The Trials of Max Q, page 34
The silence annoys Figliomini. “Mr. Anderson, do you want to address the court?”
He smiles, showing off bright, capped teeth. “I guess I’d like to wish everybody a Happy Halloween.” The voice lacks the confident cadence of Drew Anderson.
Figliomini looks curiously at him. “A lovely sentiment, Mr. Anderson. Would you like to expand on it?”
“I’d also like to add that my name is not Drew Anderson. It’s Shane King, I live in Manhattan, the West Village.”
Murmurs fill the courtroom. Maybe Anderson is flipping out—having a mental breakdown.
“If you don’t believe me, maybe you’ll believe the hair,” he says and pulls off his blond wig, tearing the glue from his scalp, revealing a bald head.
The murmurs change to chaotic shouts. Figliomini bangs the gavel. “Ms. Lawson, what is going on here!?”
Kerri looks aghast. “Your Honor … um … I’m not sure.”
Shep’s mouth is hanging open, but nothing comes out. She searches for similar astonishment in my look, and I hope she sees it.
Figliomini bangs his gavel and I think the bench almost cracks. “My chambers now!”
Chapter 92
I go right on the offensive, “This is outrageous!”
Shep jumps in, “I don’t want to state the obvious here—but where is Drew Anderson?”
Figliomini takes back control. “Sit down, both of you. The only person I am interested in hearing from is you, Mr. King. And I have just one question for you—why the hell are you in my courtroom?”
“I am here because your policemen grabbed me and told me to get my hands up or they were going to shoot. I don’t do well with pain or scarring, and I’m sure bullets cause both. I tried to tell them that I was only a Max Q impersonator, just trying to do my job, but they kept telling me to shut up. No human being should be treated like that!”
“I was just informed that you surrendered to the police, claiming to be Anderson,” Figliomini barks in an accusatory tone.
“I was only kidding,” he says with a dismissive wave of the hand. “It’s part of the act—I’m a method actor.”
Figliomini boils over. “Kidding? I promise that you won’t find prison so amusing.”
I jump into the fray, addressing Shane, “Why were you wearing handcuffs?”
Figliomini raises a hand to inform me that I’ve overstepped my bounds. He then sends a death stare in Shane’s direction to indicate he wants an answer to my question.
“It was Max Q’s sentencing, so I figured I should wear a suit and a pair of handcuffs to indicate I’m going to jail. My fans expect me to be authentic.”
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. King. Because I’m in character, I’m thinking about giving you an authentic prison-issued jumpsuit and putting you in an authentic jail cell.”
“It would have been simple for the police to identify the cuffs as amateur,” Shane fights back.
He’s playing this splendidly so far, sticking to the script. He will get what he wants—a pile of money, and he’ll be on the front page of every newspaper tomorrow—and he isn’t stupid enough to discuss what he did. Not only could that end him up in that jail cell that Figliomini speaks of, but he is aware that only powerful people could pull off what he witnessed today—the type of people that can make you disappear without a trace. The price of fame.
Figliomini picks up the ringing phone and barks into it, “A goddam impersonator, if you can believe that. It’s been almost an hour, the man’s a pilot, he could be somewhere over the Atlantic right now!”
He slams down the phone and again peers at Shane. “Until Drew Anderson is found, I am holding you personally responsible!”
I point an accusatory finger at Figliomini. “You were the one who accepted the defense’s pleas to lower the level of security for PR sake. If you remember, I wanted him taken through the back entrance, away from the public. I am holding you directly responsible until he is found.”
“Jack!” Shep blurts out, unnerved.
The judge looks at me like he’d like to shoot me and mount my head over his fireplace. “You want to get in a pissing match with me, Mr. Lawson? I can assure you that you don’t.”
Undeterred, I turn to Kerri and Hal. “I am also holding you responsible. Are you behind this?”
Kerri shoots me a look to kill. We’ve had so much practice at the hatred thing that it’s second nature. “Get over yourself, Jack. It’s those idiot cops in this one-horse town that screwed things up to start with, and now they let Drew get away. You think this helps us?”
