STEVE JURGENSEN had them both free in under a minute. He spotted the roll of duct tape, then dragged Gary, still unconscious, across the room and taped him, quite securely, to the couch. He added a strip of tape over his mouth, then checked to make certain his breathing was normal.
“We can’t take any chances on him coming to and making a phone call to warn people,” he said. “Can you kids walk all right? Circulation coming back?”
Stevie felt a little bit wobbly, but okay. His back and legs hurt but he knew it would pass. More than anything, he was confused—very confused.
“If you’re really Steve Jurgensen,” Susan Carol said, rolling her shoulders to loosen up, “why are you rescuing us? You’re one of the bad guys.”
“Because you’re only half right,” Jurgensen said. “I am Jurgensen, but I’m not one of the bad guys.”
“But you followed us yesterday,” Stevie said. “We got the license plate on your car.”
“I followed you to try to figure out what Chip was messed up in,” Jurgensen said. “Come on. We have to get going.”
They glanced at the TV. The clock was now under five minutes left in the first half and Duke’s lead was 10. If they didn’t get to the Dome soon and let Chip know they were all right, MSU was going to get blown out.
He and Susan Carol followed Jurgensen to his car, and they all jumped in the front seat. Jurgensen peeled out of the parking lot but almost immediately screeched to a halt. Even though the game was under way, traffic downtown was still a mess. Jurgensen glanced at his watch. “With luck we can get there before the second half starts.”
“Since we have some time,” Susan Carol said as Jurgensen hit the brakes again, “maybe you can explain to us what in the world is going on.”
Jurgensen nodded. “I’ll give it my best shot. Actually, it started when you two kids managed to talk your way in to see Chip Saturday morning.”
“How could you possibly know about that?” Stevie said.
“Remember the big guy who stopped you in the hallway?”
“Mike the Giant?”
“Yeah, him. He didn’t exactly buy your story even though Chip backed you. He went to Chip’s dad and told him about two teenagers visiting Chip, one of them claiming to be Chip’s cousin. Well, Alan obviously knew Chip didn’t have a cousin in New Orleans. He also knew Chip had been acting kind of funny all week. He hadn’t practiced well, which was unlike him. He figured something was going on but didn’t know what. He didn’t want to confront Chip with it, partly because he thought Chip would come to him when the time was right, but also because they both had a lot on their minds with a Final Four game to play that night. So, he called me.”
“Called you?” Susan Carol said. “Why, of all people, would Coach Graber call you?”
Jurgensen pulled around a truck that was double-parked on Canal Street. “For one thing, we’re friends,” he said. “For another, I’m his lawyer.”
Stevie and Susan Carol looked at one another, not quite sure what to believe anymore. Up ahead, they could see police lights. There was an accident that was tying traffic up completely. “You’re friends with the man who beat you out for the coaching job at Davidson?” Stevie said.
This time Jurgensen laughed. “Who did you hear that story from?”
“Dean Wojenski.”
“What does that tell you?”
“That it’s a lie,” Susan Carol said.
According to Steve Jurgensen, he and Alan Graber had been best friends while assistants at Davidson. When Coach Pritchett left, the original plan was for Jurgensen to go after the job while Graber moved up to become the number one assistant. But Jurgensen hated the hours and, most of all, he hated recruiting.
“I didn’t think I could live the rest of my life dependent on the whims of teenagers,” he said. “So Alan took the job, and I went into law.”
“So when Coach Graber called you Saturday, what did you do?” Susan Carol asked. “What did you know?”
“Not much,” Jurgensen said. “Alan just wanted me to keep an eye on Chip, make sure he was okay. My wife happened to mention that Chip was trying to track down Ben Wojenski, so I asked her to be sure he found him.”
“So your wife wasn’t in on it?” Stevie asked. “Wojenski figured …”
“That since Chip had called Christine, I was as good a diversion as any,” Jurgensen said. “That’s my guess anyway.
“Christine told me you called, Susan Carol, so when I saw you three get in a car the next morning, I figured you were headed out to Bay St. Louis.
