Braking Points (8 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Seven of us in pink polo shirts stood at the entrance to the tent with three black-clad women wearing radio headsets prepping us for our one-by-one reveal. The addition to the six spokeswomen was a breast cancer survivor who radiated energy and goodwill. She went on stage first, after Beauté and BCRF executive introductions and a basic summary of the partnership. Her name was Anne, and she was thirty-three, a survivor of stage four breast cancer, diagnosed three days after she turned thirty. Those of us waiting looked at each other in shock.

Athlete introductions were next, first Siena, then me. I walked up four steps to the stage and shook hands with the row of bigwigs, momentarily disconcerted by the stage backdrop: black and white headshots of each spokeswoman. There I was, larger than life. Turning, I stepped to the microphone and looked out at the audience, seeing a handful of press, a couple dozen staff members from each organization, and at least two hundred breast cancer patients, survivors, and supporters.

We'd been prepped for the statement, warned to keep it to a couple sentences. I was so moved by Anne that I jettisoned what I'd prepared and spoke from the heart. “For months, I have been thrilled and proud to be part of this partnership, and I thought this day would never arrive. But being here, seeing you all, meeting Anne backstage…I am humbled. Humbled and honored. Anne, and all of you out there who are dealing with this every day, you are the real heroes. I'll do anything I can to support you. Thank you.” Anne hugged me before I reached my chair.

Considering the work put into making me pretty, the formal part of the program was brief, and after that, the executives took questions from the press. I scanned faces in the crowd, thinking about their courage, but snapped to attention when I heard my name spoken by a male reporter.

“Can you or Kate Reilly comment on the difficulties she's been having lately? I understand she had a run in with another driver and some fans. She's also involved in a police investigation into a possible homicide. Did those issues cause you any concern over her selection to this group of admirable women?”

My breath caught. He'd voiced my biggest fear. I concentrated on not letting tension show in my face and hearing a response over the roaring in my ears.

The executive director of BCRF made way for the CEO of Beauté, Lindsay Eastwood, who stepped forward to the microphone. I'd met her the previous day and decided I wanted to be her when I grew up—though I'd never achieve her degree of poise and polish. She was tall and slender with thick, graying hair cut in a stylish bob, perfect pink lipstick three shades darker than our shirts, and killer red heels.

Better than her style was that she smiled at me, stepped forward, and smacked an answer out of the ballpark. “The reason we're here is to support women, and men, who face a tremendous challenge in life. A challenge that, frankly, makes the variety of other troubles in our lives seem insignificant. Based on the fact Kate is with us today, it's clear she recognizes what's important. As do we. We love Kate, we respect the hell out of her ability to drive a racecar, and we admire her character. So when there's mud being slung around? We're not afraid of getting a little dirty at her side.”

I wondered if she'd adopt me.

One more press question, benign this time, and the event was over. I made a beeline to Lindsay to thank her. As she hugged me, she whispered, “We checked you out, Kate. We're not worried.”

I felt lightheaded with relief. “I can't thank you enough.”

“Feel free to quote me.” She winked before turning to greet others.

I reached Holly at the foot of the stage, still shaking my head over my luck, but before I could speak to her, a fan walked up wearing a Sandham Swift t-shirt. He was taller than me, skinny, pale skinned, dark-blond-hair. Average looking, but familiar.

“Hi, Kate? Would you sign these for me?” He held out a copy of the Beauté and BCRF press release and a photo of me driving through the Corkscrew at Monterey's Laguna Seca track.

“Sure. It's great of you to come out today. Do you live here in Atlanta?” I took his pen and signed.

“I do. And I'll see you at the track next weekend.”

I looked at him again. Prominent Adam's apple, hair brushed forward, early-thirties. “Did I see you in Wisconsin last weekend?”

“Yeah, I'm George. George Ryan.” He introduced himself to Holly and apologized for interrupting us.

I remembered him. “Outside the Tavern, with the piece of my car.”

“I'm sorry about the timing and your friend. At least you got to connect with her again, briefly. I used to follow all three of you.”

“You did?”

“For sure. It's cool to watch young drivers develop their talent and say I knew you when—I mean, knew of you. I didn't know you, obviously.”

“How did you end up a fan of racing?” Holly asked. “Do you race?”

“No, but it's really exciting to watch. My first job was for Cooper Tires, so I found out about racing at lower levels, then I was hooked. I used to go to as many races as I could in the Midwest. It's funny how many of you who I watched racing eight or ten years ago are now in the ALMS—or broadcasting it.”

Holly nodded. “You never know where people will end up, do you?”

“That's part of the fun,” George said. “Trying to guess where young racers might go and tracking their progress to see if I'm right.”

“How's your batting average?” I asked.

“Pretty good, but some still surprise me. I knew Kate would stay behind the wheel and thought Ellie Grayson wouldn't. But I was sure Juliana Parker would be driving—though she's back now in a way. Some people you can just tell will end up in broadcasting, you know?”

Holly raised an eyebrow. “Like who?”