“Let me see—life in prison or a free man? Come to think of it, it does help you.”
“Spare me, Jack. I would kill you on appeal. The video being allowed. The illegal police tape admitted. I would have had this turned around in a second. And now Drew is out there in danger of taking a bullet in the back from these morons who let him go in the first place.”
No judge likes to discuss his decision being overturned on appeal. “Enough, Ms. Lawson!”
She quiets, but I’m not done. “Lose the sob story, Kerri. This has the work of Lansdale’s cult all over it. You know—the moral and ethical ones. And if I find that you are involved, you’re going to be sharing a cell with them!”
Kerri stares back at me with faux anger.
Figliomini again picks up the phone and begins indiscriminately yelling at people.
I sit with the look of defeat and run my fingers through my hair in disgust.
Deep down, I feel anything but defeated. The first part of the plan somehow worked. The blastoff. Now it’s time for Drew Anderson to land on the moon.
Chapter 93
Approximately an hour after the explosions ceased, Mac Cirillo, flanked by two police officers, marched out of the front entrance of the Baseball Hall of Fame.
His heart felt like it was going to jump out of his chest and flop like a fish on the brick-lined sidewalk in front of the museum. His skin had turned ashen and a lake of sweat had stained his shirt.
They headed toward a trio of men who stood under a flagpole, in which a large American flag rippled in the autumn wind. The men had ominous looks on their faces. Mac tried to take a deep breath, but his lungs weren’t fully functioning.
Mac recognized the scholarly-looking museum president, Peter Connolly. He was both his boss, and the man he hoped to replace one day, but right now Mac’s biggest career goal was to stay out of prison. He looked up to Connolly, who was a refined man with a passion for baseball, which he viewed as the romantic and magical game that has played an epic role in American history. There wasn’t a fact or anecdote about the game that Connolly couldn’t eloquently recite.
The other two men standing with Connolly were Otsego County Sheriff Roddy Opp and Special Agent Hawkins of the FBI. They didn’t appear to be happy. Mac wiped a trail of sweat from his brow and rubbed it on the pant leg of his khakis.
Out of the Hall entrance came two more uniformed police with bomb sniffing dogs on sturdy leashes. “The building is clear,” announced one officer.
Both Opp and Hawkins nodded, each trying to act like they’re the one in charge.
“Just trying to be safe, Peter,” Opp informed Connolly. “We feel the target of the explosions was the courthouse. I don’t believe the Hall of Fame was ever in danger.”
Connolly nodded somberly. “Better safe than sorry, my good officer.”
“Our initial tests on the explosions were that they were similar to special effects used on a movie set. Just some pranksters trying to make a name for themselves. If there was any intent to stop or delay the proceedings, they failed. Drew Anderson is being sentenced as we speak.
Mac felt sick. He wasn’t able to escape!
Connolly took his eyes off the authorities, noticing Mac for the first time. “Macauley—you look tepid. Are you well?”
Mac wiped some more sweat and fought an urge to vomit on the spot. “I’m just a little shaken up. I’m not used to bombs going off. Just give me a moment and I’ll be fine.”
Connolly returned his focus to Opp and Hawkins. “I will leave any decision to continue tonight’s festivities up to you good officers. The Ghosts of Baseball Past has been a great invention by Macauley here.” He patted Mac on his sweaty back. “Children don’t connect to baseball like they once did. In my day, fathers handed down the revered history of the game to their children, and their children to their children. Now the father is working sixty hours a week and the son is addicted to video games. Our Halloween event does its small part to reconfigure this grand tradition.”
Opp began to speak, but Hawkins overpowered him. “President Connolly, like I said, we believe this was nothing more than a hoax. I see no reason that you can’t have your event.”
Connolly appeared inspired, his faith restored. “Baseball has been a rock for this country in its most turbulent times—it kept going during World War II and provided a welcome diversion after the tragedy of 9/11. And now at this low moment, we shall proceed as planned.”
