Chapter 4 - The Video Ryan Cole Wanted Buried
For several seconds after the recording ended, neither of us moved.
I sat at the kitchen table staring at the little device.
My father's voice still seemed to fill the room.
I had imagined that voice my entire life.
Sometimes I thought he would sound deep and serious.
Sometimes I imagined him laughing.
But the voice I had just heard was weak.
Struggling.
A man speaking through pain.
And somehow, that hurt worse than everything else.
"Mom," I whispered.
She looked at me.
"Did Ryan steal the video?"
She wiped her eyes.
"That's what your father believed."
"Then why wasn't Ryan arrested?"
Mom looked down.
"Because nobody could prove it."
I stared.
"What happened to the camera card?"
"It disappeared."
My stomach tightened.
"Did the police investigate?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"They said there wasn't enough evidence of a crime."
I felt anger rising.
"That's not fair."
Mom nodded.
"No, baby. It wasn't."
I looked at the photograph again.
My father standing beside Ryan.
Both wearing baseball uniforms.
Both smiling.
I wondered whether my father knew the man beside him would become part of the worst thing that ever happened to our family.
"Tell me about the accident," I said.
Mom took a deep breath.
"It happened at a private training complex outside Atlanta."
I listened.
"Isaiah was demonstrating a new pitching drill. There were several coaches and players present."
"What went wrong?"
"A piece of protective equipment wasn't properly secured."
I frowned.
"What equipment?"
"A movable practice screen."
I knew what she meant.
Pitchers sometimes used protective screens during drills.
Heavy metal frames with netting.
They were supposed to protect players from hard-hit balls.
Mom continued.
"During the session, the screen shifted unexpectedly."
My chest tightened.
"Did it hit Dad?"
She nodded.
"He fell and struck his head."
I closed my eyes.
I could almost see it.
My father on the ground.
People shouting.
Coaches running.
Mom continued.
"He was taken to the hospital."
"Was Ryan there?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"That it was a terrible accident."
I stared at her.
"And Dad didn't believe him?"
"Your father remembered seeing Ryan near the equipment earlier."
My stomach tightened.
"Did Ryan move it?"
Mom shook her head.
"We never proved that."
I looked away.
I wanted someone to blame.
I wanted a simple answer.
But Mom wasn't going to give me one she didn't know was true.
"Why did Dad say Ryan took the camera card?"
"He told me he saw Ryan remove it after the accident, before investigators reviewed the equipment."
"Did you tell the police?"
"Yes."
"What did Ryan say?"
"He denied it."
I clenched my fists.
"Of course he did."
Mom reached for my hand.
"Malik, anger won't help us find the truth."
I stared at her.
"Then what will?"
She looked at the recorder.
"Evidence."
The next morning, Coach Ellis drove me and Mom to meet Walter Henderson.
We met at a quiet diner near the stadium.
Walter was already sitting in a booth.
When he saw my mother, he stood.
"Angela."
She stopped.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Walter looked down.
"I'm sorry."
Mom's face hardened.
"You said that fourteen years ago."
He nodded.
"I know."
We sat.
Walter stared at the metal box Mom had brought.
"Is that Isaiah's recorder?"
She nodded.
His face changed.
"You kept it."
"Of course I did."
Walter looked at me.
"Malik, your father was special."
I swallowed.
"Everybody keeps saying that."
Walter nodded sadly.
"Because it's true."
I leaned forward.
"Then help me find out what happened."
He looked at Mom.
She didn't speak.
Finally, Walter sighed.
"I should have fought harder when the accident happened."
My stomach tightened.
"What do you mean?"
Walter looked toward the window.
"The training facility belonged to a private development group."
I frowned.
"Was Ryan involved?"
"Not as an owner. But he had influential people supporting his career."
Walter continued.
"The facility's management wanted the accident resolved quickly."
"Why?"
"Because a serious safety violation could have destroyed the program."
Mom looked at him.
"You knew they were hiding something."
Walter lowered his head.
"I suspected it."
I stared at him.
"Then why didn't you say anything?"
His eyes filled.
"Because I was afraid of losing my career."
The words struck me hard.
This respected coach.
This man who had trained professional athletes.
He had been afraid.
And my father had died.
I looked away.
Walter continued.
"I did tell investigators that the screen had seemed unstable during earlier sessions. But I didn't push hard enough when the footage disappeared."
Mom sat completely still.
Then she said quietly, "Isaiah trusted you."
Walter closed his eyes.
"I know."
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then Walter reached into his jacket.
He removed an old envelope.
Inside was a photograph of the training facility.
The practice screen stood near the mound.
Several men were visible in the background.
Ryan was one of them.
Walter pointed toward the screen.
"Look at the base."
I leaned closer.
One of the stabilizing weights appeared to be missing.
My heart hammered.
"Is that important?"
"Very."
He looked at Mom.
"I found this photograph in an old coaching archive last month."
She stared at it.
"Why didn't you contact me?"
Walter's face tightened.
"I was trying to locate the original photographer."
I looked at him.
"Did you?"
He nodded.
"His name is Benjamin Foster."
My stomach tightened.
"Where is he?"
"He lives in Savannah."
"Does he have more pictures?"
"Possibly."
Mom leaned forward.
"Have you spoken with him?"
Walter nodded.
"Yesterday."
I stared.
"What did he say?"
Walter took a breath.
"He said the official accident report left something out."
My heart began pounding.
"What?"
"He remembers a second camera."
The diner seemed suddenly silent.
Mom stared at him.
"A second camera?"
Walter nodded.
"One mounted near the batting cage."
I leaned forward.
"Did it record the accident?"
"He believes so."
"Where is it?"
Walter hesitated.
"He doesn't know what happened to the original system."
My stomach dropped.
"But he said he made copies of some training sessions for promotional work."
I stared at him.
"Does he still have them?"
Walter looked directly at me.
"He thinks he does."
I couldn't breathe.
Fourteen years.
Fourteen years of questions.
And somewhere in Savannah, there might be a video showing what happened to my father.
"Then let's go," I said.
Mom shook her head.
"Malik, we can't just leave."
I looked at her.
"Why not?"
She hesitated.
"Because Ryan knows Walter recognized your pitch."
I frowned.
"What does that matter?"
Walter looked grim.
"Your challenge went viral overnight."
I stared at him.
He showed me his phone.
Millions of views.
Comments.
News clips.
People were asking who I was.
Who taught me to pitch.
Why Ryan Cole looked so frightened.
Then Walter opened another message.
It had been sent to him that morning.
Unknown number.
Three words.
LEAVE ISAIAH BURIED.
I stared at the screen.
My hands began shaking.
May you like
And suddenly, I understood.
Someone didn't want us looking for the truth.
