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To our sons Carl Leo Crawford and Auggie Mar Lörincz. Two young athletes who are on the path to becoming exceptional men.
CHAPTER 1
There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well.
—Pride and Prejudice
Hara Isari turned off the engine and sat, not moving, her heart beating with the tick-tick-tick of the cooling engine. She’d been immersed in a Jane Austen audiobook for the past hour, hanging out with her favorite characters, but now it was time to ease back into her own reality.
The familiar line of old firs at the edge of the parking lot were monstrously huge and fiercely beautiful, their limbs pronounced against a light gray sky, swaying in the winds of fall. Try as they might, however, the trees could not entirely camouflage the buildings just beyond the greenery. Or the crumbling, twenty-five-foot-tall stone walls that held in her father.
Touching her forehead to the steering wheel, Hara’s long, wavy hair lay heavily across her back and her glasses pressed into the bridge of her nose. The resulting hint of pain flickered a warning: more pain to come. Or was it a metaphor for the moment?
She sat up and shook off the drama queen moment. Hara liked to find reasons to be happy, not emo. Visiting Thomas Isari challenged the twenty-two-year-old’s equanimity sometimes, but not today, not when she had such exciting news to share.
She climbed out of the driver’s seat and straightened slowly, pushing her eyeglasses into place. Then, the young woman turned to face the Oregon State Penitentiary.
She’d been coming to the prison for ten years, first by bus when she was in middle school, then by car as soon as she could get her license. Her mother refused to come with her, to see the man who’d ruined the reputation of their family. “I’m a black woman married to a Japanese guy who’s now a felon. Does he know what they say about me? About us? You can tell your father to kiss my ass.”
Even Hara’s Grandma Isari, now addled by Alzheimer’s and living in a home, had not made the short trip to see her son. Grandpa Isari never had the chance; seated on a hard bench behind his son in the courtroom during the sentencing, he’d grasped at his chest and keeled forward, dead of a massive heartattack.
Harsh way to escape reality, but maybe it was for the best, Hara thought sadly, as she tromped across the vast field of parking lot cement. Her grandparents had met as children, behind razor-topped fences in a World War II Japanese internment camp, ten miles from the small Oregon hospital they’d been born in. The image of their adult child behind bars, sleeping on a thin mattress in a five-by-ten cell with no window, permanently traumatized them.
No one but Hara visited Thomas Isari. The man who’d wiped the gravel and blood off her dimpled knees when she fell off her bike, the man who’d taught her to swim with the current in the river behind their farmhouse. The man who’d lifted her to dunk the basketball into their garage hoop, again and again. The man who’d run the family apple orchard and taken care of his aging parents. And the man who was the reason the FBI flooded into their small town. The man who’d operated an extensive, illegal sports betting operation that, when he was caught, ended several professional athletes’ careers. Ended their family.
Now he sat in a cell, leaving her mom to run the farm. Thanks, Daddy.
Solo traveling to and from the prison did provide time to listen to books, Hara reasoned … but, damn, did she hate going in alone. Between the hillbilly guard who tried to cop a feel during pat downs, and the visiting room full of sex-deprived prisoners and their wives and girlfriends who dripped sour helplessness, Hara grew up learning to keep her shoulders back, exude confidence without arrogance, and use witty banter to distract anyone trying to give her shit. She’d also learned to size people up very quickly, and keep her distance if she didn’t like them. First impressions could save a lot of trouble.
If her father could take it day in and day out, she could take it for an hour every few weeks. She wasn’t about to abandon him just because of a few jerk bags.
Her sneakers squeaked on the industrial tile as her long legs carried her through the metal detectors and down the never-ending hall, halogen lights buzzing overhead and the tang of urine and bleach stinging her nostrils. She stopped for the armed corrections officers at multiple checkpoints and then for the pat down just outside the visiting room.
“Thank God it’s you today, Roland,” she said with a friendly smile. The older guard just nodded and sent her through. He wasn’t much of a talker but at least he wasn’t grabby. Most of the guards rarely bothered with her anymore, having known her for years. She knew not to draw attention, to wear not-tight-not-baggy clothes, wireless bras, no makeup or gang colors, and keep her pockets empty. She did not give the guards a reason to complain, or worse, turn her away.
The first few months, her visits with one of the most hated men in sports history had been from behind Plexiglas. Then her father was moved to general population, C Block, and allowed to have visitations face-to-face, in a room filled with discarded school furniture. The early years had been particularly rough for him, but as time passed, the prisoners seemed to have settled down. It didn’t hurt that the Asian-American man helped tutor inmates. And was tall and built like a UFC fighter.
As she dropped onto a hard, plastic chair, she recognized some of the faces around her.
“Hiya Rita,” she called quietly to the woman at the table next to her. Rita, with her fried blonde hair and hard wrinkles, could have been twenty-five or forty, it was hard to tell. “How’s your little boy?”
The hard-faced woman shook her head. “These fuckers won’t let me bring him back in here. Jonas is going to be pissed.”
