Braking Points (6 page)

Chapter Ten

If I gave Stuart the shock of his life the night before, he returned the favor the next morning. I woke up to hear him in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. He walked back to bed, sweatpants riding low on his hips and unruly hair sticking up in one spot.

“Good morning.” He smiled at me.

“Stuart, you look sloppy!”

He pulled my pillow out from under me and propped it against the headboard with his own, leaning back and ignoring my protest. “The image you have of me.”

I stayed on my stomach, chin in my hands. “It's different now. But you always look so neat, clean, and—unmussable. I always feel sweaty and rumpled and….”

“Mussed?”

“Never polished next to you. It's intimidating.”

He tipped my chin up. “Three things. One, you're a racecar driver. You sweat and wear horribly hot clothing to do your job. No one cares that rock stars are sweaty and mussed. You have the same mystique. Two, you shouldn't be intimidated by anyone or anything.”

He paused, searching my face.

“Three?” I prompted.

“Three can wait.” He scooted himself down and pulled me up, and we were lost in each other again.

Over room-service breakfast later, he said, “Three is you should get yourself a crisis PR specialist to handle media fallout.”

“That's for people with real problems.” I heard myself and stopped.
It always happens to other people, not you, right?
I frowned. “You expect media reaction to be that bad?”

“Might be already.” He tapped a finger on the sports section of the
USA Today
that had been waiting outside his room. A one-inch sidebar at the top of the left column read, “Did Female Racecar Driver Wreck Fan-Favorite For Media Attention?”

I made him write down a referral before he ate another bite.

By ten o'clock, Holly and I were on the road to Nashville in my Jeep. She tipped down her sunglasses and peered at me from the passenger seat. “You finally did the deed with Stuart.”

“We've been in the car three minutes. What are you, psychic?”

She faced front again, the cat-got-the-cream expression on her face matching how I felt inside. “It's the way you look. More relaxed than last night—than you should be for how much garbage is going on. Happy.”

“I am happy. Except he thinks he loves me.”

“Sure he does. It's been written all over his face for months.” She saw my frown. “What's the problem? You like him, too.”

“I like him. I don't know if I love him. Now I feel guilty I haven't said it back and worried he feels more than I do. I can't deal with this.”

“Tell me what's really wrong.”

I took a deep breath, held it for a count of five, then released it. Felt calmer. “I don't know where to start.”

“It's an eleven-hour drive to my house, sugar. Lay it on me. We'll work it out.”

By the time we reached the outskirts of Chicago, we'd talked through my litany of problems and what my plan of attack might be for each: the accident and the racing world's subsequent doubts about my driving ability (“kick ass at Petit,” Holly said), pressure from my father to meet and be part of his family (“go slowly,” I decided), my stupid response to Miles Hanson's fan (“apologize and ignore it,” she said), my concern Stuart was in love with me (Holly shook her head), and the grief I felt about Ellie. There weren't any solutions to my sadness over Ellie—or for my confusion about Stuart—but Holly let me talk about my memories.

At one point, soon after she'd taken over driving duties, I looked at her. “You're the only one I talk to about this stuff.”

“Your emotions, you mean?”

I considered. “Put that way, I sound like an idiot.”

“No, you sound like a guy. It's no surprise, Kate. You work with guys, hang out with them. The racetrack isn't a place to get all Maury Povich and talk about how you
feel
. But sometimes you have to. For those times, I'm here for you. Also to drag you shoe shopping.”

I laughed. “Thanks.”

After that, I was ready to face the music. Using Holly's smartphone—and swearing to get one of my own the next day—I checked racing news and blog sites, and found my name had gone from mud to something lower. I was being trashed in the comments on articles, with one in two comments on every article using the word “bitch”—when they were being polite. Any supportive voices among the mob were vilified in my stead. It took me two hours to gather my courage to look at the Racing's Ringer blog.

Racing's Ringer, whoever he—or she—was, posted information in two categories. “Eyewitness accounts” comprised two-thirds of the blog posts and contained anecdotes, incidents, or stories he or one of four trusted sources saw or heard personally. Those were marked with an icon of the word “eyewitness” under a cartoon of a pair of eyeballs in a car. “Unconfirmed reports” were little more than gossip, apparently gathered from any and all sources via a prominent “Send Me News!” link on every page. Those were prefaced with the word “unconfirmed” and followed by the Ringer's spin and judgment. All posts were accompanied by a photo or video.

