The Season (20 page)

Lying in Hank's bed the next afternoon I thought over the day before. Soccer was really over for the season. I felt sad and a little empty, but not heartbroken like last year, when I'd bawled for a week. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't happy
about losing, but it felt normal for there to be beginnings and endings. Maybe Ann was right: I wasn't a kid anymore, but on my way to becoming a woman.

“I thought you might be thirsty,” Hank said, breaking my reverie. He walked in buck naked and handed me a glass of cold white wine.

“Mmmm. Thanks.”

He leaned down and kissed me.

My phone rang. I paused mid-kiss.

“Let it go,” he growled. It rang a second time.

“Just let me see who it is.”

“Okay.” He grudgingly allowed me out from under him, and I grabbed my phone. It was Julia, and I answered it just before it went to voice mail.

“Julia?”

“Oh thank God you picked up!” The second I heard her voice I knew there was trouble. “Megan, you won't believe what's happened.”

“Okay, Julia, slow down, I'm here. Where are you?”

“I'm—I'm in jail.”

Twenty

In Which Megan Pays a Visit to the Hoosegow

It took me seven minutes to reach the Highland Park Police station at the corner of Drexel and Euclid. I knew exactly where it was and how to get there because Uncle Dan and Aunt Camille lived a few houses up on Euclid. As kids, Abby, Julia, and I played at Prather Park, across the street from the low-slung building, and we had often seen the crew-cut officers in their cruisers coming and going. They always gave a friendly, welcoming wave, and we waved back—sure they were there just to keep us safe.

I pulled into visitors' parking, jumped out, and ran in. Behind the bulletproof glass at the front desk was a stone-faced cop. He looked neither friendly nor welcoming, and I realized none of us were kids anymore.

“Yep?” he asked in a slurry twang.

“I'd like to see Julia McKnight please.”

“You are?”

“Megan McKnight—her sister.”

“ID?” He banged the metal drawer open, and I placed my driver's license in it. He wrenched it back, and it crashed open on his end. A meaty hand lifted it out, and he peered at it, tilting his head to one side as he read. He glanced at me, and I gave him my brave, confident smile, though inside I quaked. He put the ID back in the drawer and slammed it open. I put it in my wallet.

“Wait over there.” He nodded at some plastic chairs by the wall. I sat, for an agonizing twelve minutes.

The side door opened.

“McKnight?” another cop asked, although I was the only one waiting. He held the door and it clanged shut and locked behind me. Then I passed through a metal detector, my purse was X-rayed, and he led me through another self-locking steel door into a corridor. He held the door again to a small interview room, and I went in and sat. When it opened again, Julia came in, and she rushed into my arms, sobbing.

“Ten minutes,” the cop said, and closed the door.

I held her and let her cry for a good thirty seconds, then pushed her back far enough to have a look at her. She had no cuts or bruises, no injuries I could see.

“Julia, I'm sorry to push, but we don't have much time. You have to tell me what happened.”

“Okay.” She nodded and wiped her eyes. She inhaled through her nose, and let out a big exhale.

“I, I—you know I've been texting with Tyler for about a month. Just checking in, little stuff about parties, school, asking about his leg. It was normal and friendly. Then today
he asked if he could see me. I told him no, I didn't think that was a good idea. But he . . . begged, coffee, somewhere public. Just being friends again, you know? When I said fine, he thanked me, like ten times, and we agreed on the Starbucks in the Village. He picked me up and we—”

“Why didn't you just meet him?”

“You had the car!” she cried. Of course. Since I had been seeing Hank, I had been using the car more. I felt a deep stab of guilt knowing what I'd been up to all afternoon.

“When I got in, I knew right away something was wrong. He was . . . I don't know . . . nervous, edgy. I thought it was just because we hadn't seen each other in a long time.”

Julia, so trusting, always assumed the best of people. I closed my eyes to hear the rest.

“He was driving toward the Village, and he asked me straight out, ‘So who's Zach?' I told him that was none of his business, that I was there just to find out how he was doing, and then he started yelling, ‘How do you think I'm doing? Huh? Huh?' I told him to turn around and take me home. I told him he was scaring me. That made him really mad, and he started driving faster and faster, screaming at me, ‘How about this? Is this scaring you?' Megan, it was crazy. He was going like seventy miles an hour. He ran a red light, just missed a car coming the other way, and there was a cop there.”

“Thank God.”

“No—Tyler wouldn't stop. The cop came after us and
I was screaming for him to stop but he zoomed around this car and into the intersection at Mockingbird and Prestwick. There were cars in both lanes and nowhere to go. . . . I thought he was gonna plow into them, but he slammed the brakes and we spun sideways and somehow ended up on the other side of the road. The cops were there immediately, right on top of us, and Tyler got out with a gun—”

“What?!”

