First Lie Wins(60)
I can’t load some underage porn on Mitch’s computer and blackmail him into quitting because, for one, there’s no guarantee that won’t turn into some scandal, and two, if he quits, he forfeits the rest of what’s left in his contract—six million dollars—and that would hurt him financially.
Blackmail on his wife leads to the same results and blackmail on any member of the college opens them up to scandal and also hurts them financially, since they’d have to buy out his contract.
I feel like I’m boxed in.
I feel like I’m going to fail his test.
The only thing to do is start back at the beginning. He wouldn’t set me up to completely fail, so I’m missing something. He wants me to prove myself, so there is a way to get this job done—I just need to find it.
* * *
The Ford dealership is shiny and new; the main room is a big open space with lots of glass and chrome. Salesmen circle the front doors like sharks, but I push my way through without breaking my stride or making eye contact with a single one of them.
There’s a young blonde at the welcome desk who eyes me up and down quickly, then pastes a gigantic smile on her face.
“Welcome to Southern Ford! How can I help you?”
“I need to speak with Phil Robinson.”
“I’m not sure he’s available . . .”
“Give him this.” I drop a white envelope on the counter in front of her. Phil owns five Ford dealerships that are scattered throughout central Florida, but he keeps his main office in this location.
It only takes a moment for the receptionist to return and lead me to him. Phil meets us at the door. His eyes track me from the tips of my shoes to the top of my head. I’m feeding him the details I want him to have, to remember. My clothes are nice but not too nice. My jacket looks like it was fitted especially for me but it’s obvious my skirt is off the rack. My jewelry is minimal but tasteful. My hair is pulled back and the makeup heavier than what I normally wear. I’m thirty, easily.
My hand is out as I approach him, and he hesitates a second or two before caving.
“Mr. Robinson, thank you for seeing me,” I say as we shake hands.
He motions me inside his office and I do a quick survey of the room. He’s a super fan and one of the college’s biggest boosters. There are framed jerseys and game balls. Pictures with players and coaches, including Mitch Cameron. Phil sinks into his chair behind his desk while gesturing me to take the one across from him.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asks. He’s opened the envelope and pulled out the picture of stacks of cash sitting on the tailgate of a Ford truck with a sticker of his dealership’s logo on the back window. There is no room for small talk.
“I’m here about Roger McBain.”
Phil’s face shows confusion, but there’s red creeping up under his starched white collar. “I don’t know anyone named Roger McBain.”
My forehead crinkles as if I’m really taking him for his word and am somewhat confused, then I pull out more pictures. Pictures that show Phil and Roger together. “Huh, you two look pretty chummy here.” Then I put my iPad on the desk so it faces him. I press play on the video that is waiting on the screen. It’s a recording of a dinner with Phil, Roger, and a handful of other megadonors. Their discussion comes to life where they detail which high school prospects they want Roger to approach and how much money they will offer to each one. Phil even offers to throw in a couple of cars if necessary. “Anything to keep them from going to Florida State,” he says. There is also some bragging about how successful they were last year in scoring some of the best recruits. I end the video right after Phil says, “Giving away that F-250 was worth those twelve touchdowns.”
Phil stares at the screen from across the desk, and I can see the color drain from his face.
The one group that was not mentioned on that sheet of paper from Mr. Smith were the boosters. The mark: protected. The school: protected. The program: protected. The prospects: protected.
But not a word about those wealthy, overly invested boosters.
Mr. Smith knew I’d not only see the players talking to the coaches, but I’d also catch men like Roger McBain approaching them on behalf of boosters like Phil Robinson.
“Roger works for you. You tell him the players you want to commit to your alma mater, give him the funds to entice them to do so.”
I came with receipts and he knows it. He’s quiet, toying with a black ballpoint pen in his hands.
“I have just as many pics of you with the athletic director, the university president, and half the coaching staff so it’s not a stretch to assume the school knew what you were doing and even condoned it. Think the NCAA will give them a three or four season bowl ban?” This is my only bluff, because I can’t really pull the school into this, but Phil doesn’t know that. I just need him scared enough that I can tie the school to his activities. The last thing he wants is to be the guy who brought down the whole program.
He finally speaks. “What is it that you want?”
Even though I knew there was zero chance Phil would let the team suffer for something he did, I am relieved he’s crumbling under my threat.
“We want Mitch Cameron gone. You and your little friends will insist he be let go but you’ll be nice about it. You’re to say you don’t agree with Mitch’s vision. You’ll say it’s time for a rebuild. And then you’ll buy out his contract. No reason for the school to eat that six million dollars when it’s all your fault.”