified civil attorneys."
O'Toole took the answer the wrong way. "Oh, you're right. Hey, you're busy. I'm sorry to have bothered you. It's just that my brother made me promise that if I ever got into trouble of any kind, and he wasn't around, I would go to you."
"Hey, that's not what I meant," Karp replied. "I'm glad you called, and flattered. I'd be happy to meet with you and your attorney and give you my two cents. Maybe we can go over a little courtroom strategy…that sort of thing."
"That's great!" The relief in Mikey O'Toole's voice was palpable. "We can fly out on the nineteenth if that's all right. And I promise we'll make it short and sweet; then we'll get out of your hair."
Karp laughed and said good-bye. But as he flipped his cell phone shut, he had a nagging feeling that there wasn't going to be anything short and sweet about his meeting with O'Toole.
7
"My butt hurts," Lucy Karp told John Jojola as they walked past the front desk and into the saloon of the Sagebrush Inn on the south end of Taos. They'd just spent the day with her boyfriend, Ned Blanchet, rounding up cattle in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in preparation for moving them to their winter range on the Taos ranch where Ned was the foreman.
Although she was getting to be a better rider-especially for a city slicker from Manhattan, she thought-she still wasn't used to a full day in the saddle. She was looking forward to a glass of merlot and a quick dinner with Jojola at the inn's great restaurant. Then it was shower, two aspirin, and off to bed to wait for Ned. Hey, that rhymes, she thought happily.
"You'd think with all that padding you wouldn't feel a thing," Jojola joked.
"Very funny, Jojola," she replied, sticking her tongue out. "And if I were you, I wouldn't be talking about 'extra padding'-I think you've been packing away the frijoles yourself."
Jojola laughed and patted his round belly. "Indians are smart like the animals," he said. "We put a little more on to stay warm in the winter."
Lucy was about to reply when she pulled up, sure that she must be hallucinating on residual peyote. At a glance, she'd thought the man sitting at a table in the cantina watching the door looked like S.P. Jaxon, the special-agent-in-charge of the FBI office in Manhattan. But then the hallucination stood and smiled at her and Jojola.
"Where in the heck have you two been?" Jaxon asked as he held out his hand. "We've been staking out the place all day waiting for you to show up. You know how much money you're costing the taxpayers?"
"You could have called the Taos Pueblo Police Department, but you feds probably don't bother to do any actual investigating," Jojola said, grinning as he pumped the agent's hand.
"Au contraire, my long-haired friend, we did inquire at the department as to your whereabouts," Jaxon replied. "The receptionist said you were out, but was a little tight-lipped as to where, and she didn't know, or wouldn't say, if you were with Lucy. No offense, but it's your partner there who I needed to talk to. So despite your snide comments about our abilities, we tracked down Ned Blanchet, who was still out riding the range like a good cowboy. I'm afraid we startled him some, swooping down in one of those black helicopters we're famous for. I was worried that he was going to put a hole in the fuselage with that thirty-caliber Winchester he carries before I could let him know we were friendly. He said you two were headed here. By the way, he said to say he was still going to drop by later, Lucy."
Lucy blushed. She was somewhat uneasy at Jaxon's sudden appearance following the peyote vision she'd had of him emerging from smoke and fire with an angry look in his eyes. Don't be silly, Lucy told herself. He's one of your dad's oldest friends. John said the visions couldn't always be taken literally.
Lucy had known Jaxon essentially since birth. He'd joined the New York District Attorney's Office a few years after her father and mother started working there and was still working there for the first few years after she was born. But "Uncle Espey" quit the DAO shortly afterward and entered the FBI Academy at Quantico. Her dad said it was because there wasn't enough action putting criminals behind bars, "he wants to shoot some of them."
Except for the occasional visit over the years, Lucy hadn't seen much of Jaxon, a tall man whose square-jawed face was neatly framed on top by a gray crew cut. He'd recently returned to New York City as the special-agent-in-charge and just in time to help thwart an attempt by an Iraqi terrorist bent on exploding a "dirty" atomic weapon beneath Times Square on New Year's Eve.
"You said 'we've'…as in 'we've been staking out,'" Lucy said, hating what sounded to her like a suspicious tone in her voice.
Jaxon did not seem to catch it. "Huh? Oh, yes, that's Agent Octaviano Tavizon, formerly of the Albuquerque office," he said, pointing to the young Hispanic man in blue jeans and a denim shirt who was watching them from the end of the bar.
