The I.P.O. (11 page)

He casually tapped his voicemail icon, rolling his eyes, wondering what in the world his secretary was overreacting to now.

“Mr. Bradford, this is urgent!  Please call back as soon as you can.  J’Quarius Jones is in the hospital!” his secretary stammered, her voice cracking as she left the number to the University of Chicago Children’s Hospital.

Bradford’s pulse quickened, his eyes widened, and he began to feel suddenly claustrophobic on the plane.  J was Avillage’s biggest success to date, by far. 

A graduating senior in high school, J’Quarius was on cruise-control toward being the first overall pick in the NBA draft, but Bradford had lucrative plans for him even before that.

The three-time high school All-American and reigning national high school player of the year had received scholarship offers from Kentucky, North Carolina, Kansas, Duke, UCLA, and several other basketball powerhouses.  But Bradford had blocked all of them by refusing to release his medical records. 

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that J’Quarius was going to be the typical one-and-done college basketball star, so Bradford saw no value in his spending a year in college, where he might get injured and he definitely wouldn’t make any money. 

The NBA had long since prohibited players’ from entering the draft straight out of high school though, so Bradford had arranged for J’Quarius to sign an eye-popping 23 million dollar single-year contract with CSKA Moscow to play in both the Russian league and, more importantly, the wider Euroleague. 

And while the salary was immense, the biggest draw of going pro would be that it would allow him to start pursuing endorsement deals immediately.  If everything went as planned, J’Quarius would be the first player ever to enter the NBA already a global icon.  And 90% of everything he made over $1 million in after-tax income would be appropriated to Avillage.  As chairman of the board with a 5% stake, Bradford stood to take home annual dividends in excess of a million dollars.

With the high school season finished, J’Quarius had two more games with his AAU regional team before his first major payday. 

