by Paul Levine
Life returned to a sort of artificial normalcy. I went to work at the Bar office, came home, ate dinner, made love to Melissa. Hanging over my head were storm clouds that neither gave way to rain nor cleared to a sunshiny day. A sense of foreboding pervaded every activity. Where was Kip? What disaster lay ahead for him?
On my third day back, I cooked thick ribeye steaks on the grill in the backyard, and we sat on the porch in the humid evening, eating and swatting mosquitoes. I was drinking a Grolsch beer while Melissa sipped at her Chardonnay.
“Any news from N.I.H. about the C.T.E. program?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Like they say in those war movies, it’s quiet out there. Too quiet.”
I gave her a sheepish look. “Well, I made a couple calls.”
“Oh, no Jake. You didn’t.”
“Very discreet. I’m still friends with the old Dolphins’ team physician. Back in the day, he sat on the NFL’s Health and Safety Committee. I called him, and he called a colleague at Yale Medical School who’s on the league’s Head, Neck and Spine Committee. You were right about team owners trying to blackball you. They’re backing a Dr. Jason Jeffries to run the program.”
She shrugged. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“Jeffries is a nonpracticing M.D. who’s also a biomechanical engineer. He was deputy director of the helmet safety study the league did a couple years ago.” I popped the porcelain top on a second bottle of Grolsch. “The NFL praised his research and banned a dozen brands of helmets.”
Melissa scowled, a look almost foreign to her. Even at rest, her face always seemed to be smiling. I knew she was peeved, something else that was unusual for someone so even-tempered.
“Helmets neither cause concussions nor prevent them,” she said. “Even helmeted, on impact, the brain slides around like a bowl of Jell-O, twisting and stretching until it smacks into the corpus callosum.”
“I know that, other than the corpus coliseum stuff.”
“Corpus callosum. It connects the two sides of the brain. That’s what gets poisoned by the tau proteins of C.T.E.” She drained her wine in one swallow. “The study should be run by a neurologist or neurosurgeon. It shouldn’t be focused on the engineering of helmets.”
I thought that over for a moment. “What’s puzzling is that Jeffries has been pushing for higher tech helmets in a way that’s overtly critical of NFL safety procedures. So, what sense does it make that you get blackballed because I have a big mouth, but the league turns to this guy, who’s also a critic of the league?”
“I have no idea,” she said, “but if I know you, you’ll find out.”
“I’ll drink to that.” And I did, with a cool swig of the Dutch lager. I made a mental note to look deeper into Dr. Jeffries’ background.
She poured herself another glass of Chardonnay. “You’re so caught up in Kip’s problems and mine, there’s something you haven’t asked.”
I shrugged. My mind was blank.
“Your PET scan, big guy!” she exclaimed.
“I’d forgotten. Completely slipped my ailing mind.”
She got down to business. “The scan has been analyzed by three different radiological teams. Ours and the top people at Boston University and UCLA. For the first time, we have a mathematical configuration of the tau proteins in your brain.”
She’d already explained the procedure to me in a lecture that might be called “Brain Scans for Dummies.” A synthetic molecule called a ligand is used to bind together with tangles of tau protein, the nasty indicator of C.T.E. The scan then quantifies the amount of the protein in order to determine if the levels are abnormal.
“As we suspected, your tau proteins are substantially higher than those in the control group, the non-football players. As for former NFL players, you’re almost exactly at the median. As we might expect, the study shows that players with longer careers have larger buildups of the tau.”
“So, getting cut by the Dolphins in my prime was a benefit,” I said, cheerfully.
When we met, I had told Melissa that my so-called football career consisted mostly of playing on special teams.
“What makes them so special?” she had asked.
“Kickoffs and punts are the only plays where there’s a head-on collision at full speed. Which is doubtless why they’re also called the suicide squads.”
Strangely enough, I loved those hits, the ones you feel in your teeth, the vibrations down the spine. After my unspectacular career, I attended law school at the University of Miami, night division, and hit the books as hard as I ever smacked a fleet-footed punt returner. I had to work my butt off, or I would have flunked out.
