The Advocate's Devil (2 page)

Joe Campbell was the master of instinct. Whenever Coach Riley showed the video of opposing teams’ games, he would freeze-frame
the action at crucial points and ask the players to guess what came next. Campbell was rarely wrong in his predictions. He
understood the flow of the game better than any player in the league.

And Joe understood women the way he understood opposing point guards. He could tell from a glimmer, a smile, or a gesture
whether his date needed coaxing—whether her “no” really meant “maybe” or her “maybe” really meant “yes”—or whether she wanted
to be taken without foreplay or game playing. Had there been video replays of dates, Joe would have been just as adept at
predicting the flow of the action. And he saw in Jennifer’s body language that she was heating up. For now his style of aloof
gentlemanliness, punctured with playfulness, was working quite well.

“For a tough guy, you ‘re very sweet, you know,” she whispered.

“Don’t tell that to the Rockets.”

The limo driver chuckled… Jennifer was put off by the intrusion and quickly recoiled, as Joe raised the glass partition.

“You must be reading my mind.”

Soon the driver stopped in front of the Charles Hotel, and just as Jennifer was thinking of a way to ask Joe upstairs without
appearing eager, he turned to her. “Listen, I can leave you here if you want or escort you up to your room. I mean, you know,
we can kick off our shoes, maybe have a drink from the minibar. I’m safe, I promise.” He flashed his famous small-town-boy
smile.

Jennifer nodded, and on some signal from Campbell, the driver jumped out and opened her door in one graceful motion. The hotel
doorman took over from there, as though escorting them into the hotel were a kind of relay. There was no way anyone in Boston
could possibly have known that Jennifer Dowling and Joe Campbell would wind up at the Charles Hotel in Cambridge that evening,
yet five or six women appeared to be waiting for him as they stepped into the lobby. They called after him by name and tried
to touch him. To Jennifer it was surprising—and a bit revolting.

“How did they know where to find you?” she asked, keeping close by his side, though not touching him.

“They don’t have to know. The groupies go to all the hotels when a game is in town, waiting for whoever might show. As soon
as someone is spotted, the word spreads.”

As they stepped through the crowd, a tall, raven-haired woman approached them.

“Hey, Joe, remember me?” she said, her voice low and insinuating. The woman s breasts were spilling over the tank top of her
red body suit. Jennifer was repulsed, but Campbell smiled and acknowledged the woman as she handed him a videocassette.

“An ‘audition’ tape. I get them all the time,” he confided. “Some of the guys think they’re funny, but I find them pathetic.”

Jennifer assessed the group of women as having a median age of twenty-five. They were beauties, dressed to kill with bodies
to die for. She could not imagine what would possess any one of these handsome young women to humiliate herself this way.
But who was she to Judge? she asked herself as she made her way through the hotel lobby with Joe Campbell. Maybe she was just
one of them in a way. Certainly her friends and colleagues in New York would wonder what she was doing, inviting a man she
hardly knew, and a jock at that, up to her hotel room.

Campbell kept his eyes down, and Jennifer felt sorry for him. He was a very gentle man, cultured, charming, and maybe even
a bit vulnerable. He really seemed nice—the kind of man she could like, both as a friend and as a lover. She thought suddenly
of her boss last year, who had not been gentle, cultured, or kind. Jennifer was glad that Joe had chosen to be with her—that
she wasn’t one of those women down there.

Now all she had to do was sweep him into her fantasy.

Once in her hotel room, Campbell absentmindedly picked up the copy of
Boston
magazine that had been placed in each room, quickly flipping through the pages while looking down to the street. Somewhere
below, a siren wailed. There was lots of activity on the river side of the hotel “Wonder what’s happening down there,” he
said without turning his head toward her.

Jennifer joined him at the window, pretending to share in his absorption with the scene below. “Looks like some sort of fire.”

“Uh-huh,” Campbell responded, looking out into the night.

