Change-up (27 page)

“So, Analise was driving when the accident happened?” she asked softly.

He looked up at her, tears rolling down his face. “Do you understand?” he said. “If I’d been driving, we probably would have gotten home okay. But I didn’t want to take that sobriety test. A DUI would have got me suspended, heck, maybe released. It wasn’t like I was pitching all that well. So she drove. And she lost control of the car.”

“But the police report?”

“I asked Jim not to tell anyone Analise was driving. It was my fault, and I didn’t want the blame to fall on anyone but me. I never even told Jim that Molloy pulled us over … I don’t know if he knows….”

“Do the
kids
know? Any of this?” Stevie asked.

Doyle shook his head. “No. When they were little, I
told them there was another car involved—it just seemed easier than the complicated truth. When they were older and figured out that I went to rehab right after the accident, well, I’m sure they put it together. I’ve told them some of my memories about the accident scene because they seemed to need to know, but I’ve never told them all that led up to it. And I certainly never told them Analise was driving. Now I guess they’ll know everything.”

“Not if they can’t prove you said all this,” Felkoff said. He reached down suddenly and swiped both tape recorders off the bench and began running. Stevie jumped off the bench and chased him. It wasn’t hard to catch him—Felkoff was overweight and over forty. Stevie tackled him halfway across the minipark, and they rolled in the grass.

Stevie saw one tape recorder fly out of his hand. He twisted Felkoff’s wrist and heard him scream in pain. Then Felkoff kicked him in the stomach, and it was Stevie’s turn to yell in pain.

Then, all of a sudden, someone was pulling Felkoff off of him. Had Susan Carol been able to call Kelleher that quickly?

No. Stevie looked up and saw Felkoff struggling in Norbert Doyle’s arms. “Stop it, David,” Doyle said. “Look at yourself. It’s not worth it. It’s over.”

He looked at Stevie, who was sitting up with a bad stomachache.

“Write the story,” he said. “Twelve years of lying is enough.”

Susan Carol was standing right behind him—with the tape recorder in her hand—and Stevie could see Kelleher and Mearns sprinting toward them.

Doyle pushed Felkoff out of his grasp, turned, and walked away.

DAVID FELKOFF DUSTED OFF HIS SUIT
, glared at everyone, then took off after Doyle without saying another word.

“What the hell happened?” Kelleher asked.

“Let’s go back to your room and we’ll tell you,” Susan Carol said.

As they walked back, Kelleher couldn’t help but tease Stevie about his inability to conduct an interview without getting into some sort of fight. “Let’s see, you’ve been chased down by a dog, been slapped by a girl, wrestled with someone in Faneuil Hall, and tackled an agent,” he said as they headed up the escalator to the lobby. “In all, a pretty good week.”

“Can’t wait to hear your parents’ reaction when you tell them about it,” Susan Carol put in.

“Oh sure, I’m going to tell them,” Stevie said. “That way the next time I cover a sports event, I’ll be thirty.”

She put an arm around him for a moment and said, “Would it help if you tell them I’m proud of you?”

“Doubt it,” he said, but he wrapped an arm around her too, and that did help.

They walked Tamara and Bobby through the entire meeting and played them the tape, in part to make sure it hadn’t been damaged during Stevie’s tussle with Felkoff. When they were finished, Kelleher looked at Mearns and said, “What do you think?”

“I think it’s a pretty tragic story. And a tough call,” Mearns said.

“You mean whether to write the story at all, don’t you?” Susan Carol asked.

Kelleher stood up and walked to the window, gazing out at the harbor for a moment. Then he turned and faced them. “Look, you guys have done an amazing reporting job on this,” he said. “Stevie, you’ve done everything but go to the hospital to ferret out the truth.”

“Give me a little more time and I can probably oblige,” Stevie said, forcing a smile. He wasn’t sure where Kelleher was going, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t going to make him happy.

“There are two questions you have to ask when you publish a story, especially a story like this one,” Kelleher continued. “First: is it true? The answer there is easy. You’ve got the truth, you’ve got it from the main source, and you’ve got it on the record. The story won’t even need
to be lawyered. You’ve got Doyle on tape telling you what happened that night.”

“And the second question?” said Susan Carol.

Kelleher sighed. “Is a lot more complicated. Is it
necessary?
Does the story serve a purpose?”

