Keep Them Close(15)

Harp puts her hands together. “The part you’re missing here, Lou, and I always liked you—the part you’re missing is I don’t give a single squirt of piss what you want.”

“And the part you’re missing,” says Louise, “is that the more you resist, the more I insist. Don’t make me go nuclear. And don’t pretend that your conversations with her are privileged. Not for personal work. Don’t insult either of us.”

“There are other privileges I could assert.”

“What, you’re gonna take Five?”

“Maybe so,” says Harp, warming to it. “Maybe I have something to hide. Maybe I decline to answer on the ground that my answers may incriminate—”

“I’ll immunize you,” says Lou.

Harp’s mouth closes. A hard blink of those eyes.

“I’ll do it, Harp. I’ll immunize you and force you in front of a grand jury. You can tell a judge to go fuck himself and see how that works out.”

Harp’s mood has deteriorated considerably, her eyes fallen, arms folded.

“Figure, what, six months in county for contempt? Probably lose your investigator’s license, too.” Louise shrugs. “You’d do the same to me if the roles were reversed.”

“Fuck.” Harper throws up a hand. “No good deed goes unpunished, I guess.”

“I know, I know—you drive out here to pay your respects, and look what it gets you,” says Louise. “But I was gonna find you eventually. You just saved me a little time.”



* * *





As she drives away, Louise dials Bruce Ghadiali. “I netted my first fish,” she says. “Allison’s private investigator. I have a feeling we’re gonna learn a lot of secrets from her.”





Six Weeks Before April Fools’ Day





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?