“You seem to have lost your concentration,” Jennifer joked. “If you were dribbling that way, I’d be able to steal the ball
from you in a minute.” She playfully flicked the magazine Campbell was holding out of his hands and onto the floor.

Campbell quickly reached for the magazine. “I never lose my concentration in a ball game, but off the court I’m entitled to
daydream.” He turned toward her, and her perfect American face became a blur, blending into the black-haired girl they’d seen
downstairs, whose name, he seemed to remember, was Charlotte or maybe Cherise. They all became the same after a while. This
woman offered the chance of something different. Maybe she wouldn’t disappoint him like the last one. The crack about his
concentration had thrown him off. How could she tell so much about him so easily?

“I’m sorry, “Jennifer said. “I obviously pressed a button I shouldn’t have gone near.”

“No, no, it’s okay, sometimes I do lose my concentration in situations like this.”

Jennifer didn’t know what to make of Joe’s comment, so she left it alone.

Joe kicked off his loafers. Jennifer noticed that they had thick heels, so as to give him an extra inch or two of height.
How odd, she thought, since he was at least six feet three in his stocking feet. He then took off his jacket and hung it meticulously
on the back of a chair. He was wearing short sleeves, something her lawyer and banker friends never wore under jackets, exposing
muscular upper arms. God, he was beautiful. Then she saw a bandage around his right wrist.

“What happened?”

“I ran into Patrick during practice.”

“Tell me a little about basketball. You know, some inside stuff that I could only get from actually having a date with a bona
fide superstar. “Jennifer was kidding, actually mocking what she imagined a groupie might say. Joe uncharacteristically missed
the irony. A look of disgust crossed his face.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no, it’s not that. Look, I didn’t come here to talk about basketball. I’m sure there are subjects you would rather not
discuss.” There was an edge in Campbell’s voice, and Jennifer’s paranoia kicked in—what did he know about her?

“I was just messing around.” She smiled. “The last thing I want to hear about is basketball, any more than you would want
to hear about advertising.”

“Hey, I’d love to hear about advertising. I’m fascinated by how you can sell some of that junk that they’re marketing these
days. I’m also fascinated with how women like you make it to the top in a man’s world. You must be something special.”

She felt the mood tottering in the wrong direction. “Let’s make a deal. No basketball, no advertising, no bullshit.” Then
she paused, and the next words came out of her mouth as if someone else were saying them. “I like you, I’m attracted to you,
I’d love to spend the night with you, and I hope you feel the same way.” After she uttered these words, she couldn’t believe
that she had been so bold.

He said nothing in response, just moved gently closer and put his arms around her so as to leave absolutely no doubt about
his reply.

Jennifer luxuriated in his embrace. She felt electrified by the feel of his hard body through his soft cashmere pants. She
found herself pushing him closer, hoping to feel his erection. Yet when she felt nothing, she was not surprised. This was
a guy who could get it on with a different girl every night, not some adolescent kid having sex for the first time. She would
have to use some imagination tonight.

Gently she brushed her hand down his chest toward his belt. Joe moved away from her embrace, asking whether she would like
some champagne. That was the last thing Jennifer wanted, but she said yes, thinking perhaps this was a part of his ritual.
She went to the minibar and took out the only champagne she could find—a half bottle of cheap “brut” from California. She
handed the bottle and corkscrew to Joe, then went to the bathroom and undressed, leaving on only her black silk shirt. After
inserting her diaphragm and some spermicidal jelly, she returned to the living room with the shirt unbuttoned to her waist,
exposing her well-toned breasts.

Jennifer had worked long and hard on her body, lifting weights and doing Nautilus every other day with a personal trainer
who called himself a “body sculptor.” Since the legal mess that had started at the office last year, she had thrown herself
into hardening her body. “If I keep my body hard,” she kept saying to herself, “maybe I can keep my soul from hardening.”
Now it was time to show off her new body. Joe would be the first man she’d slept with in a long time.

