Murder On the Mound

By David Feldman

Scott Davis and Doug Simons were as close as brothers. They were college roommates and baseball teammates, always there for each other. They even ended up marrying sisters, making their brotherhood official as brothers-in-law. They had fame, fortune, beautiful wives, and prospects of long careers in the Major Leagues. Then, in an instant, everything changed. Scott’s career with the Red Sox comes to an abrupt halt when he suffers a career-ending injury. He falls back on his law degree, opening his own practice, while Doug continues to play ball for the Padres. Inconceivable tragedy strikes when Doug’s teammate Pete is brutally beaten to death in his own condo … and Doug is the prime suspect. Desperate to defend his friend, Scott takes the case. Secrets and betrayal envelop the investigation as Scott and Doug try to navigate the emotional and legal minefield Pete’s murder has created.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jan 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781684714391

Book preview

12/26/2019

MURDER ON THE MOUND

SCOTT Davis sat at counsel table in sheer disbelief at the pandemonium around him. After nearly four weeks, the case was finally over. The murder of a star Major League pitcher certainly was huge news, but the young lawyer did not expect this. Immediately following the judge’s pronouncement, reporters, who had hunkered down in the Arizona courtroom since the trial began, frantically started filing reports from their laptops, updating their Twitter feeds, and shouting the news into their smartphones. Outside, mobile TV vans were double-parked across the span of the courthouse, reporters spilling out and racing up the steps hoping to speak to Scott, the prosecutors, the families, or anyone else who could provide a reaction to the shocking outcome of this sensational case.

Numb, Scott started gathering his files, then saw his wife, Debbie, standing in the first row of the gallery. She was trying to comprehend what had just occurred. Scott tried explaining it to her, but his words were lost amidst all the commotion. Debbie reached over the gallery bar and gave Scott a reassuring hug. She could hear the explanation later, on their way home.

Scott and Debbie exited the main doors of the courtroom just as a reporter thrust a microphone into his face. What was Doug Simons’s reaction to the judge’s decision? she said.

Scott, physically and mentally exhausted, had contemplated sneaking out the back entrance to avoid this barrage of questions, but he knew he’d have to face the press. Before he had time to answer, at least thirty other reporters had gathered around him. For twenty minutes he responded to their questions, then turned to look for Debbie, who had gotten separated from him and was now earnestly pushing past the throng of courthouse security and press.

When she finally reached him, she grabbed Scott’s hand. It’s over, she said. Let’s go home.

THE limousine ride from JFK Airport had been stop-and-go in the rush-hour traffic, and Scott was relieved when it finally pulled into the driveway of their Trumbull, Connecticut, home. Debbie rushed up the walk to unlock the front door of their redbrick colonial, while the driver unloaded their bags. Inside, the house was cold and dark, a stack of mail was piled on the foyer table, a testament to the months the house stood empty while they fought desperately for their friend.

Scott set down the bags, shut the door behind him, threw his coat over the banister, and headed straight for the bar. Without even asking, he mixed himself and his wife vodka tonics and made his way to the den, where Debbie was waiting.

Sinking into the couch, he took a long sip of his drink and began to reflect on the day’s events, the months preceding the trial, and how complicated his life had become since his days as a baseball player for the Boston Red Sox. Back then things were so happy, so exciting, so promising.

When his best friend, Doug, and his wife, Jackie, asked him to take their case, he was up for the challenge and the excitement of it all, but he also knew it would be a media frenzy—something he was accustomed to—but this time under much less glamorous circumstances. Still, he couldn’t turn down his best friend. Scott knew what it was like to lose everything. Being yesterday’s news was one of the most difficult things he had to come to grips with after his career ended.

Scott had been a superstar. And right when he was at the top of his game, a devastating injury to his left knee abruptly ended his dream with the Red Sox. Every sports doctor and physiotherapist agreed that his knee was unlikely to stand up to the rigors of a major league season. Once dealt the news, Scott not only had to endure months of physical healing but had to mend psychologically as well.

Fortunately, Rick Davis and his wife, Suzanne, had insisted that while their son played ball, he continue his academics and go on to law school. So, about a year after his career-ending injury, Scott decided it was time to move on and put his law degree to use. Rick, a respected judge, agreed to step down from the bench to join forces with his son to start the firm of Davis & Davis. After only a year and a half, Scott had already won several cases.