“He had it in the car. He pointed it at the cops, and they had their guns out, screaming at him. And then he pointed the gun at himself. Right at his head. I thought he was going to do it. The cops were shouting for him to put the gun down, and I saw his finger squeeze, but . . . he dropped it and just fell to his knees, The cops whammed him to the ground, and pointed their guns at me. I had to get out with my hands up.”

“Oh, Julia.”

“I tried to explain but they just pushed me against the car, and handcuffed me. They read me my rights. They fingerprinted me. And took my mug shot and . . . and . . . Megan, what am I going to do?”

I sat on the steps outside. Waiting. The door opened and Uncle Dan came out, with Julia behind him. I ran and hugged her. She was pretty much beyond tears by now. It was after eight o'clock, and she had been in jail more than
four hours. She hung on me for a moment. Then I hugged Uncle Dan—hard.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“It's okay. I'm glad you called.” I let go and realized I was crying.

“Girls, this isn't over.” He looked at Julia. “They found boxes of Mexican steroids and two more guns in the trunk. Tyler is facing some very serious charges. Assault with a deadly weapon, felony drug possession, evading arrest—and because you were in the car . . .”

“I'm going to prison,” she said.

“Julia, look at me—you are not going to prison,” Uncle Dan said. “You are going to cooperate in this investigation, and we will get them to understand that you had nothing to do with this, that you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But we have to take things in the right order. And the wheels of justice turn slowly. I've posted bail—”

“Thank you,” I said.

“You're welcome. Now go home. Get some rest. Go to school tomorrow, go about your normal life.” He turned to face Julia, held her by the shoulders. “But do not, under any circumstances, have any contact with Tyler. No calls, no texts, nothing. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“Are you going to tell Mom and Dad?”

He thought about this for a long moment.

“You are over eighteen and I am your lawyer, so I am not
going to say anything to anyone unless you want me to.”

“Would you tell them for me?” Julia asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Yes.”

“I just feel like you could explain it better, that it would come better from you.”

“I'll call them right now—but you're going to call them as well, right?”

She nodded again.

“We're gonna fix this, but it's gonna be tough at first. I need you to be strong.”

“Okay,” Julia said.

“I love you both. Now stay calm and I'll be in touch soon.”

After he was gone, Julia rubbed her wrists.

“Sore?” I asked.

“A little. I just want to go home.”

“Julia, I'm so sorry, but that is gonna have to wait. We need to go see Ann Foster. Right now.”

She raised her head. She hadn't thought about this at all.

“Are you delusional?” she asked. “Besides, maybe she won't find out.”

“Julia, picture the headline:
‘
Star SMU Football Player and Debutante Arrested with Guns and Drugs After High-Speed Chase
.
'”

“That sounds horrible,” she said.

I nodded. “We need to get out in front of this—fast.”

“I must say, you McKnights do keep things interesting,” Ann said.

Julia and I sat in Ann's living room, knees together, feet crossed, in dark dresses and simple but formal shoes. We had taken an extra five minutes to pull our hair and makeup together, to soften the blow of landing on her doorstep with our sordid tale. Surprised to see us, she invited us in, and clearly hadn't heard.

Once seated I dove in and told her exactly what happened, from the beginning. I wanted her to have context, to understand how long they had known each other, how this could have happened. She sat erect and attentive, and didn't miss a detail.

“And this is the entire . . . episode? You haven't left out
anything
?”

“Not a thing,” I said, and Julia nodded solemnly.

“You did the right thing coming here,” Ann said.

“I didn't want to, but Megan insisted,” Julia said.

“Can you help us?” I asked.

“I'll do what I can,” she said, and rose to get her phone, “but I really can't promise—”

Her phone interrupted. She studied the number.

“Excuse me,” she said to us, and took the call. “Hello? Yes, she's right here, actually. Yes, in my living room.” She listened for a moment, and then turned on the TV.

Tyler had made
SportsCenter
. A young reporter recapped from the parking lot, and then police video cut in—Tyler's car racing along Mockingbird, narrowly missing a car at the
intersection. The officer's voice provided color commentary over the squawk box, and then Tyler braking, sliding, and skidding to a stop. Now the police were out, guns drawn, barking orders. First Tyler emerged, with the gun. He pointed it at the cops. Then himself. And then, yikes, Julia, hands held high. An officer immediately turned her toward the car, locked on handcuffs.

Now the reporter had video of the haul from Tyler's trunk—steroids, two more automatics, needles, extra ammunition. The police suspected he had been dealing steroids to other players as well as taking them himself. Back to the anchors, who weighed in from the studio—“the scourge of privilege,” “wasted talent,” blah, blah, blah.

“Yes, I'm watching it now,” Ann said. She walked away, into another room.

“I'm toast,” Julia said glumly. I felt so bad for her, and terrified. Seeing the video brought home just how much danger she'd been in, and it made me livid with Tyler. How could he do this to her?