Sister Dear (21 page)

September 2006

He'd decided to make a trip to the athletic department. He found Coach Thomas and his assistants out on the field, setting up drills for practice. Gaines didn't want to draw more attention to the mess than already existed, but he needed more details, and might as well start with the source.

“Coach.” Gaines stuck out a hand and gripped the one offered. “Got a minute?” He could feel eyes drilling into his back. The staff kept working, offering the pretense that the sheriff's presence wasn't unusual. They all knew why he was there.

“Let's walk,” Thomas suggested and brushed off his shirt, straightened his ball cap.

They ambled for a few hundred yards, away from the sound of the assistant coach's voice and his whistle. A slight breeze carried the fragrance of freshly cut grass.

The sheriff stopped when he felt they were far enough away from curious spectators. “I hate to have to ask, but there are some serious allegations being tossed around,” he began. “I'd like to get to the bottom of this—I'm sure the school does too.”

“That joke of an article in the paper?” the coach said, taking off his ball cap, wiping his brow, and settling the hat back on his head. “Don't give it another thought. I've got that handled.” He smothered a smirk behind his fist.

“Handled?” Gaines asked. “How so?”

“Let's just say I've made some inroads with the family.” Coach Thomas winked.

The sheriff narrowed his eyes, unsure of what the man was saying. “As in, a personal connection?”

Thomas offered a sly smile.

Gaines's mind spun, gripping at the possibilities. The older sister had dated the same guy for years. She'd also written the editorial.

Now, the younger Marshall girl? She was known for being on the wild side and dating older men. She would likely see the coach as a conquest—a prize to be won. Add in a little jealousy, and there was no telling what drama an affair with a married man could spark.

Gaines's stomach plunged. “Well, I hope to God that y'all kiss and make up, because there's a whole lot more at stake than some spat over who-knows-what.” A chill settled under his collar, despite the humid day.

“Let me tell you, Sheriff.” Coach Thomas wiped his mouth with the fingers on one hand and paused. “There ain't nothin' coming between me and my boys. I love them, I love football, and I love this high school.” He spoke slowly and in a calm voice. “I've done nothing wrong—nothing but care for those boys, bring this program up to one of respect, worked with the players to turn them into the finest athletes they can be.”

“And—”

“And you brought me here, Sheriff.” The coach sauntered closer, sticking the brim of his hat dangerously close to Gaines's face. “You handpicked me.” He widened his arms to both sides, palms turned toward the ceiling. “You, the other boosters, the assistant coaches.”

“We did,” Gaines agreed, trying to remain affable. Gaines frowned. He'd expected a solid defense, not an attitude of nonchalance. He didn't like it, not one bit.

He hadn't even asked the question that was eating at his heart and soul. Was it true what the Marshall girl wrote?

“There are things the community doesn't need to know,” Coach Thomas offered with a wave of one hand. “Should never know.”

The sheriff's gut twisted. “Such as?”

“Like I said, Sheriff, I take care of these boys and I know what's best for them. Everyone else needs to stay out.” Thomas put both hands on his hips. “Between me and you, a little help now and then is not out of order. Do you get what I'm saying?”

Despite the warning lights flashing like crazy in his brain, Gaines kept his gaze steady, flexed his arms, crossing them across his broad chest. “Why don't you explain?”

“It's safe. I've made some of it myself, and tried it too,” Coach Thomas said, beaming. Like he was curing disease or creating clean drinking water for people in third-world countries. “The boys, they're calling it Wolverine Juice.” He chuckled.

The breeze off the Atlantic caught at the edges of Gaines's jacket. He blinked as grit flew into his eye. “You're making it now?”

“Only if I have to.”

The sheriff considered this carefully. “Where?”

“Ah, don't worry. Little place, it's
quite
a ways from here, buried in the woods. Inherited the ramshackle old cabin years ago—the trust pays the property taxes. Wife hates the place, refused to go after the first visit.” Coach Thomas chuckled and adjusted the brim of his ball cap. “But I think I've found a better source. Some pure product,” he added and smiled.

