Divided We Fall (17 page)

After a tense week, Friday night football was just what I needed, with an away game against the Bonners Ferry Wolves. We were 2–0 and planned on improving our record. Bonners Ferry was a tough enough team, but their starting quarterback was out on injury, and they had a sophomore filling in who wasn’t supposed to be so great. That was too bad for Bonners Ferry. Our defense was hungry.

Most of us were suited up and waiting in the locker room. Sweeney had our usual pregame music pumping, and the room was electric. Coach would be out of the office soon to go over some last-minute strategy and get us fired up. I couldn’t wait to cut loose on the field. It was going to be an awesome game.

“I will
crush
that kid.” Cal punched his fist into his other hand. “Little punk sophomore quarterback gonna wish he never filled in second string tonight.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” TJ slapped Cal five.

“Sweeney, what is this?” Dylan reached up on top of the lockers and took down the comm playing music, flipping it around to show its purple back cover. “We’re trying to get ready for a game here.”

“Shut up, Dylan. My comm was out of power. I borrowed JoBell’s. It still plays music fine.”

Dylan shrugged and put the comm back.

The music cut out.
“Anger is one letter away from danger, JoBell,”
said Digi-Eleanor.
“Since you’ve sounded angry when calling for articles about the Idaho Crisis, I thought perhaps you’d be interested in this breaking news story. The names of some of the Boise shooters are being released.”

“What the hell? I’ll put the music back on.” Dylan stood on the bench and looked on top of the locker at the comm. “NPR News alert?” He looked at me, confused. “Hey, Wright, it’s got your name.” He reached up to tap the blinking red box on the screen.

“Dylan, don’t!” Sweeney shouted.

“What?” Dylan said.

A deep male voice came on.
“This is an NPR News alert.”

Then a woman’s voice continued,
“From NPR News, I’m Alicia Seeve. The White House at this hour has confirmed that despite Governor Montaine’s efforts to prevent federal law enforcement from entering Idaho, the first arrest has been made in connection with the late August shootings in Boise. Twenty-year-old Specialist Tony Stein of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, was taken into federal custody and moved to a detention facility in Washington, DC. An arrest warrant has also been issued for seventeen-year-old Private First Class Daniel Wright of Freedom Lake, Idaho. Both are currently charged with depriving victims of civil rights under the color of law. The Justice Department says more charges will likely follow.

“Idaho governor James Montaine said in a prepared statement, quote, ‘I regret failing to protect one of my soldiers from an unwarranted and illegal arrest. I do not know what President Rodriguez hopes to accomplish by publicly releasing the name of an innocent seventeen-year-old boy in connection with the Boise incident. I remain committed to protecting —”

Coach tapped the mute button on the side of the comm. Nobody spoke or moved. I kept my gaze focused on the floor, but I could feel all the guys staring at me.

“We have a game to focus on.” Coach’s voice echoed through the silent locker room. “I don’t know why you’re listening to the news to warm up anyway, but whatever you just heard doesn’t change anything. We still have to bring four quarters of hard-hitting football, and we’re still a team. We’re heading out on that field in a minute, and for the next hour, hour and a half, two hours, all that matters to
all
of us in the whole world is this football game. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Coach!” the guys yelled weakly.

Shiratori slapped a metal locker door.
“Is that understood!?”

“Yes, Coach!” we shouted again. I’d seen him angry before, but not like this.

“Wright, you played great in our first game. There’s nothing different about tonight, understand?”

There was nothing different except now I had formal charges leveled against me and someone from my squad was in a prison cell. I didn’t know Stein all that well, but he was still one of my guys, and it could have been me.

“Wright!” Coach yelled.

“Yes, Coach! I got it!” I yelled as loud as I could, but somehow it wasn’t quite the excited, answering-an-angry-Army-drill-sergeant type shout I knew I should give.

*  *  *

We stood on the thirty-yard line with our helmets off, facing the American flag behind the end zone, as the Bonners Ferry band played the national anthem. Before, as I held my hand over my heart and listened to the music, watching our flag flowing in the breeze, I felt a sense of pride so great it made something ache in my chest. My dad had died for that flag and the freedom it stood for. But tonight, I didn’t have that sense of pride. Tonight, after that news alert, I felt betrayed and in danger. And I had to face the sad truth that not even football could make things right, could get me back to my normal life again.

It didn’t take long to figure out that the Wolves had heard the news about me too. The whole pack had it in for me. Early in the first quarter, the play called for me to run a little slant route, ahead two yards and then angling toward the inside. Sweeney hit me with a quick pass, but two linebackers sandwiched me and dropped me. A second later, a third piled on top hard, but still quick enough to avoid a late hit penalty. He punched his elbow into my gut, then his face mask ground into mine. “My cousin was shot at Boise. Might not be able to walk again. After tonight, neither will you.”

It was only the first of many dirty shots. By the fourth quarter, I was hurting way worse than I usually would in a game.

“Murderer,” one of the opposing players said as I stumbled back to our huddle, trying to shake the pain after the jerk cleated my leg.

It was third and fifteen on our own thirty-five-yard line. Sweeney might have completed a pass to TJ, who was wide open since they were stacking the coverage on me, but a couple Wolves busted through the line and sacked him for a loss of seven. Skylar Grenke came out to punt.

“You okay?” Sweeney asked as I made it back to the huddle.

“Great. You?” I said.

“That was a rough hit, but nothing like you’ve had all night,” he said. “They’re all over you.”

“They heard the news,” I said. “And they’re pissed.”

Skylar reached the huddle. “Deep punt,” he said to Sweeney.

