“And you are?” I asked the smirking suit.
“Thomas Fox. I represent Pam Bell.”
I looked at him more closely. My first impression of him was that he was utterly forgettable. You would never pick him out of a lineup. Mr. Fox was short, maybe five-eight, and if he were a girl, you’d say petite. I expected that he relished taking down a jock. I never imagined a lawyer showing up to make sure a restraining order was enforced. This seemed too personal unless Cal was really that angry and wanted to rattle me.
“I don’t think this will work out quite how you want it to,” I said as I walked away.
I could envision what would happen when the town found out that I wasn’t allowed to attend classes or play football. It might really get ugly if we lost in the state playoffs because a cheerleader’s dad and lawyer prevented the star quarterback from playing on a trumped-up charge.
Up to this point, I had been calm about what was happening. My mom wasn’t the only one who had a temper; I just customarily controlled it better. I’d blamed this all on Cal, but at some point, Pam had to take some responsibility. I sent her a one-word text.
‘Why?’
◊◊◊
I drove to Rigby, Thompson and Associates because they had arranged with Ms. Dixon’s firm, Dixon and Dixon, to rent them space while she was in town. When I arrived, she and Frank Ingram, my PR agent, were talking over a cup of coffee.
“Good morning,” I said.
“I thought you were in school this morning,” Ms. Dixon said.
I handed her the envelope, and she read it. Then she passed it to Frank to read.
“Well, that’s a bit of dirty pool. It claims that your friend fears for her safety. We’ll need to get into court and get this revoked. I’ll make some calls and learn some information about the judge that granted it. It appears he simply rubber-stamped the Order of Protection. Based on what they filed, I think they realize their rape charge won’t stand up,” Ms. Dixon said.
“Why’s that?” Frank asked.
“There’s a different order for sexual assault called a ‘sexual assault civil no contact’ order. It would have been harder to get past the judge because it’s a more serious matter. They would have had to give him more information. With what they did, he probably decided to be cautious and grant it. I would doubt they would fight me to get it removed. If they did, they would have to reveal information they plan to use in their civil suit,” Ms. Dixon said.
“Civil suit? Who said anything about a civil suit?” I asked.
“Why else would they be doing this? Yes, it will give them some satisfaction to tarnish your good name, but ultimately they’ll be looking for a payoff. The only way to do that is to get you to either voluntarily write them a check, or to sue you.”
“And how would they ever get me to write them a check?” I asked.
“What would you pay right now to make this to go away?” Frank asked.
“I see your point. I would have worked with Pam, until this morning. Being served, and then having the police waiting for me with a pack of reporters dogging me, was a complete setup.”
“They were trying to embarrass you and make you more willing to bow to their demands. I’ll start making some calls, and we’ll get the order removed so you can get back into class tomorrow,” Ms. Dixon said.
Then I had a bright idea. Of course, Tami had said I should ignore my first idea because it was always wrong, but this one seemed brilliant to me.
“I think we should leave it on,” I said.
They both looked at me and just blinked.
“This is a public relations war, or so you’ve told me. We need the community to support us. So far, they’ve sat back and enjoyed the little show. We need something that will get them to actively support me. Tell the town that their starting quarterback can’t play because of a trumped-up charge, and they’ll be up in arms. If they don’t believe us, let me miss this week’s game. If the team struggles, the fans’ll be in front of Mr. Fox’s office, and I’ll bet the order will be removed before the weekend’s out,” I explained.
“What’s he paying you for?” Ms. Dixon teased Frank.
“Besides my good looks and boyish charm?” Frank asked.
It was my turn to blink. Were these two … Nah.
“I can make this work,” Frank said as he got serious. “Did you read the article in the newspaper this morning? Your friend used almost everything we gave him. Do you think he’d like another interview today?”
“I think he would.”
“In the meantime, I’ll take over your social media accounts and start to build our story. We’ll also look to get the narrative out to the rest of the media. We’ll do a press conference later today after you talk to the detective,” he said, and then had one more thought. “Have you talked to your sister-in-law and explained to her that she’s not the family spokesperson?”
“No, not yet. I’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll call Detective Kitchens and have him here at one. Be sure to have your parents here, too,” Ms. Dixon said.
◊◊◊
I called Angie on my ride home. She promised not to talk to the press anymore. She admitted that Greg wasn’t talking to her because she’d embarrassed our dad. I wondered how long Phil would take to put it together. If he asked me directly, I’d tell him.
When I pulled into the driveway, there were reporters, photographers and camera crews in front of the house. I stepped out of the Jeep, and they rushed up the drive. I held up my hands. This had gotten old in a hurry. I wanted to snap at them but took a deep breath to calm myself.
“There will be a press conference later today. If you give me your cell numbers, I will send you all a text as to when and where.”
It was funny to see the change. They went from out-of-control three-year-olds to well-mannered young men and women. Watching them line up and give me their contact information reminded me that I should call Tracy and let her act as the press goddess. She knew how to keep them in line. I’d bet Frank could learn a thing or two from her.
When I went into the house, I let Duke out of his crate. He helped me make my favorite lunch: tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. The only way to have it is to put the soup in a coffee mug and dunk the grilled cheese sandwiches.
After I cleaned up, I took Duke out back with his favorite tennis ball. I have no idea how he knows which one is which because he has six different ones and they all look alike. Duke will root through them and find the one. I’ve once made the grievous error of grabbing the wrong ball. When I threw it, he just looked at me. From then on, I made him pick it out of his toy basket. Once he was happy, we went out back to play ball.
One of the local TV reporters had decided to see if she could get an exclusive.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Related to my recent problems?” I asked.
“Maybe, but we could talk about other topics,” she offered as a compromise.
Duke came back up, dropped the ball in front of me, and then dropped down with his butt up in the air. He would try to snatch the ball as I reached for it and want me to chase him. Someone hadn’t run this morning and had a little too much energy.
The reporter reached down and then threw the ball. Duke gave me a look to say she threw like a girl. He acted as if it wasn’t even worth his effort to go get the ball. While Duke acted all pouty, I ran after him and grabbed his butt on both sides. I think dogs had it ingrained in them to react to that type of grab. It was how their ancestors would have taken down their prey. Duke yelped in surprise and realized I would beat him to the ball. I tossed the ball back to the reporter, and Duke made a spectacular jump to try to steal the ball back, but just missed. The game of keep-away was on. By the time we were done playing with Duke, he had a new fan, and I had to go to my interrogation with Detective Kitchens.