CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Following the pandemonium, the warden uncuffed me as Audrey commanded and led us to a room where we, along with several other prison officials, including Gage, watched the video. With no script, no makeup, and little introduction, Ginger launched into her story. She told it with a straight face, vivid detail, and a keen memory for dates.

Ginger admitted to lying in high school about the bruise marks on her neck, confirming that I had nothing to do with it. She told about the date-rape drug used on her both on the night that she threw the ring at me and the night Wood and I rescued her at the railroad warehouse and how she would use it later on me. She told how she woke up from that nightmare a seventeen-year-old mom and that she wouldn’t recognize his father if she bumped into him. And how she wrongly blamed me for all of it. She relayed the events surrounding the railroad warehouse where Wood and I saved her. How I broke my hand that night and then played the following night. And then she relayed, in vivid detail, the events that took place in the hours following the draft. How I’d awakened at three a.m. for my workout. She knew I’d been working out the week prior in the fitness center in the basement. She laced the first few paper cups with the drug and the water cooler itself, and when I began drinking the water in the cooler, she was afraid she’d given me too much. She said she’d purposefully chosen her route to the elevator and her room by the number of cameras that would record our movement and that when she walked in and put her arm around me, that I was incoherent and too heavy and she thought she’d never get me to her room. She then described how she led me, as shown by the security cameras, both in the fitness center, hallways, and elevator, out of the fitness center, down the hall, up the elevator, and into her hotel room, where two teenage prostitutes lay passed out beneath the same drug. She told how she’d hired a male prostitute to fill in for me—who, fortunately for Ginger, died of a drug overdose a year later. She paid him to star in a grainy and dark video in which he engaged the underage girls in various acts—recorded prior to my entrance. She explained the doses she’d given them, guaranteeing that they wouldn’t be able to remember anything. When all four of us—Ginger, me, and the two girls—woke in the same bed the following day as the police broke through the door thanks to an anonymous tip, the girls naturally believed it’d been me. They had no reason not to. She also relayed how, following the trial, she had created a fake company that served to free girls from the sex trade. The company was a cover to privately return them to Malaysia. She gave them enough cash to live several years and had not heard from them since. Following the safe return of their only clients—ever—the company closed its doors. Finally, Ginger explained how she and the fill-in staged her final act—her own “rape.” How she paid him $10,000 to “make sure it looked authentic.” The swollen eye, busted lip, lacerations, bruises. At her invitation, he had literally knocked her unconscious. Ginger had bought the drugs, drugged the girls, paid the guy, taken the beating. She had planned it all for the better part of two years.

Open and shut. No wonder the jury bought it.

Ginger ended the video by speaking to Audrey directly. In simple terms, she said, “Matthew told the truth. From the beginning. Every word. When he stated under oath that he had no memory of any of this, he wasn’t lying. The drug I used is classified as an amnesiac. It’s designed to make you forget. Once I got him to the room, he was comatose, quite nearly dead, and incapable of any of this.” She then detailed the amounts and doses and on what schedule it was given to me—holding up her notepad taken from the bedside table, which showed her handwriting in pencil.

To nip any speculation in the bud as to why she chose now to speak up, she spoke with clarity. “I was content to hang my misery around Matthew Rising’s broad and beautiful shoulders and let him live out his days in prison.” Here Ginger cracked and cried a long time. The video continued. When she collected herself, she said, “But then, despite all the reasons you had to hate me and the world around you, you took an abandoned kid under your wing, nursed him back to health, and taught him… how to love.” She shook her head once. “And as if that wasn’t bad enough, you both knew—all the while—that Dalton Rogers was, and is, my son.” She trailed off and tried again. “I can’t—” Emotion choked whatever was to follow.

At the video’s end, she stared at the camera. “I would ask for forgiveness, specifically from you, Audrey and Matthew, for mercy, but I don’t deserve either. And I know it.” She shook her head, stared off-camera, and the video faded to black.

I sat there with my mouth open. If Ginger had been in prison for most of her life, then her confession was her attempt to fling wide the door. Now she’d have to deal with the court of public opinion.

Sitting in that room, surrounded by a lot of whispering people we did not know, Audrey looked at me, shaking her head. Her hands covering her mouth. The reality of the past twelve years cracking down the middle. Her entire body trembled, rocked violently. I’ve only heard the sound that exited her one other time in our married life. Then, it had entered her. Now, it was leaving. Exiting. I wrapped my arms around her and listened as Audrey emptied her soul. Moments later, she pressed my face between her hands and managed a painful whisper. “Forgive me?”

I shook my head. “There is nothing to forgive.”

The story spread, consumed the media outlets. Much of primetime coverage was given to Ginger’s continuing confession. To her credit, she went on the air that day on her own program, took no callers, broke for no commercials, and confessed to the world. A day later, she accepted an invitation to an hour-long nighttime news program out of New York.

Given the evidence and the public outcry, the District Attorney, along with assistance from the Governor and Warden, fast-tracked my release whereby Audrey and I went into hiding. With what little we had in savings, we rented a car and drove the coast of Georgia, hopping from cheap hotel to cheap hotel. It wasn’t glamorous, wasn’t Hawaii, but we didn’t care. We walked on the beach, shared as much of the last twelve years as we could remember, told the good and the bad. She wanted to know about life in prison, about my fight with the man, if I was afraid. When we were alone, she traced the lines of my scars with her fingers and kissed each one. Finally, she would kiss my chest, above my heart. I wanted to know how she ended up at St. Bernard’s, about the garden, how she’d met Dalton, about the video in her bedroom, and how long she’d been taking sleeping pills. We held hands more often than not, seldom were beyond an arms’ reach, and spent hours each day, her skin pressed to mine, wrapped around each other like the vines in her garden. To protect ourselves, we didn’t watch TV, listen to the radio, or read the newspaper. A total media blackout.