I grabbed Sweeney’s shoulder. “Remember our first game, when you helped me get back into things?” He nodded. I stepped closer so only he could hear. “I need something like that again. Fake this punt. They won’t hate me enough to double up coverage when they could be going to block the punt.”

“You’re crazy,” said TJ, overhearing. “We’re down by six and have terrible position. If you don’t catch it, they’ll take over right here and be ready to score.”

“So you go long too,” I said. “I don’t care who gets it. I just want to stick it to these bastards.”

“We have to hurry!” Brad said.

“Let’s do it,” said Sweeney. “Deep punt on one. Break!”

We ran to the line. I shot a look over at TJ on the other side of our formation. He shook his head. Coach would make us run until we puked for this stunt, but if it worked, it would be worth it.

The ball was snapped and I shot ahead, spinning off a linebacker and running into open field. Only two defenders were between me and the end zone. They split to go after me and TJ. Sweeney fired his pass a second before they took him down. “I got it!” I yelled to TJ, who ran toward me.

“Drop it, murderer,” came a stranger’s voice from behind me.

But I caught it and ran like mad. TJ took out the last defender right in time. Then I went on ahead for the touchdown. TJ followed me in and slapped me five.

“That was stupid,” he said with a smile.

“Thanks,” I said.

Our two-point conversion put us ahead, and the rest of the quarter was a defensive battle. Cal came unglued, shooting through the line for three sacks. That backup quarterback was hobbling around, looking pretty pathetic by the time the game was over.

When we went though the line to shake hands and say “good game” over and over, every third or fourth guy would call me a murderer or worse. To those assholes, I’d say, “You lost.” It helped a little bit.

The celebration in the locker room was all loud screaming metal, snapping towels, and the guys laughing and talking about different great plays from the game. A bunch of them slapped me on the back or punched my arm, saying “good job” for my catch. Even Coach Shiratori said it was a beautiful play. “But if you guys try a stunt like that again, I’ll make you run until you die,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. The little victory party was exactly what I needed.

Finally, after we had all showered and dressed, Coach announced that the bus was waiting to take us home, and we should pack our gear and get moving.

“I can’t believe we pulled off that fake punt,” Sweeney said, walking beside me toward the door to the parking lot.

Cal stepped up on the other side, clapping his hand on my aching shoulder. He wore jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, showing off his muscles, which were bruised in at least three different places. “You got balls of solid rock, Wright. Not only the fake punt, but the way you stayed in the fight even with all those assholes gunning for you. All those extra cheap shots and dirty hits they were throwing on you just pissed me off. I think it helped me play better. I hit every one of those sons-a-bitches twice as hard.”

“Glad I could help.” I shoved the bar across the middle of the outside door to push it open. The cool breeze felt good after the dank, steamy locker room.

Everything lit up bright.

“Daniel Wright, what is your response to being publicly named as one of the shooters from the Battle of Boise?” a woman with a microphone shouted.

A man with a large gut stepped closer, a cameraman following right behind him. “Why did you shoot that night?”

Hundreds of cameras flashed so that I could hardly see. Another man tried to push Sweeney aside to get closer to me. “Private Wright, who gave the order to fire?”

Sweeney wedged back in front of him. A blond woman stood a few feet away in front of a camera that shined a blindingly bright light. “I’m here live on the scene, and this is Battle of Boise shooter Private First Class Daniel Wright’s first public appearance since his role in the massacre has been confirmed,” she said into the lens.

Cameras and lights were everywhere. Through the glare and the flashes, I spotted our bus parked thirty yards away. At least a hundred reporters crowded the parking lot and kept surging toward us. A small helicopter camera drone hovered overhead. There were almost more media people wedged in between us and the bus than there had been fans for both sides at the game. The questions started blurring together.

A Bonners Ferry police car had pulled up behind the crowd. Its red and blue lights kept spinning past the brick school wall and across Sweeney’s and Cal’s worried faces. One cop struggled to push through the crowd, trying to restore order. “You people need to get back! Clear the area!”

“Daniel Wright, I’d like to interview you for
People
magazine!”

“Can you give us the names of any other shooters?”

“What are we going to do?” Brad Robinson had come out of the locker room behind us. “They got us blocked off from the bus.”

Coach Shiratori joined us outside. “You have to let us through. I have to get these boys home!”

Another woman held her comm up, shooting video. “Mr. Wright, how many people did you kill in Boise?”

The bright light, the hundreds of questions flying at me, the accusations. It all froze me where I stood. Like the nightmare at Boise all over again, the noise and the pushing mass of bodies.

“I just … wanna play football,” I said. “Can’t you leave me alone?”

“What was that?” “What did he say?” “Something about football.” “Can you repeat that, Danny?” “Was it a confession?”

“All right, screw this!” Cal shouted. He shoved me back behind him. “Form up! PAT formation, now! We’re moving to the bus.”

Coach blew his whistle and the guys started taking their positions for the Point After Touchdown formation. Sweeney grabbed my arm. “Stay with me, dude. We’ll get you out of this.”

“Get out of the way!” shouted Brad at center. “Come on, boys. Shoulder to shoulder. Nobody gets between us.” He started walking forward, and the whole line moved as one. The linebackers and second stringers made a wall to protect our side. Slowly, we pushed our way through the crowd of reporters and cameramen.

“Who gave the order to fire?” “Was it Governor Montaine?” “What were your rules of engagement for the mission?”

“Danny!” JoBell shouted from somewhere in the back of the crowd. “Danny!”

I shielded my eyes from the bright lights. Finally, I spotted JoBell and Becca trying to push through the army of reporters.

“Girls, you’ll have to meet us at home,” Coach Shiratori shouted. Then he pointed at the struggling cop. “You have to call for backup.”

“They’re on their way!” the cop said. “Get on your bus.”