The Trials of Max Q, page 32
“We’re in, Jack,” he announces.
“How could I explain to our child that a friend needed our help and we were too concerned about our personal safety to help them out,” Ashley builds on her argument.
“At least you wouldn’t be having that conversation in prison,” I say.
I fight them off for another hour. I’m not sure they really understand the magnitude of what I’m about to attempt.
Finally, Mac sits back in his chair and swigs down his cranberry juice. He rubs his scruffy chin and reality seems to dim his initial enthusiasm. And as if I’m unable to figure it out on my own, he informs, “It will be damn near impossible. Almost as impossible as it was for NASA to land a man on the moon.”
Ashley glares at him, “Don’t even start.”
But something hits me. “You really think the moon landing was staged?”
Ashley looks at me with disbelief. “I really can’t believe you’re going there.”
Mac never has to be asked twice to delve into his moon theory. “How do you explain that we really didn’t have the technology to go there in 1969, the pictures transmitted don’t include stars, the flag is waving even though there is no breeze on the moon? Not to mention the most compelling evidence: based on the gravitational level of the moon, the astronauts should have been able to jump much higher than they did, six feet easy.”
“But how could something like that be kept a secret for all these years?”
“In the short run, involve as few people as possible and create dire consequences if the truth is revealed. But over time the myth takes on a life of its own, so people don’t even believe the truth when presented logical evidence.” He sends a glance in Ashley’s direction.
I’ve heard this argument from Mac ad nauseam, but this time it holds a different meaning for me. I suddenly have a plan
“Are you going to fill us in on what you’re thinking, Jack?” Mac asks. “Being that when I turn state’s evidence against you, I want to have my story straight.”
I pull a piece of pizza off his plate and chomp a bite out of it. I think better when I’m eating. “Not right now.” My mind is in a full sprint, and I ask, “Are you scheduled to have the Ghosts of Baseball Past event this year?”
“Of course,” Mac says. “The third annual.”
It’s his pride and joy. An event he created, held every Halloween at the Hall of Fame.
“The same day as the sentencing,” I think out loud.
Mac cringes at what I ask next. But he doesn’t blink, and takes me upstairs to a secure room, which was built for his memorabilia collection. He opens the combination lock and pulls it outward like a vault door.
“Take good care of it,” he says.
I look for a hesitation when he hands me his prized possession. I don’t see any.
“Thank you,” I say, looking him directly in the eye. “It might save a man’s life.”
Chapter 85
Unable to sleep, I sit on my porch in the early hours of Sunday morning, drinking a glass of orange juice and staring out at the still lake. Only an occasional boat bumping over the water breaks the morning calm.
Right on schedule, I observe a 1937 Packard pull up to the front of the Cirillos’ house. The door opens and George Herman scoops up the package sitting beside the mailbox. I think he will like what he sees.
Later in the morning, I arrive at the Hall of Fame incognito. I find George in a section of the museum dedicated to the exploits of Ruth. He has the ear of a young couple, explaining that the Baby Ruth candy bar had nothing to do with Babe Ruth, but was named for Teddy Roosevelt’s young daughter, Ruth.
When the coast is clear, I approach. He is staring at a large photo of Ruth’s last appearance at Yankee Stadium for a 1948 ceremony, celebrating twenty-five years of the stadium that he was responsible for building. Ruth looks gaunt, gravely thin, and leaning on a wooden baseball bat to keep him from toppling to the ground. It would be only months before the once indestructible slugger would succumb to throat cancer.
George gets right to the point, his eyes never leaving the sad photo. “Anderson didn’t kill her, did he?”
I nod, as I view a happier photo of Ruth “calling the shot.” I remember the dissertation Gifford Brown provided on the subject, which seems like ten lifetimes ago.
I explain the whole story to George in a whisper. It sounds even crazier than when I told it to the Cirillos, if that’s possible.
“What can I do to help?” he asks.
George Herman has created the CISA—Celebrity Impersonators Society of America—where aspiring impersonators can get advice and information on what, believe it or not, is a highly competitive profession. From what he’s told me, certain groups like Elvis and Bill Clinton impersonators have their own unions, but the industry as a whole is every man and woman for themselves.
“I need someone who wants to get famous,” I say.
“That is why most people do what we do. They can’t act, sing or write, but they look like someone. It’s showbiz, kid.”
“How about someone who wants to be famous so bad they’re willing to go to jail.”
“Ever since the trial started, Max Q impersonators are everywhere. I can think of a few that might meet your criteria. It amazes me the lengths people will go to for fame.”
George’s face turns serious. “Listen, kid, I’ll do anything I can to help you, no questions asked. But you are putting yourself in a vulnerable spot, and I think you need to know more than ever that your team is really on your side.”
I know where he’s going with this. I can’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind since Marissa mentioned Lansdale’s mystery girlfriend. And it has led to nagging questions: why was she late that morning? What did she mean when she spent the weekend on a friend’s boat? And like Kerri, who better to control a case than one of the lawyers? But I feel confident that my instincts are back from sabbatical.
