Should that raw bundle of talent represent the red, white and blue Lillehammer?
by Shannon Brownlee, David Bowermaster, Jill Sieder, Betsy Streisand
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"Say it ain't so, Tonya." Or so went the lament of much of the American public last week as figure skater Tonya Harding's life appeared to unravel day by day, both on the ice and off. After nearly two decades of bruising workouts, soaked in sweat and plagued by asthmatic coughing fits, the "bad girl" of skating had hoped to write a fairy-tale ending to her Olympic quest. Only somehow along the way a skater from Massachusetts had gotten the part of Snow White. The gritty blue-collar Oregonian was stuck playing the witch.
Less than two weeks before the Olympic Games were scheduled to open in Lillehammer, Norway, Tonya's dream turned more and more sordid. Jeff Gillooly, the skater's ex-husband and recent live-in mate, copped a plea for himself while implicating her in the bizarre plot to disable rival Nancy Kerrigan. As media from around the world recorded Harding's practices (and increasingly, her spills) at a suburban Portland shopping center, Nike Inc. founder Phil Knight pledged $25,000 for her legal defense should she be ousted from the U.S. team. By week's end, skating authorities had made no decision about Harding's Olympic future, but it was clear that she had legal options that could make it very difficult to keep her from skating in Norway.
Everyone, it seems, has an opinion about Harding's character and whether she ought to compete for her country. Though the hometown favorite is still cheered by thousands rinkside every day, polls showed public opinion tipping in favor of ousting her from the team if she is indicted in the plot against Kerrigan. But many of the pundits, from former Olympic pairs skater JoJo Starbuck to the New York Times editorial page to President Clinton, weighed in in favor of letting Harding skate. If it turns out she's guilty, some said, strip her of any medals she might win -- which is precisely what many legal experts believe the U.S. Olympic Committee may in the end be forced to do.
Harding's version of events has been shifting for weeks. Shortly after the Kerrigan attack, she declared she "had done nothing wrong." But a week later, she had to admit that "persons that were close to me" were involved in the plot to injure her rival's knee. Wearing a red, white and blue warm-up suit, the skater read from a prepared text, apologizing for not coming forward sooner. "My first reaction was one of disbelief ... followed by shock and fear." Stumbling over the words "sportsmanship" and "Olympic athlete," she pleaded to be allowed to compete in the Olympics. Her victory at the nationals in Detroit had been "unfulfilling," she insisted, without the pleasure of competing against Kerrigan.
Tit for tat. But Harding's account was soon contradicted by her former husband, Gillooly, who pointed a felonious finger her way after learning that she had accused him during her own 10 1/2-hour grilling by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. On February 1, Gillooly pleaded guilty to racketeering charges in exchange for two years in federal prison and a fine of $100,000. In his plea, and in 60 pages of notes summarizing his interrogation by FBI and Portland investigators, Gillooly repeatedly implicated his ex-wife.
The plan was hatched last December by Gillooly and Shawn Eckardt, Harding's erstwhile bodyguard and self-styled expert in "asset- protection strategies," who claimed to have once worked in international counterespionage. According to Gillooly's statement, Harding had just returned from a competition in Japan, disgruntled over judging that she felt was biased toward rival Kerrigan. Chronically short of cash, Harding was also upset, he claimed, at not being invited by the U.S. Figure Skating Association to skate in a pro-am competition, with its potential prize money of $50,000.
Eckardt first suggested to Gillooly that they frighten Kerrigan out of competing with a threat, but the scheme quickly snowballed into the ugly plot to bash Kerrigan's jumping leg. Eckardt enlisted the services of Derrick Smith and Shane Stant, petty criminals living in Arizona, who at first named a fee between $65,000 and $100,000 to do the deed. According to the FBI notes, Eckardt suggested George Steinbrenner, who is a vice president of the U.S. Olympic Committee and a financial backer of Harding's, as a possible source of funds. In the end, Shane and Smith attacked Kerrigan for less than $5,000, in the grandiose hope that if Harding won a gold medal at the Olympics, they would become "World Bodyguard Service" to the stars. Eckardt exulted, "We're going to make a lot of money."
Gillooly maintains that Harding knew about their plans almost from the start. It was Harding, he said, who told him which of Kerrigan's legs the assailant should strike. It was she who provided a photograph of her rival and called the Tony Kent Arena, on Cape Cod, to inquire about Kerrigan's practice schedule, according to Gillooly. Gillooly and Harding tried to call the whole thing off around Christmastime, he said, but on December 28, as they drove away from a conspiratorial meeting at Eckardt's house, Harding gave the go-ahead: "OK, let's do it."
Gillooly's guilty plea set off fresh rounds of speculation about who would be arrested next. New York's Daily News quoted a law enforcement source as saying Harding could be charged with conspiracy this week, a possibility the Portland district attorney denied. Soon after, an envelope scribbled with the words "Tunee Can Arena" and "Tony Kent Arena" turned up in the trash of a Portland restaurateur. "Tunee Can," said Gillooly, was the way Harding had first misunderstood the name of Kerrigan's rink. At least one expert has judged that some of the scribblings resemble Harding's handwriting. Oregon authorities were also pursuing evidence against others named in Gillooly's statement, including Eckardt's parents. Ronald Hoevet, Gillooly's lawyer, stirred the pot with his own accusation and sentencing of Harding: "When you hear the truth," he said in a press conference, "she can't skate on the Olympic team."
Although the polls share this view, it is the U.S. Olympic Committee that will have the last word. After earlier hinting that Harding might not be headed for Lillehammer, the USOC issued a terse string of "no comments" last week before packing up its tent for Norway. Once there, the committee's Games Administrative Board has the final authority to deem her ineligible to compete.
History's lessons. That seems unlikely, judging from the way sports-governing bodies have dealt with wayward athletes in the past. Shot-putter Jim Doehring was actually convicted of possession of amphetamines with intent to distribute in 1991, yet he was allowed to compete in Barcelona some months later. "We are not a court," a USOC spokesman said at the time. The committee's officials are also keenly aware of the case of track star Butch Reynolds, who was awarded a judgment of $27.3 million after the International Amateur Athletic Federation banned him from competition on what Reynolds successfully argued was a faulty test for steroids.
Fear of future litigation rather than principle is guiding the USOC's decision making, most observers believe. "I think that's why [the USOC] is waiting," says James Gray, assistant director of the National Sports Law Institute at Marquette University Law School in Milwaukee. "Why make a decision now if you still have time [before the Olympics]?" The U.S. Figure Skating Association decided to hedge its bets by sending 13-year-old Michelle Kwan, the team alternate, to Norway to train -- an unusual move that many interpreted as insurance against the possibility of Harding's dismissal. Legal experts say that if Harding is removed, she could seek remedy in court.
Harding may soon have her day in court, but in the meantime, everybody around her is having their 15 minutes of fame. Last week, Harding's mother was hol
