Accused (38 page)

"We're in the pro golf market," Brad said. "We expect better behavior from our players." He turned to Scott. "We bet the company on Trey Rawlins."

"His death saved your company?"

"And my job." Brad shrugged. "Sounds bad, but it's the truth. We dumped our entire marketing budget into that bastard, only to have him shit on us. Drinking, snorting cocaine, screwing everything that walked …"

"Gambling."

"
Gambling?
" Brad turned to Nick. "Another dirty secret, Nick?"

Nick shrugged innocently.

"Look," Brad said, "I'm not crying because Trey's dead, but we didn't have anything to do with it."

"Will you take a polygraph?"

"Why should I?"

"So I don't subpoena you to testify at trial."

"Hell, I'd rather testify."

"I can arrange that. So you owed him ten million more under the contract, plus incentives … unless he died?"

"Yeah. So?"

"So maybe you terminated Trey in order to terminate his contract."

"This is the pro golf tour, Scott, not the NFL. We don't carry guns."

"He was stabbed to death."

"Or knives. Sure, we wanted away from him, but so did the tour."

"Why?"

"Like I said, this is pro golf. It's all about image. Tour knew that when he fell—not
if
, but
when
—he was gonna fall hard. And he could make the tour look bad. These are tough times in the golf business—sales are down, country clubs are closing, Democrats are blaming rich white guys for everything that's wrong in the world … After Tiger's sex scandal, all we needed was Trey Rawlins exposed as a doper."

Or as a gambler throwing tournaments for the mob.

"From the hottest WAG on tour to a prison inmate, that's a long fall. I voted for her, by the way."

Royce Ballard dressed like a golfer but sported the arrogance of a lawyer, and for good reason.

"I went to UT law school, worked in a Houston firm for ten years, got passed over for partnership, those bastards, so I hired on with the tour. VP, player relations."

Nick had gotten Scott into the tour trailer to see Royce, who agreed to talk only after Scott had threatened him with a trial subpoena.

"What exactly does a VP of player relations do?"

"I keep them in line. Corporate sponsors don't want to read about our golfers in the legal section of the newspaper, only in the sports section. Hell, we got enough problems with our sponsors—GM and Chrysler in bankruptcy, that fucking Sir Allen …
Forbes
said he was worth two billion. Shit, who can you trust anymore?" He chuckled. "You see he's bitching because his cell isn't air-conditioned? And his lawyer bailed because he can't pay, then he got the shit beat of him in jail? I love it, the bastard. But our sponsors are bailing because of this recession. If it weren't for TARP—"

"The government bailout fund?"

Royce nodded. "Tour sponsors got a hundred billion, thank God. GM got fifty billion, so Buick can still sponsor two tournaments. But they're history after this year."

"Taxpayers are funding the pro golf tour?" Scott said. "So players can buy yachts and Bentleys?"

"Some guys like Lamborghinis."

"Official car of the PGA ain't Ford or Chevy," Nick said. "It's Mercedes-Benz."

Royce was giving Nick a skeptical eye. "Sounding a little Obama-ish there, Nick." Back to Scott: "Anyway, we can't afford to lose sponsors because of our players screwing up. Sponsors take their money to another sport, we fold up the tour tent."

"And Trey Rawlins was getting out of line?"

"Porn, Viagra, screwing other players' wives … that's all consenting adult shit. But cocaine and gambling, that's NBA shit and no way we're gonna let that happen."

"You knew all that? That Trey was throwing tournaments?"

"
Throwing tournaments?
What the hell are you talking about?
Nick?
"

Nick feigned innocence. "I don't know anything about that."

Royce stared Nick down a long moment then said, "We keep close tabs on our players." Another glance at Nick. "Maybe not close enough."

"But you wanted Trey off the tour?"

"Hell, yes. We can't afford to have another train wreck like Daly on tour, passing out in a fucking Hooters parking lot. Jesus, the guy looks like a goddamn bouncer with a three-iron. He actually hit a tee shot in a pro-am off a beer can."

"I thought that was funny," Nick said.

"The pro golf tour isn't a goddamn sitcom, Nick! It's a business! We don't want our fans having fun, we want them spending money!" Royce calmed and shook his head. "Problem was, Trey was real popular, and not just with the WAGs. When he played, gate receipts and TV ratings shot up. Great White Hope, I guess. We figured the drug testing would take care of him, but he passed every screen."

Scott gave Nick a quick glance.

"I'm responsible for that, too," Royce said. "Our doping program."

"Is there a drug problem on tour?"

"Nah. Golf is still a Jim Beam and Jack Daniels sport—"

"WM squared," Nick said with pride. Royce rolled his eyes.

—"but we've had a few guys smoking dope in the Porta-Potties during a round. Of course, they find out it's damn hard to make a five-foot putt for par if you're flying higher than a fucking kite—as Trey found out at the Bay Classic and over in Miami."

Scott gave Nick another glance.

"Program's mostly a PR tool. Sponsors are sick of reading about steroids in sports so we're the squeaky-clean alternative."

"WM squared don't like dopers, Scott," Nick said.

Royce shook his head. "Jesus, Nick, give that WM squared shit a rest, will you? You're like a fucking dog with a bone."

"I'm gonna trademark it, make some real money."

Royce looked at Scott but nodded his head at Nick. "An entrepreneur. Anyway, we instituted the widest range of testing in sports. Steroids, HgH—all the PEDs—Performance Enhancing Drugs—as well as narcotics, stimulants, beta-blockers …"

Nick laughed. "Except you allow TUEs."

"What's that?" Scott said.

