TWENTY-FIVE

Being a star NBA player was as close to nirvana as the average young black boy reared in South Carolina was ever likely to come, so with good reason Chris loved having all eyes follow his every sure step, as he dribbled upcourt with a cocky confidence and a sure swagger. He was cheered, revered, adored, and catered to by legions of fans, especially those of the female persuasion. Babes drooled over him—and, of course, his money—like overexcited puppies tossed their first bone. They came to his games in packs and droves, each hoping to catch his eye, have his baby, and spend his money happily ever after.

As a result, the majority of his fellow ball players needed custom racks to hold the belts upon which they notched their sexual conquests, but Chris, who was not the average ball player, had always managed to duck and dodge, effectively evading the fleshy temptations offered by the scores of beautiful women who stalked him as if he were prey. One explanation for his superhuman resistance was certainty that his “devoted wife” would like nothing better than to catch him with his pants down, so she could take him to the cleaners.

If he were honest with himself, Chris would admit knowing that Reese had never loved him, and furthermore, that if not for his fame and fortune, she wouldn’t have given him a moment’s notice. But, in college he had deluded himself, falling for her dreamy looks of love like a fish into freshwater. After they were married, the only time he saw stars in her big brown eyes was when she was spending his money, and then her face lit up like the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree.

All things considered, he wasn’t surprised when Kira told him about Reese’s plot to break their prenup. Kira sold her girl down the river without batting a false eyelash. Ever shrewd, she arranged for Shaun’s “introduction,” and happily cashed the check that Chris had given her for her trouble.

He laughed at the irony of it; while Reese was busy spinning her flimsy web, she was already hopelessly entangled in one that had already been well set. Together he and Kira planned the infamous rendezvous at the Four Seasons hotel, the fake fire drill, and, of course, the hideous picture that was later plastered all over the tabloids and the Internet. Being underestimated and classified as a dumb jock proved to be a blessing for Chris, because Reese never saw the approach of her own demise. All was fair in love and war, and make no mistake about it—with Reese, love was war.

Now she was nearly out of his life, and he had an eight-figure Nike deal days from final execution; in other words, Chris had the world at his talented fingertips. To make things even better, finally, Reese had agreed to give up custody of Rowe and had verbally accepted his settlement offer of a measly two hundred thousand dollars, even though the sum would dwindle like sand through a strainer once her attorney and Uncle Sam got their unfair share. The way Reese spent money, she’d be lucky if the balance lasted three months. Clearly she was desperate and couldn’t afford the time or financial commitment to hold out, in hopes of a bigger settlement. Besides, she had no chips to play, while he had a full stack.

Chris felt as if he were cruising at the top of the world as he expertly maneuvered the rented black Escalade along the hairpin curves of Mulholland Drive, with Kanye’s title track, “Gold Digger,” thumping from the speakers, and his boy Damon riding alongside him. It sure was good to be king!

“Man, that shit’s tight!” Damon said, bumping his head to the killer beat. They had been best friends since high school. Damon was one person whose motives Chris never had reason to question. He was down-home and regular; both were qualities that Reese had despised.

“Yeah, man, Kanye and Jamie put it down on that track,” Chris agreed. “And you know, I could write a book on the subject.” They were chillin’, rolling through L.A. in a tight ride, sporting Sean John sweat suits, brand-new gym shoes, and enough bling to be taken seriously. They were headed to a private party given by a mutual friend.

“I’ll bet you could.” Damon laughed. “That bitch Reese was crazy. I never understood why you had to go and marry her in the first place. Just ’cause she got pregnant? Man, that’s the oldest trick in the book.”

“Yeah, but I fixed her. She’ll have to find another sucker to leech off of. I am free at last!” They high-fived each other and continued rocking to Kanye’s funky beat, soon pulling up to the Peninsula Hotel, where Chris hopped out of the car, tossed the keys to a valet, and bounced inside. They took the elevator to the penthouse suite.

Five hours later, at four in the morning, exhausted from some serious partying, they came out of the swanky hotel. It had been a long night, and Chris had a big game with the Lakers the next day, so he felt no compunction about stepping ahead of a couple and two other guys who were also waiting on their cars. Chris broke in line, as was his right—after all, he was a star NBA player—and handed his ticket to a valet, not caring about the angry looks that were thrown his way. The Escalade was quickly driven around and he jumped in and took off, oblivious to the commotion erupting behind him.

As they cruised up Wilshire Boulevard, jamming to KKBT the Beat, the music was so loud that neither he nor Damon heard the siren blaring or noticed the blue lights twirling madly in the night sky behind them. It wasn’t until the LAPD cruiser pulled alongside the Escalade, the driver motioning him over, that Chris realized that he was being stopped by the cops. Being a black male in L.A., he felt unbridled fear as his natural reaction, until he reminded himself that he wasn’t just an average young black boy from South Carolina; he was a renowned superstar NBA player. Besides, he was also clean. Sure, he’d had a few drinks, but he was six-five and 220 pounds. Over the course of five hours, there was no way he was anywhere near drunk. After reassuring himself, he pulled the Escalade over to the side of the road, killed the engine, and rolled down his window. A tall, lanky white cop approached him, shining a bright flashlight through his window.

“License and registration, please,” the cop said as he peered into the car, sizing up the situation.

Chris squinted into the bright light, but with confidence said, “No problem, Officer.” He spoke clearly—no slurring of his words. He was respectful, was not drunk, and therefore had nothing to worry about, he told himself. Damon, on the other hand, was visibly nervous. A sheen of perspiration had appeared across his brow and upper lip, and his eyes had the look of those of a deer caught in bright headlights. Chris leaned toward the door to reach into his back pocket, tossing Damon a look that said, Chill; I got this.

