Noah asked, “Who do you want to bomb?”
Axel reacted like it was a dim-witted question. “Well, we could destroy President Chapin’s house for inviting Aviva’s dad in the first place, or we could bomb Aviva’s dad’s house.”
“Which one?” Imani asked.
Axel and Noah laughed. Aviva did not.
“You want to blow up my father?”
Axel said of course not, there was no way he wanted to blow anyone up, but some property destruction would make a statement. Aviva asked what that might be. His response: “Against racism.”
“How would anyone know that?”
“We take a name like the People’s Army Against Racism, call the media from one of those phones drug dealers use, and we’re the reincarnation of Baader-Meinhof.”
Noah asked, “Do you know how to build a bomb?”
“We liberated that pig farm in Oregon with bombs.”
“The one I couldn’t find any mention of on the Internet.”
“You don’t believe me?”
Aviva’s eyes darted back and forth. She hoped they wouldn’t point guns at each other again.
Noah said, “Axel, I’m only saying that if it happened—”
“If it happened, what? There are things the government suppresses, Noah. Information they don’t want you to know.”
All the testosterone had become tiresome. But there was something about exploding a bomb that was a declaration, as long as no one got hurt. Aviva thought about the house in Bedford, where she had lived full-time until her parents’ divorce. The basketball court that her father built for her despite her indifference to the game. The horses she had no interest in riding. Walking to the swimming pool, her uneven gait serving as a reminder with each step she took that she did not conform to his idea of perfection. To blow a hole in all of it would be—would be what? She caught herself. A bomb? It was ludicrous. Playacting. Posturing. Aviva listened as her friends continued their gabbing, confident the dialogue would exhaust itself.
They talked about explosives, the variety, their relative ease of assembly, whether people would be sympathetic to their cause if they blew something up, had bombs ever been an efficient way to blah blah blah. Aviva pretended to be excited by the idea of direct action but had no intention of following through. After listening to the conversation, Imani tempered her eagerness. Noah implied he didn’t believe the others were up to it anyway so what were they even talking about, but Axel’s desire for a dramatic gesture seemed to grow.
The downpour had stopped. In the western sky, sunlight spilled from a fissure in the clouds. When they left the house after an hour, the one thing they agreed on was that if racism was going to be defeated, something must be done.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Late Sunday afternoon, Jay received a phone call from the commissioner of the league. A man both affable and indomitable, he had ruled his fiefdom smoothly for several decades, navigating a middle path between the owners and players that led both groups to feel he was secretly in the pocket of the other. He was sickened by what happened at Sanitary Solutions Arena the previous evening and expressed his desire for those who created the disturbance to be prosecuted and banned from further attendance at games. The commissioner asked: Are you doing okay, Jay? The commissioner remarked: No one should have to endure this. The commissioner wondered: Would you mind coming to the league offices first thing on Monday morning to talk about damage control?
At last, Jay thought, someone not just piling on but looking for ways to ameliorate the situation. He went to bed that night despondent over what he had done to Dag, disappointed that he had not heard from Aviva in the wake of his withdrawal from the commencement, but secure in his alliance with the man who governed professional basketball.
Because the disturbance at the Miami game occurred too late in the day to make the Sunday morning papers, the Monday editions made up for it with extensive accounts of the mayhem. GLADSTONE BOMBARDMENT! shrieked the New York Post above a picture of Jay beneath a barrage of flying T-shirts. The New York Times reported: Fans Express Rage Toward Owner Prior to Victory. A columnist for the Daily News opined: While what Gladstone said was undeniably racist, it would behoove the fans to express themselves in a more civilized way.
Undeniably racist? Jay nearly choked when he read that. His family foundation handed out Gladstone Scholarships to black kids like candy and now his “racism” was undeniable? Today he was having lunch with Bobby Tackman at his club. He hoped Tackman had some idea how to unwind the narrative that had taken hold.
It was with this in mind that Jay rode the elevator to the League offices. He had informed Dequan he did not need a bodyguard today. In the elevator with him were a man and a woman, both in business dress. Neither acknowledged his presence. Jay was the first to get off, and when the door closed behind him, he imagined the two strangers were bonding over their ride with New York’s latest public enemy and saying disparaging things about him. The receptionist, a young black woman he recognized from a recent visit, offered a terse greeting. He suspected she was sitting in judgment.
She alerted the commissioner’s office to Jay’s arrival. Jay waited for the woman to wave him back, but she told him to take a seat. “They’ll let me know when they’re ready for you.” The head of the league was going to keep him waiting. That had never happened. He sank into a couch and pulled out his phone to see if there was any news from the Planning Commission about the Sapphire. His chief operating officer had told him they expected to get the approval to break ground in the fall, but there was still no word. The elevator doors opened, and two league attorneys emerged. Trim and athletic, they glanced at Jay but said nothing. The receptionist buzzed them in. Jay continued to wait. A minute later the elevator door opened again, and a middle-aged black man emerged. Jay recognized him as a veteran referee, someone he had watched call many games from his courtside seats. The man walked to the receptionist’s desk, gave his name, and sat down in the waiting area across from Jay where he picked up a magazine and began to leaf through it. Jay waited to see whether the ref would express sympathy about what had happened to him at Sanitary Solutions Arena, or even deign to greet him. When he did neither, Jay said, “How are you?” The man looked up from the magazine and grunted a greeting but said nothing. Their respective places on the social food chain would have ordinarily demanded obeisance on the part of the game official toward the owner, but recent events had jumbled that equation. The receptionist called the referee’s name and said he could go back. Ten more minutes crawled by before she told Jay they were ready for him.