“I followed you down there and back, but then you ditched me at the Dome, and I still didn’t know what was going on. So I did a little digging into Benjamin Wojenski. Hard to get into public records on a Sunday—unless you know the right people. I found out Wojenski’s house is mortgaged to the hilt. So then I got another friend to pull his phone records. Lots of calls to an 800 number that turned out to be an offshore betting service. And then I hit pay dirt.”
“How?”
“All sorts of calls to different numbers in the 612 area code and several to a 919 number that I recognized right away.”
“Let me guess,” Stevie said. “Stuart Feeley.”
“You got it.”
“And 612 is Minneapolis, right?” Susan Carol said. “Whiting?”
“Right,” Jurgensen said. “There were a bunch of calls to Tom Whiting’s cell. But it was the other 612 number that was really interesting.”
They were now approaching a police checkpoint near the Dome, where police were apparently turning cars away to keep the area around the building clear. Stevie couldn’t help but think this was all going to be for nothing if they didn’t get moving soon.
They were still a ways from the checkpoint. “Listen, guys, I don’t think we can wait any longer,” Jurgensen said. He made a hard right turn into a small side street and parked next to a fire hydrant. “We’ve got to run for it.”
He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out three passes marked “All Access.”
“Put these on,” he said. “You’ll need them when we get there.”
“But wait,” Susan Carol said as they climbed out of the car.
“I’ll tell you the rest later,” Jurgensen said as they started to run.
“But how’d you know where to find us tonight?” Stevie said.
He could see Jurgensen smile even as they were heading up a hill. “Your e-mail to Bobby Kelleher. Basically, you saved yourselves by sending it. I had no idea where you and Chip had gone. About seven-thirty I got a nearly hysterical call from Bobby saying he thought you were in trouble.”
Stevie took a breath so he could talk. The Dome was now a couple hundred yards away. “Why would Kelleher call you? We told him you were in on it!”
“Luckily, he knows me well enough to know that couldn’t be true. So he hoped I’d know what was true in your story. Your e-mail had him pretty well floored. But between what you wrote and what I found out, I think we’ve got it figured.”
Stevie glanced at Susan Carol, who seemed to be handling the run a lot better than he and Jurgensen. He wanted to thank her for thinking to send the e-mail to Kelleher. It might have saved their lives. But they were finally approaching the gate of the Superdome, and Stevie had just enough breath to get there.
The guard at the back door seemed very surprised to see anyone with an All Access pass arriving with the second half just under way. But the passes made it impossible for him to question them. All three of them were breathing hard when they made it into the hallway where the locker rooms were. There was almost no one around and they could hear the roar of the game coming from the floor. They sprinted to the tunnel leading to the floor. Across the way they could see a scoreboard. Duke was leading 59–50, with just under twelve minutes to play.
“We have to get you guys someplace where we can be sure Chip will see you,” Jurgensen said.
“Well,” Stevie said, “we’ve got All Access passes. Next time-out, we just walk over near the bench and get his attention coming out of the huddle.”
Jurgensen nodded. “That should work.”
They walked to the end of the tunnel that put them just yards from the MSU bench. They stood off to one side and waited for the whistle to stop play. “One more thing, real quick,” Susan Carol said, still panting a bit. “How did you get Gary to open the door for you?”
Jurgensen smiled. “I told him I was the hotel manager and I had champagne sent by Mr. Feeley for a postgame celebration.”
“Nice,” Stevie said.
“Thought of it in the car on the way over,” he said. “I was counting on there only being one guy guarding you. And I wasn’t counting on that gun. I was lucky.”
“We all were,” said Susan Carol.
They heard a whistle. TV was going to time-out with 10:59 left. Duke’s lead was 63–53.
As the players came to the bench and sat down facing away from the crowd, Stevie and Susan Carol started to make a move. “Hang on,” Jurgensen said. “You go too soon, he’ll be looking the wrong way. Wait until you hear the first horn.”
During time-outs, there were two horns. The first one told the players and coaches they had thirty seconds to get back on court. The second sounded with ten seconds left and the officials would go into the huddle to break it up if the players were still lingering.
“As soon as you hear the first horn, move very quickly,” Jurgensen said. “Walk right up to the scorer’s table, because the ball is at the other end and Chip will go right past there.”