Jonas, a large black man with a bad back, was Thomas Isari’s cellmate. A few months ago, Rita had been caught bringing in pain pills tucked into their son’s diaper. Hara’s father had an empty cell for a while, with Jonas in solitary, but it looked like Thomas had his bunkie back.
“Hey, baby girl,” her father said, grinning as he slid his muscular frame into the chair across from her. Grasping her hands on the metal table between them, he leaned in and kissed her cheek, quickly, not giving the guards time to squawk. They saved a brief hug for the goodbyes. It was their routine.
“Nice bangs. My little hipster.”
“Hey!” She smiled. Thomas loved her and it poured off him, made her feel safe. Even in this place.
“I’m just kidding. I’m glad you kept your hair long, but I like you with the short bangs, I can see your face.” Before he let go, he squeezed her fingers, his dark eyes fixed on her. “Still hiding those baby blues behind specs, though.”
Hara, about to respond, noticed her father’s face for the first time. Squinting at his forehead, she asked, “What’s that?”
A bruise yellowed at his temple, fading back into his short salt-and-pepper hair. She’d seen wo
rse, much worse, like the time his pinkie fingernail had been ripped off when he’d taken too long at the microwave. There was also the long scar running down the back of his neck, from when he’d been shivved while lifting weights. She shivered.
He tapped his head, his forehead wrinkling. “You mean this? Nothing.” At her frown, he said, “Seriously, there was a little misunderstanding but it’s resolved. I promise you, I’m fine.”
Hara forced herself to relax, letting her shoulders down. She’d learned long ago not to ask too many questions.
“I haven’t seen a paper in two weeks,” he said, “and the Norte are in control of the TV room right now. It’s nothing but soccer all day. Talk to me about basketball. How are the preseason games going? Who looks good?”
“Oh!” She’d almost forgotten, her news overshadowed by the thick fog of … well, of prison. “You are never going to believe this! One of the owners of the Fishers called. I won the contest!”
Her father beamed. “No way.”
“I know, right? I’ve got the exclusive interview with Charles Butler!” She clapped her hands in delight, like a child, but then interrupted her father before he could speak. “I know, I know what you’re going to say, it’s crazy that they chose me, a newb reporter—”
“No, I was going to say no one deserves it more than you.”
Hara let the praise warm her.
“Damn. So proud of you. This is fantastic news. Now, you’re sure no one is pulling your leg?”
“I swear. My editor says the man who reached out, O’Donnell, is legit, one of the five partners who own the team. They’re flying me to Boston! I’m going to have a face-to-face with one of the biggest names in basketball!”
“Butler … I don’t know how I feel about you being around that guy. I wish the interview was with anyone else. He’s such a dick to the press. Worse, you might be from Podunk, Oregon, but you are drop-dead gorgeous, like a freaking runway model. He’s going to—”
“Daddy, please. I’ve had to deal with d-bags before. You think I didn’t know exactly what I was getting into when I decided to be a sports reporter? I spend all my time with athletes. I know what they can be like. And, frankly, I’ve been around these guys.” She flipped her hand around the room, at the prisoners in their matching blue chambray shirts. “I’m pretty sure Butler can’t say anything that’s going to shock me.”
“Hey, kid!” a voice boomed from beside her, making her jump. “I hear you’re going to Boston!” It was Jonas, her father’s cellmate. The big man nodded coldly at his wife as he sat down at their table, then turned to Hara and her father. “Good for you.”
Thomas’s face twisted into an ugly snarl, surprising Hara. He barked at his cellmate, “Jonas, you—”
“Hey, hey, you’re right, man.” Jonas held up a hand in peace. “I shouldna been eavesdroppin’. Heard ya when I came in, just wanted to say congrats to your girl.”
The anger in her father’s eyes dissipated as quickly as it had risen. “All right, sure. Rita, nice to see you.” He turned back to Hara, putting an end to the conversation.
Hara raised an eyebrow at him. Her father offered a half smile and a shrug. “Sorry. He knows I look forward to my time with you.”
She forgot sometimes. He was one way with her, but he had to be a different person when he left this room. Less of a person. It broke her heart.
“My little girl, the big reporter. Your mother must be dying.”
“Oh no. You can’t tell her.”
“Well, lucky for you, there’s no danger of that.”
“I know, sorry. You know how she is, though. She hears I’m meeting a famous athlete and she’ll go crazy. She’ll try to come with me, make me wear high heels and contacts and giggle behind a fan.”
Her father smirked. “You could go full-out, get your grandma to turn you into a geisha.”
“Ha. Grandma would stab you with a pitchfork if she heard you say that.” She and her father shared a sad look, missing the spunky woman whose mind was gone.
“You take after your mother, you know, much more belle than geisha. Good thing you’ve got her long eyelashes to flutter,” he said, plucking at his own nonexistent lashes.