I read through two dozen short entries, many of them unconfirmed, about past accidents I'd been in (whether I'd caused them or not), reporters or fans I'd snubbed (by mistake), and assorted misdeeds and misbehaviors (everything from wearing sweats while picking up dry cleaning once, to gloating over another driver's misfortune that allowed me to win a race…when I was twelve). He used two unflattering images of me in rotation.

By the end of five pages containing multiple blog posts, I wanted to pound on the dashboard, throw something, or scream. Each story from the Ringer and every comment from a blog post or article felt like another pebble placed on top of my chest, making it hard to breathe. Crushing my spirit. I was exhausted, yet frantic—and I, too, thought this Kate Reilly person was lower than pond scum.

I twisted in my seat to face Holly. “Why does Racing's Ringer hate me? Some of this is true, but most of it is willful misreading of situations. When do I catch a break for being human?”

“Maybe you should ask him. I don't mean defend yourself. But ask why he's so set against you.”

“He'd make fun of me. Then again, how could he get worse?”

I faced front and wiggled the seatbelt to a more comfortable position, sifting through my emotions. I was furious at being falsely accused and made a spectacle of, as well as scared about the drama damaging my career. I felt helpless, at the mercy of faceless hordes who only saw or read part of the story, which made me mad again. Underneath it all, I was hurt that someone I didn't know—I assumed I didn't know—hated me that much.

I stuck with rage, because dwelling on the pain might make me curl up into a whimpering ball of self-pity.

“I'm doing it.” Before I changed my mind, I typed a note in the comment form: “Dear Racing's Ringer, Why do you dislike me so much? You take delight in reporting mistakes and missteps in my career, and I'd very much like to know why. Kate Reilly.”

Maybe I'd get something to work with.

The next task was my voicemail. After the first two post-race calls from reporters, I'd sent my grandparents and other key people e-mails telling them I was fine, but not to call. Then I'd put the phone on silent—checking for text messages, but ignoring calls. I knew there'd been dozens of attempts and messages, and I dialed voicemail via speakerphone, so Holly could hear also.

From eighty-three missed calls, there were twenty-five messages, mostly requests for comments or interviews. Nineteen from media outlets I'd never heard of, and five from publications or reporters I knew. All referenced the accident in the race and Miles' injury; half of them also referenced Ellie's death. One was Juliana, devastated about Ellie and asking how I was doing. She also warned me her SGTV bosses hoped I'd do an on-camera interview with her. Holly agreed that might be the best tribute to Ellie.

The single non-media message was from a man claiming to be Miles Hanson's biggest fan and telling me I would burn in hell for what I'd done. Hearing a stranger's voice saying something so hateful was worse than vituperative comments on a blog, and my hand shook holding the phone. It took fifteen minutes of deep breathing to regain my equilibrium.

The last hurdle was my professional e-mail inbox, which I pulled up on Holly's phone. I clicked through seventy-three of the 1,238 unread messages. Six offered support of the “you go, girl” variety. Sixty-seven were complaints or hate messages about Miles. His injury was my fault, of course, but I was also blamed for other problems he'd had in his NASCAR races, for making people quit being fans of racing, and for the cost of race attendance. Moreover, I was proof women don't belong on the racetrack. One guy called me the devil. A couple of them threatened personal harm, should I show my face around Miles again or should he suffer lasting injury. Five wished I'd die in a wreck, one said I should have died instead of Ellie, and three threatened to kill me themselves.

Once I stopped hyperventilating, I called Stuart's crisis public relations company, which turned out to be a husband and wife team based in Los Angeles. Matt and Lily Diaz had written the book on crisis management, marketing, and publicity after steering two pro basketball players, a golfer, three NFL players, and a tennis ace through the media minefields of misdemeanor and felony accusations. Even a couple trials. Someone with a problem in the motorsports world was new for them.