“Zeke Andrews. Felix Simon. Hailey Leamon, over in IndyCar. I messed up on Scott Brooklyn though. I pegged him for all or nothing, racing or leaving, but not broadcasting. What makes it hard is how different a driver's personality is behind the wheel and in the paddock, though I always think if you're a jerk on the track, at some point you're going to be a jerk in the rest of life, too.”

I was impressed by his insight. “What do you do for a living, George?”

“Sorry, I'm running off at the mouth.” He blushed. “I'm in human resources, corporate recruiting, specifically.”

“You'd have to be good at analyzing character for that job.”

“I'd like to think so. But for racing, it's only a fun game to play.”

Lindsay Eastwood passed, nodding at Holly and George and patting my shoulder.

“Anyway, thanks again for signing these.” George held up the event materials. “And for chatting.”

We shook hands again and he left.

“A little nervous, but a nice guy,” Holly said, after he was well out of earshot. “And how about that gift the CEO gave you? What a response.”

“No kidding. I've got to tell Matt and Lily.”

“How does she look so good? I checked. She's sixty and could pass for forty.”

“Maybe it's time to start using these beauty products after all.”

The CEO's ringing endorsement made the press event the high point of my day. My spirits deflated when Holly and I discovered how far the influence of the Racing's Ringer blog had spread. In addition to three more stories about “Kate Violent living up to her name” on the blog, there were a number of stories in the regular media about the Ringer's posts—not reporting my past behavior as fact, but mentioning the accusations as part of a discussion about the power of blogs over cultural consciousness.

I hated being the prime example.

Matt and Lily were encouraging when I called them, telling me to trust them. They set to work getting copies of the Beauté press release and Lindsay's statement to every media outlet they could think of. Certainly the three reporters I spoke to by phone that afternoon—one from the Associated Press, one from CNN, and one of my old friends at
Racer
magazine—all had the information. I hoped the tide was turning.

 

Chapter Sixteen

Juliana was also prepped with the details of the press event, and she congratulated me when Holly and I arrived at her hotel. We sat at the lobby bar over cups of coffee and quickly mapped out what we'd talk about on-camera, including how I knew Juliana and Ellie back in the day, how we'd reconnected just prior to Ellie's death, and a bare-bones description of finding Ellie's body.

I sipped my coffee as Juliana made notes in a notebook.

“I spoke with the Elkhart Lake PD today,” she said, breaking off a piece of the biscotti we'd gotten with the coffee. “They gave me some information I'll use as part of the special report with your interview.”

“What did they tell you?” Holly leaned forward.

Juliana glanced at me. “They said Ellie was poisoned—wouldn't say what with—but she may not have been the intended victim. Do you know anything, Kate?”

I nodded slowly. “But you can't use it. I'm not supposed to say anything.”

“I can differentiate between business and friendship, Kate.” Her voice and posture were stiff.

I touched her arm. “I'm sorry. They think I could have been the intended victim.”

Hurt changed to sympathy on her face. “But that's awful. Who'd want to kill you?”

“Beats me. A Miles Hanson fan?”

Holly changed the subject, asking Juliana about her new job with SGTV. “Everyone in broadcasting wants a network job in a top market, right? But you gave one up to move to SGTV. I figure you had a reason.”

Juliana laughed. “You're right. I voted myself off the network news island. I realized I wasn't happy, and I missed racing.” She turned to me. “As Kate knows, I lost part of my sponsorship, and then she got the job we both tried for.”

“I've always felt terrible it made you leave racing,” I put in.

“It was the right time. I'd juggled racing and pageants and school, and I knew I'd have to choose. I had some health issues, and the choice was clear. My mother—I was an only child, and she'd always been very involved in my careers,” she explained for Holly's benefit. “She told me I'd go farther in pageants anyway. She humored my desire to race, using it to teach me lessons about always trying to improve. ‘Be the best!' she'd tell me.” She blinked back tears.

Holly handed Juliana a bar napkin to use as a tissue. “A major event like losing a parent can make you rethink where you are in your life.”

“Exactly. I realized my life was mine to direct. So I came back to racing, because it's where my heart's always been. And I'll still honor my mother by being the best wherever I am.”

We toasted that sentiment with our coffee cups.

A few minutes later we were upstairs in a large suite, microphones attached and cameras rolling. After addressing Ellie's death, Juliana gave me an opening for other topics. “I understand that was merely the last event in an already tough day for you?”

“Yes. I was terribly upset to have played a role in wrecking myself, not to mention another driver and team. On top of that to lose someone I'd only just reconnected with—I was devastated. I must have appeared unfeeling, and I want to apologize to anyone who felt slighted by my actions.”

Juliana nodded sympathetically for the camera filming her over my shoulder. “It sounds like a difficult time emotionally. But you had good news coming up, right?”

“It was a weekend of ups and downs. It's hard to celebrate after such sadness, but I know Ellie would be happy for me and tell me to get on with business. I'm honored and excited to be part of Beauté's campaign supporting the Breast Cancer Research Foundation—and especially to promote the idea that every woman is beautiful.”

