All the Glory Page 3

  I went back home and up to my room after kissing my parents good night. Then I went online with my laptop and surfed the local news channels, hoping to find out what had happened at the stadium.

  That’s when I saw the newsflash.

  At first it was only on one site, but within an hour, it was picked up by every station.

  LOCAL FOOTBALL STAR ARRESTED FOR ALLEGED MURDER OF HIS COACH.

  I kept reading the headlines over and over, different iterations of the same theme, getting sicker and sicker as the seconds ticked by. There was a roaring in my ears, and I could actually hear my pulse slamming away in my veins.

  My door opened and my mother stuck her head in. “Babe. Did you see the news about Jason Bradley?”

  I nodded, afraid that if I said anything out loud I might sound crazy. It was like I was falling apart, bits of me flying out into the air and dissipating like smoke from a blown-out candle. He was just in my car two weeks ago. He loved The Constant Gardener. He was funny, and he checked his zipper before he left the bathroom, which to me was a lot like checking for toilet paper on a shoe.

  And he murdered someone? His coach, of all people? How was that even remotely possible?

  “Can you believe it?” my mom said, opening the door more fully and crossing her arms over her chest. “It all sounds so improbable.”

  “I know,” I said, my voice coming out scratchy.

  “You okay?” she asked, frowning at me.

  I nodded more vigorously so she wouldn’t question me. I wasn’t in the mood for a mom-interrogation. “Yeah. I’m fine. I hardly knew him.” My gaze slid over to the screen and another headline. “I guess I didn’t know him at all.”

  “We never really know people, do we?” She sighed. “I guess that means the neighborhood is going to be a zoo with the press, for a while at least. Just try to stay clear of it, okay?”

  For some reason this struck me as very disloyal and insensitive, but I nodded anyway. “Okay. I will.”

  “G’night, sweetie,” she said. “Need anything before I hit the hay?”

  “Nope. Sleep tight,” I said.

  “Don’t let the bed bugs bite,” she said back.

  That was our thing. I was pretty sure that if she ever didn’t say it to me, that I’d have nightmares, or bedbugs would actually start biting me. For some reason tonight it took on special meaning. I wondered if there were bedbugs and anyone to wish them away where Jason would be sleeping tonight.

  She shut the door behind her and my room went silent. There was a video I could play on the news website if I wanted to. The thumbnail showed a woman news reporter with a microphone in her hand. The piece was about the football player who killed his coach. They were saying allegedly, but their stories kept reading as if he’d already been found guilty. The headline over the video jumped out at me.

  Coach Alan Fielding of Banner High School found slain in his stadium office. Alleged killer is Jason Bradley, recently taken into custody after he was found standing over the lifeless body of the beloved coach and mentor to thousands of our city’s young men.

  I never knew the coach, since he pretty much stayed with football exclusively, but I’d heard he was a nice guy. Tough but fair. He was a big proponent of charity work, so all the guys on the team had to do this Big Brother thing where they mentored kids from bad neighborhoods and taught them about sports and stuff.

  Even never having met him, I was mad at Jason for killing him. The news articles were turning my neighbor into someone I didn’t know. My mom was probably right. Maybe I never knew him at all.

  It made me supremely depressed. I texted Bobby and told him that I was going to need copious amounts of chocolate tomorrow to get over this, and then I felt even worse when I realized that Jason wouldn’t be eating any chocolate tonight and for sure felt a hell of a lot worse than I did. This wasn’t about me; it was about him. I was so glad to be me that night, which was a first. Normally I was wishing I was someone else, somewhere else.

  I thought about Jason and who he was, or who I thought he was. He’d never struck me as the violent type, not even on the field. He always helped people up off the ground and never joined in the shoving matches that sometimes erupted on the field.

  Maybe he was provoked. But what could that coach have done to make Jason want to murder him? Did he tell Jason he was going to ride the bench, maybe? Did Jason see his NFL career going in the toilet because of something the coach was going to do, and that was what made him lose it?

