A Life Intercepted: A Novel Page 5

  Standing next to that window, New York City spread below us like a blanket of lights, her finger tapping that bow-wrapped box, she was not expecting what she got. She untied the ribbon, opened the small blue box, and revealed the half-dollar-sized, intricately carved silver dove. She laid it in the palm of her hand. “Wow.”

  Speechless was good.

  She tilted her head. “I wasn’t expecting this.” And the not-expecting was even better.

  “I considered a spider monkey, but—” A shrug.

  She laughed. “Thank you.”

  Months prior, I’d googled and found a picture online of a dove in flight. Wings outstretched, landing or taking off was tough to say. Could have been either. Picture in hand, I contacted a custom jeweler in Jacksonville named Hugh Harby. Hugh had been a rather talented college water skier who, following graduation, realized he was attracted to things that glitter, so he turned his attention from carving water to shaping metal and stone. Turns out he was good at both. Enticed by my idea—and the challenge of it—Hugh worked with me to craft Audrey’s gift. It came out better than we’d hoped. Elegant. Detailed.

  I tucked her hair behind her ear. “It’s the only one like it.”

  Her whisper cracked. “She’s beautiful.”

  My eyes never left her. “Yes, she is.”

  She turned. “Help me.”

  I clasped it around her neck and she leaned into me, her back pressed to my chest and my arms wrapped around her.

  We stared through our reflection out across the flickering city. The moment speaking for itself. She locked her fingers inside mine. Minutes passed. Finally, I spoke. “When you heat silver, melt it down, it burns off the impurities, or dross. What’s left comes out of the fire better. More pure.” I waved my hand across the conference rooms down the hall. “Where we’re going… some are going to like me. Some won’t. Few will be indifferent. You and I been doing this long enough to know it’s the nature of the game. I just want you to know that amid all this, you’re what matters. Not the numbers on those contracts in there, not my face on TV, not my name on a jersey, not some naked woman waiting to catch me alone in my hotel room.”

  She turned and adjusted my tie. “If you walk into a hotel room and find a naked woman waiting on you, it’d better be me.”

  I nodded. “You know what I’m saying. I just wanted to remind you—us—before the noise and static of our life increases, that we are what matters to me.”

  I centered the dove in the small of her neck. “This represents both a landing and a taking off. Promise and possibility.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek. Her chin fell to her chest. “You made me cry.”

  “I do that sometimes.”

  Her smile lifted her chin. “Yes, you do.”

  Sometimes during the heat of a game, or maybe just after, if you watch carefully, there is a thing that we football players do. It can be after a win or a loss or a great play, but it’s mostly when one or two have given their all, held nothing back, emptied themselves for another. Helmets on or off doesn’t matter, but in recognition of the moment, they lean into one another, touching foreheads. Just for a second or two. It’s not a head-butt, it’s a quiet honoring of the other—when words can’t really say what needs saying.

  Audrey leaned into me, touched her forehead to mine, and cupped the back of my neck with her palm. She whispered, “Call to me… and I’ll come to you.”

  We entered each conference room to smiles, handshakes, and hugs. What had taken a lifetime to achieve occurred quickly. Each of us signed above several lines, prompting bank representatives to ask each of us to type in our predetermined passwords, triggering the transfer of seven-figure amounts into various numbered accounts. The guys were delirious. Coach Ray made more bonus money in five seconds than in five years of washing laundry and showers. Staring at the papers and the numbers, he broke down and cried, staining his new tie. Said he was going to buy his wife a new car—her first ever. Wood became an instant millionaire and promptly broke out into a cold sweat, but he recovered enough to speak into his mic, which caused somebody to roll in a cart of chilled champagne. Corks popped, foam spilled, toasts followed, and grown men slapped each other on the back, hugged again, and cried some more. Their shoulders shaking. The emotive release palpable. Audrey watched me with satisfied delight—one finger tracing the lines of the dove.

  Seconds before he summoned the limousine, Wood quieted the room and raised his glass. “To the night that all our dreams came true.”