Stevie had been wondering about that one since his first trip to Lynchburg. But now that the hard-won truth was in their hands, he didn’t want to give up on it.

“Of course it’s necessary,” he said. “Doyle lied about his past. If he’s selling his story to Disney or DreamWorks and it isn’t true …”

“Exactly right—we shouldn’t let him do that,” Kelleher said. “That’s the reason the story was worth pursuing in the first place. But what if he’s not? What if, after this morning, he tells Felkoff to buzz off. What if he decides to tell the truth: that he’s a recovering alcoholic and that he’s always felt responsible for Analise’s death?”

“You mean leave out the rest?” Susan Carol said. “Leave out the fact that she was drinking that night too, and that she was driving because Molloy made her drive?”

“That’s the part I wonder about,” Kelleher said. “Did he lie? Yes. Did Hatley lie on the report? Yes. But why did they do it?”

“To protect the kids later on,” Stevie said.

“To allow them to remember their mother in the best way possible,” Susan Carol added.

Kelleher nodded. “That’s not evil. This isn’t a team owner covering up drug test results. It certainly isn’t blackmailing a basketball player or faking a kidnapping.”

“It’s a lot easier when it’s clear-cut,” Stevie said.

“Good-versus-evil stories are pretty simple to write once you’ve got them,” Susan Carol said.

“Right,” Kelleher said. “Do either of you think Doyle is evil?”

“No,” they both answered, Stevie with some extra vigor, remembering Doyle pulling Felkoff off of him.

Tamara had been quiet throughout the conversation, letting Kelleher lead Stevie and Susan Carol to what he clearly thought was the right decision.

“It’s still not that simple, though, is it, Bobby?” she said. “Is it fair to hold things back from the public—to only tell part of the story?”

“That’s a damn good point,” Kelleher said. “You and I both know there are times reporters hold back things that are personal as long as they don’t affect what the person does in public: a child with a serious health problem; a marriage in trouble before either person files for divorce; a mistake made years ago.

“You ask yourself the question: does the public
need
to know this? Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes no. There are tough calls to be made all the time. In this case I think the only reason the public would need to know this particular truth is if Doyle wrote a book or allowed a movie to be done on his life in which he lied about it.”

“I don’t think he’s going to do that now,” Stevie said.

“Me neither,” Susan Carol put in. Tamara was nodding in agreement.

“So what do we do now?” Stevie asked.

“I think we need to tell him before the game tonight that you aren’t writing the story, so it won’t be on his mind. Tell him you assume the movie’s off, and that if that’s the case, you don’t see any reason to tell the kids or anyone else what happened that night.”

“What about Joe Molloy?” Stevie said. “All he’s done is lie.”

“Yeah, but Joe Molloy is not news,” Kelleher said. “And I suspect he’s lived with a lot of guilt for the past twelve years. And you can even make the case that he thought he was doing the right thing.”

“So why didn’t he just tell us the truth?” Susan Carol asked.

This time it was Stevie who answered. “He kind of did…. Remember, he said, ‘I can’t help but think of all the things I might have done differently that could have averted the accident’?”

“One more question,” Susan Carol said. “What if we find out next week that Doyle has made a movie deal?”

Kelleher held up the tape. “You’ll still have this in your back pocket,” he said. “And then you’ll use it.”

On the way to the ballpark, Kelleher read over the letter that Stevie and Susan Carol had written to Doyle one more time. It basically came down to this: “If you don’t sell a false story about yourself, we don’t think there’s any reason to tell this true story.”

“But how do we get Doyle to read this before the game?” Stevie asked. “The clubhouses are closed.”

“I’ve got that covered,” Kelleher said.

Should have known, Stevie thought.

As soon as they arrived at the ballpark, they headed for the field. Kelleher made a beeline for his friend Phyllis Merhige, with Stevie and Susan Carol in tow.

“Hey, guys, what’s up?” Merhige asked.

“Glad you asked,” Kelleher said, pulling the envelope with the letter out of his pocket. “I need you to deliver this to Norbert Doyle for Stevie and Susan Carol.”

Merhige looked at the three of them quizzically. “You’ll all get to see him after the game, why do you need me to do it?” she asked.

“Because you need to do it right now,” Kelleher said.

“Now?!”
Phyllis shouted. “Bobby, the man is pitching game seven of the World Series in three hours and you want me to deliver a note to him
now
? Are you completely nuts?”