The sheriff's body tensed.
Cabin. Pure product.

“These are guaranteed wins, there, Sheriff. You've seen the numbers. Our record. And D'Shawn—he was one little blip on the radar, a mistake. The kid just got sucked into wanting more and more.” The coach's face lost the amused expression. “But I saw what that did to him. It was too much. It pushed him over the edge, cost
us the game. It won't happen again. We can't afford it, not if we want to go to state. Listen here—”

Gaines pressed his knuckles into one palm. He was done listening. “No. Hear me out, Coach. They are going to investigate D'Shawn, and maybe a few more of the hotshots you've got out on the field. That doesn't worry you?”

“Sheriff, you know better than I do there are ways to outsmart the system. I have contingency plans for all of that. And hey, you can help.” He pulled on the brim of his hat.

Gaines exhaled heavily. He'd come out here hoping for a denial. Even a weak explanation—the kid had gotten some gear from Atlanta, a friend gave him some. It was a one-time thing. A mistake. The last thing he expected was enthusiasm about a home-brew operation.

The sheriff stood stock-still, a choice in front of him. His duty was to report it. The call would ruin the season, taint the program, cost Coach Thomas his job. It would make the news, and not just the paper; the television stations would carry a story like this. Players might lose scholarships. It was a nightmare with fallout worse than a nuclear explosion. The sheriff's mind whirled.

Mansfield Academy had a proud tradition. Careers began here. The football program brought in the money that kept the school alive through ticket sales, alumni support, and donations. Parents sacrificed monthly to send their aspiring football players to the program, often working two jobs during Brunswick's summer tourist season to afford brand-new uniforms every season, the best training equipment, and a new scoreboard that was reputed to be almost as large as the size of the University of Georgia's.

If the football program was discredited, Mansfield Academy might not be able to survive. That, in turn, might ruin the town. At first, a few people would move away. Then entire families. The
economy would go belly up . . . with the weight of it all squarely on his shoulders.

No, he couldn't let this massive failure come to light. As a former player, a school booster, and sheriff, it was his duty to protect the school and all those associated with it. He narrowed his eyes, his decision clear.

“I want you to shut it down, Coach.” Gaines took a hold of the man's shirtsleeve, jerked him to attention. “All of it. Clean it up. Now. Are we clear?”

“This is the thanks I get? For a winning season? For a locked-down, one-way ticket to state?” Coach Thomas shrugged off the sheriff's grip. “I'm delivering exactly what you and the other boosters wanted.” He licked his lips. “I'd call this conversation ungrateful and uncalled for.”

The sky blackened. A few drops of rain hit the sheriff's shoulders. “Coach. Everyone loves to win. That's not the point. You need to be clean. Your players need to be clean. They'll sanction the school if they find anything. They'll have your job.” Even worse, they might come after him. His job. His retirement and pension. He was a part of this now, too, and he felt the weight of it come to rest on his shoulders.

“They won't.” Thomas leveled his gaze across the field, past the bleachers. “No one has any faith. Don't you think I have some experience with this? That I've thought it through?”

“And I'm telling you to take care of it,” Gaines growled. “Get it cleaned up. All of it. Stop making it, acquiring it. And we'll just pretend you never told me about any of this. We clear?”

The coach stared at the ground, studying blades of grass. “Sure, Sheriff.”

Gaines gritted his teeth. “You
make
sure of it.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

ALLIE

2016

As uncomfortable and awful as it was, Allie could manage being snubbed by childhood friends and their family members. She could handle the For Sale sign. She could deal with piles of dog or cow excrement.

But this new attack—this assault on Caroline—was different. Someone took the time to find a decade-old editorial. They'd copied it and distributed it everywhere, knowing the hurt and harm it would cause.

Maybe worst of all, when Caroline challenged Allie's innocence, Emma—who knew the truth, who said all along that she believed Allie—didn't rush to defend her. In fact, Emma didn't defend her at all.