  Just the very idea made me dislike Jason even more, to imagine him doing something like that, having that attitude. And then I felt bad for jumping to those conclusions without even hearing his side of the story.

  Nothing was making sense, so I stopped trying to make it sensical. Instead I put on my p.j.s and shut off my light, climbing into bed and hoping for a very quick transition into unconsciousness.

  I fell asleep to tortured dreams about bad people I couldn’t see attacking me and calling me a loser.

  Chapter Seven

  I WOKE UP DETERMINED … DETERMINED to find out the truth, or some version of it, anyway. I texted Bobby and he showed up a half hour later, dressed for trouble-making. I can always count on Bobby.

  “Where are we going? Will we be storming any ramparts? Because if so, I need to stop by my house and get my rappelling gear.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at the vision of him sliding down a rope. He’d totally scream like a girl the entire way and then complain about his manicure.

  “Do you even have any rappelling gear?”

  “No, but my dad does, and I’d be overjoyed to steal it.”

  Bobby’s dad was less than thrilled with Bobby’s life choices. That’s my nice way of saying that Bobby’s dad is a dick who really shouldn’t be allowed in the house, but since he paid the mortgage, there wasn’t really much Bobby could do about it.

  “No storming of ramparts today. Maybe tomorrow, though.” Depending on what we find out.

  I didn’t know why, but at this point I was imagining myself as some kind of superhero. After downing sixteen ounces of orange juice and eating a way-too-sugary breakfast bar, I’d decided that there was no way Jason Bradley, the guy who’d lived down the street from me for the past bunch of years, had killed his coach. Not on the eve of his biggest game. Not without a really good reason.

  I needed to find out what that reason was. It was possible I was suffering a minor breakdown in that moment, but I didn’t give it a second thought.

  Yeah … for sure I might have been a little crazy that day. I was picturing myself breaking him out of jail and running away while someone solved the mystery and absolved him of his crimes. I had twenty bucks to my name and a quarter tank of gas, but that didn’t stop the fantasy from taking hold.

  Regardless of the source of my madness, I knew down to the deepest part of my heart that if I’d been falsely accused of a crime, I’d want people to get to the bottom of it and spread the truth instead of the rumors, and school was going to be lousy with lies and conjecture on Monday. If I had to be his PR person at Banner High, then so be it. I was filled with a fire that I didn’t quite understand, but I let it burn bright anyway.

  We got to the police station where the news people said he was being held. There was a crowd of people outside, most of them with microphones or cameras. There were a few people from school, including Brittney. I didn’t see a single footballer, though. That seemed really weird at the time.

  Bobby and I sidled up as close to Brittney as we could, trying to eavesdrop on her conversation with Tiffany and some other girls.

  She was alternately crying, blowing her nose, and whining about the story as she heard it.

  “They said he actually did it. He actually killed the coach. I just can’t get over it. I was dating a murderer! He could have murdered me! Do you know how many times I was alone with him? Oh my god, I feel like I’m going to vomit. I can practically feel his hands closing around my throat right now.�
�� She made a gagging sound, and all her friends cleared a path to the grass.

  “I really feel like slapping her right now,” Bobby said quietly in my ear.

  “You and me both.” I shook my head in disappointment as she bent over and gagged.

  Nothing came out. She was totally faking, thank God.

  “All she cares about is herself,” I said. Jason had terrible taste in girlfriends, that much was clear.

  The crowd parted, pulling my attention away from Brittney. I recognized Jason’s dad as he came down the stairs from inside the building. When he saw Brittney, he changed his angle of approach and moved in her direction.

  One of her friends tapped her on the shoulder and she looked up. When her expression transitioned to one of fear and revulsion, I really, really wanted to punch her lights out. I almost didn’t want to hear what she was going to say next, but Bobby had other ideas for us.