“Sorry we made you wait,” the commissioner said.
They were in the conference room seated at a large oval table surrounded by twelve chairs. Jay sat on one side of the table, the commissioner across from him flanked by the deputy commissioner, a bald white man in his forties, and the chief counsel, a white woman with a brunette bob, also in her forties. Though they were both highly competent professionals, Jay considered them cogs in the league machine. The commissioner had held his position for nearly a quarter of a century. An avuncular man, he had a tanned face with prominent features and an impressive head of graying hair. He looked well-rested. With a forefinger, he pushed his gold-framed glasses back on the bridge of his nose.
“Saturday night was regrettable.” His voice a purr.
“Terrifying,” Jay said.
“It must have been. How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better.” He hoped the smidgen of pathos in his voice would engender compassion that he could use to his advantage. The deputy commissioner and the chief counsel made sympathetic noises. Jay ignored them. He noticed that the chief counsel had a manila folder in front of her.
The Commissioner: “What about D’Angelo?”
“I have the best doctors in the world monitoring his condition.”
Jay hoped that the com
missioner had a plan to extract him from the thicket in which he found himself. The two had always enjoyed good relations, chatted at league meetings, had played several rounds of golf together at league-sponsored charity events. Jay even invited the commissioner to go horseback riding with him—“Jews ride horses?” the commissioner (who was Jewish) had asked with mock surprise—and although he had not yet taken Jay up on his offer, the leader of the NBA had made it clear that it was only a matter of time before they saddled up together. So, the two men were friendly, if not exactly friends. Jay had heard that the commissioner’s parents spoke Yiddish at home, and since the entire world seemed to be in the process of retreating to the ethnic categories from which they issued, he was not above trying to connect on a tribal level.
“Honestly, this whole megilla feels like a lot of tsuris for bupkis.”
From the blank stares of the lieutenants and the Commissioner’s phlegmatic expression, Jay realized he had overreached. He wanted to pluck the ill-timed Yiddish out of the air and cram it back down his throat. All of a sudden, he was channeling a Catskills tummler? From what hidden closet had Jay pulled the Jew-face?
“Let me cut right to the chase,” the commissioner said. “I talked with Church Scott last night, and he told me about the potential for a player boycott.”
“The players are young men,” Jay said. “They’re emotional.”
“The playoffs start this weekend,” the commissioner reminded him.
“I know,” Jay said. “We qualified.” A smile creased his face. The lieutenants offered congratulations. He nodded in acknowledgment.
“Church informed me that if you don’t sell the team, the players aren’t going to suit up.”
Before Jay could respond, the general counsel said, “Here’s how it would work: You put the team in a temporary trust—”
Jay interrupted her: “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m not selling the team.”
“Just a minute,” the commissioner said. “Hear us out. Ultimately, it’s your decision, of course.”
Jay thought about getting up and leaving but realized a display of petulance would accomplish nothing. He needed the league on his side. He angled his head at the general counsel to indicate she should continue.
“Once the team is in a trust, the league will take over the day-to-day operations. It’s what we did with the New Orleans franchise, so there’s already a precedent for this.”
“Then I sell the team to the highest bidder?”
“We already have someone in mind,” the commissioner said. “He’s Russian, and I think we can get you one point five billion, maybe a little more. You paid eight hundred million a few years ago, so you’d make half a billion dollars. That’s a lot of rubles.” The commissioner laughed, as did his accomplices. All of them looked at Jay as if he should pick up the cue and laugh with them. Ruble was a funny word in this context and at least worth a chuckle, wasn’t it?
“I’m never going to agree to that,” Jay said. “You can’t force me to sell. I’ll tie you up in court for years.”
The commissioner did not immediately respond. The others didn’t dare speak. To Jay, this was a kangaroo court and he was not going to submit. He waited.
The commissioner assumed an expression of strained patience. “The playoffs are the most important part of our season,” he pointed out. “Your league partners need your team on the court. We have a television deal that I intend to honor.”
“I know all about the television deal,” Jay said. “I helped negotiate it.”
“Then you know we have to play the games,” the deputy commissioner said.
Jay looked at him askance: “You’re allowed to talk?” Jay meant it jocularly, but the edge in his voice made it read like the insult it was.
“Occasionally,” the deputy said, glancing at his boss who did not react.
“I’m going to talk to Church, and then I’ll talk to the players,” Jay said. “I’ll take care of it. My team is going to be on the court this weekend.”
