Ted was back in form, nailing it down the middle. But the coach was just waiting. After, who knows, fifteen perfect kicks, Ted dinged one off the left upright, and the coach was on the field. The assistants chased. Before they could get there, the coach had his hands around Ted’s neck. A similar incident had already hit the news, when an Indiana basketball coach was videotaped choking a player. But that was brief compared to this. It was a two-handed throttle that wouldn’t let go. Ted vainly fought for breath. He was trying to cough and turning red. The assistants raced up and grabbed the coach’s arms—too gently, under the circumstances, because they didn’t want to lose their jobs. “Coach! Coach!” One of them looked up to an overhead booth and made a slashing gesture to stop filming practice.
Thumbs pressed harder into Ted’s windpipe. A red face was becoming blue. “Coach!” They grabbed him around the waist and arms to no avail. Then, out of nowhere, a fist came flying in. It caught the coach in the jaw and he went down. So did Ted, finally free, gasping frantically before throwing up.
The assistants had a crisis on their hands. They looked around. All the other players had stopped practicing, standing and holding their helmets at their sides by the face masks. Even if they could destroy the video, there were too many witnesses. And if the coach went down, so did their assistant coaching positions. A new head coach would wipe the slate clean and hire all his own people. Panic turned into a plan. They would get out ahead of this and deflect. The solution was handed to them on a platter.
The punch.
They were initially thankful that Lamar had jumped in to help his friend. But thanks didn’t pay power bills. In an instant, he was under the bus.
Handcuffs clapped on Calhoun’s wrists, followed by expulsion from the team. But it was handled hush-hush, because any digging into the running back’s arrest could lead back to the coach. They promised he’d stay on scholarship until graduation, to buy his silence. There was a quick plea bargain with no testimony, followed by a misdemeanor conviction and a suspended sentence.
Although it never made the papers, there was always the grapevine. Nobody knew the details, just that Lamar had attacked a head coach. It was a de facto blackball. Despite his credentials, the entire NFL draft took a hard pass on Calhoun.
He went to look for a job. “Sorry, we just can’t do it.” Like many athletes’, his academic major was physical education, and schools weren’t allowed to hire anyone with an assault conviction. Lamar began welding fenders . . .
That was then; this was now.
“I wish you would have said something.” The Pahokee High School principal shook his head. “On the surface, it didn’t sound at all like you. So we looked into it and learned the real circumstances, and then it all made sense. If we had known earlier, we might have figured something out, some kind of exemption, or gotten it expunged.”
“But now?”
The principal held up a sheet of paper. “You didn’t disclose it. You filed a false job application.”
“I used bad judgment,” said Calhoun. “It was just so long ago. I wanted to put it behind me, and I wanted to get back to the kids.”
“Dammit!” said the principal.
“I know this is putting you through a lot. I’m sorry.”
“No, not you,” said the principal. “That asshole Garns.”
“Who?”
“The science teacher I got rid of.”
“Oh, I remember him now,” said Calhoun. “But what’s he got to do with any of this?”
“He couldn’t simply go quietly and get on with his life,” said the principal. “I wish he was still here just so I could fire him again.”
“I’m not following.”
“He must have spent weeks digging, and then I still don’t know how he found out,” said the principal. “He’s the one who reported you.”
Calhoun sat a moment in helpless thought as the pieces of realization fell into place. “Someone like that has no business being around our kids. It was still worth it.”
“Not from where I’m sitting,” said the principal. “I wish there was something I could do.”
“You’ve done enough.” Calhoun stood. “I’ll go get my stuff.”
Chapter 34
Okeechobee
The next morning it was breakfast in bed. Then Serge and Cheyenne took a brisk five-mile stroll along the Florida Trail on top of the Hoover Dike.
By ten o’clock, they were back in the room, making plans for her day off. By eleven, a crash against the wall from Coleman’s room. “He’s up.”
By noon, it was on the news.
Law enforcement needed airboats to reach the scene, and they now sat clustered near the northern bank of the Old Moore Haven Canal.
TV correspondents in even more airboats began broadcasting from behind police lines.
“This is Soledad Torres reporting live from a place few have heard of. I’m standing here in Monkey Box, Florida, where a trio of bass fishermen heading out to Lake Okeechobee made a grisly early-morning discovery of a body in this remote swampland. The sheriff’s office is releasing few details, but confidential sources tell me the victim may have been the leader of a controversial church infamous for picketing military funerals around the state. Sources also describe the murder victim as being bound and tortured with what are known in these parts as blind mosquitoes, also known as chizzywinks, which occasionally swarm in ferocious numbers. The most probable cause of death was asphyxiation, but prior to the victim’s demise, the insects likely also filled his ears, eyes and even the sinus cavity via the nose, where he could feel them moving around behind his eyes. Sorry for ruining your lunch. This is Soledad Torres in Monkey Box, Florida. Back to you, Chet and Angela.”
The broadcast switched to a pair of anchorpeople behind a desk in the home studio, sharing light banter and a chuckle. “I think she just likes saying Monkey Box . . .” “I like saying it, too. Monkey Box.” “We’ll be right back after these commercial messages. Monkey Box.”
Cheyenne stared. “What exactly was your business last night?”
“Fake news! Fake news!” Serge clicked the set off and clapped his hands a single sharp time. “I’m famished! What do you say we grab a bite to eat?”
“Actually, I’m supposed to have lunch with my brother,” said Cheyenne.
“Kyle? Fantastic! We’ll make it a family affair,” said Serge. “My treat. I insist!”
A knock at the door. Serge jumped and spun. “Who the hell is that?”
“Probably my brother. I told him where I was.” She cast a suspicious eye over her shoulder as she went to the door and opened up. “Hey, Kyle.”
“Hi, sis.” He stepped into the room and glared at Serge without speaking.
Serge spread his arms. “What?”
The glare lasted a moment longer. “I just watched the news.”
“That? Ha, ha, ha!” Serge waved a dismissive hand that signaled silly talk. “Where do they dream up all the crazy stuff they’re putting on the air these days? I mean, death by chizzywinks? Is there even such a bug? Such a word?”