Need for Speed (9 page)

The bridge was right up ahead, and their speed was now more than 260 mph. Suddenly Dino made his move, trying to pass Little Pete on the outside.

But it was not a clean maneuver—and Dino violently clipped the back of Little Pete's car.

Suddenly Little Pete was airborne, and not by a few inches. All four of his tires left the ground, hurtling him ten feet above the pavement.

Still moving at tremendous speed, Pete landed hard, hitting the bridge's concrete foundation nose first. The impact caused the hypercar to begin a series of sickening cartwheels. Pete tumbled over and over, smashing through a light pole, and then against a cement barrier. The multimillion dollar car was disintegrating with each bounce, leaving a cloud of glass, metal, and rubber behind.

Tobey saw it all. Looking through his rearview mirror, he saw Pete's car, now in flames, careen off a bridge support, go clear over the railing, and disappear below.

Tobey stood on his brakes. Spinning the steering wheel at the same time, he turned 180 degrees in an instant. He was just seconds from winning the brutal $2.7 million race—but suddenly all thoughts of the money were gone. He went back for Little Pete instead.

As he did so, Dino blew right past him and crossed the other end of the bridge, winning the race.

Tobey was at the crash site in seconds. He jumped out of the Koenigsegg and slid down the hundred-foot embankment to the edge of the river.

Little Pete's car was there, but it was barely recognizable. It was upside down and being consumed by flames, its four wheels swaying as if suffering from compound fractures.

Tobey could see Little Pete inside, his lifeless body just barely visible through the fire. He tried to reach inside to grab him, but the heat was too intense. He whipped off his jacket, putting it up to shield his face and hands, and tried again—and again. And again.

“Pete!” Tobey screamed from the depths of his soul. “Jesus . . . Pete!”

But it was no good.

The flames were just too much.

* * *

The next thing Tobey knew, he was surrounded by flashing lights coming from the bridge above. The sound of sirens filled his ears. There were police and firefighters everywhere.

Little Pete's body was in front of him, covered with a tarp. Some EMTs and the coroner were struggling to move it over the rocks and up the embankment.

Another EMT was beside Tobey, trying to treat his burns, but Tobey was numb all over.

He could only stare out at the river and watch the water go by.

Eight

FIVE DAYS LATER

INSIDE A SMALL
graveyard on the west side of Mount Kisco, a group of people all dressed in black were gathered around a freshly dug grave.

A priest's words drifted above the sad scene.

“Fear not,” he intoned, “for I am with you. Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you. Yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

Most everyone in the crowd was crying or fighting off tears. But Anita was particularly distraught. Her younger brother, Pete, was now deceased and about to be lowered into the ground.

For comfort in this difficult hour, she was leaning on the shoulder of another mourner—Dino Brewster.

“Behold,” the priest went on, “all those who were incensed against you shall be ashamed and disgraced. They shall be nothing. You shall seek them and not find them—those who contended with you. Those who war against you shall be as nothing. For I will hold your right hand, saying to you, ‘Fear not. I will help you.'”

Benny and Joe Peck were also there. Benny was taking it very hard. When the priest finished the final prayer, Benny shut his eyes and tried to breathe deep, but it didn't help. Nothing helped. His friend was gone.

Joe, on the other hand, was staring right across the open grave, leveling his eyes on Dino.

It was an icy glare, chilling to the bone. And to Joe, the fact that Dino refused to look back at him said it all.

Nine

NEW YORK STATE POLICE HEADQUARTERS

THE INTERROGATION ROOM
was cold and dank. The walls were plain, dull green, with old paint chipping off just about everywhere. Everything smelled of spilled coffee, cigarette smoke, and sweat.

Tobey was sitting in a squeaky metal chair, an old wooden desk in front of him. It seemed like he'd been inside the damp, smelly room for days. He couldn't really tell. Time as he knew it had lost all meaning for him.

His entire world had changed the moment Little Pete died. It was like he was walking and talking and existing by some kind of weird remote control. Whenever he closed his eyes all he could see was Pete burning to death in the crashed hypercar. The flames, the smoke, the noise, the river water rushing by. Tobey knew nothing would ever be the same.

But the real blow came later on that awful day. That's when the police charged
him
with killing Little Pete.

Two state police detectives were sitting across the table from him now. They'd been questioning him for hours, days—again, Tobey really didn't know. He was just numb, inside and out.

“Okay, let's go through this one more time, Mr. Marshall,” one of the detectives started again. “The report still shows this fatality was caused by a two-car accident.”

The second detective piped up.

“Tell us again where you claim this mysterious third vehicle was,” he said.

Tobey began speaking again—but it sounded like someone else's voice. He'd told them the exact same story more than a dozen times already.

