Moore, or whoever drove Allen, faced unrelenting constant pressure. The threat of traffic tickets was constant. No one ever seemed to check the rearview before they did so. Other motorists were always pulling onto the shoulder. It could actually be dangerous getting Iverson to games on time. They were in what Moore called "the danger zone," which meant they had left Iverson's house at 5:30 or later. He knew the shortcuts, speed traps and the traffic lights that seemed to take forever. Moore was quite adept at dodging the many dangers of the road: orange construction barrels, potholes, rocks and debris from fender benders. When they were running late, the shoulder became their personal HOV lane. Gary Moore, Iverson's longtime manager, piloted the $200,000 coupe down the shoulder of the annoyingly packed thoroughfare. "That judge," he said lying back on his bed, "That white motherf-r got some power." She would kiss him when he got out of court. His jeans would cover it when he went to the mall. Touchdown Jesus would wait with open arms. He practiced the speech he would give the judge after receiving his slap on the wrist. A convoluted mash-up of swagger, naivete and confusion. Then suddenly, he was a bolt of lightning. Iverson's lightness of being filled the room. There were Michael Jackson posters on his wall.
Just after midnight, Iverson lay on his bed-his Air Force 1s still on-in his small room in the little blue house at 106 Jordan Drive. Chuck was scared, which scared them most of all. How did it get to this point? They were scared. They put down the controllers within minutes. They fired up the Sega thinking Tecmo Bowl would provide the much-needed distraction. Allen Iverson was going to jail tomorrow.
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