  But I never made that flight to Hawaii.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I’d been walking an hour when a run-down Suburban passed me, slowed, and stopped in the emergency lane. A skinny spare had replaced the right rear tire, which now sat lashed atop the roof racks. I didn’t recognize the car or the driver until he opened the door. Wood stepped out, pushed his Costas up on top of his shiny head, and smiled.

  Figures.

  Wood met me at the back of the car and bear-hugged me—the first hug I’d had in a long, long time. It spoke volumes.

  His clothes were old. Cracker crumbs dotted his lap. Tie wide. Collar yellowed. Shaved head. Whatever money he’d earned was gone. Tough years. Tougher miles. Tainted by association, the glamor had flown and, one by one, his clients had departed. Over the years, he’d spent most of his money, and then some, trying to get them back. Convince them he could represent them.

  It had not worked.

  He was two inches shorter than I am, but his shoulders were a good bit wider and thicker. He worked out a good bit but had thickened in the middle. Looked to be about twenty-five pounds over his playing weight. He held both my shoulders in his hands and smiled. Neither of us really knowing what to say. Finally, I broke the silence. “You should get as far away from me as you can.”

  He laughed. “That’s exactly what Laura told me ’fore I left the house.”

  “Smart woman.”

  His belly bounced as he chuckled. “Come on.”

  I sat and closed the door. He sized me up. “You all right? Get the flowers I sent?” The humidity inside the car matched the outside, as the AC didn’t work. He pulled the Suburban onto Hwy 90 and laid his arm on the console. “Sorry I’m late. Flat tire.”

  “I see that.”

  Prior to the draft, Wood had bought the vehicle he thought should go along with his new image as agent. A Cadillac Escalade. Sleek, fast, the throaty rumble of a high-powered V-8, leather seats, wood-grain dash, twenty-inch wheels, entertainment system—the envy of would-be clients. A week before the draft, he’d told me, “People like to do business with successful people.” He was so proud. Tinted windows. Cold AC. He’d never owned a car with power windows. As he talked, he kept lowering and raising all four windows. He smirked. “Image is a big part of that.”

  Like everything else, Wood’s image had suffered, and the Suburban he drove was not the Escalade he’d bought. This vehicle had worn tires, faded and chipped paint, a couple of fender dents, and quarter-panel scratches. The carpet was stained, leather seats torn, dashboard cracked, and stale french fries covered the backseat. It was a good reflection of him. Of his life.

  Within the first few months of my sentence, Wood had petitioned the court to move me to Wiregrass. They’d agreed, and he’d come to see me at least once a month. The only connection I had to the outside world. The first time he came to see me, I could barely lift my head. He spoke across the table. With the echoes of my conviction and sentence hanging over me, he spoke words that I so desperately needed to hear. “Matty, we’ll get through this.”

  I asked, “Why’re you doing this?”

  He lifted his hands, his voice cracking. “Where else would I go?”

  For twelve years, Wood brought me lunch. He couldn’t stop my soul from cracking in half, but once a month he sutured it shut. How I love that man.

  He brushed a few crumbs off the dash and threw some trash in the backseat. The car smelled of fast food. “Sorry about the mess. Laur
a and I are sharing one car right now. Just till I can find time to find something else. Work’s been keeping me busy.” I didn’t believe him. I also knew him well enough to know that the admission was more painful than he let on.

  He broke the silence with small talk. “Coach Ray says hello. Said he’ll check in on you.”

  “He still at the school?”

  A nod without looking. “Says they got a kid this year who’s pretty good.”

  “He says that about everybody.”

  Wood smiled. “Lucky for us.”

  Gardi lay two hundred and twenty miles in front of us. He asked without looking. His tone of voice told me it was a rehearsed question, and while I’d never met his wife, I’d bet she put him up to it. And no, I don’t blame her. “You, uh—thought about where you’ll go?”

  I pointed at the car. “Where’s the Suburban going?”

  “Gardi.”

  “I’d like to go to Gardi.”

  He shook his head, weighing his words, trying to be careful in how he said it. “That’s probably a real bad idea.”

