The Draft (28 page)

Jon put up a finger. “One week.”

The others seemed confused, but Freddie smiled. “Until the draft is over.”

Jon smiled back. “That's right.”

“So you
are
after Christian McKinley.”

“I can't comment on that. Maybe we are, maybe we're not. Maybe we have an entirely different deal in the works that doesn't involve McKinley at all. I really can't say at this time.”

Freddie's smile didn't fade. He nodded and wiped his mouth. “His way of saying skip the questions and get down to business,” he told the others. “Okay, I'll play along. What kind of a deal are we talking about here, numbers-wise?”

Jon looked around the group. “I was thinking ten thousand?”

“Too low,” Freddie said before anyone else had a chance to react. This was standard procedure rather than the product of quick reflection—always reject the first offer.

“Okay, twelve.”

“Still too low.”

“Now wait a minute,” Quincy said, putting up a hand. “Doesn't Raymond have anything to say about it?”

“Freddie, I'm not going to ask Raymond to do anything for the next seven days other than come to the facility to the coaches can have a look at him,” Jon pointed out. “I just want to retain his rights until after the draft. Then, if the situation calls for it, we'll talk about his future with the team. If he's good enough to make the cut, I promise you I'll sign him. And if he makes it to the second QB spot on the depth chart, I'll give him a bonus. A good one.”

Friedman thought it over.

“Fifteen,” he said, “is our final offer. If that's okay with you, Raymond?”

The boy who had never carried more than fifty bucks in his pocket, was wide-eyed with disbelief and managed a nod. Quincy, watching his son's reaction, smiled with amusement.

“Then we've got a temporary deal?” Jon asked.

Freddie nodded. “We've got a temporary deal.” He reached over and shook Jon's hand. Papers would be drawn up and faxed around tomorrow, but Jon knew from experience that Freddie's handshake was his bond. He was a real pill, but he was good on his word.

“And I'll even pay for dinner tonight,” Friedman added.

“You're a prince,” Jon told him.

“I know that.”

Now please tell me I didn't just blow fifteen grand,
Jon thought.

15

Skip Henderson read
the report for the third time. Typical due diligence stuff, documenting players' backgrounds for signs of trouble—arrests, convictions, etc. Time was when a kid's skills on the field were all that mattered, but nowadays character was a big issue. Troublemakers spawned bad press, and bad press often led to reduced sales in merchandising. On the field, they caused distractions. A coach could squelch most of them, but not all. Just like everywhere else in life, these types were more trouble than they were worth. Conversely, kids of good character were regarded as pure gold. Football skills were easier to teach than integrity. Good kids came with extras, bonuses. They provided the little niceties that often made all the difference. This was one of life's greatest secrets, and Henderson had discovered it early on. Others were still scratching their heads trying to figure out why certain players looked so good on paper and performed so well in the combines yet never did much for their team.

Reading through the two-page report on Isaac Bardwell as the morning sun peeked through his office blinds, he thought again about the importance of character. And on that scale, Bardwell, a guard from the Auburn, wasn't looking good. The bulk of the report discussed his two arrests for marijuana possession. In both cases the police could not prove Bardwell had actually used the stuff, but “the odor was strong on his person, as if he'd just smoked a joint.”

What bothered Henderson most, though, was the time between the arrests—three years. Not three weeks or three months, which would've suggested a phase in which Bardwell was experimenting. Three
years.
For all Henderson knew, Bardwell could've been smoking pot the whole time and just didn't get caught. Or maybe he had been caught but somehow squirmed his way out of it. Charm or outright bribery, perhaps. It was even possible the officers in question didn't want to damage the reputation of a local sports hero. That certainly wasn't beyond the realm of possibility.

Whatever the case, the Ventnor report didn't illustrate a complete picture, so Henderson was left with intuition and gut instinct. At the moment Bardwell was a third-rounder on their draft chart, and a low one at that. The skills were there, but they wouldn't be worth a dime if the team had to deal with a pothead. All they needed was to sign this kid to a big contract and then lose him to the feds on his third substance-abuse arrest. Three strikes and you were definitely gone in their eyes. On the other hand, maybe Bardwell really had done it only a few times and just had a bad run of luck. It seemed like damn near everyone tried the stuff at least
once
these days. Would concern over character cause them to lose out on a great opportunity?

Henderson scanned the report one more time, hoping maybe he'd see something he'd missed before, when the phone rang. He reached over and grabbed it without taking his eyes off the paper.

“Hello?”

“Skip?”

“Yes?”

“Brendan Cavanaugh.”

“Hey, Brendan, how's it going over there in Colorado?”

“Not too bad, Skip. Same old.”

“Yeah, ain't that the truth. What can I do for you?”

“I'm calling about your pick.”

“Which one?” Henderson asked, genuinely unsure.

“The first one. The first overall.”

Henderson paused out of surprise. He set Bardwell's report down. “Oh … what about it?”

“I'd like to submit an offer for it.”

“You're interested in it again?”

“Yes. You said you'd be taking them right up until tomorrow. Is that still the case?”

“Well, yes, but … I've got to tell you the current offer for it is pretty big. To be honest, I'd be amazed if anyone topped it.”

“I understand. I'd like to submit one anyway, if that's okay.”

“Sure,” he replied. “What have you got in mind?”

Thousands of miles away, Cavanaugh leaned back, put his feet up on his desk, and smiled.
I've got the end of Jon Sabino's career in mind, that's what.

“Are you ready?”

“I am.”

“Okay, here goes…”

*   *   *

Physically, the Ravens' draft-day war room was a lot less intriguing than its dramatic name implied. Like the team's other conference room, its centerpiece was a large rectangular table surrounded by comfortable leather chairs. There was another markerboard, a few cabinets, and a framed Ravens' logo hanging by itself on one of the long walls. This could be a meeting room in the office building of any American corporation.