Scott watched as Debbie puttered around the den. Her emerald eyes and gorgeous long raven hair still took his breath away.

Debbie came over and curled up next to him, her head on his shoulder. After a moment he said, Do you think things will ever be the same? I mean, how did we get to this point?

Debbie sighed. I know these last few months have been trying for you—for all of us, she said, aware that this case had ripped open the wounds of his lost baseball career. It took Scott months to put that all behind him, and she didn’t want to go back there. She had tried desperately to talk him out of taking on the case, but Scott felt a duty, an obligation so strong that there was no way he could turn it down. It was this same determination that made Debbie fall in love with Scott a decade before, in college.

He stroked Debbie’s hair as memories of better days came flooding back. We were so happy once, when we were all together. I wish we could all be back there again, before—

Before what? Debbie sat up and looked at her husband. Before everything fell apart? Scott, there was no before. Life didn’t suddenly just come to a screeching halt. Your injury was devastating. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve that. But Doug and Jackie made their own bed. They knew their fun all those years could produce some heavy consequences. They made a lot of mistakes, she said, her voice rising. "And we’ve all just paid a huge price for it now."

CHAPTER

ONE

NEBRASKA JUNE 1999

S COTT Davis sat on the bed in his room at the Omaha Hilton staring at the phone, willing it to ring. It was the day of the annual Major League baseball draft, and he’d arranged to take his call from his hotel room where he and the team were staying so he could play in the College World Series the next day at Rosenblatt Stadium.

A senior at Stanford University, Scott was the starting shortstop on the number one–ranked Stanford Cardinal baseball team. At six feet two and two hundred and fifteen pounds, Scott possessed the power and speed that had pro scouts lining up to watch him play. And they weren’t the only ones watching him; his sandy brown hair and piercing blue eyes got the attention of every girl on campus. And his academic standing was just as impressive: a political science and prelaw major, Scott graduated with a 3.8 GPA.

Scott, who was considered one of the best prospects among positional players in years, was expected to be picked in the middle of the first round despite being so highly rated; he had the misfortune of being in a draft class that was unusually blessed with pitching, and pitching was always at a premium. Baseball America, a leading publication that annually ranks college and Minor League prospects, had suggested that as many as 18 pitchers would go in the first round and at least 14 of them were likely to be drafted before any position players were selected. Among the 14 pitchers expected to be drafted ahead of Scott was his roommate and best friend, Doug Simons.

The scouting report on Scott was as solid as his physique. At the plate his short, powerful swing produced a .350 batting average, with twenty-two home runs and fifty-six RBIs during his senior season. His glove was equally impressive. He had superior range both up the middle and to his right, where he could throw out all but the fastest base runners from the hole, and his knowledge of the game and his natural instincts on the field were as impressive as his physical tools, the scouts raved.

Sitting in a chair across from Scott, reading the New York Times, was his biggest supporter: his dad, Rick Davis. Rick had invested much of his time during Scott’s younger days, encouraging his son’s passion for the game. He coached Scott’s Little League and Babe Ruth teams and would frequently adjourn court early for the day to attend practices or games.

Suddenly the phone rang, sending Scott’s pulse into overdrive. His palms began to sweat as he grabbed for the receiver. It was Pete Demarco, a West Coast scout for the San Francisco Giants, a perennial contender in the National League’s Western Division.

Hey, Scott. It’s Pete Demarco with the Giants. How ya holdin’ up?

I’m all right, I guess, Scott responded, his mouth so dry that he could barely form the words. I just want this to be over so I can concentrate on getting ready for Georgia Tech and the championship game tomorrow.

Well, it won’t be long now, Demarco said. We’re planning on taking you with our first rounder, which is pick number seventeen. I’ll call you as soon as we make the pick.

His father was beaming. Congratulations, he said, slapping his son on the shoulder and giving him a great big hug. "You made it! You’re actually going to the big— Riiiinggg.

