“You’re charged with sexual assault, gross indecency, and attempted rape,” said the first officer.
The racing steward spoke as well. “We have suspended you for the weekend while they investigate this matter. Effective immediately.” The short man with the MotoGP logo on his white polo shirt handed a piece of paper to Spencer’s crew chief.
The chief scanned the document. “What have you done this time, Spencer?”
“Make it go away,” Spencer pleaded. “This is my home race. Half the fans in the stands, are here to see me.”
His boss shook his head. “Not this time. I’ll be making a call to the Yamaha head office. The police are making formal charges, so you will be suspended by the team and manufacturer. If found guilty, Yamaha will terminate your contract.”
The officer lowered his voice to speak to the crew chief.
Anna edged closer to hear the police officer’s quiet words.
“A full investigation will follow his incarceration. We have security footage, DNA evidence, and there may be others who come forward once he’s behind bars. He’s going away.”
Blood drained from Spencer’s face, and he looked from side to side. No one on his team looked in his direction as they returned to busy work.
“You’re under arrest. Please hold your wrists in front of you,” said the second officer. “I’d like to caution you that any statements you make may be used as evidence.”
Anna noted that their wording differed from the Miranda Rights used in America, but that the meaning seemed similar.
“This is your fault, bitch,” Spencer snarled at Anna. He lunged and was caught by the officers. Heart racing, she held her ground, maintaining eye contact.
“Sir, I caution you not to resist arrest,” said the female officer. “Or that will be added to the charges.”
“I should have hit you harder.” Spencer’s face turned a lurid shade of red as he sneered, seemingly unable to stop himself. “If I ever catch you alone, you’ll wish you were dead.”
Anna stepped back at the pure hatred that blazed from his eyes. The entitled ass had believed he could get away with what he’d done.
“Don’t worry,” said the second officer. “After what we just heard, we’ll recommend no bail.” He fastened the first metal cuff with a clink.
Anna watched with satisfaction as they cuffed Spencer’s wrists and hauled him toward the police car. When the sound of the car door closing in the service land indicated that he was inside, she smiled, satisfaction filling her. At last, this was over. She returned to work.
...
The headlines the following day were all about Austin Spencer’s arrest. By afternoon, just before qualifying, three more young women had accused him of sexual assault and rape. His career was over, and he should spend years in prison.
Anna waited with the crew in the garage for Isaac to go through Qualifying One, the first time he’d been relegated to that session this season. She’d chewed on her thumbnail until it was sore, more nervous than Isaac. He’d assured her he wasn’t worried—prior to this year, he’d almost always been in Q1, and he was familiar with the feeling and the strategy. He’d also topped the timesheet in FP4 only minutes ago. He had race pace but needed a fast lap to send him into Q2.
Only the top two riders of the seventeen taking part in Q1 would advance to Q2 to compete for positions in the front four rows of the race. Qualifying ran two back-to-back sessions of fifteen minutes, which took a different skill set than racing. It wasn’t about consistency or long-term strategy, just who could go the fastest for a single lap.
The teams saved new soft tires from their allocated number, specifically for qualifying, as they had better grip and speed in the brief sessions. Isaac wouldn’t be able to use new soft rubber more than once in Q1, so he could save a fresh soft rear one for Q2, if he got through. Many other riders would just be happy to get into Q2. He wanted to make the front row. Saving a soft tire was a gamble.
Angel sent him out on a lightly used soft tire to start. It wouldn’t have as much grip as a new one, but Anna hoped it would be okay. She followed Isaac on screen, clenching her pen like a weapon as he sat up and rode within the speed limit to the pit lane exit before accelerating onto the track. One of the KTM riders stuck to him like glue as they accelerated to do a quick out-lap to warm up the tires and the bike.
On Isaac’s first full-speed lap, he rode into turn three too hot and ran out of bounds, canceling his lap time. Several other racers set fast times, including one from the younger Wilson brother on a second Yamaha that might be enough to advance. His time would be hard to beat.
Isaac’s second full lap time shot him to the top of the timesheet for less than thirty seconds before it was bettered. Sweat dripped down Anna’s back as Isaac entered pit lane, where he hopped off his bike while the quick-moving team changed the rear tire to fresh rubber. It was frustrating to have him wait for the final six minutes of the session before remounting and returning to the track. She wiped her palms and didn’t speak until he’d finished his out-lap.
This time, a young Ducati rider and the same KTM rider stuck to Isaac’s back wheel, hoping for a tow. They followed him, letting him slice through the air so they could attempt to emerge from his slipstream down the final straight before the finish line. They would try to slingshot from behind to beat his time at the last second.
On the first hot lap, he bettered his previous fastest time, but his trailers beat it by hundredths of a second, knocking him back to third. Two more riders flew to the top of the leaderboard while he was in the first section of the next lap. The stalking KTM ran out of bounds, unable to keep pace with Isaac on his flying Honda. The Ducati rider stayed in his slipstream and beat him by thirteen-thousandths of a second and shot ahead. There was a roar of dismay from the stands. This year, underdog Isaac had become a crowd favorite.
Isaac remained in third with time for one more lap. First to sixth were separated by only a quarter of a second. There was no room for error, or he’d be starting the race no better than thirteenth.
With bated breath, Anna watched while he threw himself through the course one more time. She kept one eye on the official scoring order on the edge of the screen. Tuning out the Marcus Birch and the other commentators, she focused on Isaac, seeing some of what he saw via the mini onboard camera onthe back of his bike. He was tucked in and flying through the corners.
The screen switched to a different view, showing him slide through the final corners with both his elbow and his knee scraping the track—Vasquez style.