“I hope you’re right,” the commissioner said. “But Jay, don’t take it the wrong way because it’s not personal, but if we don’t resolve this by the end of the week, the league is prepared to go to federal court to get an injunction forcing you to at least temporarily surrender control of the franchise.”
The general counsel opened her folder, removed a document, and slid it across the table. “This is a brief outline of what we have in mind,” she said. “You should let your attorney take a look at it.”
Jay ignored the document. “I always had great respect for you,” he said to the commissioner. “Because you had the spine to stand up to the players and the owners. But the mob starts braying, and you’re prepared to sell me down the river?”
The commissioner and his team stared at him. No one said anything. The deputy commissioner ended the standoff when he said:
“You realize that selling someone down the river refers to slavery, right?”
Jay exhaled in exasperation. Would his torments never cease?
“It hadn’t occurred to me.”
The deputy said, “I would advise you not to use that image if you’re going to be doing interviews.”
Jay wanted to smack him.
The general counsel raised her hand to her mouth to hide that she was smiling. Jay noticed her reaction. “Yes, this is hilarious,” he said. “A man’s life is being destroyed.”
Her grin vanished.
Jay pushed away from the table and got out of his chair. He wanted to calibrate his words with the greatest precision:
“This is a travesty. You are dictatorially adjudicating this matter without the due process that I’m entitled to, and I’m not going to let you do it.”
As he stalked out of the room, the commissioner implored, “Try to understand our position,” but Jay was no longer listening.
The Fifth Avenue sidewalk panorama looked like it did every weekday morning: men and women in business attire hustling to offices, tourists examining guidebooks and craning their necks, people charging in all directions. Yet to Jay, it seemed different because his relationship to all of it had changed. He wore a baseball cap and sunglasses, and no one paid attention to him. Telling Dequan his bodyguard services were not required today looked like the right idea. That would’ve attracted more notice. From the sidewalk, Jay called Church Scott. His call went to voice mail, and he left a message saying he intended to come to the team’s practice facility today to talk with the players. If he could speak to them directly, he knew they would see reason. They were young athletes. From what he knew, most of them were not political. He would appeal to them on a human level, talk about his philanthropy, his lifelong love of basketball. They would see reason.
He pulled the brim of his cap lower and began walking to the Paladin Club for his lunch with Bobby Tackman.
Five minutes later his phone vibrated. Church Scott was returning his call. The players were in open rebellion, Church reported. There were ten black men and two white men on the active roster, and every one of them was in agreement. The players had made it clear that as long as Jay Gladstone owned the team, they would refuse to take the court. Jay tried to hide his incredulity. They were professionals. They had contracts. How could these young men be so completely unreasonable? When Jay asked if it would be helpful for him to address the team, Church said, “No, no, no, that would only inflame the situation. If they hear you’re coming to practice, they’ll all get in their cars and go home.”
“They won’t even listen?”
“Not now,” Church said.
Jay asked when he thought that might change. Church told him not to hold his breath.
The city howled in his ears. He hung up and quickened his pace.
Jay was early to his lunch appointment, and while he waited for the crisis specialist to appear, he found an obscure corner of the clu
b in which to sit and phoned Herman Doomer. When he reported what had occurred at the league offices Doomer was not surprised. “We’re living a different climate today,” the lawyer said. “People are unforgiving.” In no mood for a philosophical disquisition, Jay asked what kind of legal challenge they could mount. “If the league files an injunction against you, we can challenge it, but it’s a steep climb. The judge will weigh the interests of all the other owners against yours, and it’s hard to see how we can get a favorable ruling given the imminence of the playoffs.” Jay cursed under his breath. “That might be the least bad piece of news I’m going to give you on this phone call,” Doomer said.
“What are you talking about?”
“I heard from Christine Lupo’s office today. They’re going to charge you with a hate crime.”
What the lawyer told him was incomprehensible.
“A hate crime? Herman, it was an accident.”
“Those words cast the whole business in a racial light, unfortunately. Maybe we can get them to drop it eventually, but it’s going to be part of a larger negotiation.”
“This has no basis in reality. It’s illogical!”
“Not from their point of view. The more the DA’s office piles on, the thinking goes, the greater chance that we’ll negotiate to avoid a trial.”
“I am not negotiating.”
Doomer agreed that they should try and resolve the situation with the league and preserve Jay’s ownership position. The attorney asked if he wanted to proceed with the attempt to temporarily remove Franklin from the business but Jay balked at taking that step. There were too many other things to address this week. Dealing with Franklin could wait.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Jay had not been to his club since the accident. He absently picked at his poached salmon as he withstood the gale force of Bobby Tackman’s storm: “What did you think would happen when you stepped out on that court in front of all those people after you ran over their hero with your car? Why did you hire me if you’re going to go off half-baked and do whatever you want? I nearly called you that night and resigned. The clients I’m able to benefit are the ones who listen.”
The Hazards of Good Fortune Page 45
