The Perk (32 page)

"How long have you and Slade been
dating?"

"Almost a year."

"Has he ever hit you?"

"Oh, no, sir. He would never hit me."

"Did you ever see him hit anyone else,
other students?"

"He hits walls."

"Walls?"

"Unh-huh. He punches holes in walls, when
he's in a bad mood."

"Does Slade have bad moods often?"

"Oh … you know … sometimes."

"Did Slade beat up Julio because he's Latino?"

"Oh, no, Judge, Slade's not like that. His
heroes are black athletes."

"Did you hear Slade call Julio a wetback
and a spic that night?"

"Yes, sir, but that's what everyone calls
them."

"At school?"

"In town."

"So Slade beat up Julio for no reason at
all?"

"It wasn't his fault."

"Julio's?"

"Slade's."

"Ms. Ernst, Julio suffered a broken nose, a
concussion, two teeth were knocked out, three broken ribs, and a broken jaw—his
jaws are still wired shut. He couldn't even testify today. Whose fault would
that be then?"

"Well, I meant …"

"You meant what?"

She shrugged.

"Ms. Ernst, did Slade beat up Julio?"

"Yes, sir."

"So it was his fault?"

"Well, yes, but …"

"But what?"

"He …"

"What, Ms. Ernst? I need to know or I'm
going to revoke bond and put Slade in jail—today!"

She suddenly appeared
panicked. "
Jail?
You can't do that! He's got a game tonight! A
district game!"

"Football games don't matter in a court of
law, Ms. Ernst."

"But, Judge, it wasn't his fault! He can't
control himself when he's cycling!"

" '
Cycling'?
"

The D.A. was on his feet: "Judge, I, uh, I
think Ms. Ernst is becoming frazzled. Perhaps she needs a break."

"Hush." Back to Nikki: "Ms. Ernst,
what do you mean 'cycling'?"

Nikki's face was stricken; her eyes were pleading
to Slade for help and her teeth were chewing on her nails again; half her
fingers appeared to be in her mouth. Quentin McQuade was jabbing at Stutz from
his seat on the first row. Stutz stood.

"Your Honor, you're harassing my witness.
Certainly you've gotten the testimony you need for the purpose of this
proceeding."

Beck ignored Stutz.

"Ms. Ernst, look at me."

She turned back to Beck; she was crying.

"Ms. Ernst, what do you mean by
'cycling'?"

Her head was down; she whispered: "When
he's juiced."

"Juiced? You mean steroids?"

She nodded.

"Was Slade on steroids that night?"

She nodded again.

"Please answer aloud."

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

"Because I stuck him."

"You injected him?"

She nodded. "He's afraid of needles. He
used to get other guys at those Austin gyms to inject him, but since I'm going
to be a doctor—"

"Where did you inject him?"

"At his house."

"No, where on his body?"

"His butt."

"So he was in a steroid cycle that
night?"

She nodded. "He cycles every month … like a girl's
period, I tell him. That way his body doesn't become dependent on the
steroids, otherwise his testicles will shrink up to the size of a pea. At
least that's what he said."

"How long has Slade been using
steroids?"

"As long as we've dated."

"And when he injects, he becomes
aggressive?"

"Totally, especially when he's stacking."

"Stacking?"

"When he does several kinds of juice at the same time. It's
supposed to work better that way. See, he pyramids—"

"Pyramids?"

"Yeah, he starts a cycle with a low dose
then increases the dose until he peaks. Then he backs off. When he's at the
peak, that's when he has bad moods. Mad moods. He calls it 'roid rage. I stay
away from him, for like, two or three days, that's why I went to the movie that
night without him. He gets real mean … and he punches walls. And he gets insanely
jealous. He usually pumps iron really hard those days, he says that's when he
can add bulk. But when the stuff wears off, he gets real down."

"Down as in depressed?"

"Yes, sir. Once he evens out, he's okay,
but the peak days are always a rollercoaster for him."

"And that was a peak day?"

"Yes, sir. A really big dose."

