The Labyrinth Campaign (2 page)

I
t was Indian summer in Boulder, Colorado. The warm September sun was shining down on the University of Colorado faithful who were hoping to see their Buffaloes win for the second time in as many weeks at Folsom Field, undoubtedly one of the most scenic college stadiums in the country. The Buffs had just scored the go-ahead touchdown with less than three minutes left in the game. If the defense could just hang on, the half-filled stadium would go nuts as the formidable University of Wisconsin Badgers were sent packing back to Madison.

It was third down and ten yards to go, and the ball was on Wisconsin’s thirty-nine. The Badger quarterback took the snap and dropped back to pass as his tight end ran a delay from the right. He was wide open over the middle for what appeared to be an easy first down. A couple more of these and the Badgers would be in position to kick the winning field goal. The Wisconsin quarterback, under pressure, released the pass. The crowd was silent. From the booth, radio announcer Larry Zimmer had already counted first down in his own mind. Then, out of nowhere, junior linebacker Jack McCarthy streaked in front of the pass, diving for the game-clinching interception. When he snagged the ball, the crowd went crazy. The Buffs ran out the clock and won 21–19. News in all of Colorado, and big news in the small college town of Boulder.

Later that evening, as Jack drove down College Avenue in his turquoise 1976 Datsun B-210, he and his girlfriend, Shea Bennet, relived the afternoon’s excitement. Since he had left the locker room, all of Jack’s activities had included consumption of beer. First, he went to the Harvest House beer garden, where he and 3,000 of his closest friends celebrated CU’s big win. Then, at home, he and his roommates sat around the kitchen table playing their favorite drinking game, Liar’s Dice. Then after a quick shower, he was off to pick up Shea so they could hit his Delta Phi fraternity party on The Hill. As they expected, when they pulled up near the Delta Phi house, the party was already rocking.

As Shea and Jack fought their way to the front door, the crowd started to chant, “Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack.” He was the celebrity for the evening. Before they even got to the front staircase, Jack and Shea were chugging beers, hugging drunken fraternity brothers, and smoking a joint of some of the best Thai stick they’d had in a while. Jack was enjoying the attention, but he was feeling the need for a breather from the crowd and the nearly forced beer consumption.

Just then, Charlie Hall, one of Jack’s best friends from high school, grabbed Jack in a headlock and yelled, “Noogie!” as he viciously rubbed Jack’s head.

Jack pushed Charlie away but then, when he realized who it was, said, “You asshole, are you ever going to grow up?”

“I hope not,” Charlie responded. “Let’s go upstairs, I’ve got some great blow.”

“Oh, that’s a shock,” Jack retorted. “Let me get Shea, and I’ll meet you in your room.”

Twenty minutes later, after each had had three rails (a term Charlie claimed he invented), Jack said, “Hey, let’s go back to the party.”

“What are you talking about? We’re just getting started,” Charlie mumbled through coke-numbed lips.

“Don’t you ever get enough?” Jack said. “I’m already flying.”

“You sure are a pussy for such a big stud football player, Jack.”

“Fuck you, Charlie. You’re nothing more than a second-rate frat boy with a first-rate drug problem.”

“I’m okay ’til you get your buzz, and then I’m a fuck-up, is that it?” Charlie fired back. Then, without warning, he threw a beer bottle that caught Jack right in the chest. Without hesitation, Jack threw Charlie to the ground and pulled back his right fist, ready to pummel Charlie’s face.

Shea grabbed Jack’s arm and screamed, “What the hell are you guys doing? I thought you were friends!” Then she spun on her heel and said, “I’m outta here.”

Jack and Charlie stared at each other silently. Then they both started to laugh. Charlie said, “Sorry about the bottle, man.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about what I said, too. I’m just worried about you. You’re doing too much shit.”

“Don’t worry about me, man. I got it under control.”

“I hope so, dude, but I gotta catch Shea. She’s pissed.”

“Go ahead,” Charlie said as Jack raced from the room. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

As Jack caught Shea at the front door of the frat house, she yanked her arm away. “Shea, I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. Actually, that’s not true, I do know what got into me: that goddamned cocaine.”

“You always want more, and it makes you do some crazy things.”

