by Grace Mead
“Thanks,” Matt said.
“No problem. If I’d been in that alley, I would’ve done the same thing you did. I’m hoping as a lawyer you know how to use the courts to stay out of prison. But lawyers’ track records on staying out of prison aren’t so hot.”
Matt went home, showered, cranked up the air-conditioning, and crawled into bed.
The next morning, the insistent chime of the doorbell woke him. He rubbed sleep from his eyes with both fists. It wasn’t even eight. He threw on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and headed to the door, where Lisa waited with coffee and beignets.
“Hi,” Lisa said. “I wanted to stop by and see how you were doing. I called last night, but you didn’t answer.” She cocked her head to the side, and her inky black hair spilled onto her shoulder.
“I was at the gym until late last night. And my fancy cordless phone broke. I now only have the fifteen-dollar one I keep in my bedroom to use when the power goes out. Mom bought it as part of the hurricane-preparedness kit she sent, which is also why she made me keep a landline.” His excuse was thin; Lisa had also called his cell phone; but he wagered she wouldn’t call him on it. “What’s up?”
“Especially after our conversation last night, I wanted another chance to catch up with the elusive Matt Durant outside the office. At work, you fill every minute of the day. It doesn’t leave much time for conversation and I was getting tired of waiting you out each night so I’d get a chance to catch up with you.”
“Thanks for stopping by. I could use the company.” Matt stood aside and Lisa beelined for the kitchen island.
“What are you doing to keep yourself busy with all this chaos swirling around you?” Lisa pulled the beignets out of the bag, the scent of fried dough mixing with the smell of chicory.
“I’ve been reading a lot,” Matt said. “I need to head to the library. The job at Farrar Levinson was the first time I made enough money to be able to afford all the books I wanted. But now everything’s up in the air, I should try to make money stretch further. And I don’t want my mother paying anymore than she already has trying to keep me out of jail. Thomas is working pro bono, but we still have to pay the investigator and the bail bondsman.”
“Do you need any help financially? I’m happy to give you what I can.” Lisa sprinkled powdered sugar on her beignet, cut it with a knife and fork, blew on the piece and took a bite.
“No. I should be fine. The trial isn’t that far away. I just want to ratchet down my spending. Any new information on the case?” Matt asked. He sat down on the faux wood stool, wondering, as he always did, if it would hold his weight.
“Nothing worth reporting,” Lisa said. She took the stool to his right. “We know Buckner’s in plea negotiations, but we don’t know what kind of testimony he’s proffered. We’re just waiting to see what happens on that front. How are you holding up?”
“My days are turning into long stretches of boredom, interrupted by moments of sickening fear when I think about the trial.”
“It’s hard to believe you could have avoided this whole mess by running away and letting those assholes beat Buckner,” Lisa said.
“Yeah, but somehow I don’t think Buckner will be grateful enough to tell the truth, if it means years in prison.”
“You’re probably right,” Lisa said. “Thomas puts the odds of him flipping at over ninety percent. But there’s nothing we can do about that other than wait and see.”
“So, do you have anything exciting going on in your personal life that could help distract me?” Matt looked at her over his LSU coffee mug.
“Not really. I have a blind date tomorrow night. One of my girlfriends from law school is setting me up with one of her coworkers. Given how my last blind date went, I don’t have high hopes.” She scrunched her nose as if she’d just smelled something foul.
“How’d your last blind date go?”
“Well, you remember the going-away party for that paralegal, Amanda?”
“I have some vague and blurry memories of that night.”
“Well, I took the streetcar into work so I wouldn’t have to drive after the party. That night, I also had a blind date with the son of one of Daddy’s friends. This guy, Max, was a bad caricature of a used-car salesman. He even sold used cars, if you can believe it. But I figured I’d go out with him once to make Daddy happy.
