Chapter 16
WHEN A DOOR says Private, you want to know what’s on the other side.
When an envelope says Private, you immediately want to open it.
I entered Private through the reception area, waved to Joanie behind the desk, and climbed the grand spiral staircase that wraps around the open core of the atrium. The staircase always gives me a lift. Reminds me of the cross section of a nautilus shell.
I was on my way into my office on the fifth floor when Colleen stopped me.
“You’ve got company,” she said. “Lots of it. Suits. Expensive ones.”
I went to the threshold and saw three men lounging in my seating area, a corner furnished with upholstered armchairs, a deep blue sofa, and a chunk of polished sequoia I use as a coffee table. This was where people came with their secrets, and where those secrets were always kept in confidence.
Two of my unscheduled visitors were smoking like tobacco company CEOs. Colleen said, “The gentlemen said they didn’t want to be seen in reception. What a surprise.”
The third man turned to face us, and with a start, I realized I was looking at my uncle Fred. Fred Kreutzer is my mom’s brother, the one who always told me to call him any time I needed an ear. He taught Tommy and me to play football when we were kids and encouraged me to play in high school and then college.
In short, Uncle Fred was the stand-in good dad for the man who’d sired me. Fred had gone further in football than I had—much further. He was a general partner of the Oakland Raiders.
The big florid-faced man stood, gave me a crushing bear hug, then introduced me to his associates, men I now recognized.
Evan Newman was as refined as Fred Kreutzer was rough. His suit was hand tailored. His hair had been sprayed into place, and his fingernails were as gleaming as his handmade shoes. He owned the San Francisco 49ers.
The third man was David Dix, a legendary entrepreneur, the kind of guy they write about in business school. Dix had made a killing in Detroit during the eighties, got out of auto parts before the meltdown in ’08, and bought the Minnesota Vikings. I remembered something I’d read about him, that his apparent happiness masked his fundamental heartlessness. Sounded like an epitaph to me.
Evan Newman stood up and came toward me with a convincing smile and outstretched hand. “Sorry to barge in like this,” he said. “Fred said you would see us.”
“We have a problem,” Uncle Fred said. “It’s urgent, Jack. A screaming five-alarm emergency, actually.”
“We’d like to be wrong,” said Dix. “In fact, I have to say, if we’re right, this could cripple the game of professional football.”
Dix beckoned to me to sit. “We’ve got money,” he said. “You’ve got the best people for this. Sit down so we can lay out a nightmare for you.”