In the background, the widow carefully explained each piece to the interviewer, just managing to stay short of a complete re-enactment, while the reporter manhandled it all for the camera.
‘Why would she do this?’ Anya muttered. She thought of the impact it would have on the children. ‘She
wants
the world to know he didn’t kill himself?’
‘Insurance policy for one.’ Ethan crunched in her ear. She could hear him devouring what sounded like another pack of nuts, despite having finished dinner only an hour ago.
It wouldn’t be the first time a family had argued accidental death during a high-risk sexual activity in order to claim the insurance from a policy that exempted suicide. But it could also be for religious reasons. Some faiths still considered it a mortal sin, and refused to allow the victim to be buried in consecrated ground.
‘That sort of intimacy demands a phenomenal amount of trust,’ the journalist said, the camera capturing her penetrating gaze.
‘And I was the only person he trusted to have sex with that way. We talked about how dangerous it was to do alone and he promised me. He promised me,’ the camera managed a close-up, ‘he would never do that alone.’
‘Just like he promised to be faithful in his wedding vows,’ the voice down the phone quipped.
‘Is she suggesting someone murdered Janson? The toxicology reports aren’t even back.’
The journalist leant forward in her seat. ‘Terri, what do you think happened that night in the hotel?’
‘I talked to him earlier in the night and Pete said he had a headache and was going to lie down for while.’
‘Was that unusual?’
‘Pete never got headaches.’ The widow bit her lip and looked to the side, the camera lapping up every second of her struggle to remain composed. ‘He got a hit in the head during the game the other day and kept playing. He wasn’t himself after that.’ The tears erupted and she asked the interviewer if they could take a break.
Anya had to admit, the interview was compelling viewing. In less than half an hour, Terri Janson had admitted to a sexual perversion, negating any responsibility her husband had for infidelity in that hotel room, and placing liability for his behaviour – and subsequent death – at the hands of the coach, doctors and team owners. It could not have been better scripted.
Ethan answered a call on his mobile phone, before returning to Anya.
‘You’ve got to hand it to her. She just garnered the nation’s support to sue the Bombers for wrongful death. We’d better get some sleep. Tomorrow could be a long one.’
Anya put the phone down and thought about what she had just watched. The public airing of such intimate details was mindboggling. When her sister had disappeared, Anya’s family was pressured to do media and public appeals. Her mother and father did, but they kept Anya away from the cameras as much as they could. Unfortunately that only increased interest in her, and helped to feed rumours that she had been involved in Miriam’s disappearance.
She felt for Janson’s daughters who were now thrust into an unforgiving spotlight. Children at their school would now know about their father’s sexual proclivities. And kids were capable of being far more cruel than adults. She had learnt that the hard way.
The whole interview seemed contrived and unnatural. She
thought of Jim Horan’s comments about getting Terri a deal with a cosmetics company. Maybe this was nothing more than self-promotion in a world that needed something ever more shocking to capture its imagination and attention.
Anya dried off, pulled on fresh pyjamas from the suitcase and climbed onto the bed. The tiredness suddenly felt overwhelming as she lay, mind running over the last few days. So much had happened since she had boarded the plane. She checked the clock. Ben was still at school back home, but she could not stay awake the extra few hours to talk with him. It was better to call in the morning, her time.
The phone rang and she wondered what Ethan had forgotten.
‘Buffet here,’ the gruff voice announced. ‘There’s an urgent meeting in my suite in ten minutes. Be there.’
A
nya arrived at the suite and wrapped her damp hair in a clip before ringing the doorbell.
A man she had not met but who had been there the night of Janson’s death answered and invited her in. Inside, on a couch sat Kitty Rowe in jeans, an ice-blue sweater and heeled ankle boots. Bentley Masterton sat beside her, biting his thumbnail, his jacket and tie thrown over the back of the couch.
Buffet growled orders down the room phone. Gavin Rosseter sat at the dining table, reading papers and highlighting information with a neon yellow pen. His right knee jiggled beneath the table. Doctor Reginald Pope stood opposite, absent-mindedly drumming his fingers on the conference-sized table. Gavin glanced up as if irritated by Pope’s habit, but did not speak. He offered Anya a seat next to him.