“My car was about two lengths out in front,” he said wearily, pointing to a diagram of the accident scene sitting on the old wooden table. “Pete was there. Dino Brewster was right behind him. Dino hit Pete's back bumper hard and at an angle—and Pete lost control of his car. That's how it happened. Dino caused the crash.”

The detectives shook their heads. “But Dino has two solid witnesses,” one said. “And they both say they were with him all day and the whole night. So there's no way he could have been there to cause that crash.”

But again the detectives' words were barely registering with Tobey. Try as he might, he couldn't think clearly about anything else—except the fact that Little Pete was gone.

The cops were relentless, though. They took his lack of feeling as a sign of weakness—and a symptom that he was lying about what had really happened on the bridge.

“The owner of Brewster Motors reported
two
Koenigseggs were stolen last week,” the other detective said harshly. “That's two cars, not three. His report also says those two cars were stolen seven minutes before police arrived at the scene of the crash.”

Tobey momentarily snapped out of his stupor.

“The owner of Brewster Motors is Dino's uncle,” he told the cops. “He's lying. They're
all
lying. Dino did it. Dino was there.”

“You're the only one who places Dino at the scene,” the detective replied. “You got any other ‘facts' you'd like to share?”

“There were three cars,” Tobey insisted wearily. “Dino was there . . .”

The detectives exchanged glances. People lied to them every day; they were used to it, and in their own way, numb to it. They simply weren't buying Tobey's story.

“Then where's the third car?” one of them asked. “Wouldn't it be wrecked, too?”

At that point, Tobey went back into his disembodied state.

“This isn't happening,” he said to himself over and over. “This just isn't happening . . .”

* * *

The trial was a nightmare.

Tobey vowed early on just to tell the story straight, as it happened, blow by blow. And that's what he did, over and over, during endless hours of cross-examination.

But he was up against the powerful Brewster family, and they proved to be a formidable foe. No matter how many times he told the truth, the prosecutors put on rebuttal witnesses, all of whom were either in the Brewster family's employ or were friends of theirs. These people lied under oath that Dino was nowhere near the scene of the accident, and that only two Koenigseggs could have been “stolen” that night because only two Koenigseggs were in the mansion's garage in the first place.

The third hypercar, the one Dino had been driving, had vanished. Tobey's lawyer tried to find documentation on its sale, its purchase price, and when it arrived in the United States, but failed on all three accounts. The only evidence available was on the purchase of two Koenigseggs by Dino's wealthy uncle. There was plenty of documentation for them: routing slips, delivery confirmations, shipping manifests.

Aided by all this, and the implication that the Brewsters were an upstanding family while Tobey was just a hard-edged grease monkey, the prosecutors were able to make the case that there were only two Koenigseggs in the garage that afternoon, that there were only two racing on that road, and that Little Pete's car had been forced off the road, which led to his death. And the only one around who could have done it was Tobey.

* * *

The charge was vehicular manslaughter plus auto theft.

At one point, Tobey's attorney negotiated a deal where if Tobey pled guilty, he would get the charges reduced, and thus get a lighter sentence. But Tobey refused. He was innocent, and there was no way he was going to plead guilty to killing his best friend when he didn't do it.

The crew from the garage showed up at the trial every day. Before every court session Tobey scanned the gallery and always found Benny, Joe Peck, and Finn sitting there in their bad suits and ill-fitting ties, giving him the thumbs-up and offering signs of encouragement. But even their moral support couldn't change the inevitable.

In all it only took three weeks. Tobey was found guilty on both counts and sentenced to two to five years in state prison.

It was devastating to hear the verdict read aloud. But it only got worse after that. Tobey had spent so much money on the trial that he couldn't afford any kind of appeal. He'd sold his family's house, some family heirlooms, even his Gran Torino. But it was all for nothing.

The day he walked into prison, he was broke, he was a convicted felon, and his father's business had been shut down.

The destruction of his life as he knew it was complete.

He'd lost everything.

Part Four

Ten

TOBEY'S FIRST FEW
days in prison were pure hell.

The loneliest sound he'd ever heard was the clank of the huge steel door shutting behind him the moment he walked inside.

Good-bye world,
he thought.
Maybe forever.

He'd tried to psych himself up in the days and hours leading up to it. Tried to tell himself he'd be strong and that he could get through it—but he quickly realized nothing could prepare him for the nightmare he'd found himself in.

From when they took his clothes, to his delousing—or “douching,” as it was known—to putting on his gray prison uniform, to when they finally put him in his cell and locked the door, none of it seemed real, and he just couldn't get over the feeling that it was actually happening to someone else.

Then there were the chains.

No matter where he was those first few days, or what time, day or night, all he could hear were chains. Chain shackles dragging on the floor. Guards carrying chains to bind someone up. Other prisoners with chains hidden in their pants, to be used as weapons, on their way to give some “new meat” a beat down—or worse.

Chains . . . He even began to hear them in his sleep.

