Chapter 29

Those closest to Brock weren't the only ones to witness his temper.

Immediately following Brock's release from the hospital, the media had taken to camping outside the gates, shooting pictures through the bars and harassing anyone who came and went. Most of the neighbors understood that the situation was temporary but a few put together a petition for the home owner's association to send to J.C. Michaels.

J.C. ignored it initially but when a duplicate petition – with a few more signatures – arrived at the end of his series with Boston, he knew he had to make a call he didn't want to make.

J.C. had spoken to Brock almost daily for the first week but the pitcher had soon started to look for reasons not to call. Brock was always unhappy and he didn't seem to mind letting everyone know about it.

J.C. understood Brock's feelings to certain extent. A columnist in Cleveland had proclaimed loudly and often that J.C. Michaels' failure to put the team first was the reason the team had lost to Boston.

Brock responded just as J.C. knew he would.

"What in the fuck do you want me to do?" Brock asked in an irritated tone.

"I just wanted you to be aware of it," J.C. said evenly.

"How could I not be?" Brock wondered. "I mean, Christ, I know when a car is turning in because of the shouts that come from the street. Zoe told me that they are on public property and they're not creating a disturbance. Until they do, there is nothing I can do to make them move. She's watching them and the first time they step out of line, she'll slap the cuffs on them. I don't know what these people expect from me!"

The final statement included so many "people" that Brock didn't bother to clarify.

"I'm not saying anything is your fault," J.C. told him. "I also understand your reluctance to go out and talk to them. I probably wouldn't either if I were you. I only called so you would know what's happening out there. The homeowners' associations have a lot of pull in California. If they threaten a lawsuit or something, I might have to ask you to move. I didn't want it to be a surprise if that comes to pass. OK?"

"Yeah, fine," Brock muttered. "I'll just look for a spot far away from everything again. Maybe I can get a helicopter to fly me off my mountaintop retreat to the stadium."

"It's not that bad," J.C. said with a laugh. Even the sound of humor across the phone line pissed Brock off. "It'll probably die down in a few days and the world will go back to normal. The only thing I worried about was you thinking I was against you or something because the HOA forces me into something. Have you thought about getting out of L.A. for a while?"

"I have nowhere to go!" Brock said angrily. "Besides, these people won't let me out of their sight for two minutes."

"I thought the reporters were outside the gate," J.C. cut in.

"I'm talking about the people inside this house," Brock replied. "I have Zoe and Emmy and Tara showing up a dozen times a week. If they're not here, they're calling me 30 times a day. Christ, if I wanted to disappear for a week they'd call out a nationwide manhunt. If I told them where I was going, they'd insist that someone comes with me. Al's back in New York and Josh is in North Dakota. Zack is in Arizona. Randi and Meredith are God knows where. Now I only have five or six nursemaids. I was happy as hell when Meredith decided to leave with Randi for a while."

"You don't sound happy," J.C. said softly.

"I'm not!" Brock raged. "I can't live with these people but I can't live without them either."

Two days later Brock had a doctor's appointment. Despite the fact that everyone insisted he needed someone to accompany him, there was no one around when it came time to leave.

Tara had promised faithfully that she would be back from her morning errands in time to drive him but she hadn't arrived by the time Brock needed to depart. So he took it upon himself to drive to the doctor's office.

The scene was bedlam as soon as the gates opened. The two dozen photographers, videographers and reporters knew who was in the vehicle and they pressed forward as Brock turned onto the street. A photographer stuck his camera right up to the window and the shutter began clicking away as three others moved in front of the car to slow it down.

The last edges of Brock's fraying temper split as he braked hard and slammed the gearshift into the park position. The zoom lens attached to the camera pressed against the window snapped off the camera when Brock flung the door open. The body of the $9,000 Nikon flew backward, lacerating the photographer over the eye and breaking his nose before tumbling to the pavement. Two other reporters were hit by the door and fell unceremoniously onto their backsides in the street.

"Will you God damned people leave me alone!" Brock yelled at the throng of news gatherers. "There are 200,000 people in Los Angeles who would love to have you document their every move. I am not one of them. So go away!"

Brock's foot hit the camera body as it lay on the ground – purposefully or accidently, no one could say – and crushed it against the curb as he moved away from his car.

"The next time you motherfuckers harass the people coming in and out of this development, there will be lot more of you than three on the ground bleeding," he said loudly. "I am sick and tired of you people. If you won't leave my friends and neighbors alone, I will give you something to report."

A cameraman tried to stick a boom microphone in Brock's face and the irate baseball player snatched it from the man's hands and broke it over his knee. The pain the movement brought to his right hand fed his anger and he turned to the man who was now standing wide-eyed. The camera operator didn't mind being a voyeur to the scene but he didn't want to participate – particularly if it included getting his ass kicked (which seemed a very distinct possibility).

"Mr. Miller," a voice said from behind him. Brock didn't turn around but instead moved closer to the man with the camera.

Mr. Miller!" the voice repeated in a sharper tone. "Let us handle this."

The red haze Brock saw in front him eased slightly. He recognized the "command tone" used by police officers and security personnel. He glanced behind him and saw two Los Angeles County Sheriff's deputies.