The tension in the room was palpable. It seemed that everyone was waiting for Buffet to speak. Ethan was notably absent.
At the other end of the table, next to Coach Ingram, sat two men with identical short haircuts. They had to be lawyers, judging by their dark suits. In the centre was a platter of sandwiches, and another coffee machine had been placed in the suite. This looked like being a long night.
Anya checked she had her copy of the autopsy report and
the results from one of the genetic tests Gail Lee had emailed late that afternoon.
Buffet slammed down the receiver and hobbled over to an empty chair, choosing to stand behind it. The other two owners stayed on the couch, still able to watch the proceedings.
‘Did you all see that farce of a puff piece tonight with Janson’s widow?’
All heads nodded.
‘Well,’ one of the lawyers began, ‘no one’s been served so there’s time to publicly discredit her story.’
Masterton stood and poured himself a Scotch from the bar. ‘She has dragged all of our good names into the gutter with her disgusting display of sex toys and sordid intimate details. Why, Pete Janson committing suicide is bad enough, but this whole other business is a complete abomination.’
Anya found it bizarre that a religious leader would be more condemning of masturbation than gang-rape. Masterton ran women’s shelters for victims of domestic violence but seemed oblivious to his own players’ violence against women.
Kitty Rowe cupped a glass of white wine in her hands. ‘The piece was totally choreographed. The woman was too well rehearsed; everything from the head tilts to the fluttering eyelash extensions. It had the mark of a savvy manager and a seasoned production team.’
‘Well that cuts out Jim Horan,’ Buffet said. ‘The man’s a complete buffoon.’
‘I agree this was out of his league,’ Kitty Rowe began. ‘As a professional courtesy, the producer called before the show aired and said Max O’Connor is now managing Terri Janson.’
Rosseter leant closer to Anya. ‘O’Connor’s a real ambulance chaser. He grabs the “miracle survivor”, the “against the odds” victims, and turns them into national celebrities. He’s so quick on the scene of a disaster, you’d think he set the whole thing up.’
Anya remembered Terri Janson talking to Horan by phone in his office; it had sounded as though he had a deal for her. This manager must have promised a lot more, and quickly. She
thought of the way Horan consoled Terri after seeing Janson’s body.
‘Horan’s trying to sell a book proposal on Janson, the scandalous sex and drugs exposé,’ Kitty Rowe added, with sarcasm.
Instead of flushing the drugs down the toilet in the hotel room, Horan had probably kept them for his own commercial ends.
Masterton paced, drink in hand. ‘We’re supposed to represent family values. The Janson woman and Horan will ruin that. How do we stop them perverting everything we stand for? We have a lot of people depending on this team for their jobs. Our office employees, advertisers, kids at risk who hand out the programmes. Without this club, all of those people will be without work. God-fearing Christians who give us their all.’
Buffet banged his fist on the table. ‘Settle down, Bentley. We all know you’re responsible for many of our employees and volunteers, but we need to focus.’
He glanced around the room. ‘First we need to find out if Janson’s wife has a case for wrongful death. Pope? Where do we stand medico-legally?’
The older doctor swept some thinning hair away from his ear. ‘Doctor Rosseter conducted a neurological exam and found he was oriented, alert and fully functioning. He denied having a headache and was keen to play on. Rosseter has documented what took place and the results of the neuro questionnaire as recommended by the league.’
Rosseter nodded.
‘May I ask,’ Anya tried to be as diplomatic as possible, ‘did Janson lose consciousness, even for a few seconds, when he was hit?’ She could suddenly feel the heat of Buffet’s glare. ‘It is the first question a defence lawyer will ask.’ Particularly, she thought, given that no one on the sideline saw him move until Gavin was at his side.
Rosseter answered, eyes still fixed to his paperwork. ‘I don’t believe so. The players who were on the field claim he remained conscious the whole time.’
‘Good,’ one of the lawyers commented, taking notes.
‘The medical examiner is going to want to know Janson’s movements between the time he was hit and his death,’ she added. The air in the room felt thicker and even less congenial.