It took a few days for the cold reality of it all to sink in. The realization that his life was no longer his own. He was not allowed to do anything unless he was told to. Eat, sleep, shit, shave. Even flicking his cell's light switch on or off was forbidden.

Everything was regimented; everything was done their way. The lights came on at 5:00 a.m. Every prisoner had to be ready to leave his cell precisely five minutes later. A long, slow march down to the cafeteria followed, more chains dragging everywhere. Breakfast was usually tepid oatmeal or cold processed eggs. Each was equally bad.

Back to the cells for the mandatory count and, more often than not, a surprise search. New meat were always harassed by the guards. Getting one's cell tossed could be a daily or even hourly event.

Some kind of workday followed. Tobey had been assigned to the laundry. It was hot, smelly, disgusting duty, a place where the fouled sheets, towels, uniforms, socks, and underwear of 2,500 inmates was never-ending.

The only break was the long march down to lunch, which was just as awful as breakfast. Then more hot and sweaty work, until dinner, which was usually the worst meal of all.

Lights went out at 8:00 p.m., followed by a night of ear-piercing screams, demonic laughter, repulsive grunting—and more chains. Then, it started all over again at 5:00 a.m. the next day.

The idea was to take away every last bit of a person's physical freedom. And Tobey knew early on that once that was complete, his freedom to think would be taken next.

* * *

The prison was also an extremely dangerous place, as he soon found out. The guards weren't there to protect the inmates. It was clear from the beginning that was not how the System worked. The guards were more like onlookers, referees. Caretakers of the status quo. Many of them were corrupt, paid off by the prisoners or their families. Their main concern, then, was that no one on the inside rocked the boat.

The System itself was run by the Lifers—gangs of murderers and rapists who had nothing to lose by beating and robbing new meat. Sadistic and psychotic, they pretty much had full run of the place, including access to anyone's cell or work area. An attack could come at anytime and in any place.

Most perverse was that this constant terror provided a kind of horrific stability to the place. Management through fear ruled within the prison walls—not guards, or guns, or billy clubs. Just plain, unadulterated fear.

And the newer you were to the System, the more dangerous it could be.

* * *

On his fifth day in, Tobey was washing his face in the shitter when he looked in the mirror to see another prisoner, a gang member, standing behind him, holding a machete.

He was giving Tobey the finger-across-his-throat sign. The meaning was clear: You're next.

Later that day, another inmate came up to Tobey in the laundry and claimed he'd seen what had happened earlier. He offered to help Tobey out of the jam in return for some unspecified services Tobey could provide him in the future.

Tobey was smart enough to know he was being set up. Much to the man's surprise, he told the helpful inmate no thanks; he'd handle the situation himself.

The man replied, “Okay—nice knowing you.”

Later that night, Tobey heard the door to his cell open. It was supposed to be locked at 8:00 p.m., but obviously this was not a guard coming in to check on him.

Tobey was ready with the only weapon he had at his disposal: a sharpened pencil. He saw the glint of the machete drawing near and was never more scared in his life. But that's when his survival instincts kicked in.

He aimed low and stuck his would-be assailant in the groin with the pencil. It went in deep and as smoothly as a knife through butter. The attacker doubled over from the unexpected preemptive strike, hitting the floor of the cell hard and conveniently cracking open his skull.

When the guards eventually arrived, they found the attacker curled up on the ground, bleeding profusely, with Tobey sitting calmly on the edge of his bunk.

When they asked what happened, Tobey told them, “He tripped.”

He knew what would happen next. Though he was sure he'd gained some cred among those lowly prisoners who lived in daily fear of the System, he also knew he'd be a marked man by the Lifers.

The next day at breakfast, he walked up to the largest member of the machete man's gang and, without warning, started wailing on him with his fists and feet. To Tobey's good fortune, the man's weapon of choice, a doorknob carried in a sock, fell out of his pocket. Tobey picked it up and started thrashing him with that as well. The others in the machete gang stood back and let it happen. That was the way these things worked. It took Tobey two long minutes to hammer his victim into unconsciousness.

When the guards arrived and saw what had happened, they were convinced Tobey was not someone who wanted to play within the System. He was immediately put in shackles and put in the Hole, prison slang for solitary confinement.

This was not like his cell, with bars and walls and a window. This was a stark concrete room, just five feet by eight feet. There was no bunk; just a metal slab. There was no toilet; just an open drain in the floor. There was no window; just three vertical slits in the door, and a slot at the bottom for meal trays.

There would be no reading material, no music, no pens, or paper, or photographs to hang or look at. There was nothing but the walls, the drain, and the metal slab.

When they closed the door on him, the guard said, “See you in six months.”

After that, Tobey sat in the corner and shook uncontrollably for hours. But he'd accomplished his goal. He was alone—with no one to bother him.

