The Who Knew? Estate was silent this sweltering morning, the way its owner, Jayson Williams, hated it. He wanted laughter. He wanted life. He cherished these sprawling 65 acres crackling with his adopted kids, the two children of his late sisters, playing in the grass; his brother, Victor, driving one of those big four wheelers; friends, and friends of friends, and sometimes people whose names he didn't know just walking the grounds, just absorbing a glorious day in his own personal Oz.

Back on this July day two and a half years ago, his leg broken, his mood unusually dark, Williams closed his eyes on the veranda and exhaled. This was his summer of discontent, the beginning of the end of his basketball career. This was the start of too much time on his hands, too little chance to be on stage.

	Ex-Nets star Jayson Williams loved being the life of the party.

"I think about my sisters and I can't let myself get this way," said Williams, remembering Linda and Laura, who had died of AIDS. "I've got to live my life, because they didn't get to. Look at what I have. ... Just look.

"I've got to start living it again."

Deep down, Williams had begun to understand his tattered leg was too far gone to ever return to the Nets. He was 31 years old, and how was he going to fill these days and nights without his basketball career?

"I'm too damn young to stop playing basketball," he said. "I don't want all these television offers. I want to play. I don't want the insurance on that damn contract. I want to earn it."

Without basketball, Williams was a little lost. Maybe a lot. When the events of the early morning hours of Feb. 7 come clear, when the circumstances surrounding Williams allegedly pulling the trigger of a shotgun and fatally wounding a limo driver, Costas Christofi, are recounted, perhaps it'll tell some of that story. Was it just, as his lawyer contends, "a tragic accident"? Had he been goofing with the gun? Drinking? New Jersey prosecutors call his behavior "reckless," and charged him with manslaughter. Months will pass, a grand jury will study the evidence, and we'll wait.

Yet understand: This isn't just another jock charged with a crime. Jayson Williams is different. This isn't business as usual in sporting America, a big famous ballplayer living a life of entitlement and finally getting burned for it. That isn't him. This was never Jayson Williams.

He isn't just the kindest-hearted athlete I've covered, but the one with the best understanding, the best appreciation, for people; for everyone. This unfortunate limo driver, Christofi, was the kind of working man Williams forever connected with. These were his people, his background, and he treated them like royalty. Christofi had gone on a tour of the Williams house with some of Williams' friends that night, and Williams' hospitality turned terribly tragic.

I wish every athlete cared for people the way Williams does, cared for the fans responsible for this lavish life he lives. After Sept. 11, I called him to talk of professional athletes beginning to see themselves as part of a greater social fabric, as accountable to a community the way Williams always did.

	It just seemed he had too much free time. When Williams left a message on your voice mail, sometimes it was 3 a.m., and you could hear the clinking glasses in the background.

"[Athletes] don't understand: If it wasn't for these fans, we'd be the tallest door-to-door encyclopedia salesmen in the world," Williams said. "Out of this tragedy, the way ballplayers are reacting, I'm hoping maybe more athletes will respect everybody. Look, some guys don't have the personality to do it, some can't open up, but too many are just [bleeps]."

Williams has not just been one of the good guys -- he's been the best. He didn't just sign every autograph; he talked to people. He listened to them. He understood why he was rich beyond his wildest dreams, and it wasn't because of his rebounding ability. It was these people, and he never, ever forgot it. From giving $2 million to his alma mater, St. John's, to a $5,000 new wheelchair for a Northern Jersey boy who had his stolen, to passing out umbrellas and hamburgers to homeless people on rainy New York nights, you always believed Jayson Williams was daring to give away that $86 million contract.

He didn't just share that money, but something far more: Himself. Williams was the son of a construction worker and eventually bought his father, CJ, his own construction company. He had a bricklayers union card, and rest assured, nobody else in the NBA could ever claim that. Williams had a license to drive heavy machinery, passing his free time during the NBA lockout working on the crew with the boys.

It just seemed he had too much free time. When Williams left a message on your voice mail, sometimes it was 3 a.m., and you could hear the clinking glasses in the background. This was Jayson Williams. This was his life. Just maybe, he had one too many late nights.

Before that terrible night at Who Knew, I had called Jayson Williams to talk for a column on his old team, the Nets. This time, I didn't bother to leave a message. A little later that night, he saw my name on his caller ID and tried back. I had gone out and missed the call.

"When I picked up the phone, I knew it was Jayson before he even said a word," my wife told me later. "I could hear him laughing."

All his lines are disconnected now. Nobody can reach him. He's just this public perp marching silently in and out of court proceedings. His lawyer isn't letting him talk. He has silenced the biggest, most magnificent traveling party sports ever saw. A gunshot exploded in the night, a man lost his life, and the party's over at the Who Knew? Estate. All that beautiful laughter has turned to tragedy. I imagine it's awfully quiet there. I imagine Jayson Williams just hates it.

Adrian Wojnarowski is a columnist for the Bergen (N.J.) Record and a regular contributor to ESPN.com.