Rick’s praise was suddenly interrupted by another call. Scott picked it up, expecting to hear Demarco on the other end, but instead it was Jack Byington, the young maverick general manager of the Boston Red Sox. Scott, who grew up in Connecticut, was a huge Red Sox fan. In his fantasies he was the Red Sox starting shortstop, basking in the intoxicating joy of standing in the middle of the Fenway Park infield, celebrating a World Series championship with his teammates. However, as the draft approached, he never let himself think about the possibility that the Red Sox would draft him. After all, they would be drafting very near the end of the first round, as they usually did. He would have been drafted before the Red Sox ever got to make a pick. In fact, the Red Sox had had very little contact with him leading up to his senior season.

They had sent someone to speak to him earlier, but he hadn’t allowed himself to get his hopes up. What Scott failed to remember was that the Minnesota Twins had signed Mark Johnson as a free agent after last season. Johnson had been the Sox starting right-fielder for six years before signing with Minnesota. As a consequence of losing Johnson to free agency, the Red Sox got the Twins’ first-round draft pick this year as compensation. That pick was the thirteenth of the first round.

Jack Byington was telling him that the Red Sox had just made him their first-round pick. Byington continued on, but Scott heard none of it. Could this really be happening? No, he was dreaming, wasn’t he? His mind was instantly fast-forwarding to the day he would step onto the field at Fenway Park. Then just as quickly rewinding to his days growing up dreaming of this. Scott, finally aware that Byington was still talking to him, was told to expect a phone call from Jim Wallace, the team’s traveling secretary. Wallace would be arranging his trip to Fenway Park for his introductory press conference after the college World Series which concluded the next day. Byington wished Scott good luck in the championship game and told him he was looking forward to seeing him in a few days at Fenway Park.

Scott could hardly talk as he responded to Byington’s congratulations. He was shaking, his voice trembling as he thanked him and said good-bye. Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard his dad saying, Congratulations, kiddo! You really did it! The San Francisco Giants are a great organization, always in the thick of the pennant race. And they need a shortstop. Mom and I are so proud of you.

Scott couldn’t contain the smile that seemed as large as the famed Green Monster in Fenway’s left field. Through tears he managed to say, No, Dad. That was Boston.

DOUG Simons was kicking back on a lounge chair by the pool at the Omaha Hilton. He had just been chosen by the San Diego Padres as the third overall pick, and he was on top of the world. At six feet four and two hundred and thirty-five pounds, he was the prototypical power pitcher in the mold of a Roger Clemens or Curt Schilling. He possessed a 96 mph fastball and a wicked off-speed pitch. Ah, the sun, the sand, the surf, the babes, and baseball. It won’t ever get better than this, he thought, sipping a cold beer. A practice was scheduled that afternoon to get ready for the series finale the next day, but he figured he deserved one celebratory drink.

Doug was a long way from home—in more ways than one. He grew up in the small town of Granville, North Carolina, where the most excitement anyone had was playing chicken with their John Deere tractors. He had no relationship with his father and barely saw his mother; Felicia Simons worked two jobs to support them—a secretary by day and waitress at night. By age ten Doug knew the only way he was going to escape the sleepy backward town and leave his childhood behind was to put all his efforts into baseball and hope for a scholarship to college.

Stanford University became his ticket out of Granville. There, he formed an immediate bond with his freshman roommate Scott Davis. They were the original odd couple. Scott, the son of a judge and a school guidance counselor, grew up in the affluent Connecticut bedroom community of Weston, located in Fairfield County, one of the richest in the country. Doug, on the other hand, wondered each day if there was going to be a meal on the table at dinnertime. He and his mother barely scraped by. But despite their divergent backgrounds, they had much in common, particularly the Gordon twins. Jackie and Debbie Gordon were incoming freshman just like Doug and Scott. The raven-haired beauties were from Atlanta, and they had amazing emerald eyes and bodies to die for. Angels was Doug’s immediate reaction. When it turned out the girls’ apartment was located directly below theirs, they knew college life was going to be awesome.

SCOTT went down to the pool area looking for Doug. He wanted to tell him the news, that Fenway Park was his. As usual, he found his friend holding court with a number of admiring female fans. They just couldn’t resist his flashy smile, thick dark hair, and ice-blue eyes—and he knew it. Scott couldn’t understand how Jackie put up with Doug’s constant philandering. He was such a lady’s man, such a player.

Hey, Redford! Doug yelled out to Scott. You gonna be joining me in California? Doug’s nickname for his friend was based on the fictional baseball prodigy Roy Hobbs in The Natural, played by Robert Redford.