  Bobby shoved me so hard I tripped and had to take several steps to right myself. I ended up standing right behind Mr. Bradley.

  “He’d really like to see you, Brittney. Can you come inside for a minute?”

  Her face went pale. Then she stammered. “Ummm … hi, Mr. Bradley. Ummm … no, I can’t. I was just leaving.” She grabbed Tiffany’s shirt and nearly tore it off her in her hurry to leave. “I have to go. I have … cheer practice.”

  I let out a big rush of air.

  Sooo pissed. That’s what I was. Pissed times a hundred. A thousand million. Her boyfriend, the one she hung all over in school and lifted her skirt for every weekend if the rumors were true, was rotting in a cell inside that building and she didn’t have time to go see him? What. A. Lowlife. Bitch.

  Mr. Bradley watched her go and then slowly turned around.

  Bobby pinched me really hard on the back and whisper-yelled in my ear. “Ask him!”

  I reached back and slapped him away, already making the plan in my mind.

  As Mr. Bradley started walking by, I touched his arm. Before the reporters could descend, I leaned in and said quickly, “I’d love to go see him, Mr. Bradley … if that’s okay with you.”

  He looked down at me in confusion. Then his brow smoothed out and he gave me a humorless smile. “You’re the constant gardener.”

  His comment made me blush. My face went red hot as I realized he and his son had been talking about me in their house. I wondered if it was recently or something that had happened years ago.

  “I guess.”

  He tilted his head and then his smile seemed more genuine. “Sure. He could use a friend right now.” He took me by the elbow and we plowed through the group of people asking really rude questions about his son.

  “Did he always have it in for the coach?!”

  “Did he tell you he was angry with the coach before the game?!”

  “Did he kill him because he got benched?!”

  I felt terrible, especially with that last question. I was guilty of thinking the same thing. Shame washed over me as I realized I was just as much an asshole as they were.

  Innocent until proven guilty is a joke. Until this happened, I never realized that we’re all assholes when we’re in the clear, when it’s not us being accused. There’s this weird and twisted type of satisfaction a person can get inside, when hearing bad news while not being the bad news. Like, hey, I’m not a murderer, I’m not sitting in a jail cell right now. Aren’t I awesome? Check out how bold and rude I can be, sitting here in my safe little not-accused bubble.

  “Where are his other friends?” I asked as we mounted the stairs into the police station.

  “Great question.” Jason’s dad sounded massively stressed.

  His reaction made me feel better, like finally someone was expressing the appropriate response for the situation. Me, I was more a kaleidoscope of emotions … angry, bitter, confused, scared, freaked out, and then sad, all in the space of thirty seconds. Thinking about how Jason must be feeling made my conflicted emotions even worse. Now was not the time to be self-centered. I knew that, and yet I found myself going there again and again.

  Guilt assailed me when I realized that I had imagined for a moment that I should be pitied, even when — unlike Jason — I could walk down the sidewalk to my car and drive home whenever I felt like it.

  I can be such an a-hole sometimes. Disappointment in my lack of humanity made me want to turn around and run away. I didn’t want Jason to see me being this awful person when he already had enough on his plate. But I kept going, anyway. I continued to walk up those stairs and into that building because I knew if I didn’t, I’d never be able to live with myself after.

  Being inside a police station on a field trip is nothing like being in one when a person you know is being held in a cell there. My heart was beating gangnam-style in my chest and I could literally feel the perspiration coming out of my pores. I was probably sporting a really attractive sweat mustache too, but I was too afraid to lift my hand and wipe it off. The way my fingers were trembling, I could accidentally pick my nose and really make a fabulous impression on Jason’s dad.

  My steps were robotic, maybe even militaristic in their precision. I didn’t want to piss anyone off and get kicked out before I saw Jason. I had no idea what I was going to say to him, but I needed to see him. Maybe to let him know he had at least one person on the outside rooting for him. Maybe to confirm this nightmare was real and I wasn’t Alice lost down in a rabbit hole somewhere.