“Slowly…” the officer cautioned. His hand was near the revolver, his fingers already drawn toward the trigger. Two shifty-eyed young black boys, an expensive sports car, and four o’clock in the morning—it all added up to trouble in his book. To him, all black men fell into the same category: lowlifes. Some were just more polished than others. Besides, he wasn’t a basketball fan, so Chris didn’t look at all familiar.

Taking note, Chris showed his palms and slowly reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet, and from it his driver’s license. He handed the ID through the window to the cop, and then reached over to the glove compartment to get his rental agreement. Right away he knew something was wrong; instead of the folded piece of paper that he’d left within easy reach, there was a small leather bag that he’d never even seen before.

The officer’s radio crackled. “Got a five-oh-three on the license plate.”

Suddenly the cop got antsy, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his semicordial demeanor gone with the wind. “Get out of the car with your hands on your head,” he demanded. His gun was drawn now, and the barrels were pointed squarely between Chris’s eyes. A second cop, who’d remained in the patrol car up till now, was suddenly prowling on Damon’s side of the car, looking very nervous and menacing, while Damon looked like a runaway slave facing a tight noose.

“Wait a minute. What’s going on here?” Chris was baffled. Something was terribly wrong.

“Our records show that this car is stolen, so I need you both to get out of the vehicle slowly, with your hands in the air,” the first cop said, never lowering his weapon.

“Listen, Officer, there’s gotta be some mistake here. I’m Chris Nolan, with the New York Knicks.” This was the card he always played when things needed to go his way, but this time it was trumped.

“I don’t care if you are Don King; I need you to step out of the vehicle right now!” Tension was visible in the cop’s face; the veins along the side of his neck throbbed, and his complexion had gone from pale to pink—red was next. Chris suddenly understood the term trigger-happy, because the cop’s fingers were actually twitching involuntarily, as if only the release of a bullet could possibly scratch the itch.

Damon was looking at Chris for an explanation and reassurance. Chris slowly opened the door and got out, then was promptly manhandled by the second cop, who frisked him, then slammed his body against the car, yanking his hands roughly behind his back, where they were joined in a pair of tight handcuffs. It wasn’t until his face was jammed onto the top of the car that Chris noticed a very important detail: The car was midnight blue, not black. Somehow in his haste he’d left the hotel in the wrong Escalade!

Finally realizing what had happened, he immediately felt a sense of relief, a shining glimmer of hope that he could wake himself up from this awful nightmare. All he had to do was explain how he’d inadvertently taken off in the wrong new Escalade; then they could all laugh about it, and he could get on his way, head to the hotel, climb into bed, and forget this madness ever happened. “Officer, Officer, listen, please. I just valet-parked my rental car at the Peninsula, and somehow I left in the wrong one.”

“Oh, yeah, so you just happened to take a brand-new Escalade by accident. Save it, buddy; you’re going down.” He yanked the cuffs, dragging Chris to the patrol car. Out of nowhere a photographer had shown up, offering Chris the second flash of light in his face in the last five minutes.

“I want to call my attorney,” he demanded angrily. The reply was his head being shoved down as he was unceremoniously tossed into the backseat of the patrol car.

In a surrealistic state he watched as Damon went through the same humiliating process. He was clearly terrified; his eyes were the size of dollar coins. When the officer frisked him he called out to his partner, and both men converged behind Damon, examining something that had been taken from his pocket; then a flurry of activity ensued. Though Chris couldn’t hear what was said, the fear in Damon’s eyes was loud and clear. Damon had something on him that he shouldn’t have. Chris dropped his head, shaking it from side to side, praying that this was all a bad dream. Another patrol car pulled up, and the officers hopped out and quickly begin a methodical search of the car, stopping every now and then to place pieces of evidence into plastic bags. Chris shivered as he absorbed the full calamity of the situation that was unfolding before him.

After torturous hours of interrogation, booking, and processing, Chris’s attorney finally had them released at nine o’clock that morning. He walked out of the precinct looking like death warmed over, and was greeted by a swarming mass of reporters and photographers, all snapping a frenzy of pictures and popping off rounds of questions:

“Chris, Chris, why did you steal the Escalade?”

“Were you high on the meth they found in the car?”

“What’ll happen to your Nike deal?”

“Who is your friend?”

“Where had you been all night?”

Courtesy of a reporter looking for his reaction, a newspaper was shoved in his face. The erroneous headline read, “Knicks Star Chris Nolan Steals Escalade During Drug-fueled Rampage.”

And, of course, there was the requisite grainy photo of him doing the perp walk—head down, hands shackled behind his back—into the police station. There was no way not to look guilty under those circumstances. This was his worst nightmare come true.

Though his lawyer assured him that the auto-theft charge would be dismissed, based upon proof that he had just valet-parked a similar car at the same place, the drug charges could be a problem. Not only did Damon, unbeknownst to Chris, have Ecstasy on him, but there was meth and cocaine found in the car as well. Proving that they weren’t his would be tricky, since the car’s owner was unlikely to step up and claim the drugs himself. Regardless of what happened in court, his reputation was already tainted by the scandal-hungry media.

He thought of his son, Rowe, his mother, his coach and team, and how disappointed they would all be when they got wind of this. It brought tears to his eyes. But most of all he thought about Nike, and the multimillion-dollar contract that had just sat in the palm of his hand merely hours ago. Given the character clause, it was fair to assume that defeat would be snatched from the jaws of victory. Forget a misting of tears; the enormity of that loss rendered him unable to hold back a tidal wave.

With his head in his hands, the six-foot-five-inch superstar athlete cried like a lost child. At that moment being a star NBA player was worthless to him; in fact, he’d rather have been just an average black boy from South Carolina.