All that remained was to sort out the consequences of Weaver's three-year scam, and there may be surprisingly few. The NCAA is not likely to take action, as the fraud was not Texas's but Weaver's, and he is beyond their jurisdiction. Though Weaver was an ineligible player, Texas is in no danger of having to forfeit games as he had virtually no impact on the outcome of a single one.
Crimes may have been committed in the pursuit of the deception against Pierce and Texas, but Texas prosecutors have said that they will probably not press charges, especially since the real McKelvey does not deny at least some acquiescence in the scam. "I'm not going to accuse [Weaver] of anything," says McKelvey. "If he says it happened like that, then let it go."
Although Weaver can't honestly say that he won't write a book about his experiences, he says that was never his motivation (as he was quoted as saying in The Californian). He thinks the worst thing that may happen to him is that he would have to repay Texas for his scholarship (about $6,000).
In truth Weaver has no remorse, though he feels sorry that coaches and friends believe he betrayed them. "If you asked me if I still wanted to play football tomorrow," he says, "I'd say yes."
For the moment his future is as clouded as his past. He is staying with Bonita in her Hollywood apartment, uncomfortable among the eccentrics and small-time celebrities she seems to attract. Bonita—Bo Money, she calls herself—is a former talent agent, actress and model who seems to work the fringes of the movie industry, getting famous in typically Hollywood ways. She once made Hard Copy and A Current Affair for smacking Beverly Hills 90210's Shannen Doherty, and in 1993 received some attention for appearing in court in support of Hollywood madam Heidi Fleiss. Bonita says she is currently producing a script based on a book about Los Angeles gangs.
On the day Weaver agreed to speak to SI in his sister's apartment, the room was filled to bursting with people of malleable identities. A hairdresser and a makeup artist arrived to prepare Bonita for Weaver's photo shoot (she just assumed she would be included); a self-proclaimed publicist arrived; a screenwriter appeared and confided that Weaver's story was all the more "cinematic" for his having missed the Sugar Bowl; and apropos of nothing and nobody, a man who claimed to be a Saudi Arabian prince sailed in with his African-born buddy in tow. The fully robed sheikh was in L.A., his friend said, to trim another 200 pounds from his 480-pound frame and was paying doctors $5 million to do it.
"Figure that per pound," said the buddy, who was dressed only in bicycle shorts and a leather vest. "Actually, it's not his money. He's here by order of the royal family."
The prince and his African buddy were great company, though the young sheikh would occasionally drift off to sleep, at which point members of the party would make jokes at his expense. The uncomprehending sheikh always woke up grinning.
It was an exotic scene, and Weaver, whose clean-cut normalcy put him at odds with this bunch, was clearly uncomfortable to be a part of it. Anybody might be uncomfortable in this group. As the sheikh slumbered on the couch, somebody noticed that his huge feet were encased in that brand of athletic shoe that lights up when the heels are struck. "Do you think he really is a prince?" somebody asked. And all you could comfortably say was, this being America and knowing what you know, he's whoever he says he is.