Rigged Justice by John Vandemoer

Author:John Vandemoer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperOne
Published: 2021-08-10T00:00:00+00:00

14

On Friday, March 8, I left the house at 4 a.m. to pick up Belle and the women who were racing that weekend at Navy. When we landed in Baltimore, I said goodbye to them and rented a car. I planned to drive eighty-five miles south to St. Mary’s College to rendezvous with Clinton and the group that was competing there. By the time I got on the road, it was raining and dark and cold. My GPS told me there were accidents on the main highway, so it rerouted me, and then, because of more bad traffic ahead, it rerouted me again, this time onto a two-lane back road. I’d made the trip to St. Mary’s countless times, but I had no idea where I was. Nothing looked familiar.

I wondered whether I’d made a mistake. Was I heading north? I searched for roadside signs and saw none. My windows were fogging up, and I twisted several dials on the dashboard trying to find the defroster. A pair of oncoming headlights seemed to be veering into my lane. Now frozen pellets were mixing in with the rain and pinging off the car. I checked the gauge and saw the outside temperature had dropped to thirty-four degrees. Shit. Gripping the steering wheel tighter, I strained to see through the slapping windshield wipers whether the sheen on the pavement was water or black ice. I had a vision of my car careening off the road and plunging into the dark forest. No one would know what had happened to me. I’d never be found. Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing.

I drove on, muttering to myself, cursing the sleet and the dark road and goddamn Rick Singer until the GPS, at last, routed me back to the highway. I arrived at the Fairfield Inn in Lexington Park, where Clinton and the other players had already checked in. I was shaky and spent, but I knew there was no chance I’d be able to get right to sleep. I watched college basketball for hours and then a movie, and finally drifted off around 3 a.m.

Five hours later, with an icy fog starting to lift, the team, Clinton, and I headed for the college sailing center on the edge of the compact, green campus. The two-story brick and clapboard building had a columned front porch overlooking a broad bend in the tidal St. Mary’s River, where the racing would take place. I had always loved coming here for regattas. It took me back to a happy, simpler time in my life when I’d been assisting Adam Werblow, and when I’d first met Molly. Now, I almost couldn’t bear to see it.

I’d texted Adam to say I wanted to talk to him alone if he had a minute. I’d done the same with John Morgan, the president of the Club 420 Association, who I knew would be there to watch his son sail for Hobart. I’d also asked Clinton to act as head coach that day.

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