high moral ground. You need to give him business reasons for every decision.'
'I'm not crawling on hands and knees to kiss his ring. I'm through being afraid of him.'
There was an edge to his voice that frightened her.
Oh Bobby, how can I protect you?
She worried that he was too undisciplined and impetuous to confront her father. When directly challenged, Daddy always lashed back.
'What are you going to do, Bobby?' she asked.
Bobby took inventory before answering, tallying the bounty of his life. His wife and son, of course, and a deep love for them both. Then, the material items. A gorgeous home with a lap pool, a Jacuzzi, and a tennis court. A garage shielding his Lexus and Chrissy's Mercedes from the Texas sun. An expense account and pension plan. Cocktail parties and business lunches and a closet full of expensive suits.
For years, he had been stuck in a web of finely spun gold. The road to ruin is paved with foie gras, he concluded. The pursuit of victory-on the field, at the ticket window, in the courtroom-had become paramount. Corruption was the handmaiden of success. He had gone along, handing up his balls along with his self-esteem. A man can rationalize almost anything.
Hey, this is the big leagues. This is the way the game is played.
Tonight, he had stood fifteen minutes under the scalding water in the shower but could not scrub himself clean. He heard terrified screams in the roar of the faucet, saw the face of an anguished woman rising from the steam. With those visions still etched in his mind, a plan began to form.
He would reclaim his manhood. Maybe he'd lose the material possessions but he'd still have what mattered most to him, the love and tenderness of his wife and son.
'I'm going to take a stand,' he said. 'I'm going to change my life.'
'Do it,' Christine said, reaching out to stroke his cheek. 'But remember, it's my life, too.'
'The Cowboys are America's Team. Dallas has the babes, the glitz, the uniforms. The Cowboys are the American Dream.'
— Tony Kornheiser, sportswriter
9
This was the day, Bobby Gallagher vowed, he would reclaim his soul. He would confront his father-in-law and climb out of the shallow grave of corruption and despair he had dug for himself.
Okay, let's put a lid on the melodrama. I made a deal with Martin Kingsley. I do whatever the hell he wants, and he overpays me for it.
Most lawyers for pro football teams are paper pushers, laboring over player contracts and sponsor deals.
Not bagmen, dishing out cash to witnesses.
'Keep my players off the docket,' Kingsley had ordered, more than once. The idea was to deep-six cases before they ever reached the courthouse door.
The lawyer as Fixer. But today I'm putting a stop all the sleazy tricks.
Ordinarily, Kingsley was the first to arrive at the Mustangs' Valley Ranch headquarters but on this morning- the day after the victory over Washington-Bobby was waiting in the anteroom at 5:35 a. m drinking black coffee from a mug he had carried in the car. Bobby had been unable to sleep and had nowhere else to go. Christine was knocked out, purring contentedly under a haze of pain killers. Kingsley seemed both surprised and pleased to see his son-in-law in the quiet of the early morning. He greeted Bobby him with the satisfied smile of a man who owns a large chunk of God's green earth.
'Helluva game, wasn't it Robert? Now, bring on the Bears. Say, did I congratulate you and Christine on your anniversary?'
'We received your gift, Martin. Thank you. It was very generous.'
Damn. How do you confront with the man who just gave you first class tickets to Maui and a fully paid hotel suite? It had seemed so easy rehearsing the speech in the car, but now…
'No need to thank me,' Kingsley said. 'Hell, it's a selfish gift. I love Hawaii, and I'll have a suite just down the hall from you. Nothing more I'd love to do than celebrate with my family.'
He winked at Bobby. The trip was one week after the Super Bowl, so Bobby had no doubt what celebration his father-in-law had in mind.
They walked together down the corridor, Bobby matching strides with the long-legged Texan. Kingsley wore his trademark black suit with silver shoulder piping, a matching gray tie, and black ostrich-skin cowboy boots. He was vital and strong with a crushing handshake and a charming personality when he chose to use them. He also could be ornery as an old mule.
Bobby took a deep breath and tried to relax. He had never confronted Kingsley before. In every major disagreement, Bobby had always backed down. Today, he vowed, it would be different.
Don't worry, Chrissy. You'll be proud of me when this day is out.
Listening to Kingsley re-live the glory of the victory over Washington, Bobby let his mind wander. How had he even gotten here? For years, he thought that the passive act of holding a ball for someone else to kick was the only thing in the world he was perfectly competent to do. He was rejected by every law school in Florida but finally secured a spot at a small college in Dallas whose accreditation was pending. He got a job pouring tar on roofs during the day and studied law at night. Even now, he could remember the choking fumes of the tar on a hot Texas day, his skin darkened by the sun and singed by drops of the boiling black liquid.
Bobby graduated from law school with what he liked to call 'low honors.' He got a job in the public defenders' office in Dallas and discovered he had a knack for trying cases. In his second year, he handled a case that would change his life.
'The bastard spit beer on my girlfriend,' his client had told him.
'Whereupon the defendant did strike the victim on or about the head with a deadly weapon, to wit: a pool cue.'
Or so said the indictment against his client.
Bobby thought it hurt his case that his client had assaulted a Dallas Mustangs defensive lineman with the pool cue. The players were still in their demi-god phase. But Bobby was masterful in closing argument, railing about the 'mountain of reasonable doubt.' When the jury came back with a big fat Not Guilty, Bobby was interviewed on local TV as a rising star in the local courthouse, and the next day, the new owner of the team called. 'They tell me you know how to talk to a jury without polishing your words so shiny you could skate on 'em,' Martin Kingsley said. 'C'mon out to Valley Ranch. I'll buy you lunch and pick your brain.'
Bobby didn't need to be asked twice. Kingsley gave him a tour of the training facilities, then began asking questions about a player who had been set up for a cocaine purchase by an informant.
As he listened, Bobby realized that he was auditioning for a job. Associate counsel, maybe work his way up to vice president for legal affairs and general counsel. Prestige, money, a fun job. Better than the hard tile floors and green metal desks in the P.D.'s office.
Bobby ran through the usual advice of attacking the credibility of the snitch, who almost certainly had a criminal record, of getting the jury upset that the cops are using scumbags to make their cases, of pleading entrapment.
'But none of that will work,' Bobby said.
'So what the hell would you do?' Kingsley demanded, impatiently.
'I'd want to know who the judge is,' Bobby said. 'Is he a football fan? Judges are just like everybody else once they take off their robes and step down from the bench. They want to rub shoulders with celebrities and get