"All right, Ms. Ernst, so you injected
steroids into Slade that Saturday morning. Did you see Slade again that
day?"

"Not until the theater. Like I said, I stay away from him on
those days."

"At the theater that night, you were
talking to Julio at the counter and Slade just grabbed Julio and yanked him
over the counter and started beating him?"

"He was raging."

"Ms. Ernst, where does Slade get his
steroids?"

"At gyms in Austin where the freaks hang
out."

"Freaks?"

"Those bodybuilders. Slade says they're freaks."

"Knew the girl was the weak link."

An hour later, Quentin McQuade was standing in
Beck's doorway with a rolled-up magazine in his hand as if he were looking for
a dog to smack.

"Mind if I come in, Judge?"

He walked in without waiting for an answer. Quentin
McQuade looked every bit the rich real-estate developer, oozing confidence and
money. He stood over six feet tall in his expensive suit, but he didn't have
his son's body mass. Being in real estate, chances were he wasn't on steroids.

"Didn't want an official record, thought
getting rid of the court reporter would fix that. Nice move, the tape
recorder."

He said it as if complimenting an opposing coach
on a play call. Beck said, "I could have you charged with subornation of
perjury."

McQuade chuckled. "Good luck with that.
Like you never coached a witness?"

He had.

"I didn't tell them to lie."

"Coaching, lying …" He shrugged.
"Semantics."

"Mr. McQuade—"

"Quentin. It's Beck, right?"

"No, it's Judge Hardin."

"Judge Hardin, then. Can we talk?"

"Why not?
Ex parte
doesn't seem to
mean much around here."

"
Ex parte?
Is that like an
ex-wife?" McQuade chuckled as he sat in the visitor's chair. "So,
when will you rule?"

"Law requires me to rule within forty-eight
hours. So first thing Monday morning, since Slade's not in custody."

"Any way to postpone your ruling?"

"If the defendant requests a
postponement."

"He does."

"Mr. McQuade, I don't see any reason to
delay my ruling. There's clearly probable cause to send Slade to the grand
jury."

McQuade sighed like Beck had just told a
corporate client his deal wouldn't close.

"Yeah, problem with that is, grand jury is
twelve people. Nine Germans, so an indictment isn't likely, but still a
possibility. The more people that get involved, the harder this thing is to
control, see? Never know when someone might grow a conscience. Nope, I just don't
like those odds."

"Those are the odds every American citizen
faces when they commit a crime."

McQuade smiled slightly. "I'm not every
American citizen, Judge. And Slade is my son."

"Mr. McQuade, even if Slade is indicted, what
are the odds of his being convicted by a trial jury packed with Germans?"

"Slim to none."

"Because you came here and bought influence
with the locals."

"Can't buy something that's not for
sale." He smiled. "Most of the public officials and businessmen in
this county benefit from my development, Judge, that's true. But that's just
good business, same way business is done in Dallas or Houston or anywhere else
in this state or this country. Only problem with buying public officials is,
sometimes they don't stay bought."

"I wouldn't know."

"Sure you would. Lawyers know all about
buying judges. When one of my companies gets sued, first thing my lawyer in Austin does is find out who the judge is and what lawyer was his last campaign treasurer—then
he hires that lawyer. Doesn't matter if the guy writes wills, he wants that
lawyer sitting at our table in front of that judge at trial. Now, I didn't dream
up that little scheme. My lawyer did. And he used to be president of the bar
association. No doubt your Chicago law firm did the same thing."

It did.

"So what's your point, Mr. McQuade?"

"My point is this: I can't let the grand
jury indict Slade because an indictment kills his football career. ESPN will
be all over the story like stink on shit—live from the front steps of this
courthouse. UT'll drop him like a fresh cow patty. No UT, no NFL first-round draft
pick, no hundred-million-dollar contract, no endorsements. That makes for a
bad investment."

"A bad investment?"

"Last ten years, I've invested a half-million
bucks in the boy's career."

"His
career?
He's a high school player."

"Who'll be playing pro ball in two years."

"So he's your investment?"