From that day on, he began preparing for what he hoped would be the second part of his life.

He also came up with a plan.

* * *

Tobey was not a religious person. He'd never gone to church, never followed any one creed. So, he didn't know any prayers, other than the ordinary generic ones.

That didn't matter. For this, the longest two years of his life, in jail for killing his best friend, knowing full well he was innocent and that the guilty party was not just out there walking free but also banging his ex-girlfriend . . .

For this, an ordinary prayer would not do.

For this, he needed to make up one of his own.

His meals arrived like clockwork every day. Pushed through the slot at the bottom of his door, they came with plastic utensils, all of which had to be accounted for when the tray was taken away.

One day Tobey broke one of the plastic knives in half and stuck the handle into a mash of leftover food. He was hoping no one would bother to check if the other half was still attached. He waited a week, but no one said a word.

He used this half of knife to painstakingly carve his prayer into the concrete wall, chip by chip, in a space right above the door. That way he could see it, read it anytime he wanted, and yet it would be invisible to the guards looking in on him.

He wrote his prayer just two or three words at a time, and only after much thought went into what would fit and what would not. Each word had to be perfect, because there was no chance for erasure. The concrete was unforgiving in that respect. Once he carved his letters into it, they were there to stay.

It took him more than two months to complete it, but in the end he was happy with it. In his mind, it
was
perfect; it said it all.

They took everything from me.

But I do not fear, for you are with me.

All those who defied me

Shall be ashamed and disgraced.

Those who wage war against me

Shall perish.

I will find strength, find guidance

And I will triumph.

He recited the prayer at least a couple dozen times a day.

On some days, even more.

* * *

He spent his time in isolation doing a regimen of his own.

Morning was devoted to push-ups, leg squats, and other kinds of exercise, including many isometric drills he'd made up.

He'd been scrappy and fearless when he first went into prison. By the end of his first two months, he still had his lean frame, but whatever body fat he'd accumulated by drinking beer and eating junk food on the outside had been replaced by pure, solid muscle.

But he knew he would need more than just six-pack abs if his long-range plan were to succeed. So afternoons were reserved for doing mind exercises of a very specific order.

He would sit in his corner and put himself into a kind of trance and relive every car race he'd ever been in. From go-carts to shifter cars to his first street races. Every box race he'd driven in; every pull race he'd run out on I-684. Even that last fateful one with Dino and Little Pete—he was able to conjure them up vividly and replay them again, over and over in his head.

He was able to recall every move he'd made, commit to memory every positive maneuver, and dwell especially on the ones that turned out to be wrong. He reviewed in his mind every part, gear, paddle, and switch of every vehicle he'd ever raced, from the shifter cars on, concentrating, of course, on his beloved Gran Torino.

He was able to immerse himself in his memories, which were all he really had left. But he was able to learn from them—and that was the most important thing.

On special nights, and he did this sparingly, he would put himself into his trance and think about those few glorious moments he'd experienced that morning driving the Shelby Mustang at Shepperton. He always began this particular mind exercise by remembering everything exactly how it was that day. The weather, how the track looked. How Little Pete was so excited. How he brought the Shelby into that first turn wide so he could slingshot himself onto the straightaway. How he had reached and then surpassed that magic 230 mph number.

After many of those special sessions he would fall asleep sitting upright in his corner and dream about that special morning all over again.

Those hours, days, and months in the Hole strengthened him physically, but more important, they bulked him up mentally.

He knew that would be needed most of all for what lay ahead.

* * *

He spent a total of thirteen months in the Hole, extended by his mouthing off to his guards at one point, and when he was caught, by design, stealing his plastic utensils.

When he was finally let out into the general population, he fell in with a bunch of fellow motorheads. Car thieves, mostly, they formed a substantial group and were pretty much left alone by the other gangs.

Just one day out of the Hole, he got a prison tattoo. It was simple. Written on his left forearm, it read: “Pete 392.” His intention was to always have something there to remind him of his little brother, his friend.

It was only later that he realized that, by extension, anytime he looked at it, it also reminded him of Pete's beautiful sister, Anita.

* * *

Then came that day, exactly one month before his release, when he got the letter from Benny, talking about that year's De Leon—and how Monarch was looking for racers.

At that moment, Tobey knew it had all been worth it. Because suddenly, he was sure about what he'd been working for.

No one ever came to visit him while he was in prison. That's the way he'd wanted it. He didn't write any letters during the majority of his incarceration, either. Phone calls to Benny and Joe Peck had gotten him by.

But the one letter he did write had been to Mark Ingram, the wealthy owner of the Super Shelby Mustang.

Tobey had started that letter out with the words, “You will think this is a strange request, but . . .”

After that, the letters went back and forth furiously with Joe and Benny. The phone calls became more frequent, too. Something was building. His plan was moving full speed ahead.