Out of the blue, two large men approached the group—both were wearing pinstriped Yankees baseball uniforms.
For the first time since the bombs began bursting in air, Connolly smiled. He was back in his element. “Ah, the great Babe Ruth has joined us tonight, and I see he has brought a friend … a very famous friend!”
George Herman trotted right past the array of law enforcement officials to greet Connolly, his booming voice echoing, “Good to see you, Mr. President.”
“As you, George. I heard rumors that the great Babe Ruth might not be able to make it to Ghosts of Baseball Past this year. It wouldn’t have been the same without you, and the kids would have missed you greatly.”
“I have a previously scheduled event—a cruise sponsored by a Yankees fan club that leaves for the Bahamas—but I pushed our flight back until after tonight’s event.”
“The Bahamas? We all should be so fortunate to have your life, George,” Connolly said with a gracious smile.
“Well, I’ve had a better year than you, Mr. President.” George replied with a smile. Connolly didn’t take offense—George was reciting one of Babe Ruth’s famous quotes, from when he was asked about making more money than the president of the United States, which was a big controversy at the time.
After sharing another laugh with George, Connolly’s eyes moved to the strapping Lou Gehrig impersonator. He wasn’t an exact match, but Mac thought that there was enough of a resemblance to pull it off. He was an impersonator, not a doppelganger. And he smartly had pulled his cap down close to his eyes.
Mac recognized his collectible wool uniform, and now understood why Jack had requested it. He was at first relieved that the escape worked, but then a terrifying reality socked him between the eyes. Max Q is standing two feet away from Roddy Opp and a special agent of the FBI!
George energetically introduced Lou Gehrig, staying in character. Drew Anderson responded with round of handshakes, including the police. Mac almost dropped his grip, his hand sweating so profusely.
Connolly was in his element. “You do know, George, that the real Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig would never arrive together. They weren’t exactly fast friends. Despite being yin and yang on the field, they were mostly oil and water off of it.”
George boomed a laugh. “You got us, Mr. President—we are nothing but imposters!”
Connolly studied the Gehrig impersonator, a little too closely for the sake of Mac’s blood pressure. “He’s much like the real Gehrig,” Connolly mused. “The strong silent type. Gehrig was a man of few words who let his bat do the talking for him. He was also one of the more popular players of his day, and since I’ve already seen six Gehrig impersonators inside for tonight’s event, I see that popularity continues to flourish. Would you agree, Macauley?”
Mac felt a huge lump in his throat as he began to talk. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He felt he was going to pass out.
But nobody noticed. They were focused on the crackling radio on Opp’s waistband.
A voice called out, “Sheriff—I have Judge Figliomini on the line and he says it’s urgent.”
Chapter 94
The FBI man barked orders into his cell. When he ended the call, he turned to Roddy Opp.
“Sheriff, I need all potential routes out of this area cut off. I want every car, plane, and boat checked. He’s got an hour on us, but he will need a week-long head start to escape the FBI.”
Opp returned a look of annoyance, but had to follow the orders. The FBI took precedence in this situation.
Mac stood between Connolly and Drew Anderson. His heart almost exploded when the FBI man began walking in their direction. But he wasn’t coming to slap the cuffs on him, or Max Q—he was moving toward Connolly.
“President Connolly, now more than ever it’s important for you to hold your event. The last thing we need during a dangerous manhunt are groups of trick-or-treaters on the streets. The Hall of Fame will serve as a safe haven for the children.”
Connolly again appeared inspired, turning to Mac. “Why don’t you take Mr. Ruth and Mr. Gehrig inside and allow them to set up. I will work on putting out the word about the importance of tonight’s event.”
Arm-in-arm with George Herman and Drew Anderson, Mac nervously entered the museum. Impersonators were everywhere, mingling amongst early-bird arrivals, mostly young children who were accompanied by their parents.