I explained who I was and started to describe my recent image problems, mentioning the death threats. Matt stopped me, instructing me to hang up and call the police, then call them back. I started with Lieutenant Young at the Sheboygan County Sheriff's office, who took down the details and advised me to notify the police wherever I stopped, so local authorities had record of the situation. He made it clear no agency could do much based on threats alone—unless someone acted on them. I assured him I'd contact Nashville and Atlanta police when I got to those cities.

After I hung up with him, I called Matt and Lily again. Before I could resume my explanation of the problems I was having, Lily interrupted me. “Tell me, are you an ‘aggressive hothead out to succeed over men at any cost?' Or not?”

 

Chapter Eleven

“Lily,” Matt Diaz spoke before I gathered my wits. “Give the poor girl a chance.”

I cleared my throat. “You've been reading blog posts.”

“We looked around while we waited for you to call back,” Lily said. “But we'll get totally familiar with your situation over the next couple days. By Thursday night, we'll have a plan.”

I gave them websites, blogs, and news outlets covering the story—covering me—especially those whose representatives had left me voicemails. I gave them my e-mail login information so they could see what they were up against. And I promised to send a schedule of my sponsor and team obligations for the next two weeks, as I had a full calendar starting Friday. When I hung up, I felt better than I had in days. They were expensive, but having them on my side was worth it. A call to give Tom the latest news, a quick stop for lunch, and it was my turn behind the wheel again.

We were eight hours in when Holly looked up from her phone. “Uh oh.”

I glanced away from the road to her worried face. I took three deep breaths and a sip of Diet Coke. “I'm ready.”

“First of all, you're trending on Twitter.”

“I'm not even on Twitter.”

“I know, but you're trending with a couple hashtags.”

“Hash-what now?”

She sighed. “Sugar, really, social media? What generation are you from? Hashtags are for search terms or topics. Hashtag ‘Kate Reilly' is getting some use, and hashtag ‘blame Kate' is making the rounds. You need to join Twitter.”

Before I could comment, she held up a hand. “There's more. Racing's Ringer responded to you—complete with the creepy eyeball graphic. He's a jerk and he's wrong, but he explains his problem with you.”

“Read it to me?”

“‘An open letter to Kate Reilly. Dear Ms. Reilly, You wrote today asking me why I dislike you. Why I have such fun repeating tidbits about your career. I'm happy to explain to you and my Ringer Readers.'”

“‘Ringer Readers?'” I broke in. “That's dreadful.”

“Agreed. He continues, ‘It's not true to say I dislike you. I have no use for you and, honestly, I don't get the hype.'”

“Hype? I have hype?”

“Let me finish reading. ‘So you've done nothing of value, particularly off the track. Like so many others, you can drive some. But color me unimpressed, because you have a growing voice in the racing industry and the sports world you don't use. You're a role model, do something about it! Give back to the fans and little girls who admire you. Contribute to a cause, speak out for an organization. Stand up for something! You're a public figure and it's your responsibility to inspire those around you. So until I see you stepping up to your responsibilities, you don't get my respect. Signed, Racing's Ringer. P.S. One thing that's outright unforgivable is your lack of response to Ellie Grayson Prescott's death. Sources tell me she was a good friend of yours back in your formula racing days, and you found her dead, but can't be bothered to comment or show remorse. If this is how you treat friends, how do you treat your enemies?'”

For three miles down the road, I had no words to express the injustice.

Holly broke open a bar of dark chocolate and handed me a piece. “You did ask.”

“When was I supposed to make a statement about Ellie? The night it happened, when I was in shock? Don't I get time to cope? Do I call a reporter today and make a statement? I don't get it.” I ate the chocolate square.

“He's holding you to a higher standard than most drivers. Shoot, most boys steer clear of DUIs and speeding tickets, and they're golden. I wonder if the Ringer is a woman, and that's why she—he? it?—is so hard on you.”

“On one side I've got people threatening to kill me because I
did
something. On the other, I've got someone berating me for
not
doing something. Damned if I do, damned if I don't.”

“You ain't kidding.”

We rode in silence another couple miles. One minute I felt like crying, the next I felt like yelling, and the next I thought I could laugh and ignore the whole mess.