“I called Max the night before to warn him I might be late because of the party. I was hoping he’d cancel, but he insisted on meeting at nine-thirty at a restaurant in the Quarter. At the restaurant, Max’s attempts at conversation were so painful I had to brace myself with even more wine. Before the waiter finished serving the appetizers, I was in the bathroom throwing up.”
“That doesn’t sound like fun.”
“The worst part was I felt guilty because I didn’t make it through the entire date. So I agreed go out with him a second time.”
“How’d the second date go?”
“That time I actually faked getting sick in the bathroom because the conversation was so bad. I decided I’d rather it get back to Daddy I was drinking too much than suffer through the rest of that meal.”
Matt laughed. “Well, at least you know the guy you’re seeing tomorrow night isn’t a used-car salesman.” He paused and asked, “Don’t you?” raising his brows.
“Yes. But believe it or not, the fact that he’s not a used-car salesman isn’t enough to make my heart go pitter-patter. I can’t think of a single Lifetime original movie or romance novel that describes the leading man as ‘not a used-car salesman.’ What about you? Any hot dates recently?”
“No. If I’d had any sort of date in sight, I wouldn’t have gone to that club by myself.” Matt sighed.
“Why’d you do that? It seems so out of character.”
“Sometimes it’s easier with strangers. I can rely on them to focus on the superficial and I don’t have to see any of them again. It takes the pressure off.”
“Why didn’t you at least talk about these feelings about maybe being gay with a friend? You could have come to me. You know that, right?” Lisa placed her hand on Matt’s bicep, and he resisted the urge to pull way.
“It’s hard. I have a very narrow focus in life, which can really help me at work, but often creates problems everywhere else. Andrea had been my best friend for so long, and I obviously felt like I couldn’t discuss it with her. Believe it or not, you’re probably the closest friend I have other than her. And I felt it was too risky to discuss with anyone from the office.”
“Why? There are gay professionals in New Orleans who are out of the closet,” Lisa said.
“Sure, but they’ve figured out for sure they’re gay. If I went to someone and described my uncertainty, attraction and confusion, and word leaked out, it could be even more damaging than saying I’m gay. Everyone who hates gay people would hate me too. And I don’t even have any friends who are gay. For all I know, they might be mad at me for not knowing for sure.”
“I think there’s more to it than that,” Lisa said. “It’s as if you feel that people like and respect you despite who you are, instead of because of it. Why are you so afraid to let people know you’re different from what you think they see?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s been far easier to go through life with a shell. A personality based on my intelligence and hard work. Hiding beneath the surface gives me shelter from the rest of the world. The problem is, as the years go on, I’ve found myself feeling less like a real person and more like a shell.”
“And recent events must not have helped your trust issues,” Lisa said, with her hand still on his bicep.
“I don’t know.” Matt rose and started pacing, while Lisa turned in her stool to face him. He continued: “There are a couple of ways to look at what’s happening. One way is to see them as a sign that people generally aren’t trustworthy. On the other hand, maybe they’re a result of my inability to open up to those who I know are trustworthy. Intellectually, I knew I could ha
ve confided in you, my mother or even Andrea, but doing so would force me to admit I’m something different from what I’d pretended to be all these years. And I know I’m privileged and that my job and my Mom and my friends should make me happy, and I don’t want to give any of that up. But I just never felt happy.”
“Well, I’m here now and always happy to listen,” Lisa said. “I also have a friend who’d like to meet you. His name is Eric Duval, and he’s an associate with the New Orleans office of Jones Baker. Can you meet him tomorrow night for a drink or something?”
“I’m available, but I think a drink is a bad idea. Maybe we can meet for coffee. Why does he want to meet me?”
“He thought your mug shot was hot.” She couldn’t resist smiling.
“Bullshit,” Matt barked, and stopped pacing.