They nodded. And waited. Finally they heard the horn. “Go!” Jurgensen said.
Stevie started running, Susan Carol right behind him. They were past the guard protecting the area behind the bench in an instant, Stevie yelling, “All Access!” as they went by.
He heard a voice say, “Hey, stop them, stop those kids!”
He didn’t have to turn around to recognize who it was, because the voice was now familiar to him: Tom Whiting. He heard other people yell and then saw Chip turn in the direction of the commotion. He stopped as Chip turned around and, as loud as he could to be heard over the din, screamed, “We’re okay, Chip, we’re okay!” Susan Carol was jumping up and down behind him, waving her arms and screaming, too.
Chip saw them and smiled, but just as he did, two security guards grabbed Stevie and Susan Carol. Chip started over to say something, but the second horn went off and the officials were screaming at the MSU players to get back on court. Chip hesitated. “Go play!” Stevie yelled. “Just go and win the game!”
If he was dragged away now, it was okay. The guard was pulling him backward when he heard another voice say, “Let them go. They’ve got All Access passes. Let them go right now.”
The voice belonged to Coach Alan Graber. It suddenly occurred to Stevie that they had never asked Jurgensen where he had gotten the All Access passes. Now he knew. “They’re with us,” he heard Alan Graber saying. “Just let them go. They’re fine.”
The security guards looked confused. But they didn’t argue. They let go and backed away.
“Come on, Stevie,” Susan Carol said. “Let’s get out of here.”
That was fine with Stevie. Coach Graber smiled at them, then turned back to the court, where his team was inbounding the ball. Whiting, seated on the end of the bench, was glaring at them. But he couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t overrule his coach. Stevie wanted to say something as he walked past, but resisted. They had gotten the message to Chip. The rest was up to him.
Stevie and Susan Carol tried to find Jurgensen, but he wasn’t in the hallway where they’d left him. Then they looked for Kelleher on press row, but he wasn’t in his seat. So they reclaimed their own seats in the overflow press section with less than six minutes to play. Those last minutes of the game might have been the most emotional moments of Stevie’s life. They’d been watching Chip slowly take control of the game. Stevie could see on the scoreboard that Graber now had 19 points. Duke’s lead was down to 73–69. “He caught his second wind a few minutes ago,” one of the writers sitting next to them said. “It’s like someone just turned him on.”
MSU and Duke went back and forth in the final minutes. Chip tied the score at 80 with an off-balance driving layup with fourteen seconds left. Krzyzewski called time to set up a final play. “I’m not sure I can sit through another overtime,” Susan Carol said. “But I hope they don’t score.”
Stevie knew she meant it. His heart was pounding yet again. The time-out seemed to take forever. Finally, the teams were back on the court.
Duke inbounded. Everyone in the building knew the ball was going to J.J. Redick, their brilliant shooter. Terry Armstrong, the point guard, held the ball near midcourt as the clock went down. Everyone in the arena was standing. As the clock went down to five seconds, Stevie saw Redick sprinting around a screen near the top of the key. Armstrong snapped a pass in his direction. But it never got there. Out of nowhere came Chip. He’d been guarding Duke’s other superb shooter, Daniel Ewing, but had gambled at the last minute and left him alone. Chip got his hand on the ball and deflected it toward midcourt.
Stevie could see the clock clicking from :03 to :02 as Chip picked the ball up in full flight, Armstrong sprinting back to cut him off. Chip was almost at the exact same spot where he had made the winning shot on Saturday, when he stopped his dribble and went up in the air to shoot. Armstrong was diving at him, screaming at the top of his lungs, “No, no, no way!”
Just as Chip released the ball, Armstrong piled into him and they both went down to the floor. Stevie wondered if there would be a foul call, but he heard no whistle. Stevie thought he must be watching a replay of the end of the St. Joe’s game. This time, though, the ball hit the back of the rim and bounced high into the air. Overtime, Stevie thought. But then the ball dropped down, hit the front of the rim, hung there for a moment, and dropped through the net.
Bedlam.