The first of those games would have just ended, Bradford thought.  From the aisle of the plane, he dialed the hospital.

~~~

“Hello, I’m Dr. Bennett.  And you must be... Mr. Bradford?” The doctor asked, looking down at his clipboard on his way into the waiting room from the echocardiography lab.

“No,” a frightened Hansford Washington said softly, extending his cool, clammy hand to greet the doctor.  “I’m Hansford Washington and this is my wife Arlene.  J’Quarius is our son.”

“Oh,” the doctor said, looking perplexedly back down at his clipboard.  “The chart says that his legal guardian is an Aaron Bradford?”

“Well, yes, technically, but J’Quarius lives with us.  He’s been with us for the past five years.  Feel free to ask him.  He’ll tell you who his parents are,” Hansford said desperately.  “Doctor, did you find out what’s wrong?”

Dr. Bennett sighed.  “I’m really sorry, but legally I can’t share that information with you until I get permission from his legal guardian.  All I can tell you is that his condition right now is stable.”

“Can’t you at least tell
him
?  He’s got a right to know if there’s anything wrong with his own body!” Arlene pleaded.

“I’m sorry.  I really am.  But he’s still a minor.  By law I need to talk to Mr. Bradford first.” 

Just as the doctor completed his sentence, his pager began to vibrate.  He plucked it off his belt to look down at the message, and held up an optimistic index finger.  “This might be him,” he said with a reassuring smile and retreated back into the lab.

Behind the closed door, he grabbed the nearest phone at the nurse’s station and dialed the 212 number.  “This is Dr. Bennett, returning a page.”

“Yes, hello.  This is Aaron Bradford.  I’m J’Quarius Jones’ legal guardian.  Is he ok?”

He certainly sounded concerned, Dr. Bennett thought.   “First of all, yes.  He’s ok.  J’Quarius is resting comfortably in stable condition. 

“Earlier tonight at his basketball game he was walking up to the free throw line to shoot a foul shot when, without warning, he passed out.  The trainer in the gym responded immediately and brought out an AED – basically a portable defibrillator.  Thankfully, by the time he reached him, J’Quarius was already coming to, so he didn’t have to use it. 

“As you might expect, J’Quarius was a little confused to find himself on the ground, but he wasn’t injured.  The paramedics just brought him into the hospital as a precautionary measure.

“Now, we just completed an echocardiogram, which is an ultrasound of the heart, and it did show an abnormality.  We’ve discovered that he has a condition called hypertrophic obstructive cardiomyopathy.  ‘HOCM’ for short.”

“Well what’s the prognosis?  Is he going to be able to play basketball again?  Why didn’t this show up on any of his physical exams?” Bradford asked without pausing for answers.

“The prognosis is good overall, but I would strongly recommend against his playing basketball – or any other strenuous sport for that matter – ever again, even recreationally.  This is something that may not show up on routine exams, which is why some advocacy groups have been pushing for screening EKGs for all kids before starting high school sports.  The arrhythmias – abnormal heart rhythms – that this can cause can even be fatal.  J’Quarius is a very lucky young man.”

“So this doesn’t show up on routine physical exams?” Bradford clarified, his mind having already raced ahead to the upcoming mandatory physical J’Quarius had to undergo before signing with CSKA Moscow.

“Nope.  This wasn’t an oversight of any of his pediatricians or anything they could have possibly predicted.  Nobody did anything wrong here,” Dr. Bennett said, incorrectly inferring where Bradford was going with his line of questioning.

“So what would the odds be of something like this, or worse, happening if he were to play basketball again?” Bradford probed.

“The risk that this would happen again is high.  The American Academy of Cardiology has published a guideline that participation in sports be stopped immediately,” Dr. Bennett said definitively.

“But wouldn’t that decision ultimately be left to the parents?” Bradford asked, keyed in on the fluidity of the word ‘guideline.’

Dr. Bennett was aghast.  “Mr. Bradford, did I not make myself clear that this is a potentially
life-threatening
condition?  He might get away with one game or two or even ten, but it’s Russian roulette.  Yes, technically the decision is up to the parents, but there’s no decision to be made here.  Now, do you want to break this news to him, or do you want me to do it?”

“I will!” Bradford blurted out.  “He hasn’t heard anything yet, correct?”

“That’s right,” Dr. Bennett said.  “For now, would you mind if I at least let the Washingtons know what’s going on?  They’re scared to death.”

“Actually I would.  What I would expect is that you comply with the law and keep all of this information private.  Thank you,”  Bradford said, hanging up his phone. This was potentially disastrous, but if he could just get him through one more game and then the Russian team’s physical in 2 weeks, he could at least turn a substantial profit before shutting him down.

~~~

“Olivera?” the nurse called out impersonally through the swinging double doors, failing to recognize that there was only one patient seated in the waiting room.

Annamaria slowly rose to a stand, self-consciously holding the back of her hospital gown together to make sure she was fully covered, and hesitantly shuffled toward the door.  She had already been through the most thorough physical of her life, and her upper arms were throbbing from all of the vaccinations she’d received.  She couldn’t imagine what else they could have planned for her.

The previous day, she had dutifully boarded a cab for Panama City after a morning of tearful goodbyes to the other children and the staff at the orphanage.  The headmaster, unable to come up with a sensitive way to break the news to her, had essentially run out of time, so, despite his best intentions, he’d broken the news to her that she’d be leaving the day before it was scheduled to happen.  And the only part of it that he could find the words to express was that she was being adopted by an American couple.  Nothing else.  Certain he would never be forgiven, he only hoped she wouldn’t hold it against the orphanage.

Annamaria hadn’t wanted to leave, but she hadn’t fought it.  Told in a nebulous manner that she could help more by leaving than by staying, she had readily agreed.  But her heart was broken.  It had taken everything she had to keep her chin up and give comforting smiles to the whimpering preschoolers, as she lugged her backpack to the cab.  Once inside though, she had sobbed the entire 90-minute ride to Panama City.

Multiple times throughout the day, she had regretted her decision to leave the orphanage and had been able to reason her way through it, but lying there alone on a gurney, as a 20-gauge needle connected to an IV line sunk into a vein in her right arm, she hit a breaking point.  Her eyes nearly bulging out of her their sockets, her chest gripped with fear, she screamed, “Stop!  What are you doing to me?” 