“Shea, I swear to you, I’ll never do that shit again. It screws up people’s lives.”

“I agree. I won’t do it anymore if you won’t.”

They silently embraced on the front steps of the Delta Phi house, smiled at each other, and walked toward the car hand in hand as the chants of “Jack, Jack, Jack,” echoed down the tree-lined residential street.

As Jack and Shea drove back to his house, Jack observed, “I can name five guys in our house who are doing too much coke. The stuff is so easy to get, these guys are doing it every day. Now Charlie is getting an ounce at a time, dealing enough to pay the tab, and snorting the rest.”

“Jack, you can’t live their lives for them; all you can do is tell your real friends how you feel.”

“I know, but what’s this world coming to? Drugs on every street corner in every neighborhood in America, air pollution choking the environment. The people of the world better wake up soon, or we’re all fucked.”

“Wow, Jack, you are getting old,” Shea said. “You were the star of the game this afternoon, and tonight, instead of reliving that play a hundred and fifty times like you would have last year, you’re discussing the world’s problems.”

Jack looked at her and grinned.

Later, as Jack and Shea lay in bed, Jack realized he still had serious thoughts running through his mind. Drugs … nuclear threats. “I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid, Shea. I’ve done coke lots of times, when I know it has the potential to kill me at any moment.”

“Jack, everyone is doing it, and I haven’t heard of anyone dying in Boulder from too much coke.”

“That’s not the point, Shea. All it takes is one person, even an athlete with a heart problem, and bam! The heart explodes. And you know what that means.”

“Yeah, it means you’re being overly dramatic,” Shea said. They both laughed.

“But seriously, Shea—”

“Hey, Jack. Can we stop saving the world and go to sleep? Or better yet, fool around?”

“Now that’s an issue we can both agree on.” She giggled and turned out the light.

The next morning, as they lay asleep in each other’s arms, Jack’s bedside phone rang. He sleepily fumbled to pick up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Jack, it’s Dave.” Dave was Charlie’s roommate at the Delta Phi house.

“No, Dave, I can’t pick you guys up for breakfast; I’ve got plans,” Jack said as he stroked Shea’s long, brown hair.

“That’s not why I’m calling, man. I’ve got some bad news. Charlie died last night, Jack.”

Jack bolted upright in bed as if he’d been touched by a hot cattle prod.

“He overdosed on cocaine, Jack. We found him this morning. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. I know how close you two were.”

Jack silently hung up the phone, and his head fell into his hands. He was too stunned to cry. But his course was set, he realized. The thoughts
he had the night before suddenly crystallized into a hardened resolve: Drugs and the people who dealt them were the enemy that would bring this country to its knees.

Then the grief came: heavy sobs from deep down in his belly.

“God, Charlie, I miss you already.”

[Twenty years later]

T
he two men squared off, ready for battle, the student and the instructor. This particular student provided a rare challenge for the aging Tae Kwon Do instructor. As the two sparred, it was apparent that the student had keenly developed his skills. Quick, well-placed blows to his face and body quickly had the instructor retreating. The crowd of students seated around the ring watched in awe and envy as Jack McCarthy continued his relentless pursuit of the martial arts instructor who had pummeled him so many times. Following an exchange of blows that Jack had clearly won, the instructor raised both arms in the air, signaling the end of the match. Jack was elated. He’d never had so much success against such a worthy opponent.

As the instructor gathered the class for his final words of wisdom before dismissing them, he said, “I have a special announcement today. Jack McCarthy is ready for the next step. I am hereby awarding him a black belt.”

Jack was stunned by the announcement. The rest of the class erupted in a loud cacophony of applause and screams. Jack, however, was silent. He never had any intention of being a black belt. He began his martial
arts training to stay in shape; his knees were too battered from football to continue a heavy schedule of running, and a friend at work had turned him on to the mental and physical attributes of martial arts. This was truly a special moment for him.

After a long receiving line of handshakes and hugs from his fellow students, Jack hit the locker room for a shower and a shave before he called his girlfriend, Carrie, to invite her out for a celebration. When he finally left the martial arts studio, he stepped out into the evening air. The wall of heat hit him, reminding him that September is still summer in Dallas, Texas. As Jack drove down Greenville Avenue, his mind wandered from black belt to girlfriend to work and finally back to that warm feeling of accomplishment.