“I understand that your cover was blown, and you got sent on that wild goose chase right after I revealed your true identity to her. But I think it’s a coincidence. I trust her.”
He hands me a photo. It’s another security photo from the helipad in Manhattan, featuring the blonde woman who arrived on Lansdale’s helicopter—the time reads 8:33. As far as I can see, it’s nothing new.
“Check out the woman in the background,” George advises.
When I do, I notice a woman dressed neatly in a pinstriped suit, her hair in a bun. It can’t be! What is Shep doing there?
“Are you sure?” George asks again.
“I told you—I trust her. And besides, I’ve pushed her out of the loop … for her own protection,” I stand firm.
“Or yours,” George adds with a frustrated look. “Just looking out for you, kid. Anything else?
“I need a thorough background check on Figliomini, specifically his business dealings. Anything that might connect him to Anderson.”
George looks puzzled by the request, but doesn’t pry.
He begins to walk away when I remember something. “One other thing, George. Look into Marissa Anderson’s cases the last three years. Someone she defended named Jordan—stolen cars—all the info you can find.”
“Is this business or personal?”
“I’m not sure,” I concede.
George glances at his watch. We know we have already spent too much time together. “You should take in a movie, it’ll take your mind off things,” he offers and wanders away from me, casually disappearing into a sea of tourists.
I take the elevator back to the first floor and enter the Bullpen Theater. Today’s movie is The Natural starring Robert Redford as mythical baseball legend Roy Hobbs.
My eyes adjust to the dark and I see what looks like a young George Herman, wearing an ill-fitting pinstriped baseball uniform over his portly body.
I ask him if the seat beside him is taken. When I do, his apprehensive look turns to a smile.
Chapter 86
“Jaaack!” Andy Kass greets me as I slip into the seat next to him.
“Shhh!” I reply with index finger to the mouth.
Andy ignores me. “I knew such a plan of deception had to be the work of Jack Lawson.”
I put my hand up to cut him off, and lower my voice to a whisper, “I think we should talk about a plea bargain.”
“Plea bargain?” Andy asks. I can sense the disappointment in his voice. His day in court is about to be nixed.
“Listen closely,” my tone is serious. “We will meet Monday at my office. You, your lawyer, and myself. I will present a deal to you. You will plead guilty to lesser charges such as reckless endangerment, but the major charges that coincide with the heavy jail time will be dropped.”
Andy looks skeptical. “Is that why you had that guy kidnap me from the park this morning? And why would you dress me up in this baseball uniform? I don’t know what kind of kinky stuff you are into, Jack, but just because I was living at the YMCA doesn’t mean I am into that.”
I begin again, but then stop in mid-sentence. Park? YMCA? “The court order specifically says you will lose your bail if you are not with your family twenty-four hours a day, unless you get the court’s permission to do otherwise. Didn’t you learn your lesson when you attended the trial?”
He snorts a sarcastic laugh. “Be with my family—that’s a good one. They couldn’t deal with the bad press they got from their psycho kid, so they bailed.”
“Bailed?”
“Yeah, sold the house and moved to Canada. Left in the middle of the night. Just a heartfelt note that said I was old enough to screw up my life without them.”
“Did you say you are living at the YMCA?”
“I was, until they figured out I was the guy who blew up the school. They threw me out, so I’m living up at Glimmerglass State Park. I found a nice rent-controlled three bedroom loft under a maple tree.”
“You’re homeless?”
“If by homeless, you mean I don’t have a roof over my head—then yes, I am. But I don’t think I ever had a home.”
This cements my idea to go ahead with the plea bargain. Andy was on the verge of losing his bail anyway; having received a stiff warning after he attended the Max Q trial. With his parents out of the picture, his bail will certainly be revoked. I can’t let that happen.
We don’t have much time, so I push on, “The first major condition of your plea will be a world record amount of community service working at Otsego County civic buildings and properties. The second will be to contribute substantially to the cost of the reconstruction of Otsego High with all future earnings. But it will also include a hefty, but reasonable down payment.”
“And how do you expect me to do that, Jack? Being homeless doesn’t pay what it used to.”
I remove my backpack and hand it to Andy. He looks in the knapsack and is astounded by the blocks of green bills.
He tries to hand it back to me. “I’ve seen this movie before. Take it back, Jack—I wanna go to court.”
“I don’t think you heard me the first time, Andy—you will accept the plea. Whether you accept my second offer is up to you, and if you refuse, it won’t be held against you. But the plea deal will stand.”
“What’s the catch? Why would you offer me the deal of the century?”
“What I’m about to tell you is top secret. Can I trust you, Andy? A man’s life is on the line.”
The words seem to jolt him. “Sure, Jack, you can trust me.”
I try to gauge his expression in the darkened theater. I already decided that I was willing to take the risk, but with the stakes so high I need to be sure. The more people involved, the less chance of pulling it off. I am already spreading it thin.
I look at the baseball uniform he wears. A bona fide 1936 Lou Gehrig model that had been the pride and joy of Mac Cirillo. George Herman brought it to Andy this morning, following my instructions.
