He guided me toward the entrance to the gymnasium. He held open one of the large doors so I could pass. As soon as I got inside, I stopped.
The gymnasium had always been the one piece of the campus that linked to its earlier days, remaining unchanged for decades. The seats were up above, suspended above the court. The playing floor had gone from tan to dark brown, dead spots hiding everywhere. There had been no scoreboard, just a flip rack on a table on the opposite side of the bleachers.
But it had undergone significant changes since I’d last set foot in it.
The seats were still suspended above, but a bank of bleachers had been put in below them, doubling the seating capacity. The seemingly brand new floor gleamed with polish, the smell of varnish heavy in the air. A massive scoreboard was mounted on the far wall.
I looked at Stricker. “This is all new.”
Stricker led me around the baseline, behind the cushioned chairs that the teams sat in. “Thing was falling down around us. Parents stepped up and got us some money. It’s still small compared to some of the other gyms we play in, but at least we aren’t taping it together to hold it up.” He pointed across the gym floor to a bank of windows. “My office is there now and we’ve got office space for all of the coaches on campus. Makes a big difference.”
I remembered Mr. Willis’ office as being a table set up outside the locker room. I imagined it did indeed make a big difference.
Stricker’s office was a perfect square with a big window looking back toward the gym. Nothing in the office indicated he’d been a star professional athlete. A couple of certificates, a degree from UNLV and pictures of Coronado’s teams adorned the walls.
He gestured at the chair across from his desk as he lowered himself into an oversized leather desk chair. It squawked beneath his weight. He folded his hands across his chest and stared at me, his look having subtly changed from when he came out to get me. He’d gone from friendly officer of the school to linebacker looking to smash a quarterback in the face.
“Two ways we can go about this,” he said. “We can dance around or we can cut to the chase. I’ll leave it to you to choose.”
“I prefer cutting.”
“Good. Saves us both time.” He paused. “I can’t tell you shit.”
“About what?”
“Thought we weren’t going to dance.”
I didn’t say anything.
Stricker sighed. “Lana told me you were here looking for info on the Jordan and Winslow thing. And I can’t tell you shit.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Doesn’t matter. Same result either way.”
“I’m not looking for info on Meredith Jordan,” I said.
“Yeah, you are,” he said, smiling. “But let’s pretend that’s true and we skip to the next item on your list.”
If he’d taken shots to the head during his career, it didn’t show. He was sharp and all business.
“Whatever she says Chuck Winslow did to her isn’t true,” I said.
“You know that for a fact?”
“I do.”
“How?”
“Think about whoever your closest teammate was,” I said. “The one single guy you would’ve picked every week to go to battle with because you trusted him so completely.”
Something shifted through his eyes, then he nodded.
“Chuck’s like that times ten in my life,” I said. “I know what he’s capable of and this isn’t it.”
Stricker let that settle in his thoughts for a moment. Then he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. “I can appreciate that. But as a school administrator, I’m going to come down on the side of the student. Every time, until I hear otherwise.”
“Then why are you even talking to me?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the A.D. Why not pawn me off on the principal or some other administrator?” I asked. “If you aren’t going to talk to me and you aren’t interested in what I have to say about Chuck, why see me? What do you care?”
He grunted, the corners of his mouth twitching like small electrical currents. Finally he said, “Because I’m the one who okay’d hiring Winslow.”
TEN
“Hired him?” I asked.
Stricker leaned back in his chair, like he was trying to create more distance between us. “Technically, we didn’t hire him. But I signed off on his involvement with the girls basketball program. He was a volunteer coach for the last month.”
The whole concept of Chuck as coach just didn’t sit right in my head. He’d never showed any inclination to coach and seemed to have had as much use for high school kids as he did used cigarette butts. Maybe it was a secret ambition he’d kept hidden from me. Or maybe things had changed more than I knew since I’d last seen him.
“He was straight with me from the day I met him,” Stricker said. “He told me he didn’t have a degree, that he hadn’t worked in a school before, that he hadn’t coached before. He'd played basketball in high school here and that was about the only qualification he had.”
That sounded right to me. We’d played together at Coronado, in the older version of the gym directly behind me. Chuck was a brute, using his size to make himself into a player. He was athletic enough to use finesse to score, but he preferred banging into people. And he was talented enough to attract some college interest but he blew it off, despising the thought of spending any more time in school, even if it meant a free ride and playing ball.
“So he was here for a month?” I asked.
“About a month, month-and-a-half,” he said. “I watched him in the gym with the team. He was pretty good. He knew how to explain things. Footwork, body position, nuances that can be tough to teach kids. He could do it. During games, he stayed in his seat and kept his mouth shut, working with the girls. He was a model assistant coach.”
“Who’s the head coach?” I asked.
“Kelly Rundles,” he said. “She’s been here three years. She was my first hire. She’s very good.”
“She and Chuck got along alright?”
“Yes. Kelly’s not the type to let anyone step in front of her. She runs the ship. But her ego is manageable enough that if she finds someone who can help, she lets them do their thing. That’s what she did with Winslow.”
“And Meredith Jordan was on the varsity team?” I asked.
“Said we weren’t going to talk about Ms. Jordan,” he said.
“Pretty sure I can look it up online when we’re done,” I said.
He smiled. “Look up whatever you like. I’m not talking about Ms. Jordan.”
The whole scenario was like science fiction. Chuck, in a school, working with teenagers, acting as a role model. Doing something worthwhile. Stricker hadn’t touched on one thing I wanted to know, though.
“Did Chuck just show up here at the school?” I asked. “Looking to volunteer?”
He shifted in his seat, his movements stiffer, more uncomfortable. “No. He was recommended.”
“By who?”
Stricker leveled his gaze at me. “Ms. Jordan’s father.”
ELEVEN
“Jon Jordan recommended Chuck?” I asked, making sure I understood correctly.
Stricker nodded. “Yep. Called me up, said he was sending over a guy who was interested in coaching.”
“You know Jordan well enough to take his word on something like that?”
He shifted again and folded his hands together. “I barely know the man. But he does a lot of things for the school.”
“Things?”
“He financed most of what we did in there,” he said, pointing over my shoulder at the gym. “Other stuff around campus, too.
“And you can’t say no to a guy with pockets like that?”
Stricker shrugged. “I would have if Winslow didn’t feel right to me. But like I said, I watched the guy interact with the kids and the team. I was comfortable having him here.”
“So you saw him interact with Meredith Jordan?”
“I saw him interact with all of the girls.”