A man in a khaki uniform was down on one knee in a corner, wearing a toolbelt and a pair of headphones. Stitched onto his shirt was an emblem that read “Hoffer Security.” The headphones were connected to a small handheld device that then connected to one of the phone jacks. As he listened carefully for any signs of weakness in the line, Jon stood by and watched with his hands on his hips. The Ravens had been using Hoffer for all such security matters for years. They were professional and highly discreet, and run by an ex-FBI agent.

Today the man from Hoffer would check the integrity of the phone lines, for there would be nothing more embarrassing, not to mention devastating, than missing an opportunity on draft day simply because your phone didn't work. Jon wasn't so much concerned with making calls as he was in receiving them. A problem with an outgoing call on one of these phones could be solved just by using another phone. But to most people in the outside world, the Ravens had only two or three phone numbers. League officials didn't want long lists of every damn phone in the building. They didn't want every cell number. They wanted one main number and one for emergencies, so these phones had to work.

“Everything seem okay so far?”

The man nodded. “So far,” he said without looking up.

Jon was fascinated, not because he possessed some deep desire to work in the securities industry but because it was something he knew nothing about. He was a curious and inquisitive type by nature and would love nothing more than to bombard this guy with questions until he felt he had at least a fundamental understanding of what he was doing.

Again he considered asking the guy to sweep for bugs, then decided not to. He'd had this argument with himself several times over the last week. Some teams did run such tests as part of their normal preparation for draft day, and Jon had done it in the past. In the fans' minds, he thought, it must sound ridiculously paranoid. He always imagined someone shaking their head and saying, “Gimme a break, it's only a
game.
” But the truth was professional football was a high-stakes business like any other, involving millions and dollars and the futures of hundreds of people. Planting tiny electronic ears in the offices of your rivals really wasn't such a bad idea. Besides, it had happened before; more than once, in fact.

Ultimately, however, Jon decided it wouldn't be necessary. At least not this year. As far as anyone knew, the Ravens still hadn't made any deal with the Chargers. There was a lot of speculation in the media, plenty of rumors floating around, but no facts and no confirmations. Both Jon and Skip Henderson had done a marvelous job of holding their tongues. As usual, the press didn't find out anything a team didn't really want them to know. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, what would happen on draft day was still a mystery.

The Hoffer man unplugged his line from the first jack and rose. “That one's okay,” he said and moved to the next.

Jon nodded and glanced at the huge white sheet that covered the markerboard. Underneath were hundreds of little placecards, each bearing the name of an eligible player plus the name of his college, his position, height, weight, and his speed in the 40-yard dash. This draft board had been set up weeks ago, long before Bell's accident, and Jon really hadn't given it much thought since then. It was more or less irrelevant now, but he was still glad it was there. It had been covered solely for the benefit of the security guy. If it was exposed and he got a look at who the team had originally been considering in the first round, he might mention it to someone. Then again maybe he wouldn't, but it wasn't worth the risk. Jon frankly didn't care if the guy's feelings were hurt by this mild display of mistrust. Besides, the guy worked in security, so surely he understood. He didn't seem the least bit interested in it anyway.

There was some other sensitive material around the room—unkempt piles of paper, files with rubber bands around them. In one corner ESPN had set up a camera the day before, although there were no wires or cables connected to it yet. To an outsider this, too, might seem like a security gamble, but in reality it wasn't. ESPN had a solid reputation in the sports world, which was logical since sports reporting was their bread and butter. Regardless, many NFL teams refused them access to their war rooms. Jon thought this was ridiculous. He understood they had a job to do, and that many fans would be intrigued by what was happening on the inside. The only condition he imposed was that no sound be transmitted until the second day, and that the cameras be turned off upon request. Otherwise, ESPN was free to do as they wished.

Connally had enthusiastically agreed to indulge the ESPN people, too, although Jon suspected it was for different reasons. Peter was eager to get in front of the cameras the moment the announcement came down that the Ravens had secured McKinley. He would want to stand in the spotlight and gloat—in as dignified a manner as possible—about this team's amazing acquisition. He'd give the normal speech about being happy that such a talented young player would be coming to Baltimore and that he was glad for the fans, etc., but what he'd really be waiting for was the opportunity to bring up the subject of a third Super Bowl victory. Any opportunity to talk about that was seized. It seemed to be his singular obsession these days.

Jon was not as comfortable in the limelight, but he had to admit he kind of looked forward to it this time. As he stood there watching the security guy tinker with his equipment, he got a strong sense that this was the beginning of the end of something, so he figured hell, why not live it up a little? Maybe he'd get in front of that camera, too. Perhaps he'd even comb his hair and put on a jacket for a change. The McKinley acquisition was his baby, after all; another success in a fairly long line of them. Once the announcement was made, surely they'd want to talk to him and get the juicy details. In years to come he'd probably look back and think it was an asinine, self-indulgent thing to do. But hell, it might never be this good again, so why not, just this once, have a little fun with it?

He was smiling to himself, imagining the things he might say, when the door opened and Susan Schiff stuck her head in. She looked pale, almost sick, and Jon's whimsical fantasy evaporated.

“Susan?”

“There's a call for you.”

She made a motion toward the Hoffer guy that said,
I don't want to say more in front of him.
Jon got the translation with no problem and came forward.

“I'll be right back,” he told the guy, who nodded.

As they hurried down the hallway, Jon's first thought was of his daughter—Kelley was calling to say Lauren had tumbled down the stairs and broken her neck. Funny, he thought, how clear and detailed mental images were when you imagined horrible things happening to the people you loved.

“Who is it?” he asked, more to distract himself than anything else.