Our interview ended shortly thereafter, and an assistant who'd been helping with lights went out into the hallway. Seconds later, Felix Simon, the pit reporter Juliana had worked with at Road America, walked in, nodding to the crew packing up the cameras.

“How'd the little tea party go, Juliana?” His voice was light, but patronizing.

She rolled her eyes at me. “It was fine, Felix. Kate, I'm so sorry, but I have a follow-up phone interview in two minutes. Will you forgive me if I run?”

“Sure, Jules.” We hugged each other, and she slipped from the room.

Meanwhile Felix settled himself on the arm of the sofa I'd been sitting on. “How touching. Her first little solo job for the network. How'd you perform for her, ‘Kate Violent?'” He raised an eyebrow at me and crossed his arms over his chest.

My fingers froze on the mic I'd been unfastening from my collar. I looked up, feeling a flush rising in my face. I noticed Holly getting to her feet at the other side of the room where she'd been a silent observer.

He went on, his face hard. “Did our Jules ask you any hard-hitting questions about your pattern of aggression?”

“What is your problem?” I clenched my hands into fists at my sides to keep them from shaking.

He shrugged, smiled. “I'm just doing a journalist's job, asking you questions. I don't have a problem. Maybe you do, if you can't handle the real world. Are you like all the other girls I've seen who try to call themselves racers? You can't take what you're trying to dish out?”

“How do you know what I can take? Why would you judge me based on other people?”

“So far you're exactly like the rest. Looking for attention with whatever underhanded means you can find. I hate to break it to you, hot stuff, but tits and ass only get you so far in the racing world.” He shook his head. “But I forgot, you're better than that. You should have taken that meal ticket to NASCAR when Sam Remington offered. You'll wash out of racing soon enough—and like all the others, you'll blame everyone else for the fact that you can't hack it, instead of accepting you're no damn good.”

I vaguely heard Holly's voice saying, “Hey, now” through the buzzing in my head, and I felt her hand on my arm, trying to calm me.

I shook her off, stepping close to Felix and looking him in the eye. “Why would you attack me personally? What code of professional ethics or personal honor says that's all right? Or are you afraid, Felix? Are you like some other men I've met, so threatened by a girl you have to lash out, keep me down? Does it make you less of a man because women are racecar drivers? If that's how fragile your manhood is, I pity you.”

I ripped the mic off my shirt, yanked the receiver from my waistband, and threw them on the couch next to him. “I'm out of here.” I whirled to leave and saw a camera on someone's shoulder. The red “recording” light was on.

Not again.

Holly tugged me sideways, and we left the room.

The elevator doors closed behind us and I sagged against the wall. “Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

“It's not that bad,” Holly began.

“I flew off the handle on camera
again
,” I moaned. “I never do that, Holly. What's
wrong
with me?”

“He provoked you. That was way out of line.”

“He works for the network, they'll edit that out. And the Ringer blog will get it…” My breath caught in my chest.

Holly held up her phone and tapped the screen. Felix's voice spilled out, “…tea party go?”

“You recorded it?” My tears dried up.

“Lily Diaz told me to watch the interview and record anything touchy. When Felix came in and got all smirky at you, I hit record again.”

“Have I mentioned lately you're my best friend in the entire world?”

“You can thank me by buying me dinner.”

“Done.”

I took calming breaths as Holly dragged me into the hotel's gift shop—she couldn't pass one without going in. After trying on dozens of rings, she finally settled on one with tiny crystals in the shape of a ladybug, and once she paid for it, we exited the hotel to walk to the corner. While we waited to cross, I admired the moody, twilight skies and watched pedestrians.

“It's like Felix wasn't even talking to me, but to other women from the past. That's some deep-seated resentment there.”

“He certainly expects female drivers to behave only one way.” Holly stood to my right, head down, studying her new ring.

Traffic sounds changed, and I looked up to see the light was green for us to cross. I stepped into the crosswalk, turning to tell Holly to get moving. Too quickly for my feet to respond, I realized the noise was wrong. Half a step later, there was a yank on my purse, slung across my body over my left shoulder.

I staggered backward, falling, unable to get my feet under me. I thought, “Thief!” at the same instant I understood the strange noise: a car was bearing down on me. Ten yards away, nine—accelerating? Eight, seven. Every cell in my body screamed to get out of the way, fast.

I was pulled backward again, by the back of my shirt this time. I fell hard onto my butt in the gutter, my lower back slamming into the curb. I curled my knees to my face. Pulled my feet in. Threw myself back, as far from the street as possible. The car swept by, still accelerating, missing me by inches. I tasted exhaust.

A clamor of voices. “Are you OK?”

“He was aiming at you!”

“Let's get you up.”

“No, leave her a minute.” That was Holly, who crouched next to me, murmuring, “You all right?”

I nodded, face buried in my knees, tailbone smarting. I tried to catch my breath from the kidney-punch against the curb. Tried to grab a coherent thought when my brain and body were jacked up on adrenaline and terror. “That you who pulled me back, Holly?”

“Yeah. Anything hurt?”

“I'm OK. Thanks.”

“Then let's get you out of the gutter. It's unbecoming.”

I laughed weakly as she helped me up.