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Kent stands at about five-foot-eight; almost seven inches shorter than me. It always worked in his favor on the track. The shorter the guy, the less he weighed, the faster he was able to drive.
But this guy isn’t going anywhere fast. He can barely stand up straight, and by the half empty six-pack behind him — as well as the stack of empty cans on the table — I think it's safe to assume that the guy is plastered.
He looks it. His sallow skin is marred by a five o’clock shadow and his greasy hair needs a wash and cut.
I hear Eli’s words again and see the truth in them. Kent is more than suffering from the choices he made that day. There isn’t anything I can do to him that would be worse than the hell he’s living in every day.
Kent is still babbling to himself, like he’s forgotten I’m standing here.
“Kent,” I call his name and he turns to look at me, eyes glazed over and red-rimmed.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen. It was an accident,” he says.
I grit my teeth and school my expression. I need to just ask my questions and get out of here.
“Kent, I need to ask you a couple of questions, okay?” I say, and he nods his head, stumbling over and flopping down into the middle of his sofa. He sinks down into the cushions in a way that makes it look like the couch is swallowing him whole.
The place is filthy, but I clear a spot on the coffee table across from him and perch myself on the edge.
A family picture sits framed on the side table beside him. I pick it up to get a better look.
The man in the picture is the one I remember. His wife stands beside him, holding both of their children close. They look happy.
“She took them,” Kent says, gesturing to the picture. I set it back where I found it and turn to him. “After I was banned, she divorced me and took them to live with her parents up-state.”
“Are you sure it was because you lost your job and not the drinking?” I ask, kicking a can away with the toe of my shoe.
“I lost everything… and I can’t even be mad, because I deserve it.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to agree with him, but I stay quiet.
“I wanted to apologize for that day so many times, but I just couldn’t get up the nerve to do it. Your family has every right to hate me. I hate myself. Thompson was my friend,” he says, beginning to weep.
“I need to know everything that happened that day. Things you may not have told the authorities,” I tell him.
He turns to assess me with apprehension. His wild eyes make me uneasy, and I ready myself in case he makes any sudden movements.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, an obvious lie.
“Listen, I’m only going to say this once. I know you got the drugs from either Mateo or someone in his crew. My beef is with him. He’s coming after my girl now, and I need any information I can get on him to put him away for good, so if you know something, or have any dirt on the guy, I’m gonna need you to tell me. You owe me that much.”
Sinking back into his seat, a light sheen of sweat breaks out across his forehead.
I wait for a beat, and just when I think he isn’t going to answer me, he does.
“I have an addiction problem. It started about a year before the accident,” he says.
“Yeah, cocaine. I knew that,” I say, needing something better than that.
“Yeah, but the eight-ball I bought off him that day had been heavily laced with fentanyl. I didn’t know,” he says.
“Shit,” I mutter, clenching my fists where they hang between my knees. I’ve heard stories about that shit. People have died from as little as one dose. If Kent is telling the truth, then I’m surprised he’s still alive.
Wouldn’t have been fair for him to die and get off the hook for what he did, I think.
“I did a bump right before the race started. It helped keep me engaged… alert. But that day, I could feel that something was different. I started getting dizzy and before I could say anything I was passing out,” he says, staring at a spot on the table, likely reliving that day all over again.
He didn’t have to tell me what happened next. I’d seen the footage more times than I could stomach. His car side swiping my brothers at over two-hundred miles per hour, sending Tommy into a tailspin that ended with his car belly up, sliding nearly one-hundred-fifty feet across the track until he slammed into the concrete barrier.