Coach Ingram appeared drawn and tired. ‘That’s easy. These boys are timetabled. Janson showered with the team after the game on Sunday, then they all had dinner at the hotel. He was his usual smart-ass self and ate everything like normal. He met his curfew at 11 pm. At seven the following morning he had breakfast with the other players and he ate fried eggs, bacon, sausages, hash browns, toast and a wheatgerm smoothie. I know because I sat with him to talk plays. At 9 am he had a photo shoot with the team and then attended the children’s hospital to meet kids with cancer.’
He glanced at Buffet and the lawyers.
‘I’m told the pictures are up on the team website. At noon he had lunch with six of the team in a disadvantaged school, where he then played with some of the kids before attending practice that afternoon. He performed well and that night attended a party with sports journalists at Chelsea Piers.’
Every minute of Janson’s day was documented. It almost sounded like a prison routine.
It was even more apparent to Anya how little time these men spent with friends outside the team, and how insulated they were. As Terri Janson implied, they did spend more time with each other than with their families. Between coaches, managers, owners, trainers and doctors, these men were like children herded everywhere and not allowed independent time.
They were to all intents and purposes isolated from the real world, which explained a lot of the adolescent and antisocial behaviour. It also gave them a sense of invincibility. She wondered how many of the players actually paid a bill, knew how to operate a washing machine or could even balance a chequebook.
‘Did he show any signs of headache, or have trouble with co-ordination, speech, memory? Anything that could have suggested the head injury was affecting him?’
Ingram was adamant, and a little too defensive. ‘I would have known if one of my players, let alone our top quarterback, was less than a hundred percent.’ His tired eyes glared at Anya. ‘You don’t know these men. I live with them 24/7 and know them better than my own sons. I would have known if anything was wrong.’
Gavin Rosseter added, ‘I do the rounds at night. These guys always ask for painkillers, and sometimes sedatives to help them sleep. It’s usually when they mention every minor ache and twinge. Janson didn’t want anything. Said he had no trouble sleeping. He would have been the first to complain if he didn’t feel right. He was a bit of a hypochondriac like that, paranoid that something minor could affect his career.’
And yet, Anya thought, he didn’t think that raping women, beating his wife or casual sex with fans would damage his career, despite having a morals clause built into his contract.
‘How many concussions did he actually suffer? There’s a cumulative effect the lawyers will home straight in on.’
Pope rolled his eyes. ‘This is football. Players take hits all the time. If we documented every thump and bruise, there’d be no time to treat the serious injuries.’
Anya resisted the temptation to explain the seriousness of concussion to the experienced physician, demeaning him in front of the others, but she took note of his opinion.
‘So there’s no complete medical record that’s kept for the span of a player’s career?’
Rosseter seemed to understand her point. ‘Medical reports are kept confidential and, in practice, incidents aren’t always recorded, or deemed significant enough by the team doctor. A bad record can affect how players are traded or bought in the draft.’
Anya could not believe what she was hearing. Buffet demanded unconditional loyalty from his players, yet treated them like possessions, to be traded or discarded at the first sign of wear and tear.
‘These men aren’t used cars, to be sold on once they’re no longer functioning at their best.’ Yet again she felt the barbarism
of the game, but this time it had nothing to do with the behaviour of players. She looked around the table at those responsible.
‘We can’t be blamed for that if everyone else does the same thing,’ Buffet announced. ‘Let’s move on.’
‘I’m sorry, but you can’t. The lawyers will push that point because of the severe damage to Janson’s brain.’ She told the room what she knew about CTE and the preliminary results she had discussed with Doctor Gail Lee. She went on to explain the symptoms: depression, aggression, substance abuse, forgetfulness and eventual dementia, and mentioned the study that Roman Bronstein and Harrison Leske were conducting at Columbia University.
Pope came to life. ‘Those symptoms just described half the country’s population.’
He glanced around, as if expecting a laugh. No one was amused. ‘And as for CTE, some cases have been shown in boxers, but there is no evidence that footballers are prone to it. For all we know, it could be something that happens in athletes who already have a mental illness, or as a consequence of substance abuse combined with even mild trauma.’