“Turn off the brain,” Holly suggested, breaking off another piece of chocolate and handing it to me. She popped Garth Brooks into the CD player and for two hours, we sang our heads off and pretended the world of murdered friends, frightening fans, and angry bloggers didn't exist.

Wednesday at her house in Nashville represented an island of calm. We slept late, then I went for a long run, joined Holly for a healthy, home-cooked breakfast, and worked out for more than an hour with the weights I carried in the back of my Jeep. We left the house only for me to purchase a new smartphone—the last person in the world to get one, Holly declared—and for both of us to take a yoga class at a local studio. By the end of the day, I felt great. I'd worked out all the kinks and stiff muscles from the accident, stress, and long drive. My wrist felt fine. My body felt normal again. We did lots of laundry and thoroughly ignored media, e-mail, and blogs. No one even called us.

Thursday I woke up rejuvenated. That's when the peaceful feeling ended.

Lieutenant Young from the Sheboygan County Sheriff called to tell me they had a preliminary determination in the cause of Ellie's death.

“I appreciate the information, Lieutenant, but why are you telling me?”

“Because we believe what caused her death was nitroglycerin located in the orange juice identified as her drink.”

“Nitroglycerin—the stuff for hearts? That can kill someone? In Ellie's—but I gave the juice to her. I mean, Stuart gave it to me and he brought it from the bar. He wouldn't put anything in it. I didn't.”

“We don't think you did, Ms. Reilly.”

“There were a hundred people in that room, anyone could have…but why would they want to hurt Ellie?”

“We're not sure yet, but we also can't rule out the possibility that you were the intended victim.”

“Oh my God.” My knees turned to jelly, and I crumpled onto Holly's sofa.

He offered tips for protecting myself in case I was still a target, but I couldn't concentrate on his words. Dangerous physical situations I could handle, but the way I lived life on the road made it difficult to guarantee my food and drink weren't tampered with. Maybe a logistical impossibility.

I hung up and pulled myself together, relating the information to Holly, who was alarmed to find me motionless and dazed in her living room. Then I called Matt and Lily for a scheduled planning session, upsetting them with the news.

“The randomness of life on the road might be your best defense,” Matt said.

“At least until I'm having team meals during the next racing weekend.”

Lily made me promise to stay alive, then offered to hook me up with her favorite service that would ship poison-free meals from Los Angeles. I hoped it didn't come to that.

Then we got to work discussing the media campaign they'd planned, which, they vowed, would improve public perception of me. We walked through the press releases they'd send out, via an e-mail media blast and by reaching out to key contacts personally. Then they drilled me on clear statements about the events of the prior weekend, including specific phrases they wanted me to use in reference to Miles, my “redneck” comment, and Ellie. I paced through Holly's house, gesturing with a free hand, emphasizing different words each time until the cadence felt natural. In the end, the rehearsed lines rolled fluidly off my tongue.

“I want to apologize to anyone who took offense at the language I used while my emotions were high. My intent was not to disparage anyone.”

“I have reached out to Miles Hanson and the LinkTime Corvette team…”

“An unfortunate racing incident…”

“I am very sad about the death of Helen Prescott, who I raced with years ago and considered a friend. It was too difficult to speak about her before this time.”

As we talked, Matt and Lily sent copies of schedules, releases, and talking points in e-mail, and I promised to alert them to any new development—though I didn't know how things could get worse. I hung up feeling relief as a lightness in my body. Bringing them in to fix my image and reputation was one of the best decisions I'd ever made. I owed Stuart for that.

After one last call—to Tom to update him and Jack on threats, my PR team's activities, and my location and health—Holly and I left Nashville mid-afternoon and rolled in to the Westin Peachtree Plaza hotel in downtown Atlanta around nine that night. My hotel room was being paid for by the new sponsor I'd be meeting with on Friday, so Holly shared with me. She was a night owl, and I was nervous about the coming meetings, so we were up late.

“I don't see why you're worried.” She pulled open the drapes of our room on the forty-seventh floor to see the lights of downtown Atlanta.

“Number one, new sponsor, new people, and my reputation isn't the best these days. That's enough. But number two, it's a
beauty company
.”