Jennifer had kept on her black pumps, and she forced herself to walk slowly and gracefully toward where he sat on the couch.
She relaxed herself against his body in a gesture that was not so much sexual as kittenish. “Are you comfortable here?” she
whispered. “Would you like to go into the bedroom?” Not waiting for his reply, she took him by the hand and urged him into
the adjoining room.

Now, lying beside her, Joe found himself holding back. Her eyes flicked open, and he saw so much there: wanting, hurt, need,
uncertainty, maybe even a touch of fear. When she closed her eyes again, he ran his strong fingers across her forehead gently.
This relaxed her, and he let his touch radiate from there, arranging her hair on the pillow piece by piece, taking his time,
holding back. His reticence inflamed her even more; her chest rose faster, and a small anticipatory sigh escaped her lips.
She pulled him closer to her and kissed him, tempting him first just by offering little kisses, little nips. She hesitated,
waiting for some sign of interest, but no part of Joe stirred. Still, his hand found its way idly beneath the silk shirt,
and her soft breasts welcomed his large palms.

Jennifer began to tremble, moving her hand down his body, but he stopped her. He could sense the warm, moist heat emanating
from her. They kissed deeply, and soon Jennifer arched her body upward to engulf his touch. His fingers danced in and out
as she slowly directed his face toward her belly. She moved in harmony with his caresses, spinning toward that place where
she would shortly be out of control.

Slowly, almost languidly, Joe came up for air. Jennifer took that as a cue to move her face down his body. As she did so,
he kissed her neck and whispered in her ear. At first Jennifer paid no attention to the words themselves, only the sensual
feel of his breath on her earlobe. She thought she was hearing sweet nothings, and it was the feeling that mattered. Joe’s
manner was sweet and soft.

Joe repeated the words, more insistently this time, his strong fingers squeezing her cheeks, as if to make certain that she
understood him clearly. This time Jennifer heard Joe’s tortured voice. In an instant her mood changed. She gasped and started
to speak as he grew hard and rolled on top of her….

Innocent until
Proven Guilty

C
AMBRIDGE
—T
HURSDAY,
M
ARCH
16

“God, another groupie filing rape charges against an athlete to get money,” Abe Ringel couldn’t help musing to himself as
he sat reading the sports pages in the small breakfast nook nestled at the back of his Cambridge home. This must be the third
or fourth this year alone, the lawyer thought, shaking his head in disbelief. Warm morning sun filtered through a dozen places
in the house open to the sun—skylights, floor-to-ceiling windows, even apertures cut into the doors.

The house had been built by a disciple of Frank Lloyd Wright. Abe’s wife, Hannah, had fallen in love with the minimalist effusion
of bricks, the dark unexpected spaces, the curved windows that bounded the corners. The Ringel home was one of the few contemporary
houses in a neighborhood of Early American classics. Abe had insisted on solar collectors, which illuminated the artwork covering
every conceivable space—even the seductive hiding place at the bottom of the steps that beckoned one to sit and contemplate
the early Magritte watercolor that had been Hannah’s favorite. For Abe, the challenge was not finding art—it was finding wall
space.

All the light bouncing off the windows seemed to confuse the Canadian geese that passed over Cambridge each winter and early
spring. Last month one of the big black birds had become entranced by its own reflection (“Just like some of my clients,”
Abe had quipped) and dive-bombed hara-kiri style into the living room window, knocking itself unconscious. Emma, Abe’s seventeen-year-old
daughter, had been distraught about the traumatized bird and had insisted they call the Humane Society to put the poor thing
out of its misery.

But then the most amazing thing had happened: the flock had shrieked and called out for their fallen mate to wake up. While
father and daughter were standing around feeling helpless and arguing over what to do, the fallen bird had risen and flown
up to join its flock.

“There’s a lesson in this.” Abe had turned to Emma, warming up to his subject.

“I’m sure there is, Dad, and I’m even surer that you’re going to share it with me.” Emma often teased her father about his
morality lessons, which to her marked him as an old-fashioned man still stuck in the 1960s. Yet Abe had the distinct feeling
that this was the part of him she also found most appealing. These modern young women were so hard to understand!