Stevie knew he was jumping up and down and screaming and acting completely unprofessional. He didn’t care. Someone was pounding him and hugging him. It was Susan Carol. She had tears in her eyes. Well, so did he. It was déjà vu all over again. Same spot on the court, almost the same shot.
Chip had disappeared completely under a pile of his celebrating teammates. Stevie saw Krzyzewski waiting patiently for the pile to clear so he could congratulate him. Grudgingly, he had to concede that was a pretty classy move.
Suddenly Jurgensen appeared at their seats. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got work to do.”
They followed him to the tunnel. People were running in all directions, shouting instructions at one another. They were right underneath the Duke section, which was the one place in the Dome that wasn’t going completely crazy. At the top of the tunnel, Stevie saw a half dozen men in suits.
“Thanks for coming, Rick,” Jurgensen said, shaking hands with one of them, a tall bald man who did not appear likely to smile anytime soon.
“Steve, I came because your word has always been good in the past,” Rick said. “I’m assuming it’s good now, although that’s a wild story you told me on the phone.”
“It’s all true,” Jurgensen said. “These are the two kids I told you about. Stevie, Susan Carol, this is Special Agent Rick Applebaum. He runs the New Orleans field office of the FBI. We’ve worked together on cases in the past.”
They all shook hands. “You kids okay?” Applebaum said. They nodded. “And are you sure Graber will talk?” he said, eyes fixed on Jurgensen.
“He’ll talk. And so will these two. You’ll have plenty. And I can testify to seeing them tied up at the hotel.”
“Yeah, we’ve already picked up the guy you left back there,” Applebaum said. “Nice tape job. Okay, let’s go get the rest of them.”
Jurgensen told them where everyone was likely to be: Whiting on court with the team, Feeley in the Duke section. “And you’ll find Koheen down on the floor trying to look happy about the outcome,” he said.
Koheen? Stevie knew the name but wasn’t sure from where. Then he remembered the MSU media guide. Susan Carol had figured it out a split second before him. “Earl Koheen?” she said. “The president of MSU?”
Jurgensen nodded. “That’s the part I didn’t get to tell you. The other calls Wojenski made to the 612 area code were to Earl Koheen. It took me a while to add things up, but in the end, it all connects.”
“Wait a minute,” Stevie said. “The media guide. It said that one of Koheen’s professors at Providence was …”
“Tom Whiting,” Susan Carol said, finishing the sentence for him.
“And guess who was teaching up there at the exact same time,” Jurgensen said.
Stevie and Susan Carol looked at one another. Something Wojenski had said came back to Stevie. He’d said he and his wife were both from Rhode Island.
“Wojenski,” he said.
“Right,” Jurgensen said. “That’s where it all clicked. Koheen has been quietly sniffing around all winter to replace Tom Sanford as Duke’s president. I knew that from being on the board. Then all of a sudden MSU and Duke are in the Final Four. Koheen knew Chip had been in some academic trouble and he also knew that Feeley’s finances hadn’t been great the last year or so. My guess is he called Feeley and offered a deal: I’ll see to it that Duke wins the championship game if the schools play. Feeley makes a huge financial hit and in return Koheen ends up as Duke’s president.”
“And Whiting goes along with him to a big job at Duke, right?” Susan Carol said. “That explains why the fix had to be on this game. It wasn’t just about the money.”
“Right. And Koheen and Whiting knew that Wojenski had always had gambling problems even when he was still working. They were certain he would help set up the scheme.”
“Wojenski?” Applebaum said. “Where is he?”
They all looked at one another. “He might be with Whiting or Koheen,” Jurgensen said. “Come on, we’ll point everyone out to you.”
They all walked to the court. The FBI men, Stevie noticed, wore All Access passes that had apparently been produced for them very quickly. Heads turned as they made their way to the floor. Things happened very fast. Whiting was standing to the side watching the celebration when an agent approached him. He didn’t even look surprised. Jurgensen led Applebaum directly to President Koheen, who was standing next to Bob Bowlsby, whom Stevie recognized as the chairman of the NCAA men’s basketball committee. Stevie was trailing Jurgensen and Applebaum. Susan Carol had gone with another agent to identify Feeley.