  Wood had married Laura Truman six years ago. She had worked for the clerk of the court and had met, fell in love, and married him after he’d lost everything. Which told me everything I needed to know about her. “Laura tell you to say that?”

  Another painful admission. “Yes, but she’s right. And if you’re honest with yourself, you know she is.”

  That’s the old Wood—the one that hasn’t been beat down and is not afraid to tell me the truth. He wiped the inside of the fogged-up windshield with a dirty T-shirt. “When word got out that you were, you know—good behavior and all—a group of parents got together. Mothers of girls mostly. Drafted a petition. City council passed it. Unanimous. It’ll keep guys”—he gestured to my ankle—“like that… away from towns like us.”

  Still my protector. “I won’t be any bother.”

  He pushed down on his blinker. “That’s what you think.” The headliner had fallen and was flapping in the wind from the open window. Wood’s broad shoulders pushed his biceps out over the sides of his seat, and his hands dwarfed the steering wheel.

  Despite the concern on his face, marriage agreed with him. I tried to take his mind off me so I pointed at his stomach. “Laura a good cook?”

  He rubbed his belly, smiling like a kid who’d found the toy in the cereal box. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Gardi was three and a half hours by interstate. A good bit more by US 84. He pointed at the sign for I-10. “Highway, or—” He turned his finger toward the sign for US 84, which connected southeast coastal Georgia to west Georgia. Maybe south Georgia’s version of Route 66. It meandered across the southern rim of the state, stopping in all the little towns and at every light along the way.

  “You in a hurry?” I asked.

  “Not especially.”

  I pointed right and Wood obliged, following my finger along US 84.

  We rode in silence, traveling just under the speed limit and avoiding one of the other two elephants in the room. When he finally spoke, the words took a long time to exit his mouth. He stretched out his arm and put his right hand behind my headrest. “I don’t know where she is.” I stared at him out of the corner of my eye. He continued. “Nobody does.” He shot a glance at me. “So help me. Nobody’s seen her since the trial.”

  What he said was true. She’d disappeared. I knew that much. The memory of the courtroom flashed back as did the echo of her sobs as they walked me out of the courtroom in chains. One of the most painful pictures in my mental album is the one of her doubled over, holding her stomach like someone had just kicked her or sliced open her stomach, as if her soul spilled out between her fingers. She never raised her head to look at me.

  He fidgeted in his seat, switching hands on the wheel. “You could spend the rest of your life looking.”

  “I know.”

  Not getting anywhere, he tried an end around. “There’s nothing to tie you to Gardi. There might be some real advantages to starting over someplace new.”

  I lifted my pant leg, flashing the anklet. He made no response.

  He started scratching his stomach, then squeezed my shoulders and bicep. “You’re skinny. Looks like you could use a cheeseburger.”

  Last night for dinner I’d eaten chop suey with one slice of white bread and a glass of water. “A cheeseburger sounds good.”

  Within a few miles, he pulled into a Sonic. We sat at a little round table while a waitress on roller skates took our order and disappeared. Above us, the speakers played a drive-time talk show that aired on satellite radio called Fighting Back. The theme song had been borrowed from one of the Rocky movies. The show’s host was a successful victim’s rights attorney who counseled and shared her wisdom, expertise, and legal advice with callers every weeknight over a three-hour primetime slot. She was empathetic, knowledgeable, articulate, and easily fired up. Listeners loved her. Her ratings were off the chart—and had been for years.

  And Wood and I knew her all too well.

  The show continued with Ginger picking up where she’d left off prior to commercial. Her voice came through clear, strong, and confident. I heard her, and Wood knew I could hear her.

  “Sorry. She’s gotten pretty popular. Seems like her show’s on twenty-four/seven sometimes…” He pointed east down Hwy 84. “You want to go someplace else?”

  “She doesn’t bother me.”

  “Her voice—” He shook his head once. “Always takes me back to the courtroom. Man did she ever put on a show.” When he realized that the memory was probably more painful for me than him, he recovered. “Sorry.” He swallowed. “You been following her career?”

  “I’ve been in prison. Not Mars.”