"Therapeutic Use Exemptions. Means if you get a note from your doctor saying you need a beta-blocker, you can take it—and putt better. How many TUEs you grant so far, Royce?"

"That's confidential, Nick."

"Confidential? Shit, Royce, walk through the locker room."

"So Trey never tested positive?" Scott asked.

"Nope. But we knew he was cheating. Hell, we even staked out his house down in Galveston, tried to catch him with his pants down … so to speak."

"You can go to a player's home and make him pee in a cup without a search warrant?"

Royce nodded. "You gotta pee to play."

"Why would the players put up with that? It's their tour."

"No, it's not. It's
our
tour. We own the tour, so they need us. Without us, they'd be giving golf lessons to old ladies at the country club."

Nick snorted. "The players need lawyers like you?" To Scott: "Tour's run by a buncha fucking lawyers now. You ever read the Rules of Golf? Like reading the tax code."

Royce shrugged. "World's run by lawyers. Don't like it, get a law degree."

"You ever go to Tiger's home? Get him to pee in a cup?"

"You mean, did I quit my job?" Royce chuckled. "Tiger's not
on
the tour, Scott, he
is
the tour. Or he was." He shook his head as if a close friend had died. "He drives his Caddy into a tree and fourteen girls fall out. Porn stars, Ambien sex, nailing the college gal next door—which is creepy even for a pro athlete." Royce sighed. "We may never recover from that fucking fiasco."

There was a moment of reverent silence for the Tiger Woods fiasco. Then Nick's head came up.

"Does Ambien really work?"

"Fourteen gals, it must," Royce said.

"Do you need a prescription for that?"

"For fourteen gals? You're gonna need more than a sleeping pill, Nick, trust me."

Royce turned to Scott.

"Tiger's been our meal ticket for thirteen years—the tour, the networks, even the other players—prize money's increased two hundred million since he turned pro. He made golf cool. Popular. And profitable. Without him, we're back to a bunch of pudgy-ass white boys nobody wants to watch. We're desperate for another big star, insurance that there'll be a tour if Tiger strays off the course for good. Or we'll all be looking for a job."

"And you thought Trey might be that guy?"

"We hoped so. He won his first tournament, just like Tiger. Fans responded to him—it's a star system, and he could've been a big star. But cocaine and gambling, he crossed the line. We've got to protect our public image."

Nick laughed. "Players don't give a shit what the public thinks, Royce. Twenty million people are out of work, they can't afford health insurance, their homes are being foreclosed, but these guys out here are lunching on lobster in the clubhouse and bitching because Obama's raising their taxes so poor folks can have health care and—"

Royce was glaring at Nick. "You voted for Obama, didn't you? I knew it! You're a goddamned closet Democrat, aren't you, Nick?"

"No. I'm not. I didn't. I swear."

Royce pointed an accusing finger at Nick. "Players find out you voted for Obama, you're fucking through as an agent!"

"I swear to God, Royce—I've never voted in my life!"

Royce gave the agent a look of disgust, then turned back to Scott. "You see the NBA playoffs, that Denver player walking off the court giving the Dallas fans the finger? Our golfers don't do that. They know the tour is their golden goose, so they play the pro-ams, they do the charity appearances, they say all the right things in public—we give them media training so they don't say anything stupid—they play the game on and off the course. They keep their noses clean. Trey, he stuffed coke up his nose and pissed away his money in Vegas. We couldn't let one player kill the golden goose."

"Sounds like a motive."

"To kill him?" Royce laughed. "Shit, I'd have to get in line out here."

"He wasn't well liked?"

"Bit of an understatement. Everyone hated his guts … except the tour women, his dealer, his bookie … and your wife."

"Ex-wife. What were you hoping for?"

Royce shrugged. "Maybe a head-on with a semi on that racing bike."

Scott shook his head. "On TV, you said the tour was like a family."

"Yeah, like my family. Dysfunctional, full of misfits and jealous siblings."

"We stopped over in Vegas all the time," Rebecca said. "He gave me some chips, I played the slots. He never said anything about being in debt to the casinos."

Another confidential attorney-client conference on the beach.

"He was fifteen million in debt."

"
Fifteen million?
That's not possible."

"It's true. He threw two tournaments to pay the mob back. He was supposed to throw a third but he made a long putt."

"In Atlanta."

Scott nodded. "You ever see a lot of cash around the house?"

"Like a few thousand?"

"Like three million. Mob money."

"No. Never. The police searched the whole house—you don't think they took it?"

Scott watched a brown pelican swoop down and snatch a fish from the sea. He didn't know what to think or whom to believe. Perhaps a polygraph would help.

THIRTY-THREE

Retired FBI Special Agent Gus Grimes stood knee-deep in the surf wielding a long fishing pole. He lived in an isolated beach bungalow beyond a line of sand dunes on the next island over, or actually the adjacent peninsula. Scott and Rebecca had taken the car ferry from the East End of the Island across the Ship Channel and driven onto Bolivar Peninsula, where Ike had wiped the earth clean.

They had parked and knocked on the front door. When no one answered, they walked around back and found Gus surf fishing. He saw them and walked out of the water and across the sand to the house. Gus wore baggy shorts, an "I'd Rather be Fishing" T-shirt, beach shoes, and sunglasses. Reading glasses hung around his neck. Gus's gray hair was ragged and a bit long and stuck out from under a fishing cap. He smelled of the sea and looked more like a beach bum than a former FBI special agent.

"Sorry. Lost track of time."

Scott made the introductions then said, "Nice place. No nosy neighbors."

"Three thousand homes on the peninsula before Ike, only a dozen survived. Not mine. Rebuilt soon as I got my insurance money, so the fish didn't get cocky."

"No one else is rebuilding?"