Unfortunately, they don’t give honors for graduating in the top half of the bottom third of the class. I passed the Bar exam on my fourth try, and the rest, as they say, is history. Or maybe a mystery.
Now, Melissa told me that the new PET-scan gave us a baseline measurement to use as a marker to determine if we’re making any progress. Or the opposite.
“It’s a perfect time to begin AY-70 treatments.” She used the project’s bland abbreviation, rather than saying, “to begin the new, experimental, untested protein antibodies that may either help you or turn your cerebrum to oatmeal.”
“I know I’m in good hands. Thanks, Melissa.” No way would I express the skepticism I was feeling.
***
Melissa went back to studying test results of patients to whom she was not engaged, and I went back to the Florida Bar office, looking for shady lawyers to prosecute. My email inbox was filled with junk, including entreaties by women from Slovenia who claimed to be young, attractive and available for travel. The snail mail brought a signed order from Judge Gridley, as promised, recommending a public reprimand for Bert Kincaid and his priapic pecker. Later that day, Kincaid popped into my office, unannounced and uninvited. He brought along his brother-in-law, Dr. Eisenberg, the shrink.
They took seats in front of my desk, and Kincaid asked, “Are you going to seek a stiffer penalty?”
“Pun intended, Bert?”
“Aw, just tell me, Jake.”
I told him I was fine with the judge’s order, and a scolding in Tallahassee should be the end of it.
“Thanks, man! You might have saved my marriage. I had a good talk with Audrey, and I’m not fooling around anymore, no matter how much my lady clients might want it.”
“Your self-restraint is a model for us all,” I said.
Dr. Eisenberg cleared his throat and stroked his goatee. “I want to apologize, Mr. Lassiter for my diagnosis of sexual addiction.” He grimaced at his own words. “I was just trying to help out Bert and Audrey, and there was no basis for . . .”
“Hey, no apology needed. Family. I get that. In a way, I respect it.”
The shrink looked relieved. “Well then, back to my pediatric patients.”
He stood to leave. “Hang on a second, Doc,” I said. “Can I talk to you about my nephew?”
***
In the evenings, back in our coral rock love nest, Melissa and I would cook dinner together and share the goings-on of each of our days. Just like old married folks. I told her about the new Bar files that crossed my desk. A favorite was the lawyer who scooted around town in an electric wheelchair, suing restaurants for noncompliance with handicapped access laws, while he was, in fact, a prize-winning marathon runner.
Over dinner one night, Melissa told me about new research involving photobiomodulation, a twenty-five cent word doctors use when a nickel will do. That’s red-light therapy meant to regenerate brain cells. Yet another new study showed that there may be a genetic variation that protects some players’ brains from C.T.E. damage. No way to tell if I had it, or even if that was a valid theory.
Meanwhile, every three days, I dropped my trousers and Melissa injected AY-70, the new protein antibodies that might cure me or kill me. One evening, as we sat on the back porch sipping vodka and grapefruit juice, I told Melissa about my conversation with Dr. Eisenberg
. He said that Kip had adopted a “second family.” That’s a term shrinks use when an adolescent drifts away from his parents and into the clutches of his peer group. With Kip, the second family was a combination of Shari Ringle’s squad of rich kids and her megalomaniac father.
On my visit to California, Shari had told me that Kip was a “clout chaser” who wanted to be part of her “fam,” which I took to mean her family. Dr. Eisenberg, better versed in hipster lingo, said the term referred to her closest friends, but like a lot of slang, it had multiple meanings. It could also mean the Ringle family unit. Who can keep up with this stuff?
“What did he suggest about how you get Kip back?” Melissa asked.
“To do anything, I have to get Kip to talk to me. Then, the shrink says to reason with him and avoid outrage and moralizing sermons. When possible, express empathy for the values of the second family, which sure as hell doesn’t work when they’re a crime family.”