Mac felt a small sense of relief upon entering the Plaque Gallery, the cathedral-like centerpiece of the Hall. He felt a certain confidence in here, kind of like Jack feels in the courtroom. But not enough to dim the fact that he was walking with the most wanted man in America. Who I am helping escape!
The gallery served as both the starting and ending points of The Ghosts of Baseball Past experience. A maze had been set up within the museum that was decorated with baseball memorabilia, and dramatized with the use of fluorescent lights and sound effects. At specific stations, an impersonator of a baseball legend performed a skit that helped bring them to life. A journey through the maze told the chronological story of baseball from the nineteenth century to the present.
The impersonators without skit responsibilities worked the crowds within the museum and throughout the grounds, handing out candy and taking photos with children. George Herman and Drew Anderson would be in that group.
Moving to the second floor, Mac couldn’t take his eyes off Anderson. He focused on his Lou Gehrig uniform with the number ‘4’ embroidered on the back. Gehrig once wore this uniform in the World Series, but now it had been reduced to assisting the escape of a fugitive. Mac couldn’t believe he was risking everything—Ashley, the baby, and this prized treasure—for a man he didn’t even particularly like.
Mac did take some solace in that Anderson didn’t have the same confident stride that he did when he last saw him at the racetrack. He might escape, but his downfall has already happened—the old Max Q was nothing more than a “ghost from the past.”
Chapter 95
When the clock struck 6:30, the lights were turned down, music was cued (Take Me Out to the Ballgame), and the journey through baseball history had begun.
By 7:30, “The Ghosts of Baseball Past Halloween Celebration” had its biggest attendance ever, helped out by the local authorities urging people to do so on the six-o’clock local news.
At 8:15, Drew Anderson slipped into a bathroom on the second floor of the museum and locked the door behind him. He went to the mirror and removed his cap and wig. In his back pocket was a pair of scissors he had found in Mac Cirillo’s office. He began clipping his blond locks. He looked up into the mirror and admired his work.
The short cut to the scalp reminded him of his military days, which seemed so long ago. And like those days, he had a mission to accomplish. The goal this time was to protect Marissa. He would do anything for her. Take any risk. Make any sacrifice.
He re-applied his wig and took one last look into the mirror. Staring back at him was a man who was prepared for his latest, and most dangerous mission.
A tick after 8:30, George Herman rounded up the group that would be joining him on the cruise. The rest of the group was made up of a Joe DiMaggio clone, who was accompanied by a Marilyn Monroe, DiMaggio’s wife in real life. She wore a cheap knockoff of Marilyn’s famous white dress from the Seven Year Itch, and looked like she had applied the trademark mole with a Sharpie pen. The last member was a good-looking, muscular man with an Oklahoma drawl, impersonating Mickey Mantle.
They said their goodbyes to Mac and Connolly, and then loaded into George’s Packard. Despite the cool temperatures, they drove with the top down. The Gehrig impersonator sat in the front and didn’t say a word. In contrast, the drunken DiMaggio wouldn’t shut up. Marilyn sat between Joe and Mickey in the backseat, and seemed to like Mickey better, flirting with him and running her hand up the inner-thigh of his wool baseball pants.
On the outskirts of town, George spotted the lights of a police car. All vehicles were being stopped and searched. George drove confidently to the checkpoint.
“Where ya headed, George?” Roger Beneke asked, shining a flashlight into the car.
“Oneonta Air Field—flight to the Bahamas. We’re working a cruise.”
George showed Beneke the itinerary, which had been booked months in advance.
Beneke shined the light into Gehrig’s face in the passenger seat. “We are on the lookout for Drew Anderson,” he stated the obvious.
“All I got in here is DiMaggio, Monroe, Mantle, and Gehrig,” George replied with a nervous chuckle.
Beneke turned his attention to the backseat, taking particular interest in Marilyn. “I’m going to need you all to step out of the car. We are looking for a fugitive and if I let a group pass by, who are wearing disguises and holding airline tickets, they’ll crucify me. Just doing my job, folks.”
