Chapter 13
Luke
As soon as Finley and Allison drop me at my townhouse, I call Denise Schwartz.
Judging from her text messages, she is taking the recent developments hard.
She was the one who recruited me when I was coaching at Grace Consolidated.
She’s been my biggest supporter since I got there.
She sounds like she’s holding back tears when she answers the phone.
“So what does Crisham say?” I ask as I walk upstairs to my bedroom, eager for a shower after my overnight stay in Cook County Jail.
She lets out a loud sigh. “The chancellor’s meeting with the Board of Regents this week. He didn’t tell me what he’ll recommend. All he told me is to ask you to voluntarily stay away from the team until they’ve made a decision. He asked you to meet with him next Monday.”
I figured it would be something like that. “I’ve talked to Alan already. He’ll keep everything humming until we sort this out.”
“I reminded Crisham that in this country, there’s a presumption of innocence,” she says. “I also reminded him that you turned our baseball team from a laughingstock to a powerhouse, and your boys have the highest team grade point average of any sport at the school.”
“Including the chess team?” She doesn’t think I’m funny. “You’re a good egg, Denise. Don’t get yourself fired over this. Let’s take it a step at a time.”
I take a near-scalding shower to remove any trace of my night in jail. The doorbell rings as I’m finger-combing my hair into some semblance of order.
I open the door to Trinity, feeling the familiar rush every time I lay eyes on her.
I’ve been taken with this woman since the moment I met her, when she blew past me at the finish of the Chicago Marathon last October, finding me afterward to apologize, her long ponytail swinging behind her.
The sun-drenched sheen of her skin highlighted her features: high cheekbones, eyes the color of copper, a smile that sparked even when she was exhausted.
When she approached me after the race, I could hardly speak.
“Hey.” Trinity drops her periwinkle bag holding her periwinkle laptop—she likes periwinkle—and rushes in, wrapping her arms around me. “I was so afraid they’d keep you locked up until trial.”
“You and me both.”
“How bad was it?”
“The food was outstanding. I recommend the bologna. The white bread was just stale enough to add that needed crunch.”
She leans back from me, hands on my shoulders. “Don’t make light. It must have been awful.” Trinity knows a thing or two about incarceration from Max, who served nearly two years in prison after his second conviction for dealing Oxy.
We sit in my living room. I have no sense of decor and little interest in it; in that way I am a prototypical confirmed bachelor.
What passes for style is courtesy of Allison, who picked out a couch-and-chair set of neutral tones and a large glass coffee table.
In the corner, still unhung, is a framed copy of the New York Times article from last summer, also courtesy of Allison, the title From the Ashes of Tragedy, a Promising Player Becomes an Elite Coach.
“Listen, Allison will try to talk to you,” I tell her. “I told her not to, but she’ll do what she wants, as always. Just refuse. Don’t talk to her. And tell Max the same thing.”
Trinity, dressed in workout gear—she must be teaching a class today at her studio—nods along, but her nerves are obvious. “And you’re sure I can do that? Just refuse?”
“I’m sure. When she was a prosecutor, Allison used to tell me how defense lawyers would complain that witnesses wouldn’t talk to them. They had to wait until trial, when they’re subpoenaed.”
“So at your trial, she can question me. And Max. Under oath.”
“It’ll never come to that,” I say. “But one step at a time. Don’t talk to Allison. Don’t talk to the cops. I won’t let you get burned. Okay? Trust me.”
“I know, I know,” she says. “All together now: ‘Prepare the plan. Execute the plan. Trust the plan.’ ”
I pat her leg. “There’s hope for you yet, Trin,” I say.