Disregarding Kip’s instructions several more times, I continued calling the 805 number that I’d memorized by now. Always straight to voice mail. His business tone. “This is Kip Lassiter, president of Personalized Test Enhancement. Please leave a message.”
I asked the machine to call me back. So far, nothing but silence, and my fears for Kip continued to grow.
I was in my office a few days after that, reviewing the case of a lawyer who stole money he was supposed to use to pay a client’s overdue real estate taxes, but instead bought the property through a tax lien. Just another of my brethren who thought his Bar membership was a license to steal. When the phone rang, I hoped it was Kip. In my fantasy, my nephew said how sorry he was, and let’s get our relationship back on track.
Instead, it was State Attorney Ray Pincher. “Jake, I’ve got Gilberto Foyo snooping around the federal building, his ear to the keyhole.”
“Yeah?”
“Grand jury’s been in session a couple weeks. I’ve got nothing official. But Jake, old friend, the sky is darkened with gloom, and there’s a shitstorm headed your nephew’s way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Con Air
Pincher had no details for me. Just rumors of indictments in a so-called nationwide college admissions bribery scandal. That night I slept restlessly, dreaming of a long-ago football game in Buffalo, a frigid rain turning to sleet. I tried to tackle a kickoff returner and slid past him with all the grace of a rhinoceros on ice skates.
My cell rang at 2:33 a.m. I tumbled out of bed and grabbed the phone. Melissa stirred, rolled over, and returned to the peaceful, untroubled slumber of the innocent and carefree.
When I saw “U.S. Marshals Service” on caller I.D., I knew who was calling. The shred of good news was that Kip was reaching out to me instead of some mouthpiece provided by Max Ringle. The bad news, of course, was that Kip was in custody.
“Where are you?” I asked, without preamble. I repressed my pain—the feeling of my heart being cleaved from my chest—in order to help the boy I loved.
“I don’t know.” His voice trembled. “Two FBI agents put me in a car, and I was so stressed I don’t even know which direction we went. But then I was put on a bus with no windows with maybe thirty other guys. And now we’re at an Air Force base. There are guys in military uniforms with rifles. We’re in this Quonset hut, and I’m handcuffed with a chain around my waist. Uncle Jake, I’m so scared I peed my pants on the bus, and this guy with a teardrop tattoo says, ‘Wussy make a pee pee.’ Now, half a dozen guys are calling me ‘wussy.’”
“I need you to stay calm, Kip. And don’t say anything to anybody, except the marshals, and then only, ‘Sir, may I use the toilet?’ Got it?”
“You gotta help me, Uncle Jake. I don’t know how I’m gonna get through this.”
“I’m here for you,” I said. “They’ll be flying you out on Con Air.” I used the colloquial term for the government’s airline, the Justice Prisoner and Alien Transportation System. “The plane will make some stops between California and Florida to pick up and leave off prisoners. When you get to Miami, you’ll have an initial court appearance in front of a magistrate, and I’ll be there. You get all that?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Focus on that for the next 24 or 48 hours. You’ll see me the moment they bring you into court before a magistrate. I’ll get you bail and out of those shackles, and you’ll come home with me. You’ll shower and shave and have good meal. Are you with me, Kip?”
“Uncle Jake, I’m sorry.”
“No time for that now. They’re gonna take that phone away from you, so just remember everything I said.”
“Okay.”
“They didn’t arrest Max,” Kip blurted out.
Of course not. I’d been right about who would turn on whom.
“We were in his house, and these FBI agents walked into the room,” he continued. “They didn’t break in. They were . . . like there already. Max points at me and says, ‘That’s him.’ So icy cold. ‘That’s him.’”
Kip’s voice was filled with hurt. I had warned him about Ringle, but he wouldn’t listen. Now, I tried to stifle my anger, not at Ringle, but at my nephew for being so trusting of his boss and so dismissive of me.
