He was fast. I chased him. I guess it was my first foot pursuit of a criminal. After a few blocks, I lost sight of him and lost my ball. I was heartbroken. I remember sitting on the steps of Holy Name and crying uncontrollably.
Later, at home, Seamus told me to let it go. Just like Harry had done. The next day he bought me another ball and told me not even to think about the last one. In his own odd way he could be quite comforting. He explained that not everyone had the same sense of right and wrong. He even said maybe the boy couldn’t afford his own ball. We should consider it a good deed that he’d ended up with mine.
But it still bugged me. Enough that even Sister Sheilah—a much younger version of the one who has guided my ten kids through Holy Name—sensed something was wrong. When I told her what had happened, she simply said, “You’re a good boy, Michael. I’ve never seen you show malice toward anyone. The boy who took your ball had a lapse of judgment. Perhaps one day he’ll see his error. Either way, God will work it out in the end.” She suggested I pray for the boy’s soul.
I should’ve listened. Of course I didn’t. I haunted the courts around PS 163. Not playing. Just watching.
Eight days later, I saw him. The same kid, playing with my ball. His hair still flopping in his face. I thought about what Sheilah had said. Looking at him, I realized he wasn’t poor. He was wearing new Nike Air Maxes. He was just a jerk.
I marched up to him. When someone passed him the ball, I intercepted it. Then I ran. What I hadn’t considered was that if the boy could run away from me, he could also catch me. And he did.
He was at least a year older than me and a fair amount bigger. He punched me in the arm, then punched me in the face. The second blow knocked me off my feet. Then he calmly picked up the ball and stared me down.
I sprang to my feet. I got in one good lick. Straight jab right to his face. He stumbled a step backward. Then he smiled. A trickle of blood ran from his nose. I waited for the thrashing, but it turned out to be worse. He just looked at me and snickered. Then he walked away with my ball.
I remember the feeling of satisfaction that I’d at least done something. It hadn’t helped the situation, but I’d felt better.
Maybe I hadn’t changed. Because right now I drove past Supreme Court justice Robert Steinberg’s beautiful house in Georgetown. It was a freestanding three-story with a brick facade. The lights were off, but at least I felt like I was doing police work. I was seeing where a potential suspect lived. There was something comforting in the action. I felt like it was exactly what I was supposed to be doing.
Then a car pulled up behind me.
Chapter 43
I stayed in the driver’s seat of my rented purple Prius. Headlights flooded inside and reflected off the rearview mirror into my eyes. I didn’t think a Supreme Court justice had twenty-four-hour security, so I felt myself tense at the direct approach.
Whoever was in the car was in no rush. That’s when I started to think it might be the Metropolitan Police. Someone was running my tag. When both people in the car got out at the same time and one hung by the trunk of my car while the other approached me, I figured they had to be cops.
A plainclothes African American female officer had her badge out and stayed about three feet away. She said, “My name is Officer Lila Barrett of the DC police. Leave your hands on the steering wheel, sir.”
Officer Barrett was very professional and smart. I did exactly what she said.
Her partner stayed in my blind spot on the passenger side of the car. Good tactics. She continued. “Do you have a reason for being parked here, sir?”
I knew what she really wanted. I said, “I have ID in my sport coat pocket. I’m a detective with the NYPD, and I also have a pistol in a holster on my right hip.”
That brought her partner a step closer on the passenger side. Now his flashlight cut through the dirty rear passenger window. At about the same time, Officer Barrett opened my door. Her hand was behind her back. I figured she was at least touching her own duty weapon.
They were both polite and courteous, as well as tactically sound, as she invited me out of the car. Less than a minute later, they’d checked out my credentials and felt satisfied I wasn’t an immediate threat. We all chatted at the rear of my car.
I said, “I’m sorry. I was just looking at where some potential witnesses live. I didn’t mean to attract any attention or bother anyone.” Now I could see that Officer Barrett was about thirty with short hair and a little scar above her right eyebrow. She’d seen some action at some point. She also had a big, pleasant smile.