“The first purpose of the uniform, Andy, was to conceal your identity for our meeting today. Most places, it will make you stand out, but here it helps you to blend. Not only is it important that you are not seen breaking your bail agreement, but it’s imperative that we are not recognized being together.
“But it has a second important purpose. I want you to take a bus this week to Plattsburg—near the Canadian border—and mail the uniform to an address in the Bronx, which is written down for you, hidden within your moneybag. I also want you to rent a P.O. Box in Plattsburg. Three days later, you will return and find instructions in your box.”
“Instructions for what?”
“Remember when we talked about perfection, Andy? The most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you are going to get to create your masterpiece.”
Chapter 87
He looks like he is going to shoot from his seat with excitement. I need to sober him, and caution him of the heavy cost that will result if he is caught—this time I won’t be able to save him from jail. If the mission is successful, he will be forced to change his identity and never be able to return to this area, and possibly the country.
I must give him the option of not going through with it, but it’s not a hard decision for him. “I’m in, Jack,” he exclaims. I explain it one more time, this time I paint an even darker picture, but his enthusiasm again spills over. The part that I was most concerned about—starting over with a new identity—actually seems to be the biggest selling point for him. A new start.
I sit back and silently examine what I just did. I brought into my plan an unstable teenager who blew up his high school.
Underneath Andy’s sense of adventure, and his clamor for a new beginning, I detect a sadness. When a journey is coming to an end, we tend to look back on how the whole thing got started. And what led Andy to this moment is not pretty.
He stares at the screen, trying to escape from the painful subject he is thinking about—the first nineteen years of his life. Playing out on the screen is the climactic scene where Roy Hobbs breaks his trusty bat and tells the chubby batboy: “Go pick me out a winner, Bobby.” The kid runs off the field in an uncoordinated waddle and I can hear the laughter from the front of the theater.
“They’re laughing at the fat kid,” Andy informs me. His tone tells me he is talking from experience.
“I got picked on relentlessly as a child … and that was just by my sister,” I try to lighten the moment, but I fail.
“Nothing like being ten years old and called fat-ass or pancake head. They both have such a beautiful ring to them. I once came late for class in the seventh grade and my teacher said I should never be late for class. His reasoning was that I was so fat, I should already be there. But lucky for me, when I lost a few pounds I got acne—it all balances out. Then my name changed to Andy Crater-face, ain’t life grand.”
I cringe, wanting to prosecute each and every bully he had to deal with to the fullest extent of the law. And not the law that’s written in the books.
Andy continues to vent, “My favorite was they took my name and switched it around. Andy Kass became Kandy Ass. Not exactly creative, I know. You would think if you were going to torture someone on a daily basis, the least you could do is show a little creativity. Kandy Ass is ugly! Kandy Ass is fat! Kandy Ass is stupid!
“You ever play Little League, Jack?” he asks, his eyes never leaving the baseball scene in the movie.
“Wasn’t allowed in my family. Lawyers work on Saturday.”
“I wish I was so lucky. They had rules so that every kid gets to play. You know, sportsmanship and such. But my coach had a way around that. He paid my parents to keep me home, and of course they gladly accepted. Think about that for a moment.”
“Andy, a lot of people have shitty parents. You can’t let that affect the decisions for the rest of your life.”
I tap Andy on the shoulder and point to the screen. “This is a good part.”
The catcher looks at the blood on Roy Hobbs’ abdomen. He tries to use it as an advantage and calls for an inside fastball. Hobbs responds with a dramatic game-winning home run. He hits the ball so hard that it reaches the light-tower, causing a massive Hollywood fireworks display.
Andy perks up. The chubby batboy had made the correct choice. I can tell Andy loves both the underdog and a good explosion. The movie has all the elements for him. So will our plan.
I have one last caution. “Andy, tomorrow at the hearing for your plea deal, it will be the last time we will ever talk. You will only be contacted through the P.O. Box. And when the mission is complete, we must cease all communication.”
He nods eagerly. “You can count on me!”
“There is one more catch,” I say.
“What is it, Jack?” He looks apprehensive—Lucy is always pulling the football away from him, too.
“When you start your new life, you have to promise me that you’ll turn your passion from misguided to good. And playing by the rules is the only way you will be able to change this world. Acting outside the law never results in good.”
“Do as you say, not as you do, right, Jack?”
I can’t argue with him, he has a point.
“Do we have a deal?” I remain steadfast. There is no room for wavering.
Andy surprises me by wrapping me in a hug. I think that’s a yes.
The plan is now careening toward a Halloween showdown.
Chapter 88
Drew Anderson looked out of the window of the heavily guarded police van that was delivering him to the courthouse for his sentencing.
It was sixty-five degrees, which was practically a heat wave for Halloween in upstate New York. The leaves had changed, turning Cooperstown into an exquisite watercolor painting. It crossed his mind that this might be the last time he saw the outside world for a long time, maybe ever. He looked to Kerri for her usual encouragement, but remembered that she was riding in the vehicle directly behind them in the motorcade. It was just him and a group of heavily armed security officers.