"One of them. And he's going to pay off. Our
agent's already got him in a sports drink commercial—"

"He's got an agent?"

"Sure. He can't get paid and still play
college ball, so that commercial's a freebie, just prepping the market, getting
his pretty face out there. We're negotiating a shoe deal that'll take effect
the day he turns pro. He'll be a gold mine."

McQuade tossed the
magazine he had been holding onto the desk:
Sports Illustrated.
Slade
was on the cover, bare-chested and holding a football; the byline was THE
NATURAL
.

"That's a lot of pressure to put on a boy,
Mr. McQuade."

"Pressure is part of the game. He can
handle it."

"You've been prepping him for the pros
since he was nine?"

"Crazy, isn't it? But that's the way it is
now. Personal trainers, passing, running, and strength coaches, nutritionists—all
that doesn't come cheap. I've had the best quarterback coach in the country
working with him since he was twelve, forty hours a week in the off-season,
learning how to read defenses, call audibles, footwork, watching film …"

"What about being a boy?"

"Doesn't pay. With the kind of money in
sports today, there's no time to be a boy. Sports are for the young and
strong, so you've got to grab it while you can."

"Did you ever grab it, Mr. McQuade? Did
you ever play?"

He shook his head. "I wasn't good
enough."

"So you're living out your dream through
Slade?"

"Damn right I am. He's my son. But it's his dream,
too."

"Maybe he's not good enough, if he has to use
steroids." Beck gestured at the magazine. "He's not natural. He's
juiced."

"We're off the record, right, Judge?"
He again didn't wait for an answer. "Slade had the same arm when he
weighed one-ninety. But he can't play pro at one-ninety because he wouldn't
survive the punishment today. That's what's changed in the game: quarterbacks
have to be big, real big, just to survive the hits. Because the guys hitting
them are bigger. Hell, Namath and Staubach, they could throw the ball with
anyone today. But they wouldn't last a full game, getting mauled by those
three-hundred-pound guys. Namath played at one-ninety, Staubach at
one-ninety-five. What did you play at?"

"One eighty-five."

"College water boys weigh more than that.
What did your offensive line average at Notre Dame?"

"Two-fifty."

"NFL quarterbacks weigh that today.
Football is played by giants. I read that back in 1980 only three pro players
weighed more than three hundred pounds. Today, five hundred players do. Did the
human race just suddenly experience a growth spurt? And only among
athletes?"

"Mr. McQuade, twenty years ago at Notre
Dame we had seminars about steroids. They work, but the side effects can be very
dangerous—'roid rage is real. Right after injection, your testosterone level
shoots up to that of a gorilla—and your personality turns into that of a
gorilla. And when you come down, you often go into depression. It's a cycle
of rage and depression, just like Nikki said. Some users have even committed suicide.
And even if they don't suffer side effects, they're still damaging their bodies
long term."

McQuade laughed. "Hell, getting slammed to
the turf by those big sons a bitches damages their bodies long term, too. But
that's the deal you make with football, you sacrifice your body for glory and
money. Time Slade's thirty, with his contract and endorsements, he'll be worth
a hundred million. Took me till I was fifty."

"You're worth a hundred million
dollars?"

"Two. I'm fifty-five now."

"Mr. McQuade, you're his father. You
should be telling him not to use steroids."

"Judge, tell a high school boy there's a
magic potion that'll make all his dreams come true, what do you think he's
going to do? Steroids are the American way—using science to make your body better.
No different than men taking drugs to make their dicks hard or women getting breast
implants."

"I've never heard of a woman with breast
implants going into a rage and beating the hell out of someone."

"You never met my first wife." He
smiled; Beck didn't. "Look, Judge, that was regrettable. But it's also
fixable. I paid the boy's medical bills, and Stutz is talking to Delgado and the
boy's family right now about a settlement."

"How much?"

"I've authorized Stutz to offer a
million."

"A million dollars?"

McQuade shrugged. "Business expense."

"Civil cases are settled, Mr. McQuade, and
you don't need my approval to settle a civil case. This is a criminal
case."