Hara laughed. “My daddy, the hairless wonder.” She actually looked like both of them, and yet neither of them. Her height was obviously from Thomas, since her mother was tiny. A petite African-American woman and a tall Japanese dude. Between them, Hara had ended up with thick, wavy black hair that fell between her shoulder blades and a caramel skin-tone that confused a lot of people, especially in contrast to her translucent blue, almond-shaped eyes. People were constantly asking her where she was from, or, more rudely, “What are you?”
“I’m from a small town on the edge of Portland,” she would say. She didn’t bother trying to answer the other question.
“Daddy, I’m not kidding. Mom’s worse than ever. She hounds me to ‘dress like a girl,’ constantly leaving fashion magazines on my bed. I’m pretty sure she set up a Tinder account in my name.” Hara pinched her old sweater. “I dress fine. I’m comfortable. I know how to look nice if I need to. What she really wants is for me to attract a rich dude with my ‘feminine wiles.’ Someone dying to get married. Then my life will be complete. She’s a strong woman, running the farm on her own, yet I’m too muddled to take care of myself?”
“Willa just wants what’s best for you. To have a bigger life than she’s had, out of that town.”
“Okay, first of all, I don’t need a man to do that for me. I don’t need anyone to do anything for me. Secondly”—she pushed up her glasses defiantly—“I know she loves me, I just wish she could see that I’m happy with what I’m doing. She’ll see, I’m going to get a job on a big paper, covering sports. Look at Michelle Beadle. Great sportswriter. And Hannah Storm. And Jemele Hill. I can be—I will be—a damn fine reporter.”
“You sound like you’re trying to make yourself believe that. You are talented, Hara. But your mother is right about one thing. If you don’t get your nose out of a book or a computer, you’ll never meet anybody. Someday you are going to realize you do need somebody. I don’t give a good goddamn who he is, as long as he’s good to you. Or she’s good to you.”
“Uh, I’m happy to see prison has made you so progressive. But just because I like sports doesn’t make me gay.” She grinned at him. “I like sports because of you. It’s all we talk about.”
“Well, now, complain if you want, but it seems like your time with me has helped you get a writing gig. Let’s see a little more gratitude, missy.” He touched her cheek but withdrew his hand when the closest guard cleared his throat.
There was a moment of silence. It hurt. She was close to her mother in many ways, but her hugs always ended with a torrent of worries about Hara’s future. Her father’s affection was unconditional, yet was fleeting and controlled. But who was she to complain? It was far worse for him, stuck in a place where any human touch was rare and usually inspired by violence.
“You haven’t given me the report yet,” he said after a moment of silence. “Who’s the starting roster for the Fishers? How they looking? What’s going on with the other teams?”
This was Hara’s job, covering the sporting world for her father, especially basketball. She used to love to play herself, then riding the bus to the prison to tell Thomas about her games, play by play, while he listened intently. As time passed, she found she was less interested in playing than in discussing strategy, plays, and analyzing coaching techniques with her father. She could say she did it for him, but it wasn’t really true. She’d truly come to enjoy dissecting games and players.
“Boston did switch out a few guys this year, but the basic roster is the same. Of course, everyone wants to be on the team with Charles Butler. He has never been hotter. What’s crazy is the Fishers brought back that rookie from last year, the one who sat on the bench.”
“Are you talking about Derek Darcy? Is he healed?”
“His footage f
rom training is good, but it sure seems like a crapshoot to hold on to someone who’s been a dud. He is very fine to look at, I’ll give him that, and he must be smart if he played for Pepperdine. I’m just not sure he’s got what it takes to stick it out at the NBA level.”
“You’re pretty hard on him.”
“He blew his first impression, whether the injury was his fault or not. Now he’s going to have to earn back my respect.”
“Butler is the one who should have to earn your respect. He gets away with too much just because he can throw a leather ball through an iron hoop. I don’t like how he treats ladies. Or reporters.”
“I don’t know, Dad—they’re all players. But, like I said, I’ll be careful around him.”
“Be careful around all of them. You go out there and you kick their asses if they need it. You show ’em, you ain’t no sideline Barbie.”
CHAPTER 2
For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?
—Pride and Prejudice
Hara strode to the back of the newsroom a few hours later, weaving through a cramped jumble of old desks. No one had bothered to turn on the overhead lights; the darkening gray clouds outside created more shadows than light. She wrapped a cardigan tightly around herself to fight off the early October chill.
Carter Hudson, owner of the Tribune and the only other full-time staff member, sat at a long table sifting through photographs for the next edition of the small-town paper.
“Hey!” she called out. When he looked up, she pointed to a framed photograph on the wall, an artful close-up of a wind-twisted pine tree. “This is new. I like it.” Juxtaposed against the beat-up furniture and scratched flooring, the walls were freshly painted in satiny cream and hung neatly with dozens of blown-up photos in heavy gilt frames. Carter didn’t like writing; he’d bought the newspaper so he’d have a platform from which to publish his photography, and he used the newsroom as a gallery. If it weren’t for Hara, there’d be very little actual news printed.
The Wrong Mr. Darcy Page 1