Allie bit her lip. The truth was this: She'd written the letter about the coach. She'd had a drink or two. But anyone could have found the man. Anyone. And it would have been Coach Thomas's blood on someone else's hands.

The person who spread copies of the editorial through the high school had a score to settle. And Allie was an easy target. In her
mind's eye, she saw the sheriff aiming his gun—with Allie right in the crosshairs.

At the time, she'd tried to convince herself that her attorneys were making every effort to prove her innocence. But as she thought back to her hours on the witness stand, at her brutal cross-examination, Allie's stomach clenched. There were so many accusations, so many attacks on her character, her faith, and values.

Allie wasn't at all proud of what had happened with Caroline's biological father, but it was an impossible situation—a mistake she could never rectify—as she'd been so young and foolish.

At her lawyer's urging, Allie had finally confessed the story to them in private. Antonio, Italy, his fiancée. Her attorney was silent after she'd explained, digesting the situation, one hand clenched in a fist. He had been unable to reassure her that the judge would be at all sympathetic. As an unwed mother in the Deep South, with the father of her child nowhere to be found, the lawyer explained what she already knew. Allie's character—right or wrong—was unmistakably tainted.

The prosecution hammered away at her values so emphatically that Allie herself began to doubt the decisions she'd made so carefully more than six years ago. She forgot about being an A-student, a girl accepted to medical school, a woman who had a bright and shining future ahead of her. The words, with edges sharp as steel, cut her to the core.

Now, she was older and wiser. And despite her attorney's stated intentions, had he really done the best he could with her case? Hired the best experts and investigators? What had he overlooked about Sheriff Gaines? About the coach?

She powered up the laptop Emma had lent her and moved a stack of papers to the ground. Allie typed in the sheriff's full name, took a deep breath, and hit the return key.

Her first attempt brought up his bio on the sheriff's department website. She double-clicked on an image of Lee Gaines and made it full screen, then studied his face. The slope of his mouth, the jut of his jaw. Chest out, shoulders back, badge gleaming.

She scanned his bio, touting his “tough on crime” stance, his awards, and his campaigns and reelections. There were articles detailing his arrest records, video of him giving press conferences, and a few mentions of his community service work. Allie slowed to read the story detailing his wife's accident, called “a tragedy beyond measure” by the local newspaper.

It was too difficult to read; it hit too close to home. Gaines should have been attending to his June, who was clinging to life. Instead, he'd acted as judge and jury before he'd even read Allie her rights.

A paragraph in, she clicked out of the page. She gulped back a sob, deciding instead to focus on searching for any information that might have been overlooked on Coach Thomas. Allie found posts touting the coach's experience. A few that included a mention of Thomas's hometown and high school football career. His business, and his wife's and children's names.

She scanned a long story about the coach, his funeral, and the memorial service. Donations to a scholarship fund in lieu of gifts. A note about where they'd moved; the survivors, the reporter called them. Allie's stomach flip-flopped. The wife and children left after the trial ended, moving near family in North Carolina.

And, then, there were the articles about Allie. The trial. The verdict.

Though her eyes began to burn, Allie searched for hours, jotting down dates and comments in a small notebook. After a while, the dead ends, twists, and turns that led to nowhere made her dizzy. She leaned back and rubbed her temples. This was how it felt to be dropped into a huge concrete maze in the dark. Find your way
out, inch by inch. Go on intuition, some trial and error, and sheer determination.

She worked on making a timeline, starting with his years in foster care and his adoption at age five by a family who was unable to have children. She added his high school years, his college time at the University of Georgia, followed by where he'd started coaching. Allie noted each season's record, any championships. She read recaps of games, reviews of big matchups. Each school went from losing to winning. The players signed with good college teams.

The pattern: impeccable record, proven success, every decision measured and focused. Improving the community's morale bettered his career. He was a gifted leader. On the surface, there was nothing to dislike. He was good-looking and a family guy. Many articles made mention of his church involvement, Rotary membership, and civic clubs, the generous donations to adoption agencies and children's charities.