bureaucracy is as mysterious to me as the inside of a computer.
“But it seems to me that if you keep winning, it will be harder for them to want to punish you.” As soon as I say this, I realize more victories could have the opposite effect on the university. The school administration may bend over backward to make it appear that it is not making a decision based on our chances of playing in a major bowl on New Year’s Day.
Dade suddenly looks older than his twenty-one years.
How much more pressure can he stand? I ought to be happy if he just tells the truth. I leave him on the side walk outside his dorm and drive over to Ole Main, thinking I remember that Sarah has told me that she works until one on Wednesdays. Maybe she can grab some lunch with me.
Sarah is walking out the door as I come in. She says she has class in ten minutes but tells me there is a WAR rally again tonight and that I should come. I explain that I have cases piling up on my desk back home and don’t mention there is a possibility that Dade’s case could be dismissed. I don’t want to get her started. As students stream past us on their way to classes, I ask, “Did you hear about the polls? The Hogs are as high as fourth.”
She reaches over to pull off a thread from my sports coat, which after five years of constant wear doesn’t have many to give. I need to break down and buy some clothes. Maybe I could get Amy to go with me to keep me from buying stuff that looks like I’m getting buried in it.
“Dad,” Sarah says softly, “that’s what’s wrong with this place now. Sports is all anybody really cares about.
It’s absurd.”
She’s right. It is ridiculous, but according to Clan, so is having two eyes, two ears, two arms, two legs, and only one penis.
“You’re absolutely right,” I say, trying to keep things light, “but it beats armed insurrection.”
As I walk down the hall with her, she asks seriously, “Do you really think men are just so naturally aggressive they can’t help being violent?”
Part of me is glad she’s got class.
“I do better when I don’t think, babe,” I say, trying to finesse this subject.
“After about two seconds I get bogged down. If they haven’t figured this stuff out by now, I sure as heck don’t figure my two cents’ worth will make a dime’s worth of difference.”
She smiles indulgently, confident that her generation, or maybe even Paula Crawford by herself, will find the answers. If they do, I just hope women don’t line us up and shoot us. I give her a hug and tell her I will see her soon. She confides, “There’s a rumor going around that the administration will decide this week about Dade.”
Interested in this information, I ask the source, but am told it was just “some girls talking.” I leave and, forgetting that I haven’t eaten, drop by my “office” on Mountain Street and discuss with Barton the statement Dade gave this morning to Binkie.
Behind his desk, hands clasped behind his head, Bar ton rocks back in his swivel chair and stares at the ceiling
“If Dade is doing drugs,” Barton says, “there’s no way Binkie will cut him any slack. That’s one subject he’s tough as nails on.”
“Dade swears he’s not,” I say, still irritated by the revelations of an hour ago.
“I don’t know whether to believe him or not.”
Barton glances at his Rolex.
“These kids aren’t saints,” he says primly.
“They’re treated like gods when they win, and it’s easy for them to get used to it.”
Barton is busy, and I should get out of here. I need to think about this case before I do any more about it. From the library I call Binkie back and get him in his office.
“Are you getting ready to slap some new charges on Dade?” I ask bluntly as soon as he comes on the line.
“Obviously, you know a lot more about this situation than I do.”
“I wasn’t trying to sandbag you,” Binkie says, not quite apologetic.
“It’s just we’ve known for years the owner of Chuck’s Grill gives big-time players like Dade free drinks. A player with his reputation can’t go any where without somebody knowing who he is. And as far as drugs go, I can’t prove for sure yet that Eddie Stiles is dealing, but whether he is or isn’t, I’d make sure Dade stays as far away from him as humanly possible if I were you. Dade seems like a good kid. I’d hate to bust him for drugs, but I would. Real quick, too.”
“Tell me about Eddie,” I say, thinking I should pay him a visit before I get out of town. He and I could benefit from a heart-to-heart talk.
Binkie responds, his voice becoming slightly sarcastic.
“He’s one of those part-time students who never graduate and seems to have more money than he should. His thing is hanging with jocks. He pleaded guilty to possession of marijuana on a reduced charge in Oklahoma City a couple of years ago, but that’s his only record we know of.
Maybe he’s a wonderful guy and has a heart of gold, but I doubt it. I just hear his name a little too often to be convinced of it.”
Before I hang up, Binkie tells me that Eddie can usually be found at a bar named Slade’s, which is on the road to Springdale about five miles from campus.
“We talked to him during the investigation, but he didn’t give us any thing. He admitted he owned the house on Happy Hollow Road and sometimes let athletes use it. We know he rents a couple of other houses in Payetteville to students. That was it. That’s why we didn’t bother with a statement from him.”
I thank Binkie for the information and hang up, thinking he is probably one of the most decent prosecutors I’ve ever run across. What good will it do to put one more black male in prison? A lot of crime comes simply from being around the wrong people.
Instead of heading south out of town, I point the Blazer north toward the Missouri border. On both sides of the road is wall-to-wall commercial activity. Unlike the area of the state where I grew up, northwest Arkansas is booming, thanks in no small part to the thriving poultry industry. Still, the Arkansas Roosters doesn’t have quite the same ring. I find Slade’s in a shopping center that is crawling with customers. It seems an unlikely place for athletes, but inside it has student-friendly prices and its walls are lined with framed 8 X 10 pictures of Razorback stars all the way back to the sixties. I take a seat at the bar and order a beer from a pretty brunette in a football jersey and wait for my eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. With a mix of mainly guys ranging from obvious students to construction worker types, Slade’s is doing a healthy business for a weekday afternoon. Maybe every body drinks free here. I wonder where Slade is. There’s not a male behind the bar, and I don’t see any blacks either and ask the barkeep if she has seen Eddie Stiles.
The girl, who appears to have a couple of fully inflated footballs stuffed under her jersey, ignores my gaze, which has lingered a little too long (I suspect it’s not the first time) and smiles pleasantly at me.
“I’ve seen him all afternoon. You passed him on your way in. He’s sitting in the first booth by himself.”
“Great!” I say, feeling equally pleasant. I pull out a five and leave it.
“I think I’ll go join him.”
She winks, happy with a three-dollar tip. So Eddie is a white guy, I think stupidly as I saunter back toward the entrance. I had assumed he was black and would look like some kind of dude who specializes in drive-by shootings when his drug deals go sour. Despite my liberal past, my preconceptions, unfailingly wrong, never fail to amaze me.
“Eddie,” I say sliding in across from him, “I’m Gideon Page. I’d like to visit with you for a few minutes.”
Eddie Stiles is a short, pudgy young man with watery gray eyes and with a hint of a mustache (or maybe it’s just dirt) above his lips. Though the temperature outside is pleasant, he is wearing an expensive dark blue two pocket chambray workshirt unbuttoned over a muted striped T. I can’t see his pants or his shoes, but Eddie apparently doesn’t need any help spending his money.
“You’re Dade’s lawyer,” he says, eagerly reaching for my hand.
Ridiculously flattered that he knows who I am, I allow him to pump my hand as if I were visiting royalty or a major dope supplier. I realize I was nervous about this encounter, but this kid is hardly an intimidating figure.
