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.