Mark Gimenez - Accused

"You wanted to cancel his contract?"

"Would you want a cokehead endorsing your products?"

"But your contract was guaranteed?"

"Yeah, Nick's a hard-ass agent."

Nick's chest swelled up as if he'd just been nominated for a Nobel. To Scott, he said, "I shopped Trey right after he won the first pro tournament he played in." Back to Brad: "But I didn't force you to give him guaranteed payments, incentives bonuses, stock options…"

"You didn't tell me he was a fucking doper either."

"I didn't know."

"Sure you didn't."

"Why didn't you have a morals clause?" Scott asked.

Brad pointed at Nick. "Because of him. But every contract we sign from now on damn sure will."

Nick was shaking his head. "I fight those damn clauses every day now. One pro athlete… okay, a hundred pro athletes get arrested for drugs, rape, possession of firearms, and other assorted felonies, all of a sudden every sponsor wants a morals clause. Shit, you start canceling endorsement contracts for every criminal conviction, you won't be in the pro football or basketball market for long."

"We're in the pro golf market," Brad said. "We expect better behavior from our players." He turned to Scott. "We bet the company on Trey Rawlins."

"His death saved your company?"

"And my job." Brad shrugged. "Sounds bad, but it's the truth. We dumped our entire marketing budget into that bastard, only to have him shit on us. Drinking, snorting cocaine, screwing everything that walked…"

"Gambling."

" Gambling? " Brad turned to Nick. "Another dirty secret, Nick?"

Nick shrugged innocently.

"Look," Brad said, "I'm not crying because Trey's dead, but we didn't have anything to do with it."

"Will you take a polygraph?"

"Why should I?"

"So I don't subpoena you to testify at trial."

"Hell, I'd rather testify."

"I can arrange that. So you owed him ten million more under the contract, plus incentives… unless he died?"

"Yeah. So?"

"So maybe you terminated Trey in order to terminate his contract."

"This is the pro golf tour, Scott, not the NFL. We don't carry guns."

"He was stabbed to death."

"Or knives. Sure, we wanted away from him, but so did the tour."

"Why?"

"Like I said, this is pro golf. It's all about image. Tour knew that when he fell-not if, but when — he was gonna fall hard. And he could make the tour look bad. These are tough times in the golf business-sales are down, country clubs are closing, Democrats are blaming rich white guys for everything that's wrong in the world… After Tiger's sex scandal, all we needed was Trey Rawlins exposed as a doper."

Or as a gambler throwing tournaments for the mob.

"From the hottest WAG on tour to a prison inmate, that's a long fall. I voted for her, by the way."

Royce Ballard dressed like a golfer but sported the arrogance of a lawyer, and for good reason.

"I went to UT law school, worked in a Houston firm for ten years, got passed over for partnership, those bastards, so I hired on with the tour. VP, player relations."

Nick had gotten Scott into the tour trailer to see Royce, who agreed to talk only after Scott had threatened him with a trial subpoena.

"What exactly does a VP of player relations do?"

"I keep them in line. Corporate sponsors don't want to read about our golfers in the legal section of the newspaper, only in the sports section. Hell, we got enough problems with our sponsors-GM and Chrysler in bankruptcy, that fucking Sir Allen… Forbes said he was worth two billion. Shit, who can you trust anymore?" He chuckled. "You see he's bitching because his cell isn't air-conditioned? And his lawyer bailed because he can't pay, then he got the shit beat of him in jail? I love it, the bastard. But our sponsors are bailing because of this recession. If it weren't for TARP-"

"The government bailout fund?"

Royce nodded. "Tour sponsors got a hundred billion, thank God. GM got fifty billion, so Buick can still sponsor two tournaments. But they're history after this year."

"Taxpayers are funding the pro golf tour?" Scott said. "So players can buy yachts and Bentleys?"

"Some guys like Lamborghinis."

"Official car of the PGA ain't Ford or Chevy," Nick said. "It's Mercedes-Benz."

Royce was giving Nick a skeptical eye. "Sounding a little Obama-ish there, Nick." Back to Scott: "Anyway, we can't afford to lose sponsors because of our players screwing up. Sponsors take their money to another sport, we fold up the tour tent."

"And Trey Rawlins was getting out of line?"

"Porn, Viagra, screwing other players' wives… that's all consenting adult shit. But cocaine and gambling, that's NBA shit and no way we're gonna let that happen."

"You knew all that? That Trey was throwing tournaments?"

" Throwing tournaments? What the hell are you talking about? Nick?

"

Nick feigned innocence. "I don't know anything about that."

Royce stared Nick down a long moment then said, "We keep close tabs on our players." Another glance at Nick. "Maybe not close enough."

"But you wanted Trey off the tour?"

"Hell, yes. We can't afford to have another train wreck like Daly on tour, passing out in a fucking Hooters parking lot. Jesus, the guy looks like a goddamn bouncer with a three-iron. He actually hit a tee shot in a pro-am off a beer can."

"I thought that was funny," Nick said.

"The pro golf tour isn't a goddamn sitcom, Nick! It's a business! We don't want our fans having fun, we want them spending money!" Royce calmed and shook his head. "Problem was, Trey was real popular, and not just with the WAGs. When he played, gate receipts and TV ratings shot up. Great White Hope, I guess. We figured the drug testing would take care of him, but he passed every screen."

Scott gave Nick a quick glance.

"I'm responsible for that, too," Royce said. "Our doping program."

"Is there a drug problem on tour?"

"Nah. Golf is still a Jim Beam and Jack Daniels sport-"

"WM squared," Nick said with pride. Royce rolled his eyes.

— "but we've had a few guys smoking dope in the Porta-Potties during a round. Of course, they find out it's damn hard to make a five-foot putt for par if you're flying higher than a fucking kite-as Trey found out at the Bay Classic and over in Miami."

Scott gave Nick another glance.

"Program's mostly a PR tool. Sponsors are sick of reading about steroids in sports so we're the squeaky-clean alternative."

"WM squared don't like dopers, Scott," Nick said.

Royce shook his head. "Jesus, Nick, give that WM squared shit a rest, will you? You're like a fucking dog with a bone."

"I'm gonna trademark it, make some real money."

Royce looked at Scott but nodded his head at Nick. "An entrepreneur. Anyway, we instituted the widest range of testing in sports. Steroids, HgH-all the PEDs-Performance Enhancing Drugs-as well as narcotics, stimulants, beta-blockers…"

Nick laughed. "Except you allow TUEs."

"What's that?" Scott said.

"Therapeutic Use Exemptions. Means if you get a note from your doctor saying you need a beta-blocker, you can take it-and putt better. How many TUEs you grant so far, Royce?"

"That's confidential, Nick."

"Confidential? Shit, Royce, walk through the locker room."

"So Trey never tested positive?" Scott asked.

"Nope. But we knew he was cheating. Hell, we even staked out his house down in Galveston, tried to catch him with his pants down… so to speak."

"You can go to a player's home and make him pee in a cup without a search warrant?"

Royce nodded. "You gotta pee to play."

"Why would the players put up with that? It's their tour."

"No, it's not. It's our tour. We own the tour, so they need us. Without us, they'd be giving golf lessons to old ladies at the country club."