The large conference room is dark except for the reading lamps that sit on top of the large oval table that dominates the room. There are 32 of the translucent green shaded reading lamps in front of 32 oversized leather chairs surrounding the table. As Roger the Good enters the room he is greeted by silence. He scans the room and notes - as expected - that most of the seats are empty. The men who are seated at the table are shrouded in darkness but he knows by where they’re seated who is there. Jerry Jones, John Mara, Robert McNair, Steve Bisciotti and Jim Irsay were in their usual seats and Jones was wearing his usual, powerful musk. Roger felt an allergen-induced sneeze coming on.
The room brightens as six large video monitors - two each on the long walls, on each at either end of the table - come to life, holding the static image of the NFL shield.
Half-lit not by the ambient light of the video monitors, Jerry Jones said, “Come in, Roger, come in. Why don’t you take Bob’s seat. He won’t be needing it today.”
There is an exchange of smirks among the five franchise owners seated at the table as Roger the Good nods and walks over to Robert Kraft’s usual seat and struggles briefly to adjust the seat to accommodate his lanky frame.
Jim Irsay removes ear buds and places them on the table. Prince’s “Kiss” can be faintly heard before Irsay pulls out his phone and taps the screen. “We’re getting started then?” Irsay asked.
“Started?” Roger asked.
Jerry Jones eyes narrowed and fixed upon Irsay.
“What?” Irsay asked.
Bisciotti said, “Relax, Jerry. I’m with Jim on this one. Let’s get to it.”
Noting the nodding heads of Mara and McNair, Jones said, “Fine. We’ll get this calf branded, shall we?”
Roger the Good shifted in his seat and thought, At least he didn’t use that ‘nutting the bull’ analogy he’s so fond of.
Jones continued. “Despite the expenses, Deflategate has been a net positive. I don’t think any of us in our wildest dream thought the Supreme Court scenario was a possibility and yet, here we are. The amount of free media we’re getting is incalculable. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Brady won his fifth Super Bowl ring and his fourth Super Bowl MVP -”
“Didn’t hurt? Speak for yourself,” Steve Bisciotti said.
Ignoring him, Jones continued. “Record-setting ratings are good for all of our bottom lines. Meanwhile, CTE has quietly become the new normal. Everyone’s pretty much forgotten how badly you bungled domestic violence. In fairness, who knew that was even a thing? Am I right? In sum, you’ve been very good to us, Roger, from both financial and public relations perspectives.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Irsay interrupted. “Look, we’ve made a ton of money over the last decade but the linchpin to our collective financial success hasn’t been Roger the Good. Who knows? We might’ve made even more money with a cardboard cutout of Adolf Hitler as commissioner.”
“Really?” Bisciotti asked. “You’re playing the Hitler card right off the bat?”
“I’m a ‘cut to the chase’ kind of guy,” Irsay answered. “And I get it, Steve. Whenever people hear ‘Ray Rice’ they don’t think about you, do they?”
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Jerry Jones reaches out to touch a small control panel on the table top. The images on the large monitors change. The NFL shield is replaced by an image of a document with formatted text and handwritten notes in the margins in blue and black ink.
Damn it, Roger thought, realizing he should’ve heeded Tom Brady’s advice to read the document that was now projected in larger than life scale on the monitors surrounding him. “What’s this?” he asked, not at all convincingly.
John Mara leaned forward and spoke. “Roger. You know what this is. We all recognize your handwriting but took the extra step to have experts analyze the notes in the margin - we felt we owed you that much - and they confirmed what we already knew.”
Roger the Good, hesitated. How much did they know about Brady and more importantly about Gisele? The truth had never been his best weapon. Considering it not felt strange and uncomfortable. He looked at the monitor opposite him and the note he had apparently scrawled that encouraged “Stress the science!” with an arrow pointing to the paragraph below it.
“We do appreciate you taking full responsibility for Deflategate and absolving us of any involvement in the conspiracy,” Robert McNair noted.
“Though I’m pretty sure we wish you hadn’t mentioned us at all,” Irsay added.
“Like anyone is going to believe that you and Steve had nothing to do with this,” Jones noted. “If you all will excuse me stating the obvious.”
Again, the room falls into a brief but uncomfortable silence.
“Let me start by saying how disappointed I am that you were spying on me,” Roger began.
“Spying is such an ugly word,” Mara said.
“If we were spying, that is,” Jones added. “Your work computer and all it’s contents are the property of the National Football League. Your signature on your employment agreement was one of the samples used to match your handwriting on the TB12 document. I assume you read it before you signed it.”
“Or your legal representatives read it and explained it to you,” McNair said. “After what went down with Brady’s phone we were all a little surprised -”
“Surprised?” Irsay interrupted.
“A little surprised you didn’t use your personal home computer.”
“That should tell you everything you need to know,” Roger said. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? I’m being set up.”
“Brady’s social media chops are impressive,” Mara acknowledged. “But this is something else. Something entirely different.”
“You don’t think Brady puts all of that content together and manages his social persona all on his own, do you?” Roger the Good asked.
“Of course note. But there’s a pretty big difference between marketing skill sets and programming your way through firewall vulnerabilities,” McNair said.
Again, Roger the Good considered the truth. His eyes settled on a scribble that asked, “Grounds to sue Wells and Paul, Weiss, et al.?”
“Okay, this looks bad,” Roger said. “I get that. But you have to believe me. I didn’t do this.” He shifted in his seat before continuing. “I have evidence that Gisele Bundchen -”
“We know about your deflated balls,” Jerry Jones broke in. “We know Gisele is a witch.”
“We know about your meeting with Brady,” Irsay added.
“We believe it’s more likely than not Gisele and Brady had something to do with the TB12 memo,” Jones continued. “We also know we’d be the laughingstock of professional sports if not all of western civilization if we were to go public with that. As you well know, facts don’t really matter.”
“You didn’t think we knew?” Irsay asked, barely containing his contempt.
“Well, sure, yes, of course,” Roger stammered.
“You know, you’d think you’d be better at lying by now.” Irsay turned to Bisciotti and said, “You owe me twenty.”
“I’m good for it,” Bisciotti said.
“So?” Irsay asked, holding out his hand.
“Unlike you, I don’t carry around 29K in folding money on me at all times,” Bisciotti sniffed.
“Gentlemen,” Jones interceded. “Let’s get back on topic, shall we?”
“In the digital age, everything is forever,” Robert McNair said. “We have little chance of making this go away and even if we could dispose of every digital and paper copy of the document -”
“We deleted the TB12 folder and it’s contents from your hard drive,” Mara said. “Multiple times. It reappeared almost immediately. Each and every time.”
McNair nodded. “Okay. We have no chance of making this go away. Instead, we need to have a reasonable explanation, should it ever become public.”
“It was just a joke?” Roger offered.
“You ain’t exactly known for your Wildean wit,” Mara noted.
A voice from the darkness said, “You know how to make this go away.”
“Lights up!” Jones barked and the room was instantly fully illuminated. The men at the table react to the brightness, averting their eyes. Jones is standing, a Glock G43 in his right hand. Irsay pulls sunglasses from his inside jacket pocket and puts them on. Even before their eyes fully adjust they realize there is no one else in the room with them. A woman’s laugh echoes around the room.
“Well,” said Irsay, “that’s disconcerting.”
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