  “Well, just in case you missed it, let me catch you up to speed. She completed her PhD in psychology or psychiatry or some such psycho-thing. Graduated Harvard Law. Number three in her class. That’s right.” He held up three fingers. “Number three. She hung up her sheepskin, took some pretty high-profile cases, never lost in court, loves to work a jury, and salivates at working the media. Written a couple of best sellers. Says she’s the ‘unofficial spokesperson for the victim.’ As in—” He pointed again at the speakers. “1-800-R-U-A-VICTIM. Goes by the name of ‘Angelina Custodia’ now. It means—”

  “I know what it means.”

  The words spilled out his mouth. “Guardian angel.” In both high school and college, Wood and I watched a lot of film together. It was our way of getting to know the competition so we could put together a game plan. Given that we’d played more than a hundred games together, we’d watched a lot of film. Whenever we did this, Wood would often take every opportunity to point out players on the other side with rather aggressive tendencies, those that might try and rip my head off, and make sure I kept clear of them. To make sure I knew what was at stake and that I hated them as much as they hated me. For Wood, the line of scrimmage was a line drawn in the sand, and his film-room reaction mirrored how he played the game. Passionate. Black and white. No gray.

  Ever my defender, he took my protection personally, and he never could understand why I wasn’t as mad and angry at those people as he was. Further evidence that we are each called to play different roles. Different positions. I’m no center. He’s no quarterback. It’s not a statement of our value, simply a description of our gifts. As much as I love him, I could not afford to play angry then and I could not afford to live angry now. This description of Ginger’s rise up life’s ladder of success while I’ve been buried beneath it sounded like one of those film sessions. Deep down, Wood wanted me to exit prison and go to war against Ginger. To grind her into the earth. I knew this. He’d never seen me lose, and it was tough for him to watch.

  He motioned toward the speakers. “When she’s not doing this, she’s on TV. And if you thought she was annoying in high school, she travels with an entourage. Hair stylist, security, personal trainer, manager. She’s got this huge black custom tou
r bus said to cost over three million—” He swiped the air in front of him with one hand. “Got ‘Angelina’ written in blue stardust. She’s famous for road trips where she broadcasts from street corners, courthouses, Central Park… anywhere she can fan the hype.” He sat back, nodding. “Small-town girl made the big time—” A nod. “Last year, she was one of Fortune’s top ten most powerful women. The cover was a picture of her standing in front of her own G5. You can probably guess what’s painted across the tail of the plane.”

  “She has a bit of a cult following on cell block D.” I shook my head. “Every now and then a guy would get hold of a cell phone and make a call, crying for help. She’d play along.”

  “You think she knew you were in there?”

  “Every year, postmarked on the anniversary of the night of the draft, I’d receive an unsigned postcard from an exotic destination addressed to ‘Matthew Rock.’ The message was pretty clear.” I reached into my pocket and handed him the cards.

  He counted out loud. “Twelve.” He shook his head. One of the pictures had been taken over the toes of the person staring out across a blue lagoon, waterfall, and lush vegetation. A woman’s bikini—both top and bottom—lay on the beach in the forefront of the picture. The suggestion was clear enough. “That’s cold.” He handed them back.

  Our burgers arrived. Wood took a bite, then followed it with a handful of fries. He spoke with a mouthful, pointing a fry at my ankle.

  “You can bet your cheeseburger she knows you’re out. Given her influence, she’s probably got the GPS codes of that thing.”

  Another shot across my bow. “I know.”

  He swallowed, paused, and lowered his voice. “You got a plan to set things straight? I mean, for everything that’s happened—”

  Occasionally during our film sessions, Wood would step out of his role as my center and try to step into the role of offensive coordinator and suggest plays or schemes. To make sure I saw the obvious. What was at stake. Most of the time he was just talking out loud because it made him feel better. I learned to let him vent. But today was different. Today I’d been freed from prison, and Wood needed to get something off his chest. A wound that had been festering for twelve years. If he could get me to show some passion, anger, or rage against the machine that had wronged me, he’d feel better about believing in my innocence. I raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s where we are?”