“Earl Koheen?” Stevie heard Applebaum say.
Koheen gave Applebaum a puzzled look. Apparently, no one had warned him that he might be in trouble.
“My name is Rick Applebaum. I am the special agent in charge of the New Orleans field office of the FBI. Sir, you are under arrest.”
“Arrest?” Bowlsby said, clearly stunned.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Koheen—”
“Doctor Koheen,” the about-to-be-disgraced president said.
“Okay, Doctor Koheen,” Applebaum said without even a hint of a smile in the face of Koheen’s arrogance. “Doctor Koheen, you are under arrest for attempted blackmail, for tampering with state records, and for conspiracy to kidnap two minors.”
“That’s a complete lie,” Koheen said. “If you lay a hand on me, you will be subjected to the lawsuit of your life.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Applebaum said.
He turned Koheen not-so-gently away from him so he could handcuff him. Stevie was suddenly aware of dozens of photographers, on court to photograph the awards ceremony and net-cutting, turning their attention to the sight of Koheen in handcuffs. Koheen screamed, “Stop them! Someone stop them! Someone call my lawyer!”
Applebaum led him across the court, with Stevie following, trying not to get trampled by the photographers. He saw Bill Brill and Dick Weiss standing at the corner of the court, their mouths open wide, as Koheen was led past them. A few yards away, coming from the stands, he saw another agent with Feeley and Susan Carol.
“Stevie, what in the world is going on here?” Weiss said. “Where were you all night?”
“Long story,” Stevie said. “I’ll tell you later.”
He raced up the tunnel. Security people were blocking all the media—reporters and photographers—telling them they had to go to the other side of the court to exit. But the security wall parted as soon as Stevie got near. He wasn’t sure if it was his pass or if Applebaum had said something.
At the top of the tunnel, Stevie saw Whiting and Feeley and Koheen all in cuffs and surrounded by FBI guys. Susan Carol and Jurgensen were waiting to one side, and as Stevie joined them he heard footsteps behind them: Bobby Kelleher.
“So I guess Steve got there in time,” Kelleher said, shaking hands with Stevie and Susan Carol. “I saw you guys come running in during the time-out, but I didn’t have a chance to come and talk to you. Steve and I were calling in the FBI. We need to have a long, long talk.”
Susan Carol nodded. “We certainly owe you that—and a lot more,” she said.
Kelleher shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything. You saved yourselves—and the Final Four. I was just the messenger.”
“No sign of Wojenski anyplace,” one of the agents said, coming up behind Kelleher.
“These guys say he never came to the game tonight,” said another.
“Send a car to his home,” Applebaum said. “If he’s not there, put out an APB. Let’s get these guys booked. Doctor Koheen wants to call his lawyer.”
He turned to Jurgensen. “I’ll need you and the kids and the Grabers and Kelleher in my office tomorrow morning for complete statements.”
“No problem,” Jurgensen said.
Applebaum turned to Stevie, Susan Carol, and Kelleher. “I know you two are aspiring journalists. And I know, Mr. Kelleher, that you are sitting on quite a story here. I can’t order you to do anything. But I’m asking all three of you not to write about this tonight or talk to anyone else in the media. Once you’ve given me your statements, it will be different. Do you understand?”
Stevie and Susan Carol both nodded. Not Kelleher.
“You don’t expect us not to write about all these arrests, do you?” he said. “I have to write that the president of MSU was led away in handcuffs minutes after his team won the national championship, and I have to explain why.”
Applebaum nodded. “I know that, Kelleher,” he said. “I just don’t want the kids sitting down and telling you their whole story until they’ve talked to us first.”
“That’s not a problem,” Kelleher said. “I understand.”
Applebaum waved his hand at the entourage of agents and arrestees. “Joe,” he said to the agent standing nearest him, “you get these guys to our office. Call the U.S. Attorney’s office and have someone meet you there. I’m going to stay behind to brief the Grabers before they speak to the media.”
Joe nodded and led the way down the hall. There was a throng of screaming reporters and photographers to walk through before they could exit, but the three distinguished gentlemen in handcuffs were like a little bubble of silence, passing through the storm.