Free Braking Points by Tammy Kaehler Page A

the phone on silent—checking for text messages, but ignoring calls. I knew there’d been dozens of attempts and messages, and I dialed voicemail via speakerphone, so Holly could hear also.
    From eighty-three missed calls, there were twenty-five messages, mostly requests for comments or interviews. Nineteen from media outlets I’d never heard of, and five from publications or reporters I knew. All referenced the accident in the race and Miles’ injury; half of them also referenced Ellie’s death. One was Juliana, devastated about Ellie and asking how I was doing. She also warned me her SGTV bosses hoped I’d do an on-camera interview with her. Holly agreed that might be the best tribute to Ellie.
    The single non-media message was from a man claiming to be Miles Hanson’s biggest fan and telling me I would burn in hell for what I’d done. Hearing a stranger’s voice saying something so hateful was worse than vituperative comments on a blog, and my hand shook holding the phone. It took fifteen minutes of deep breathing to regain my equilibrium.
    The last hurdle was my professional e-mail inbox, which I pulled up on Holly’s phone. I clicked through seventy-three of the 1,238 unread messages. Six offered support of the “you go, girl” variety. Sixty-seven were complaints or hate messages about Miles. His injury was my fault, of course, but I was also blamed for other problems he’d had in his NASCAR races, for making people quit being fans of racing, and for the cost of race attendance. Moreover, I was proof women don’t belong on the racetrack. One guy called me the devil. A couple of them threatened personal harm, should I show my face around Miles again or should he suffer lasting injury. Five wished I’d die in a wreck, one said I should have died instead of Ellie, and three threatened to kill me themselves.
    Once I stopped hyperventilating, I called Stuart’s crisis public relations company, which turned out to be a husband and wife team based in Los Angeles. Matt and Lily Diaz had written the book on crisis management, marketing, and publicity after steering two pro basketball players, a golfer, three NFL players, and a tennis ace through the media minefields of misdemeanor and felony accusations. Even a couple trials. Someone with a problem in the motorsports world was new for them.
    I explained who I was and started to describe my recent image problems, mentioning the death threats. Matt stopped me, instructing me to hang up and call the police, then call them back. I started with Lieutenant Young at the Sheboygan County Sheriff’s office, who took down the details and advised me to notify the police wherever I stopped, so local authorities had record of the situation. He made it clear no agency could do much based on threats alone—unless someone acted on them. I assured him I’d contact Nashville and Atlanta police when I got to those cities.
    After I hung up with him, I called Matt and Lily again. Before I could resume my explanation of the problems I was having, Lily interrupted me. “Tell me, are you an ‘aggressive hothead out to succeed over men at any cost?’ Or not?”
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Chapter Eleven
    â€œLily,” Matt Diaz spoke before I gathered my wits. “Give the poor girl a chance.”
    I cleared my throat. “You’ve been reading blog posts.”
    â€œWe looked around while we waited for you to call back,” Lily said. “But we’ll get totally familiar with your situation over the next couple days. By Thursday night, we’ll have a plan.”
    I gave them websites, blogs, and news outlets covering the story—covering me—especially those whose representatives had left me voicemails. I gave them my e-mail login information so they could see what they were up against. And I promised to send a schedule of my sponsor and team obligations for the next two weeks, as I had a full calendar