Another anonymous letter was waiting for Lucy when she got to work on Friday morning, detailing the same incident that had upset Sara. Not only was the letter proof positive that the writer was telling the truth, it also demolished her theory that Mimi was the writer. It was just her bad luck, she thought, that now she knew beyond doubt that the writer was telling the truth that she would have to give up following the story. Ted would never let her continue now that Sara was involved.
“You’re too close, too involved,” he would say, and that’s exactly what he did say when Lucy told him how the players had harassed Sara and the other freshman cheerleaders.
“But we have to follow this story,” she argued. “The letter writer’s account is virtually the same as Sara’s.”
“That’s just one incident,” said Ted. “We have no verification that the rest—the naked Twister, the soccer balls—happened. We only have the anonymous writer’s word for those.”
“C’mon, Ted. How many times have you told me that where there’s smoke there’s fire? Something is definitely going on and I have a hunch it was part of the reason Tommy Stanton tried to kill himself.” Lucy paused. “I know everybody thinks he was upset because of his mother and that’s true, I’m sure, but he was pretty messed up even before that. I saw him one night after a required run and he was awfully strung out.”
Ted was scratching his chin. “I could write the story,” he said slowly, “but I’d have to interview Sara.”
“Do you have to use her name?”
“I might,” said Ted.
Lucy bit her lip. It was a dilemma she’d faced before. How could she insist on preserving her family’s privacy when she asked people to tell their stories for publication every day? It would be hypocritical to insist on keeping Sara’s name out of the paper when she wrote about other people’s personal problems all the time. Why, the paper even printed an annual list of real estate tax delinquents in a blatant effort to embarrass them into paying up, and the court report listed everyone who got into trouble, from housewives who accidentally wrote a bad check at the grocery store to upright citizens who insisted on finishing that expensive bottle of wine at the Queen Vic and then attempted to drive home.
Her instinct was to protect Sara, of course, but she understood that refusing to go public about the hazing would be more dangerous in the long run because it would continue. The only way to stop it was for victims to come forward, and she knew that when one person came forward it often encouraged others to tell their stories, too.
“I’ll understand if you don’t want to do this,” said Ted.
“I do want to get it out in the open, believe me, but I don’t think Sara will go along with it and I don’t blame her. She has to face those kids every day.”
“Now that the Warriors have won a few games, most people in town think the coach walks on water and the team are his disciples,” said Phyllis. “Even Elfrida was raving about what a terrific quarterback Matt Engelhardt is and until now the only sport she had any interest in was curling.” Seeing Ted and Lucy’s puzzled expressions she continued. “Her husband’s a curling fanatic.”
“You’re right. People are already talking about how they might take the Moose Bowl this year,” said Ted.
“There has to be a way of approaching this that makes the administration the focus, not the kids. We need to go right to the top.”
“Well,” said Phyllis, who was typing the school calendar into the events listings, “it says here that the superintendent’s monthly administrative meeting is in fifteen minutes.”
“And who goes to that?” asked Ted.
Phyllis consulted the calendar. “All the principals, the guidance director, the student services director, the curriculum specialist…and the athletic director.”
“Then let’s go,” he said, turning to Lucy.
As Lucy grabbed her bag and followed Ted out the back door to the parking lot, she kept one very large doubt to herself. She had a feeling the administrative meeting wasn’t covered by the state’s open meeting law and therefore not open to the press except by invitation.
And in fact, when they arrived at the Superintendent’s office, the first words out of his secretary’s mouth were, “Administrative meetings are private.”
“This state has an open meeting law,” said Ted.
“I have a copy of the law right here,” she said, handing him several sheets of paper that had been stapled together. “I believe the relevant portion is section four paragraph five.”
“I believe we can attend if we’re invited,” said Lucy, while Ted pored over the fine print.
“You’re not invited,” said the secretary.
“I’m quite sure the superintendent will want to hear what we have to say in light of the fact that some serious allegations have been raised concerning the sports program. Perhaps you could check with the superintendent?”
She picked up the phone and, a minute or two later, Superintendent Bob Sabin popped out of his office. “What can I do for you?” he asked, smiling genially.
With his reddish hair and round cheeks, Lucy always thought the superintendent looked a bit like a chipmunk. His slightly protruding front teeth added to the image, but nobody dared mention the resemblance. Sabin was a former Marine officer who turned to education when he retired after putting in his twenty years and he maintained a rigorous fitness routine that included running twenty laps around the track every morning.
The smile wasn’t genuine. It was a defense he employed whenever trouble loomed. He was on alert, balancing on the balls of his feet, ready to leap into action to protect his little fiefdom, the Tinker’s Cove Public Schools, from any threat, whether it be a bomb scare, bathroom graffiti, angry parents, or the teachers’ union.
“It’s about the football program,” began Ted, planning to ease into such an uncomfortable subject.