"Keep my players off the docket," Kingsley had ordered, more than once. The idea was to deep-six cases before they ever reached the courthouse door.
The lawyer as Fixer. But today I'm putting a stop all the sleazy tricks.
Ordinarily, Kingsley was the first to arrive at the Mustangs' Valley Ranch headquarters but on this morning-the day after the victory over Washington-Bobby was waiting in the anteroom at 5:35 a. m drinking black coffee from a mug he had carried in the car. Bobby had been unable to sleep and had nowhere else to go. Christine was knocked out, purring contentedly under a haze of pain killers. Kingsley seemed both surprised and pleased to see his son-in-law in the quiet of the early morning. He greeted Bobby him with the satisfied smile of a man who owns a large chunk of God's green earth.
"Helluva game, wasn't it Robert? Now, bring on the Bears. Say, did I congratulate you and Christine on your anniversary?"
"We received your gift, Martin. Thank you. It was very generous."
Damn. How do you confront with the man who just gave you first class tickets to Maui and a fully paid hotel suite? It had seemed so easy rehearsing the speech in the car, but now…
"No need to thank me," Kingsley said. "Hell, it's a selfish gift. I love Hawaii, and I'll have a suite just down the hall from you. Nothing more I'd love to do than celebrate with my family."
He winked at Bobby. The trip was one week after the Super Bowl, so Bobby had no doubt what celebration his father-in-law had in mind.
They walked together down the corridor, Bobby matching strides with the long-legged Texan. Kingsley wore his trademark black suit with silver shoulder piping, a matching gray tie, and black ostrich-skin cowboy boots. He was vital and strong with a crushing handshake and a charming personality when he chose to use them. He also could be ornery as an old mule.
Bobby took a deep breath and tried to relax. He had never confronted Kingsley before. In every major disagreement, Bobby had always backed down. Today, he vowed, it would be different.
Don't worry, Chrissy. You'll be proud of me when this day is out.
Listening to Kingsley re-live the glory of the victory over Washington, Bobby let his mind wander. How had he even gotten here? For years, he thought that the passive act of holding a ball for someone else to kick was the only thing in the world he was perfectly competent to do. He was rejected by every law school in Florida but finally secured a spot at a small college in Dallas whose accreditation was pending. He got a job pouring tar on roofs during the day and studied law at night. Even now, he could remember the choking fumes of the tar on a hot Texas day, his skin darkened by the sun and singed by drops of the boiling black liquid.
Bobby graduated from law school with what he liked to call "low honors." He got a job in the public defenders' office in Dallas and discovered he had a knack for trying cases. In his second year, he handled a case that would change his life.
"The bastard spit beer on my girlfriend," his client had told him.
"Whereupon the defendant did strike the victim on or about the head with a deadly weapon, to wit: a pool cue."
Or so said the indictment against his client.
Bobby thought it hurt his case that his client had assaulted a Dallas Mustangs defensive lineman with the pool cue. The players were still in their demi-god phase. But Bobby was masterful in closing argument, railing about the "mountain of reasonable doubt." When the jury came back with a big fat Not Guilty, Bobby was interviewed on local TV as a rising star in the local courthouse, and the next day, the new owner of the team called. "They tell me you know how to talk to a jury without polishing your words so shiny you could skate on 'em," Martin Kingsley said. "C'mon out to Valley Ranch. I'll buy you lunch and pick your brain."
Bobby didn't need to be asked twice. Kingsley gave him a tour of the training facilities, then began asking questions about a player who had been set up for a cocaine purchase by an informant.
As he listened, Bobby realized that he was auditioning for a job. Associate counsel, maybe work his way up to vice president for legal affairs and general counsel. Prestige, money, a fun job. Better than the hard tile floors and green metal desks in the P.D.'s office.
Bobby ran through the usual advice of attacking the credibility of the snitch, who almost certainly had a criminal record, of getting the jury upset that the cops are using scumbags to make their cases, of pleading entrapment.
"But none of that will work," Bobby said.
"So what the hell would you do?" Kingsley demanded, impatiently.
"I'd want to know who the judge is," Bobby said. "Is he a football fan? Judges are just like everybody else once they take off their robes and step down from the bench. They want to rub shoulders with celebrities and get close to the action. You'd be surprised how much mileage you could get out of a few hor d'oeuvres and some skybox seats."
Kingsley's smile stretched across his face. "Do you like cigars?" he asked, opening a wooden humidor on his desk.
At first, Bobby genuinely admired the man who was to become his boss and later his father-in-law. The charismatic Texan could be warm, generous and giving. What Bobby only realized much later was that every gift-paying off the house mortgage, the Mercedes at Christmas-came with a price.
An All Pro quid pro quo.
Martin Kingsley required unwavering, unquestioning loyalty. A willingness to follow orders without so much as a "why," "but," or "maybe."
When Bobby was hired, Kingsley was still in his honeymoon phase with the news media and the fans. He gave great interviews, allowing himself to be quoted on every subject from the length of the cheerleaders' short-shorts-"Bubba ain't paying to see no Vestal Virgins"-to his players' taunting, flaunting, swaggering style-"It ain't braggin' if you kin do it." He was country with a wink and a nod.
Slick as owl shit as they say west of the Pecos.
But the charm soon gave way to something never seen at press conferences and cocktail parties, the cold-blooded pursuit of victories and profits at any cost.
Finally, Kingsley asked why Bobby had come around so early. They were settled into the plush office, decorated in silver and blue and large enough for a decent down-and-out pass. Bobby glanced at the Super Bowl memorabilia lining the walls and wondered if he'd ever see them again.
"Nightlife Jackson," he said, evenly.
"Ah yes." Kingsley propped his cowboy boots on his desk. "Is that taken care of?"
"I wanted to talk to you first."
"Make sure bond is arranged before going downtown. I don't want him to sit in jail and miss practice."
"That's not what I wanted to talk about. It's more complex than that."
"Set a meeting with that P.R. woman we used when Buckwalter busted up that tavern. Get your investigator to find out if the woman's ever cried 'rape' before.'. Let me know when a judge is assigned to the case. If it's Wilford Adams, I'll call the old bastard myself. If it's one of those young Turks, you'll have to orchestrate some dog and pony show."
"That's not what I had in mind," Bobby said. He gripped the chair and tried not to fidget. He felt a rivulet of sweat streaking down his temple.
"No? What's your strategy?"
"Martin, this is a great opportunity to do something right, to take a stand on principle."
"I don't follow you."
"We can win without him."
"What are you talking about?"
Bobby felt jumpy, as if his chest were filled with fluttering birds. "Let's use the morals clause in his contract to cut Nightlife from the team. Make a public statement. You won't tolerate immoral behavior. From now own, the players must adhere to principles and values. Zero tolerance for violence against women, drug abuse, or criminal conduct of any kind. You'll clean out all the thugs and lawbreakers."