Tavizon nodded but didn't smile or bother to come over and introduce himself. Instead, he turned his attention back to the big mirror that ran the length of the bar so that he could monitor the other patrons in the bar, the walls of which were decorated with Navajo blankets, the namesakes of long-horned cattle, and various examples of Western art, including several originals by the famous Indian painter R. C. Gorman.
"He takes his job seriously," Jaxon noted, turning back to the other two. "But I didn't travel all this way to introduce Lucy to good-looking G-men. In fact, I suppose you're wondering what brings me to Taos."
"I thought it was the silver-and-turquoise jewelry," Lucy teased a little self-consciously, but determined to get past the strange feelings. "Or the green pork chile at Orlando's New Mexican Cafe? Or perhaps you're in the market for a saucy little senorita?"
Jaxon laughed. "All except the last. My wife would kill me." He hesitated, his face growing somber, then added, "And maybe one or two other things. Would you mind if we went someplace private…like your room?"
For an instant, Lucy saw again the man surrounded by the smoke and flames and shuddered. "Of course," she said, then added, "Can John come?"
Jaxon looked at Jojola and nodded. "That may be wise, in fact. But remember, this is top-secret stuff. I'd ask you not to talk about it even with your folks for now."
"I appreciate the vote of confidence," Jojola said. "But I don't need to-"
Lucy cut him off with a meaningful look. "I want you to. Please." She turned to the agent. "I trust you, Espey, but I've just been through hell back in New York, and I have a feeling that you didn't fly here in your black helicopter to give me an award from a grateful government. If you're here, there's trouble not far behind; you'll say what you need to say and then will leave to put out some other fire. I want someone here who I can trust to help stomp on whatever embers you leave smoldering."
Jaxon chuckled. "Fair enough." He gestured with his hand for them to lead out of the cantina.
Lucy looked back and noticed that Agent Tavizon was watching them leave in the mirror.
"Is Agent Tavizon a field agent or a bodyguard?" Lucy asked.
Jaxon gave her a sideways glance. "Your intuition is, as always, on the money," he said. "He's been assigned to watch my back. Good man for the job, too. He's a former U.S. Army Ranger with tours in Afghanistan, Iraq, and places that he won't tell even me about. My bosses have decided that it's not wise for me to travel alone. Plus, it lets me concentrate on what I need to without having to be concerned about security issues. There are a number of other agents stationed around the inn as well."
The trio left the back of the saloon and crossed the Spanish-style interior courtyard, heading for Lucy's room in an older-but more charming, she thought-part of the inn. The Sagebrush had been built in 1929 as a way station for travelers en route to Arizona and point
s west. It had also served as a magnet for artists and writers. The painter Georgia O'Keeffe had lived and worked there for a time, as had the novelist D. H. Lawrence, who began to write Lady Chatterley's Lover in one of the rooms.
The original building was now the cantina and lobby. The rooms were plastered with the ubiquitous adobe, featured ceiling beams of polished logs, and were furnished with heavy Spanish-style furniture covered in geometrical Southwest designs. The bathrooms were works of art with tiled floor and sinks, and many of the rooms boasted a small fireplace.
Another young agent was standing guard outside Lucy's room when they arrived. He nodded to Jaxon, opened the door, and then left without waiting for introductions or an explanation of how he got into her room.
In answer to Lucy's questioning look, Jaxon shrugged. "I'm truly sorry, but I took the liberty-in violation of your civil rights, I might add. I had to make sure that no one was listening in on any conversations taking place in your room."
Lucy thought of a few of the romantic nights she'd spent in the room with Ned and felt the blood rush to her face at the thought of someone listening to them. Call 1-800-RideEmCowboy, she thought.
"Boy, Espey, you're starting to scare me with all this spy-versus-spy stuff," she said. "I've had quite enough adventures for this lifetime. I'd just like to settle down with my cowboy and have lots of little cowboys and cowgirls-if he'll ever climb down from his dumb ol' horse long enough to ask me to marry him."
She's certainly changed, Jaxon thought. The girl he'd known for two decades had always been something of an ugly duckling-skinny and plain, with a beaklike, overly large nose. But during the past year of living in Taos, she'd filled out in the right places and was a tan, handsome, if not classically pretty, young woman. Even her nose seemed more suited to her face. Knowing her history, he thought it was a wonder that she was so well balanced. For some reason known only to God, she seemed to be a magnet for psychopaths like Felix Tighe and Andrew Kane. He had no doubt that settling down to life as a ranch hand's wife would suit her fine.
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