Keep Them Close(16)

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.





12


Allison

“Tell them I’m fine, Mac,” says Luke, walking from the courthouse with his phone against his ear. “I’ll be addressing them soon. Practice remains the same today, just like we planned. And work in Montez on the double plays. Okay? Yes, Mac, I’m fine. Back to you soon.”

The young prosecutor asked the judge to detain Luke but didn’t put up much of a fight. Luke has no criminal record. He is anything but a flight risk, considering he’s about to start a new baseball season where his team will defend its conference championship and is widely expected to return to the College World Series. I laid his baseball success on pretty thick with the judge, even mentioned that he was a child superstar destined for greatness as a pitcher before a drunk driver hit him and ended that dream. I saw a glint of recognition in the judge’s eyes, even a knowing nod. I’m guessing she read the New York Times article about Luke last summer.

Good news, he got released, I text Grayson, whom I promised to keep updated. I will call later. He replies quickly: Tell him I’m thinking about him.

In the car, Finley driving and Luke and me in the back seat, my brother sits up straight and turns to me. “If you say I-told-ya-so, I’m jumping out of this car.”

“I won’t,” I say. “But I did.”

“There’s no way Trinity’s involved in drugs. So she sometimes drives down to see her brother on the one day a week that her studio is closed, which happens to be a Monday. That makes her a pill pusher. And she runs a ‘gym,’ which according to you is a front for drug dealing. Have you seen her place? It’s a bunch of women doing yoga and Pilates. You think they’re selling heroin out the back door?”

“That’s pretty hard to believe, I gotta say,” Finley adds from the front.

“Argue all you want, both of you,” I say. “But I was right, wasn’t I?”

“No, you weren’t right,” says Luke.

“No?” I throw up my hands. “The pills just magically appeared in the trunk of her car? Don’t be a fool, Smiles.”

He doesn’t like that nickname. It doesn’t stand for what you’d expect.

“So how’d the drugs get there?” I ask. “It wasn’t you. That leaves Trinity or Max, her twice-convicted drug dealer of a brother. You do the math.”

His head falls back against the cushion.

“Can’t imagine that Trinity deals drugs,” says Finley.

“No?” I snap, harsher than I meant. “You’re an expert on Trinity all of a sudden?”

“No, but she—she runs a business. She’s a respectable—”

“Small business owners have more financial struggles than most people,” I say. “And I’m not suggesting she ‘sells heroin out the back door.’ I’m saying she gets an occasional package and simply drives it down to her brother, who does the rest. Or better yet, has Luke do it—”

“That’s enough!” Luke says.

I tap his leg. “Whose idea was it that you drive those clothes down to Max?”

He takes a long breath before he answers. “It was my idea.”