California? I thought you were going to Tampa.

No way was I gonna last to the fifth pick. I went number three to San Diego, and you are heading to San Fran, right?

Well, things worked out a little differently than I thought, Scott said, knowing Doug wouldn’t be too happy that they were going to be more than 2,500 miles apart. I got picked early, too, Country." Doug’s nickname came from his backwoods upbringing, and Scott never missed a chance to tease him good-naturedly about it.

Don’t hold out on me, Redford. Who gets Roy Hobbs?

Beantown.

Doug was speechless, but his expression said it all: pained euphoria. They had become as close as brothers, but soon a whole country would separate them.

The next day, Redford and Country walked into the home locker room at Rosenblatt Stadium to suit up for the championship game of the College World Series, both attempting to forget that this was the last game they would play together as teammates. Doug and Scott were the only members of the Stanford University baseball team to be drafted, and as they entered the locker room, they were met with high-fives and slaps on the ass from their coaches and teammates. As things started to calm down, the friends looked at each other, hugged, and then went about their usual pregame ritual of going over the opposing hitters’ tendencies, what pitches they like and in what location, the scouting reports, and where Scott would position himself on different pitches or in various game situations.

THEY put on a two-man show that day that became legend at Rosenblatt Stadium. Doug threw a complete game, two-hit shutout, and Scott had three hits, including a three-run homer and a two-run double as Stanford won the College World Series with a 7-0 rout of Georgia Tech.

After the game Scott, Debbie, Doug, Jackie, and Scott’s dad, Rick, went out for a celebratory dinner. Stanford fans had already been out in full force for hours celebrating their triumph earlier, so when Scott and Doug entered the local steakhouse, they were greeted like heroes. Scott and Doug had gotten used to the demands of being star athletes, and so had Jackie, for that matter, but not Debbie. Debbie was the shyer of the twins. Actually, it wasn’t so much that she was shy; she was just a private person.

She never could get used to the idea that so many people adored the man she loved, and deep down she really didn’t like it. Even though Scott always reassured her that all he needed was Debbie by his side, she couldn’t help but feel sometimes as if she were on an island all by herself.

Debbie and Jackie’s parents, Charles and Elizabeth Gordon, were very protective of their daughters, especially Debbie. Charles was a renowned cardiac surgeon, and much like her father, Debbie was a highly intelligent, intense person, even at a very young age. She went to private schools and was generally sheltered from the harsher realities of life. She was more comfortable flying under the radar, which was unusual for the people in her family’s social circle. But despite her intellect and intensity, she was very insecure. Although blessed with classic Southern beauty, Debbie felt self-conscious and awkward in social situations. She had a small circle of close friends and never dated much. In fact, she had never had a serious relationship until she met Scott, the first week of their freshman year.

For a month Scott and his roommate Doug tried to think up ways to run into them on campus; they pretended they needed help cooking or tips on doing their laundry. It was obvious to the girls that they were interested, but they let it play out as long as they could, to keep them guessing.

Stanford was too large for Debbie. She longed for the shelter and security of the small private schools she was used to. Being with Scott had made it easier, but for her it also came with a downside. Sure, he was her calming strength when she started feeling overwhelmed, but his stardom also led to so much public scrutiny. Being the girlfriend of the star of the baseball team meant that she was constantly under the microscope as well. This had been difficult for Debbie. In addition to her discomfort in social settings, she yearned for Scott’s sole and undivided attention.

During baseball season, Debbie and Scott found it hard to find any quiet time together. Baseball at Stanford was big business. It generated significant revenue for the school, and the top players were often asked to take part in gatherings with alumni and school supporters. Those additional demands on Scott’s time, along with practice, games, and his studies, not to mention hers, left precious little time for the two of them. It seemed that even when they were together, they were never alone.