“Phyllis, how long have we known each other?” Kelleher asked.

“Too long,” she responded.

“What do you think the chances are I’d ask you to do something like this if it wasn’t vitally important
and
the best possible thing for the player involved?”

Merhige looked at him, then at Stevie and Susan Carol.

“I trust you two more than I trust him right now,” she said, half kidding, Stevie guessed. “Is it really
that
important?”

They both nodded. “He’ll thank you for getting it to him,” Stevie said.

She took the envelope from Kelleher’s hand.

“Oh, there’s one more thing,” he said.

“What?” she said, exasperated.

“You have to wait for an answer.”

“An answer? What kind of answer?”

“He needs to write on the back of the note ‘Agreed’ or ‘Do not agree.’”

“That’s it?”

“Yup. That’s it. Simple task. I will explain the whole thing to you over dinner the next time I’m in New York.”

She gave him a look. “It better be an expensive dinner,” she said.

“Smith & Wollensky,” Kelleher said. “I’ll have Murph set the whole night up.”

Without another word she walked down the steps into the third-base dugout and disappeared.

“Wait a second,” Stevie said. “What if the answer is ‘Do not agree’?”

“Then you guys will have a lot of writing to do before the night is over,” Kelleher said. “In fact, you’ll probably have to write during the game.”

Twenty minutes later Phyllis Merhige reappeared, envelope in hand.

“The fact that I didn’t look at this is testimony to either what a good person I am or what a lousy PR person I am,”
Merhige said. “Whatever it is, though, you appear to have made his day.”

“Did he thank you?” Stevie asked.

“He hugged me to within an inch of my life,” she said.

She handed Kelleher the envelope. Kelleher leaned down and gave her a kiss. “Thank you, Phyllis,” he said. “You’re the best.”

“Save the charm,” she said. “You owe me Smith & Wollensky and a
great
bottle of wine.”

Phyllis walked away. Kelleher handed Stevie and Susan Carol the envelope.

“You guys open it,” he said.

Susan Carol pulled the note out and turned it over. Stevie could see that Doyle had written five words on the back, all of it in capital letters: “ABSOLUTELY AGREED. THANK YOU … FOREVER …”

They handed the note to Kelleher, who handed it to Tamara.

Susan Carol looked at Stevie and gave him the Smile. “I guess,” she said, “we get to watch the game.”

“All that work and we don’t write a word,” Stevie sighed.

“And I’ve never been more proud of you both,” Kelleher said.

After all that had gone on, game seven was almost anti-climactic for the first six innings. Doyle walked Dustin Pedroia with one out in the first, and then David Ortiz
promptly hit his next pitch into the right-field bullpen for a 2–0 Red Sox lead. The lead went to 3–0 in the third on back-to-back doubles by Mike Lowell and J.D. Drew.

But the Nationals answered with three runs of their own against Tim Wakefield in the fourth on a single by Ryan Zimmerman, a double by Adam Dunn, a triple that scored two runs by Elijah Dukes, and a sacrifice fly by Aaron Boone.

“That didn’t take long,” said George Solomon. “Sort of like going eighty yards in four plays.”

“Sort of like quieting the crowd,” Mark Maske pointed out.

Wakefield came out of the game after six innings with the score tied 3–3. Manny Acta continued with Doyle on the mound, even though the Red Sox seemed to be hitting line drives right at fielders in every inning.

There were men on second and third and two outs in the seventh when Ortiz hit a shot to the gap in right-center. The crowd stood as one, then sat again, deflated, when Dukes tracked the ball down.

“How much longer will Acta stick with him?” Stevie asked. Watching him pitch was nerve-wracking.

“What are his options?” Barry Svrluga asked. “He obviously doesn’t trust his bullpen, even with all the other starters out there. Doyle’s pitch count is only eighty-eight so far and it’s a cool night.”

“Freezing is more like it,” Susan Carol said.

“Good pitching weather,” Svrluga said. “I think if he gets in any trouble in the eighth, he brings in a starter maybe
Lannan again. I’d be surprised if Doyle’s still out there for the ninth.”

The crowd was now officially restless. This was not supposed to be a seven-game series to begin with, especially after the Red Sox had gone up 3–2 coming back to Boston. Twenty-three years earlier, in 1986, the Red Sox had led the Mets 3–2 after five games—except that year the last two games were in New York.