"Fuck," he muttered. He stepped backward and turned to put his hands on the hood of his SUV. He figured the TV and internet would have a field day with him being led away in handcuffs. He certainly didn't want to add to the excitement by being Tasered.

"You have created a public hazard by blocking the street," the older deputy announced. "If you do not disburse, I'll have no choice but to arrest you. You have two minutes to leave the area – and do yourself a favor, don't come back."

"This is bullshit!" one of the media representatives shouted. "We have every right to be here. It's public property."

"You violated that by coming into the street to block Mr. Miller's vehicle," the police officer stated. "That created a public nuisance and a hazard. You cannot block a thoroughfare. You were warned about this yesterday. You now have 45 seconds to depart or the cuffs come out."

The majority of the group headed back to their vehicles or started the walk down the hill to where they had parked. Only two stayed behind.

"What about my camera?" one asked as he picked up the shattered lens and the broken camera body.

"What about it?" the younger officer wondered aloud. "It looked to me like you fell when Mr. Miller stopped his car. No one can be held responsible for damages suffered while you were committing a crime. If you'd like to pursue it, I'll put you in cuffs and charge you."

"They're both going to be arrested anyway," the older deputy stated flatly. "Their deadline has passed and they're still blocking traffic."

"I'm going to sue you!" said the camera operator who stuck the microphone in Brock's face.

"It looked to me as though he was defending himself from assault," the younger officer said evenly. "I was certain you planned to hit him with the microphone and that's what my report is going to say. I'm sure Mr. Miller believed that, too. Now, on your knees with your hands laced behind your head. You're under arrest for creating a public nuisance, assault, blocking traffic and anything else I can think up."

"There is no traffic!" the man said. He went to his knees as ordered when the officer's retractable baton was brought out of its holster. As if on cue, Tara's vehicle came barreling up the street and slammed to stop in front of Brock's SUV. She had increased her speed when she saw a group of her colleagues walking down the road, muttering to themselves.

She jumped out when she saw Brock standing with his hands on the hood and two people on their knees being handcuffed.

"What is going on?" she asked loudly.

"These men are being arrested," the younger officer said. He recognized Tara Wyatt and he had seen her come in and out of the gates a number of times.

"Brock, too?" she asked in a softer voice.

The older officer looked around and saw Brock standing with his back to them, his hands resting on the vehicle as though awaiting his own set of handcuffs.

"Nah," the man said. "Mr. Miller, you're free to go. We witnessed the entire episode. You didn't do anything but scare the shit out of a couple of them. Thank God you didn't just hit the gas pedal and run them over."

Brock didn't admit that the thought had crossed his mind.

"Come on," Tara said, taking his arm. She felt Brock stiffen.

"Leave me alone," he said in a tight voice. "Go back to doing whatever the hell you were doing. I can make it to my appointment without your help."

"There was traffic," Tara said.

"I guess you should have left earlier," Brock replied as he took his arm away from Tara, got into his vehicle and drove away.

Sam Van Landingham paid Brock a visit on the first Sunday in November. When Brock saw who was at his door, he thought Sam might be there to kick his ass. Brock and Meredith had a prolonged argument over the telephone the day after Halloween.

Several internet sites had pictures of Randi and Meredith parading around New York City in revealing costumes as they frequented several Halloween-themed parties. Brock, who wasn't pleased with much these days, was less pleased when he saw the pictures – particularly when he saw the same guy, another musician, standing near Meredith each time.

"If we're done, tell me this time," Brock had said angrily into the phone. "Don't just move on to a different portion of your life and leave me hanging. Of course, I guess you can always just show up a decade from now and expect things to be cool."

Meredith had tried to explain that, yes, while the musician had been making a bid for her attention she had not encouraged it – nor had Randi offered any encouragement to the guys who wanted to spend time with her.

"You might want to be a monk in your cloisters," Meredith had rebutted. "I don't. I went out with Randi to some parties. There were people there who knew her. We hung out with them and then moved on to a new party. Neither of us drank. We had bodyguards with us at all times and we didn't hook up with anyone. We invited you to come with us but you wanted to stay at home and pout. So we let you. But don't expect us to sit there with you."

Brock had fought the urge to throw his phone across the room. Instead, he simply cut the connection in the middle of Meredith's speech and turned it off. He had left it off for the rest of the night.

So he suspected that Sam probably didn't count Brock among his favorite people at that point.

"I thought I'd swing by and see how you're doing," Sam said when Brock opened the door. He had a six-pack of beer tucked under his arm.

"Come on in," Brock said with resignation. Sam entered and took a seat. He opened a beer and offered one to Brock, who accepted. "I suppose you heard about our little tiff?"

"Some," Sam said with a shrug. "I told her it wasn't my business and that I could understand why you might be a little unhappy at the whole thing."

"Really?" Brock asked.

"Sure," Sam said. "I would have been. I saw those pictures on Yahoo! when I first woke up. I was unhappy that my daughter was dressed that way. Then I read where she was hanging out with guy from Sweating Bullets and I was even more pissed off. You'd think Randi would have more sense than that. She knows how the game is played. Meredith has been around her for long enough that she should have figured it out, too."