“Eric has heard a lot about you from me. He’s also gay. I think you’ll like him a lot, and I think he can at least help you with a piece of what you’re going through. And you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”
Lisa mussed his hair. “We all fake it sometimes. Most people just do it in a more obvious and social way. I learned that the summer I worked for my father selling furniture. Yeah, you laugh.” Lisa rolled her eyes and continued, “I’d just finished a social-psychology class, and I combined some of those tricks with all those I’d learned from being a Southern woman. We often fake emotions in a healthy way. Everything from lying about how someone’s new hairstyle looks to our sympathy over a friend’s breakup with a lousy boyfriend. That doesn’t make us all liars. Protecting yourself by projecting a different image isn’t necessarily a bad thing. You just can’t go through life only protecting yourself.”
“I know,” Matt said. “But I have a feeling that over the next few months I’ll need the hardest shell I can develop.” He looked down toward his dirty plate.
“Well, maybe. Or maybe if you let the jury see the real you, they’ll like you. On a different subject, it sounds like you’re still going to the gym. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Matt said. “It helps with the stress. And it helps me feel as if I might be more prepared if things go really bad.”
“Don’t even say that,” Lisa said. “By the way, do you know that the way you revealed you’d taken up boxing was incredibly typical of you?”
“What you mean?” Matt glanced at her, puzzled.
“You didn’t casually mention boxing in conversation. After you’d lost about ten pounds and gained a lot of muscle, people in the office began making comments. Then you said you’d been boxing for a year. Why on earth would you hide that from people?”
“I couldn’t bear the thought of telling other people I was boxing until I’d gotten decent at it.”
“Why on earth not?” she said, her brows furrowing and head tilted. “So what if you take up a new workout and drop it? Everybody does that. No one would have thought less of you.”
“Because I would’ve been embarrassed. I would have thought less of myself.”
“And that’s the problem. I don’t think you like yourself nearly enough.”
“When you’ve been hiding yourself from everyone for a couple of decades because you’re afraid they’ll hate you, it’s kind of hard to like yourself,” he said.
“Well, we’re going to make sure you have a chance to let other people know you and like you,” Lisa said, rising from her stool and grabbing her bag. “And I have to get to work to help make that happen. Try to hold your head up and don’t be such a drama queen. You don’t have to take everything so seriously. We all like you so much because we caught glimpses of the real you, not in spite of them.”
Chapter 5
As Matt walked into Tommy’s gym the next morning, the overcast day pushed its way in, undaunted by the few overhead lights.
Dave approached after Matt finished warming up on the spinning bike. “I’ve been thinking more about your priorities,” he said. “You know how to throw at least one decent punch. I think you might’ve knocked out that guy in the alley with your left hook, even if you hadn’t been holding a bottle. Tommy also says you’ve got a pretty good boxing defense. There’s not much more to that other than ducking, weaving and using the right stance and your forearms to block or brush off anything coming your way. But you need more than one good punch. So I thought we’d work on some different strikes without gloves.”
Dave led Matt over to the dummy bag. “Let’s start with a finger strike. You should have all four fingers pointed out, like the blade of a knife. Bend ’em slightly so that if you hit bone you don’t break a finger. And aim straight for the eyes. Don’t wimp out on me. Try it at fifty percent speed.”
Matt lined up and threw the finger strike at the end of a left-handed jab, and then a right cross. He jammed his fingers on both hands and cursed, adjusting their curve, and threw again. His hand glanced off the side of the dummy’s head. He tried once more and discovered the right motion.
Though Matt usually considered his jab a tool for probing distance that lacked stopping power, the combination he’d thrown in the alley might have been improved by adding a few jabs using his fingers as the business end. Those shots would have done more than just probe the distance and might even have incapacitated Cutler. And he’d probably be in better shape now if he’d only blinded that idiot.
He kept working until he threw the strike almost as reflexively with his fingers open as he had with a closed fist.
“Let’s mix it up now,” Dave said. He nodded for Tommy to start the timer, and the red digits on the black box began ticking down the seconds from the three-minute mark.
“Throw your usual combinations and insert some finger strikes. Think of the combinations as building toward the finger strike. It’ll work better if your opponent’s expecting a closed fist.” Satisfied with his progress when the buzzer sounded, Dave told Matt to stop.