It all came to a head sophomore year. For several games that spring, Scott just couldn’t buy a hit. He took his frustration at the plate with him to the field, and he wasn’t making the plays everyone had come to expect. The school newspaper ran an article chronicling Scott’s struggles and blamed Debbie. Accompanying the article was a picture of Debbie sitting under a large tree in a quiet part of campus holding another man. The other man happened to be a close friend of hers—her lab partner, in fact—who had just learned his father had passed away. The article so incensed her that she felt compelled to write a letter to the editor criticizing the irresponsible reporting of the newspaper. The letter, published in the school paper, began with the question, Since when has this institution fallen prey to sensationalist reporting? It continued with a scathing criticism of the papers editorial board:

Your article about Scott’s play and the accompanying picture of me were not meant to inform the school community. They served to degrade the integrity and prestige of this university. This type of sensationalist reporting has no place here at Stanford, or anywhere else for that matter, and responsible editors, which you apparently are not, should refuse to publish this trash. How can you condone baseless, scandalous reporting? Whatever happened to checking your facts before reporting them? Whatever happened to personal responsibility?

She ended by demanding that the editorial board step down and be replaced with a board that was committed to responsible factual reporting. Her demand became a big issue on campus, and Debbie was thrust front and center into a debate on the first amendment and the rights of the press versus a person’s right to privacy. It became national news. She was invited to appear on the morning news shows, and various newsmagazines asked to interview her. She declined every request and started retreating into a shell. Strangely enough, it was Jackie who had come to the rescue.

JACKIE, three minutes younger than her sister, craved the limelight. She was as charming and funny as she was beautiful, and though she could appear prim and proper on the outside, she had a wild streak. Always much more social then her sister, Jackie managed to make her way just fine without those snooty private schools her dad wanted her to attend. No, Jackie was a public-school party girl through and through. There had been persistent rumors of recreational drug use and wild parties at the Gordon estate when her parents had been out of town.

Jackie’s air of confidence was unmistakable, and it was probably what enabled her to put up with Doug’s constant affairs. Of course, Jackie wasn’t guiltless on that charge, either. But she always knew that despite their mutual indiscretions, they would always be together.

So Jackie had no problem stepping up to defend her sister, handling all the interviews and the difficult issues surrounding the first amendment and the right to privacy. She became active in campus politics and eventually went on to hold office in the Stanford student government. In fact, she handled herself so well that NBC offered her an internship assisting the local affiliate’s political reporter after her junior year. Her internship became a full-time, on-air position with the NBC affiliate in San Francisco a few weeks after graduation.

Shortly thereafter, Scott and Doug went off to their respective Minor League assignments, and Debbie stayed on at Stanford to work toward her graduate degree.

CHAPTER

TWO

S COTT was an instant star. In 2003, after spending just three and a half years in the minors, he became the Red Sox opening-day shortstop. He was selected to start the All-Star game and won Rookie of the Year. He led the Red Sox to the playoffs before the dream of a World Series ended with a seventh - game defeat in the American League Championship Series to the Chicago White Sox.

In his second season, Scott was the American League MVP, and he was instrumental in finally ending the Red Sox 86-year World Series drought. The Curse of the Bambino was finally over. After the 2004 World Series, he was riding such a high that he could have run for governor of Massachusetts and won in a landslide. Scott was named the series MVP and led the Sox in all offensive categories.

Scott was even hotter in 2005. Late in September the Red Sox were in first place in the AL East, and Scott was leading the American League in all three Triple Crown categories: batting average, home runs, and RBIs. Then came the night of September twenty-sixth.

Game-time temperatures were in the low forties. There was a light mist falling making the field very slick. Management thought about postponing the game, but it was against the Yankees, with first place on the line and a completely sold-out Fenway Park. In fact, if the Sox won tonight, they would clinch the division title. It was a tight game throughout, a real nail biter. The Sox led 3–2 in the top of the ninth. Three outs to go and the Sox would be AL east champs for the third straight season. Yankee leadoff hitter Lou Clark lined a single into left field. The tying run was now on base with no one out. Two batters later, Clark stood at second base, representing the tying run. Jim Reynolds, the Yankees’ best hitter, was at the plate with two outs. Reynolds lined the first pitch he saw toward left center field. It looked like a sure hit to tie the game. Scott took off as if he were shot out of a cannon. He leaped as high as he could and snared the liner just as the ball was about to go over his head. He had just saved the game and clinched the title for the Sox. The team raced onto the field, celebrating, jumping around, hugging, and high-fiving each other when they suddenly noticed Scott lying on the ground just on the edge of the outfield, writhing in pain, holding his left knee. When he had landed, he hit the ground awkwardly, and all three ligaments in his left knee had exploded. Debbie raced down from the family section in the stands toward the field, tears streaming down her cheeks.