It was Friday night. Though it was still early, the bars and restaurants along Greenville Avenue were already filling up. This part of Lower Greenville was an interesting section of town. The gingerbread houses of the “M” streets were the location of choice for Dallas’s young professionals. Close to downtown and within walking distance of a number of trendy bars and restaurants, the neighborhood was an ideal location. Jack was now older than the average M-street inhabitant, but he loved his house on Mercedes Street and continued to tell himself there was no reason to move until he got married. His office had always been downtown, and he could get there in less than fifteen minutes. His favorite restaurant was The Grape, and he could get there in less than five. What was not to like?

As Jack pulled his two-year-old Saab convertible into the driveway, his cell phone rang. “Hi,” cooed Carrie, his new and very sexy girlfriend.

“Hey,” Jack said. “Come over right now; we have some celebrating to do.”

“Really? What’s the occasion?”

“I just got my black belt, and I want to take you out for dinner.” “Oooh, sounds great. I can be there in about an hour. I just need to stop home and change real quick.”

“Are you still at the office?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, check your voicemail and you’ll know why. See you in a bit.”

Jack wandered into his house, thinking about Carrie. She was awesome. Beautiful, smart, fun. If she only liked sports more, she would be perfect! But then again, no one was perfect.

Jack had four voicemail messages. The first was from Ross: tee time at 8:00 a.m., Saturday morning.

“Yes!” Jack hadn’t played golf in weeks.

The next two messages were uneventful, but the final message explained what Carrie was talking about. It was from Allen Hamilton, the CEO of Will, Page, and Clark, the advertising agency where Jack and Carrie worked. WPC had just been notified that they had made it to the final round of the GenSquare new-business pitch, and Allen was calling an 8:00 meeting for Saturday morning. GenSquare, a next-generation software company, was the fastest growing company in Texas, owned by the Hawkins family, the richest and most powerful in the state.

Jack reacted with mixed emotions. The pitch was the biggest in the agency’s history, but as silly as it sounded, he was really looking forward to playing golf. Anyway, business came first, not to mention the added bonus that William, the eldest son of the Hawkins family, was a powerful Texas senator with presidential aspirations. This would not normally be of much interest to Jack, but the senator and Jack had very similar views on Jack’s two most passionate political topics: drugs and the environment.

Jack made a quick call to Ross to bail on golf and jumped into the shower. After getting dressed, he was startled by a noise in the kitchen. As he rounded the corner to investigate, he bumped squarely into Carrie. She was dressed impeccably, and the sight of her took his breath away.

“You look great! And I’m suddenly looking a little underdressed,” he stated as he looked down at his jeans, starched, button-down shirt, and loafers.

“You look fine,” Carrie replied. “I just got a little carried away, thinking about my black-belt boyfriend.”

With that, she threw her arms around Jack and gave him a long, passionate kiss. Just as Jack began to respond, she pulled away and said, “Oh, no you don’t! We’ve got dinner plans.”

Jack feigned disappointment, grabbed his keys, and said, “Let’s go. We’re already looking at an hour wait at this time on a Friday night.”

As the couple drove down Mercedes Street with the top down, the warm wind blowing through their hair, Carrie asked, “Did you get Allen’s voicemail?”

“Yeah, can you believe we made the finals?”

The instant he said it, he wished he could take it back. Carrie was the new-business director at WPC, and his comment, while just intended as conversation, probably hit her like a slap in the face. “Hey,” Jack said, “that didn’t sound like I meant it to. You’re the best new-business person in town, and I actually would have been shocked if we hadn’t made it to the finals.”

Carrie smiled and stroked Jack’s hair. “Thanks, I needed that.”

As Jack and Carrie drove down Greenville Avenue heading for The Grape, traffic began to slow. Lines were already out the door at many of the restaurants and bars.

As Jack wheeled into the valet alley at The Grape, Jeff, the regular attendant, called out, “Jack! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Jeff opened the door for Carrie, walked to the front of the car, and high-fived the parking stub into Jack’s hand.