The following Friday night, we drove back into town and watched Dee’s game from the top of the Bucket. Wrapped in a blanket, safe from the crowd, we saw Dee become the quarterback, and man, he was meant to be. We watched in amazement as he broke free from the chains of his past and found his stride.

At halftime, the announcer stated that he’d heard from a reliable source, Wood no doubt, a special guest was in attendance at the game tonight.

He said, “Ladies and gentlemen, you may not be able to see him, but I’m told he’s within the sound of my voice. So let’s welcome the most decorated high school player in the history of high school football, two-time Heisman trophy winner, three-time national championship winner, and the number one pick in the NFL draft, Matthew ‘the Rocket’ Rising, back to the field he helped build.”

The crowd hit their feet and began stomping the stands. “Rocket! Rocket! Rocket!”

We sat safe and alone atop the Bucket. It was a fun moment.

The announcer returned, and we watched as Ray ran out onto the field, carrying something about the size of a bath towel. He spoke into the microphone. “Rocket, I know you can hear me. I been waiting a long time to say this.” He turned toward us, and even from this far we could see his smile spread from ear to ear. “We’d like to re-retire your jersey.”

The crowd liked that, too.

Audrey was sitting between my legs. My arms wrapped around her. I whispered, “Probably be a good idea. The thing didn’t smell too well then. Can’t imagine what it smells like after a decade.”

The game continued, and the announcer’s words echoed in my ears. I heard his words describing me, but they seemed hollow. As if they somehow didn’t fit. Clothes that were the wrong size. Yes, that Matthew Rising had walked into prison, but I’m not sure that Matthew Rising walked out. What I’d learned since my release was that an entire population had risen up around what I might have done had I played. They’d conjectured and theorized ad nauseam. They’d spent the time between my incarceration to my release thinking about me playing, dreaming about me playing, and regretting that I hadn’t played. They’d even included my persona in video games. From bars to living rooms, park benches, and board rooms, all had been filled with this conversation.

When I walked out a free man, I walked into the middle of a conversation that had been running a long time. A conversation about me that had not included me—in which I’d played no part. Had no say. The barrage of questions via the media was constant, and it caught me and us off guard. In prison, I felt forgotten and, in order to survive the hell in which I was living, I’d thrown daily with Gage. Laid down my dreams. Sweated out my anger. The football-loving public had not done so. A few diehards were still packing in the beer and wearing my jerseys. Selling them on the Internet. As if it mattered. We quickly learned that they just couldn’t understand how I’d so easily given it up. They saw me throwing in the prison video, they saw my tryout with Dee, and they thought for sure my goal was to pick up where I’d left off.

This left me scratching my head, so we kept our distance from any and all crowds.

When the stands had emptied and Dee had finished with interviews and responding to questions about our whereabouts, Wood, Dee, and Ray met us on the fifty. A tender and quiet homecoming. Wood didn’t need to ask us how we were doing. Our faces said it. Dee had showered and was wearing his letterman jacket. The same one he wore for this week’s cover of SI. He handed Audrey the game ball. “For you.”

She stood holding the ball, turning it in her hands. After a moment, she kissed him. “I’ve always been a sucker for quarterbacks.”

Wood interrupted the long silence and held up his phone. He said, “I know you two want to take some time. You got it. All you want. I’m just registering it on your radar that my phone is ringing off the hook.” It vibrated as he was speaking. He turned the face plate toward us. “See what I mean?”

I’d thought long and hard about this. If the last few days had shown me anything, they’d proven that Audrey was still pretty raw. Her emotions were all over the board, and we needed time. I wanted to rent a house in Alaska, fifty miles from anyone, and spend time remembering us.

I said, “I know you all would like to see me—” I smiled. “Try out for real. Join a team. But we… need to take a year, or two or three or ten, and just remember each other. Be married. Laugh. Forget… all this.” I wrapped my arm around Audrey. “A few years back, I laid that dream down. I have no idea what I’ll do, but… Audrey is my focus. My whole world.” I turned to Wood. “Can you just tell them that for me?”

He nodded.

We stood there, our little huddle. Audrey’s eyes scanned the stands, the field, the world around us. She looked at me, licked her thumb, and then wiped something off my cheek. Wood laughed. “Not much changes.”

She shrugged. “Well, I can’t have a crusty hanging off his face.”

Dee shook his head. “Nice, Coach. Really. Way to represent.”

Audrey squared to me and chose her words. A wrinkle formed between her eyes. She stood tall. Not below me, not above, but eye level. Alongside. “Matthew, do you love me?”

The others inched forward, wanting to hear my response. I wasn’t sure where this was going and wasn’t sure I wanted to have this conversation in front of all of them. I eyed them and then nodded at her.

I studied her, realizing how, in just a week, she’d transformed from the frail woman in her cottage chewing on sleeping pills to the woman standing before me. I’d take either, but I much preferred this one. She stepped closer, the intensity spreading across her face, and poked me in the chest. “Matty… do you love me?”

The first time didn’t bother me so much, but the second time was starting to ding me a bit. I couldn’t figure out what she was getting at. I whispered beneath my breath, “Honey—”

Her head tilted to one side. Her voice was soft. The words spilled from her heart and cracked when they exited her mouth. “Do you love me?”

“Audrey, I—”

What happened next I did not see coming. In hindsight, Wood and Dee did because they were filming it with their phones. She set the ball in my hand, kissed me, and stepped back. “Show me.”

Dee posted the video on YouTube, Wood began answering his phone, and life quickly returned to crazy.