But before her scream had even finished echoing off the pale blue-green tiles of the pre-op room, she felt her heart rate begin to slow.  And she was enveloped by a mysterious warmth. 

Overwhelmed by the urge to sleep, she felt herself being wheeled through another set of doors, where a shining stainless steel tray covered with glistening surgical tools stood out on a drab green cloth.  She still didn’t know what was happening to her.  But with her IV running, she didn’t care

Nurses on either side of her clumsily lowered the rails on the sides of the gurney with a loud clang.  The last thing she remembered was a man in hospital scrubs and a surgical mask tugging on her gown, leaving her exposed from the waist up.  But in her unnaturally relaxed state, even that didn’t seem to merit maintaining wakefulness.

~~~

“My chest hurts,” Annamaria quietly moaned, gradually coming to.  “And my stomach.”

A nurse hurried over to hush the agitated beeping of her IV pump, and within thirty seconds, she was peacefully back to sleep.

CHAPTER 7

“At six feet, ten inches, power forward, J’Quarius Jones,
cum laude
,” the principal shouted, his voice building to a crescendo that couldn’t come close to matching the volume of the amped up crowd, who easily overwhelmed the high school gym’s basic sound system and drowned out the mention of the academic accolade.

A beaming J’Quarius, wearing a Magic Johnson-like smile, floated across the stage in his double-XL black gown, which barely stretched down to his knees, and gave an appreciative tip of his cap to the crowd, squinting into the stands, trying to pick out his parents as he walked.

After a hearty handshake from the principal, he waved one last time to the crowd before quickly descending the steps on the far side of the stage cradling his diploma.  As proud as he was, he didn’t want to take the spotlight off the graduates behind him.  The
next
time he was called on to a stage though – when the NBA commissioner was the one waiting to shake his hand –
that
he would take time to savor.

Twelve rows up at center court, while his wife struggled to get a decent angle on a picture, Hansford Washington stopped clapping, just long enough to brush a tear from his eye.  This had been a long time coming.  He hadn’t walked at his high school graduation because of some stupid decisions he’d made, and his biological son had had his opportunity tragically ripped away by a drunk driver two years shy of his graduation ceremony. 

When all was said and done, this probably wouldn’t end up ranking in the top fifty of J’Quarius’s biggest accomplishments, but the moment couldn’t have meant more to Hansford.  He went on clapping right through the next graduate’s announcement, until J’Quarius finally spotted him in the crowd.  Matching his son’s smile,  he nodded and signaled a proud double-thumbs-up across the gym.

Later that evening, as was tradition the night before a game, Arlene Washington cooked the family a big pasta dinner.  Tonight it was spaghetti with meatballs – J’Quarius’s choice.

“You’re gonna miss these in Russia, JQ,” Arlene said, piling a fourth massive meatball on the heaping mound of pasta that would be his typical first serving.

“Yeah,” he said dispassionately, keeping his gaze fixed down on his plate.  “There’s a lot I’m gonna miss.”

“Come on, now.  It’s only a year, and we’ll be over there on every break we get during the school year,” Hansford said.  Then he lowered his head, and with his jaws clenched together and his eyebrows mischievously raised, he covertly mumbled without moving his lips, “And sun of those fretty Russian girls night vee very haffy to neet you,” intending his wife not to hear.  The sharp smack that jarred his whole head forward, almost into his plate of spaghetti, indicated that she had.

J’Quarius laughed, as his dad rubbed the back of his head.  Then he went right back to picking at his pasta.

“You’re not worried about tomorrow night are you?” Arlene asked, sensing something more was bothering him.  Normally he’d have been be on his second helping by now.

“A little,” he said, as he mechanically sawed off a couple slices of bread and passed one over to each of his parents.

“Mr. Bradford said that was just a one-time deal what happened at the last game.  A freak thing,” Hansford said, brushing it off.  He and his wife had told J’Quarius all about Aaron Bradford and Avillage when the college scholarship offers had started rolling in.

“Yeah, but I don’t know if I really trust him,” J’Quarius said meekly.

“Well, I know I don’t,” Hansford replied.  “But I also know that that man plans to make an awful lot of money off you, and he’s not about to do anything that would put you in danger.”

“I guess. But that didn’t feel right waking up on the court,” J’Quarius said shaking his head.  “It felt like I was waking up from a full night’s sleep.  But when I opened my eyes, I was on the court looking up at a bunch of complete strangers in the stands, just staring at me.  I can’t explain it.  It was like a nightmare or something.  It just didn’t feel right.  I don’t want to go through that ever again.”

“Well, we’ve just got to make sure you get a good night’s sleep tonight, honey.  Stay away from caffeine and drink plenty of fluids before the game,” Arlene said.

“Maybe take it easy for the first quarter and see how things go,” Hansford chimed in.  “That Ohio team has a couple guys who can play, but they can’t hang with you guys for four quarters.”

“Losing the game is one thing I’m
not
worried about,” J’Quarius said with a confident smile.

“Well, get to bed early tonight,” Arlene said.  “We’ve gotta be in Cleveland by one, which means we have to leave around 6:30 in the morning.  And don’t count on getting any sleep on the bus.”

“Leaving the Land of Jordan for the city where LeBron got his start,” Hansford mused delightedly.  “Fitting for your last game as an amateur.”

