Chapter 11
Luke
Prepare the plan. Execute the plan. Trust the plan.
I can hear myself preaching that to my players, my keys to success.
The preparation is everything. Nobody wins without preparing.
That requires planning. What will we need to succeed?
This much batting practice, that much infield work, so much plyo training, so many in-game simulations and scrimmages—whatever you need, you make a plan for your preparation.
You execute it, every day, with intensity and focus.
Then you trust that preparation when it’s time to perform.
Now it’s time to trust the preparation.
I sit in the narrow hallway behind the courtroom on a hard wooden bench that feels like it’s been worn smooth by years of other bodies just like mine.
The air carries whiffs of disinfectant and burnt coffee but, more than anything, is ripe with body odor, mine included, after an overnight stay in the luxurious confines of Cook County Jail.
I keep my elbows on my knees, fingers laced, trying to hold still, but my right leg won’t stop bouncing.
The bench creaks every time I shift, which is often.
The other men waiting with me are quiet, each in his own corner of thought.
Some stare at the floor, some at the ceiling; one guy rubs his hands together so fast it sounds like sandpaper, no small feat while handcuffed.
From behind the heavy courtroom doors, I hear muffled voices—lawyers arguing, a judge cutting them off, the scrape of chairs on wood. Every so often a deputy opens the door and calls a name. A detainee stands, straightens his shoulders, and disappears inside.
“Yo, Chocolate—can I get me some water?” This from the man sitting next to me, whom I know only as “Cash,” a Black man with cornrows who is many years younger than me but seems older.
I asked him why he went by that nickname.
He said it was short for “Cash Money,” which didn’t really advance the conversation.
“Later. Sit tight and be quiet for now.” The sheriff’s deputy, a vision in brown—thus the “chocolate” comment—leans against the wall and works a toothpick in his mouth.
If I were guarding inmates, I wouldn’t have something sharp in my mouth.
There was a shortstop for the Royals, U.
L. Washington, who used to play with a toothpick in his mouth.
Guess what “U. L.” stood for? Nothing. That was his name, just like the S in Harry S. Truman stood for nothing.
Cash turns to me, looks me up and down. “Why you here?”
Me? I’m here because of a decision I made eight days ago. A Monday, the only day Trinity has off from the studio she owns. We were sitting in a café not far from her townhouse; I’d just grabbed coffee for myself, herbal tea for her.
She was sitting in a booth, wearing a loose-fitting sweatshirt and a baseball cap turned backward, looking at her phone, when I set down her drink.
Max left half his clothes home at winter break, she said. We couldn’t fit everything in my car on his first trip. I’ve been promising to bring him the rest. But I haven’t had a chance yet.
I’ll do it, I said, nestling into the booth and pulling up my phone calendar. Next Monday morning would work. We have a scrimmage with Benedictine, but it’s tentative. That coach cancels a lot, anyway, so I’ll save him the trouble. I’ll drive Max’s clothes down to Nazarene.
So…a week from today? She checked her phone. Monday, February 16?
Right, I said. Presidents’ Day, apparently.
She didn’t reply at first, focusing on her phone. Then she peeked at me. Are you sure?
Yes, I’m sure, I said. Next Monday is Presidents’ Day.
She made a face. You know what I mean. Are you sure?
Are you sure?
I’m sure of one thing now. I don’t want to spend months in jail waiting for my trial.
Before I can answer Cash, the guard calls out my name. “Rankin!”
With a rush to my heart, I bolt to my feet, the shackles heavy on my wrists. The deputy by the door jerks his head toward the opening; I step forward. The hallway smell fades, replaced by the sharp scent of varnished wood in the courtroom.
The room is bigger than I imagined, harsh lighting washing everything cold. Rows of wooden pews line the gallery, mostly empty. I spot Finley in the front row in a sport coat, coming for support. Or more likely to gloat.
The judge, with strands of curly gray hair framing her face and a faux-pearl chain on her eyeglasses, reminds me of our grade school music teacher, Mrs. Lynn. She said I should play the tuba because I had such a big mouth. It took me years to realize she wasn’t being literal.
I suppose if you were strategic about having a career in orchestral music, you might choose the tuba, only because there would be less competition than, say, the violin or cello. On the other hand, you’re less likely to be a household name if you hit it big.
What do you call someone who plays the tuba? A tubist? Nobody would even know what you meant. They’d think you were a painter or had a fetish for plastic. That’s reason enough not to pick up the instrument.
Okay, the nerves again, though I try to tell myself that there’s nothing I can do about the outcome of this hearing. That’s up to Allison. My role is to keep my mouth shut, stand still, and look respectful.
And there she is, my sister, by the defense table, in a dark blazer and skirt. She gives me the smallest nod, no smile, all business.
That’s how I need her right now.
She is as good a lawyer as there is. The prosecutor, who looks like he just graduated law school, will have his hands full. It’s comforting to know that Allison is in my corner.
I’ll enjoy that while I can. The more Allison learns, the less she’ll take my side.