Then, Kip said it one more time, with wonder that he could have been so blatantly betrayed. “‘That’s him.’ I couldn’t believe it, Uncle Jake.”
I knew we would hear the words again. Max Ringle would be on the witness stand and the prosecutor would ask who came up with this nefarious scheme. “That’s him,” Ringle would say, pointing toward the defense table.
But by then, I would be ready to cross-examine the bastard. And cross him, I would. I would cross him from here to hell.
At the same time, even without reading the indictment, I knew the struggle we faced. Not only would Ringle be on the government’s side of the courtroom, but so would many of his clients who would have scrambled like rats off the sinking ship Q.E.D.
Just how would I keep Kip out of prison? The enormity of that task weighed a ton, and I felt like an ant carrying a boulder uphill. I tell my clients that no case is impossible if your cause is just. Even if Kip were factually innocent—and my gut told me he was not—the government’s arsenal had me outgunned.
I have long thought that the federal government is a ponderous battleship, weighted down by its own armor and slow to change course. But when it chooses to marshal its might against an individual, the government is a lean, mean, conviction machine. Meanwhile, the defendant’s lawyer is a loinclothed Roman gladiator protected by a wooden shield, leather shin guards, and prayers to the god Jupiter. The Constitution promises due process but not a fair fight.
As much as we prize our commitment to the individual and pay lip service to the presumption of innocence, it’s the government’s courthouse, the government’s prosecutor, and the government’s judge. Every time you go to trial, you are the Miami Dolphins playing an away game against the Patriots in a January blizzard.
“Is it going to be all right, Uncle Jake?” Kip asked, his voice a whisper.
“Everything I’ve learned my whole life I will devote to you, Kip. I’ll use every experience I’ve ever had, in and out of court, to defend you.”
In my heart, I knew every word was true.
“And hear this, Kip Lassiter. I’m gonna win. I’m gonna beat the United States of America and walk you out of the courthouse a free man, and you’ll start your life anew.”
My heart also knew that I had just told a lie.
Justice Department Charges 53 in
Nationwide College Admissions Scandal
By Luisa Gomez
Herald Reporter
Miami, FL—Federal prosecutors today charged 53 people in an audacious scheme to buy admissions slots at the nation’s most prestigious universities.
Dubbed “Operation Flunk Out,” the investigation uncovered bribes disguised as charitable donations, some involving millions of dollars, paid by wealthy parents to secure college admissions for the
ir children. The scheme included falsifying résumés to create fraudulent athletic profiles, bribing coaches who had access to slots in the admissions process, and most brazenly, paying a “ringer” to either take SAT and ACT exams or change incorrect answers to correct ones.
Among those charged today with mail fraud and money laundering were two Hollywood actresses, a billionaire real estate developer, the head of a New York hedge fund, a tech company founder, and various physicians, lawyers, and prominent businessmen.
“We have dismantled the most widespread and insidious college admissions scandal in history,” U.S. Attorney Juan Lucayo said in a news conference. “Parents of some of our most privileged students purchased spots for their children at top universities, cheating both the system and honest, hard-working students out of the college education they sought and deserved.”
Dr. Maximilian Ringle, 54, of Montecito, CA, who holds a Ph.D. in psychology from UCLA, was named as mastermind of the scheme. Sources indicated that Ringle has been cooperating with the investigation for several months and will likely receive a greatly reduced sentence. Also named was Chester (Kip) Lassiter, 20, of Miami, described by the U.S. Attorney as Ringle’s partner and the “ringleader of the scheme’s fraudulent test-taking branch.” Lassiter is charged with multiple instances of either posing as a high school student taking the exam or working as a proctor and changing students’ answers. He is believed to be facing the most serious prison time of those involved.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Operation Flunk Out
Eight days later . . .
Walking from the parking lot to meet the Assistant U.S. Attorney, there was only one word on my mind: pretrial release.
Wait, that’s two words. The one word is “bail.”
It would be months before the case came to trial. Today, nothing was more important than getting Kip out of jail.