~~~

Leonard Weinstien slowly turned the key to his empty Newark law office just before 10PM on Friday night.  He had until noon Saturday to be completely moved out before the final inspection. 

Where had the time gone?
  Five days ago, it seemed he had all the time in the world.  Now he was staring down an all-nighter just to get everything out.

At sixty-eight with a dwindling client list and increasing rent and employee costs, he felt like he was being forced into retirement.  He’d fought it the best he could for the better part of a year, but the inevitability of the collapse of his practice hadn’t been lost on his secretary of 23 years.  So when she’d ashamedly submitted her two-week notice, having accepted a position at a bigger, younger firm for significantly more money, he’d finally decided to throw in the towel.

Weinstien moped through the empty area where his clients used to wait for him and cast a nostalgic gaze up at the wires protruding from the wall where the office’s small TV had been mounted.  By force of habit he took a circuitous path to his office, veering around the empty space where his secretary’s desk had stood for the past two decades, and gave his door a nudge.  A stack of collapsed cardboard file boxes inside stopped it before it reached halfway open.

Organization had never been Weinstien’s strong suit.  Towers of unsorted papers, all protected by attorney-client privilege, rose from his desk and the surrounding floor.  Legally these couldn’t go in the standard trash, and the commercial shredder had been removed from the office that morning.  He was going to have to take all of this home, which, with a 1-series BMW as his only mode of transportation, meant he’d be making several trips.

With the luxury of procrastination officially spent, he finally forced himself to dive in.  A few papers went into a file box; then a name would catch his eye and trigger a memory.  Ten minutes later, he would find himself immersed in a document, reliving a fairly mundane case from a decade earlier.

An hour into his packing job, with a box and a half filled and at least twenty more to go, he promised himself a coffee break if he could just finish up the second box.

Having met his goal within fifteen minutes, and eager to claim his productivity bonus of a cup of coffee, he headed for the door carrying two deceptively heavy file boxes.  But on his way, his foot dislodged something from one of the stacks on the ground.  Just in front of him lay an unopened envelope, addressed by hand, with no return address and a postmark from five years earlier.  His curiosity piqued, he picked it up and set it atop the boxes he was carting out.  A mystery.  It would provide some entertainment while he sipped his coffee.

Weinstien left his car running in the driveway, dropped the boxes off just inside the front door of his house, and set a course for a 24-hour diner he frequented midway between his home and office.

“Hey, Mr. Weinstien,” the waitress droned as he sidled up to his standard stool at the bar. 

“Black?” she asked, already pouring the coffee.

“No, I think I’ll try your soy latte skinny Chai caramel mochaccino,” Weinstien deadpanned as the waitress slid the steaming mug of black coffee in front of him without breaking stride.

“Thanks,” Weinstien said, running his office key down the side of the sealed envelope and removing a letter written in blue ink on unlined white paper.