“Let’s talk about another strike you obviously wouldn’t use in a boxing match,” Dave said. “I want you to throw your jab and cross now using the heel of your palm. It’s heavy, dense and more durable than a closed fist. Don’t pull your fingers up too sharply, or you could create enough muscle tension in the wrist to sprain it. Just get your fingers out of the way. This strike works best against the nose and throat. Thrown hard enough from your arm and shoulder, it’ll break a nose and can even crush someone’s throat. I want to see jab and cross combinations with the heel of the palm.”
The buzzer sounded again at the end of the thirty-second break to signal the start of another round. Matt gradually increased the tempo and power of the strike. It was less punishing than a bare-knuckled punch—he could unleash it without gloves or injury, at almost full speed and power. He finished by working through a series of combinations, including closed-fist punches, finger strikes and blows from the heels of his palms.
The timer buzzed again.
“Can you see how the speed and dexterity you’ve developed with the gloves is helping you with these combinations?” Dave asked.
“Yeah,” Matt said.
“Remember, your hands are much lighter without the eighteen-ounce gloves you usually wear. You need to get the feel of throwing punches without that weight. Your hands’ll travel faster, but since you’re used to relying on the weight of the gloves for momentum, you’ll lose some power. I want you to go through several rounds with the gloves and then without every time you train.”
Matt nodded, inclining his head toward the floor and back up, but kept his gaze below Dave’s eyes.
“Let’s move to a part of the body you haven’t used very often in the ring until now—the elbow,” Dave said. “The most powerful elbow strike starts from boxing stance. Starting in the position from which you’d usually throw right cross, pop the elbow straight up and bring the fist back over your shoulder. You can catch someone by surprise if the person’s expecting a right cross. But you need to close with your opponent because your reach is a lot shorter. So bring your right foot forward and step int
o it. You’re going to be throwing hard and forcing the other guy back. You should be able to back him up and then fall back into your boxing stance pretty naturally.”
Matt practiced the upward elbow strike for a couple rounds. He stepped forward with his back right foot, powered his weight through the blow, and sent the dummy swinging back. Jab, jab, elbow. Plenty of time. Each shot landed with a satisfying thwack.
“Now practice,” Dave advised. “You should also try these strikes on the double-end bags to increase your speed and make them more automatic. I’ll think about what we should go over next time.”
“Thanks,” Matt said.
Tommy approached, and a man behind him stepped out of the shadows. Tommy’s companion was tall and bony with leathery skin and watery eyes.
“Matt, this is Frank,” Tommy said. “I told you about him. He spent some time in the pen.”
Frank brushed stringy brown hair out of his face before extending his hand to shake with Matt. His sneer perhaps aspired to a smile and displayed yellow teeth. “Hey. I understand you got yourself in some trouble.”
“That about sums it up.”
“When Tommy tol’ me you’d be willing to pay me fifty bucks to talk about prison, I couldn’t hardly believe it.”
“I’ll pay you,” Matt said. “You have any advice?”
“Yeah. I know Dave’s teaching you to win a one-on-one fight, but that’s not what you really need to worry about. You need to worry about a group coming after you ’cause it can get real bad, real fast. I got cornered by a gang during my first week.” Frank’s eyes darted away.
“How do I keep that from happening?” Matt asked. He felt a chill, and it wasn’t from sweat evaporating.
“Beat the shit out of another fresh fish right after you get there,” Frank said, reconnecting with Matt’s eyes. “Make sure it’s not someone from a street gang ’cause you never know how connected they’re gonna be on the inside. Pick somebody big enough to impress. Make it look harder to make you a bitch and easier to make him one. But it better be somebody small enough to beat. You lose that fight, it’s all over. I know a guy who made that mistake. He got punked. A week after, he was wearing lipstick and tyin’ his shirt up in a real cute knot. For the rest of his time, he—or she—got traded around.”