  We were led down some corridors with walls of concrete block and into a room with a metal table and chairs. The paint on the walls was a very light green that reminded me of a hospital. There were two cameras, high up in the far corners of the room, and a big glass window on the other side. It was a surreal moment where I thought I was on the set of Bones or some TV show like that, ready to be involved in some sort of interrogation.

  Mr. Bradley and I sat down in two of the chairs on the same side of the table. The police officer who guided us in left the room and shut the door behind him.

  An awkward silence ensued.

  I glanced over at Jason’s dad and saw his jaw muscles twitching like mad. He rubbed his hands together, bunching one up as a fist and massaging it with the other. The muscle fibers in his arms jumped and moved around.

  He’s a big man like his son. I almost felt afraid to be alone with him, but then reminded myself that we were in a police station with cameras and a two-way mirror and everything. There were probably five guys on the other side of it watching our every move, recording our every word. Besides … he wasn’t the guy accused of murder.

  “Thanks for coming,” he finally said, looking at me. His eyes were very bloodshot and there were dark smudges underneath.

  “Sure.” I didn’t know what else to say. Normally, I’m fine around adults, but on this particular day I was tongue-tied, afraid I’d say the wrong thing. I mean, what’s the right thing to say to a guy whose son has just been arrested for murder? There is no right thing, so I said nothing.

  The door opened, saving me from brain vomiting on Mr. Bradley, and the first sound I heard was chains. It made my blood run cold.

  Jason walked into the entrance and just stood there, looking first at me and then his father. His hair was a mess. I don’t know why I found that so shocking … maybe because Jason always looked so fresh and clean and today he looked just plain terrible. Like he’d been in jail all night, which is exactly where he had been. The reality of it made my throat close up and I nearly choked with it.

  “What’s she doing here? Where’s Brittney?”

  If there had been a hole in the floor, even a pretty small one, I would have crawled into it. Even though I’m claustrophobic, I would have dived in, head first. I’d never felt so in-the-wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time as I did in that moment. An imposter. A wannabe of the highest degree.

  But I immediately told myself that this feeling was ridiculous because I wasn’t there to be his girlfriend. I was just there to let him know he had someone at school on his side
, or at least willing to listen to his version of events.

  “Come in and sit down,” Mr. Bradley said, standing up and motioning to his son.

  The police officer behind Jason took him by the elbow and led him in. It was slow-going because Jason had both handcuffs and leg irons on. He was still in his street clothes, but his hair was all over the place. His right eye was swollen and going purple. There was what looked like dried blood near his chin.

  I was instantly sick to my stomach, queasy. I wanted to stand and run out of the room, but at the last second reminded myself why I was there and didn’t. I stayed because I wanted answers, and I wanted to make sure that no one lied about Jason at school. He might have been a big-headed douche a lot of the time, but everyone deserves to have the truth told about them. And he had a black eye. I told myself that had to mean something.

  Jason said down, scowling. He slouched in his chair, and I thought at the time that I’d never seen him look so small, so collapsed in on himself. Even when we were in third grade, he always seemed larger than life to me. Today, he looked positively tiny. Defeated. Like nothing would ever be right in his life again. I wanted to cry for him, Argentina.

  “Son, don’t lose your manners, even though you’ve lost your place temporarily.”

  His father’s strict tone made me feel just the tiniest bit better, like maybe someone would stay strong in Jason’s life and be someone he could lean on. Because for sure Jason looked like he needed it. It was almost surreal how different he seemed. Did murder do this to a human being? Change him fundamentally from the person he could never be again?

  My guess was, yes. It definitely did. Maybe even just being accused of the crime could do that, because I still wasn’t convinced that Jason had done anything. It had to be a case of mistaken identity or whatever. No way could the kid who lived down the street from me be a murderer. That happened to other people living on other streets.