Dear Mr. Weinstien,

By the time this gets to you, I’ll be gone.  First off, I want to thank you for your efforts in trying to help me connect with my son.

I don’t know if you’ll ever believe me that I was set up.  I doubt I would if I were in your shoes, but I think we can at least agree that I no longer have a reason to lie.  I don’t have the computer background to prove it, but I give you a dying man’s word: ALL the charges against me are false.

I know my life would have been a little easier (and probably a lot longer) if I’d never heard about my son, but I’m glad I got the opportunity to know of him.  I never got the chance to meet him, but I love him.  And as stupid as it might sound to you, I can’t live without him.

I promise you that he is being adopted by Avillage.  Somewhere around the time you receive this letter, he’s going to be introduced as the second offering on their exchange.  I’m asking you just one thing. 
Please make sure he’s taken care of.

I thought about sticking around and trying to fight for custody, but sitting there by myself in jail and then at home with nothing to do but think, I came to two conclusions: 1. We were never going to win the case against me.  2. He’s better off without me. 

That first Avillage kid went to live with an educated mom and dad in the suburbs with all kinds of support and money to spend on raising him the way he deserved.  I’m a single guy with a more-than-full-time job, a one-bedroom apartment in the worst school district in the state, an unreliable car, and no prospects for anything better.  For me to adopt him (even if I could) just because I love him, would be selfish.

Tell him about me if you ever think the time is right – I want him to know he was loved – not abandoned.  And again,
please make sure he’s taken care of.
  I’m sending you this letter because I trust you.  Sorry I couldn’t stay and fight with you.

             
Sincerely,

             
Melvin Brown

Along with the letter he’d enclosed a brief medical history from his side of the family so J’Quarius would have it for his doctors, a player photo from his college football days, and a smaller sealed envelope the size of a thank you card with the name J’Quarius written in cursive across the front of it.

Weinstien was frozen to his stool with his mouth agape.  The feelings of utter shock from the day Melvin had died came coursing back through him, sending chills throughout his body.  At the time, he’d taken Melvin’s suicide more as an admission of guilt than anything.  Now the guilt was all on him.

If he’d gotten this letter five years earlier, around the time it had been mailed, he probably would have added it to Melvin’s closed file, blocked it from his mind and gone on with another typically hectic day.  And he still wasn’t entirely convinced that Melvin was innocent.  But after spending the last several months leading up to his retirement, with little to do but reflect, experiencing a gradual shift from self-congratulation for his successes to self-flagellation for never really making a difference, he couldn’t produce a defensible way to ignore this.

Leaning over in the direction of a man seated next to him intently watching the NBA playoffs on the TV above the bar, he casually asked, “Have you heard of this J’Quarius Jones kid?”

“Yeah.  Sounds like he’s the real deal.  Rumor has it he’s going to play in Moscow next year for over 20 million bucks,” the man said without taking his eyes off the TV.

“He’s in Moscow?” Weinstien asked disappointedly.

“Not yet.  His last AAU game is tomorrow in Cleveland.  I think they scheduled it on an off day for the playoffs on purpose – probably more people want to watch him than the NBA right now.”

Weinstien threw a couple bucks on the bar, ditched the nearly full cup of coffee, rushed back to his office, haphazardly threw all the remaining papers into boxes, and piled the boxes up just inside his front door.  After three breakneck round-trips home, he was done. 

He forced himself to log a couple hours of sleep before getting back in his car.  On his way out of town he made a brief stop at Kinko’s, swung through the McDonald’s drive-thru for a large coffee, and at 4:15 AM started the 8-hour trip to Cleveland.

~~~

Sara jumped as the sudden blast of a car horn shrieked through the Ewings’ great room, nearly causing her to spill her tea.

Ryan raced through from the kitchen, grabbing his backpack off the floor.  “See you tomorrow,” he yelled on his way to the front door.  Out in the driveway, his friend Jasper was waiting in the new Prius he'd gotten for his sixteenth birthday.

“Do you have your phone?” Sara asked, rushing over to intercept him.

“Yes!” he huffed indignantly keeping his hand on the front door without turning around to face her.