Not much, anyway.
Peter glanced back over his shoulder. “I thought that went well.”
“Really? Even though they brought up Claudia? And Harvard? I didn’t know they would ask about that.”
Peter flicked his hand, brushing off her concern. “Things come out of left field. As this is my last season coaching, and Claudia coaches your closest rival, someone was bound to ask eventually. But next time someone mentions Harvard, don’t correct them.”
This again. Tabitha sighed and crossed her arms. “You know I don’t like lying about it.”
“You aren’t lying. Technically, you were enrolled.”
“Online, and for no credit. That’s a lot different from what you implied.”
“Trust me, dear. It’s best this way.”
Samara was intent on her phone, scrolling through pages as if the rest of them weren’t even there. Her black polished fingernails made a tapping sound on the glass. “I didn’t know Catwoman was a lesbian.”
“Not true.” Fiona shook her head. “Julie Newmar wasn’t a lesbian.”
Samara scowled. “Who’s Julie Newmar?”
“Catwoman. And by the way Missy, you didn’t bother to tell anyone where you were going during the show. For all I knew, you’d taken off for God-knows-where because you were pissed at me. How do you think I’d feel, knowing I’m the reason my baby girl wound up dead in a ditch someplace?”
“I told a page. He was supposed to tell you. It’s not my fault if he didn’t. Besides Fiona, I wasn’t talking about Julie Whoever. I was talking about Catwoman.”
Tabitha rested her head against the seat. Though she was glad her family had come to see her skate, sometimes they made her crazy. “She means the character, Mom.”
“That’s another thing!” Riled up, Fiona turned on Samara. “Your older sister calls me Mom, but you can’t even manage that.”
“To me, you’re Fiona,” Samara said, with a shrug, staring at her phone again. “Anyway, the director’s booth was sick and I’m not dead in a ditch, so you can relax. Shit’s under control.” She returned to scrolling on her phone. Tap, tap, tap.
Tabitha closed her eyes, and wished she could return to her room for a nap, rather than head to practice. Last night, she’d hardly slept. They’d arrived late from California, and it felt like only a few hours later, she’d had to be up for her early call at the morning show. She never slept well in hotels. Come to think of it, lately, she didn’t sleep that great anywhere.
“So.” Peter clapped his hands together. “Star Spangled Skate. We have two days to whip these programs into shape and Antigone still isn’t where it needs to be.”
Tabitha pressed her lips together. The state of her long program was the elephant in the room. “I have all the elements.”
“Except one,” Peter said, quietly.
Passion. You’ve lost it and if the Winter Games aren’t enough to bring it back, what is?
“I’m just not feeling Antigone. It’s too heavy, it’s too sad, it’s too... much.”
“It’s opera,” Peter said. “Not your favorite, I know.”
“I wanted to use the program Misha and I choreographed to the Hozier song. You said you liked it.”
“I like it, and it’s fine as your show program. Which it will stay. Contemporary music is a good fit for some skaters. A teenage girl, for example.” Though he didn’t name names, everyone knew Mia Lang was using One Direction’s “What a Feeling,” for her short program. “But it isn’t right for who you need to be on the ice. A piece like Antigone carries a gravitas that isn’t suitable for a fifteen-year-old but is perfect for a refined, sophisticated twenty-three-year-old Harvard student.” He paused to let his point sink in. “Is everyone straight on that?”
By everyone, he meant the only person in the cab likely to challenge him. Fiona always took Peter’s side. Samara couldn’t care less. Tabitha stared out the window. On the sidewalk, people passed by, free to go where they wanted, and do what they pleased. Would that ever be her life?
She glanced over at Fiona, who’d cleaned houses and served hot dogs to pay for Tabitha’s ice costs. She thought of Samara, who’d spent her childhood being dragged along to Tabitha’s competitions, while her needs were ignored. Her family had sacrificed so much to give her this chance. Three years ago, she’d let them down. Not this time. She turned back to her coach and nodded. “Everyone’s straight.”
A snicker came from the other side of the back seat. “Everyone except Catwoman.”
CHAPTER THREE
New Castle County, Delaware
Outside Courtroom Six, Daniil Andreev stared at the muted television in the waiting area. A cheerful American mother was serving breakfast sausages to her delighted family. Their happy faces only deepened the relentless throb of Daniil’s misery.
Ilya Zaikov sat down in the molded plastic seat next to Daniil. “Are you all right, Dan’ka?”
The name was what a father might call his son. Though Ilya was one of Daniil’s figure skating coaches, and not his father, he cared a lot more than the real one did.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Daniil kept his voice low, though they were speaking Russian, and it wasn’t likely anyone nearby could understand them. “The lawyer says even if everything goes to hell, the worst I’ll get is ninety days in jail.”
As far as Daniil’s skating season was concerned, ninety days was a death sentence.
“I have faith the judge will show mercy,” Ilya said. His voice held certainty Daniil wished he shared. “Once you explain you didn’t intend to steal the motorcycle, and the person you thought was the owner gave you permission to ride, he’ll see it was a simple misunderstanding.”
“Too bad that person is in Australia,” Daniil said. “And without her to prove I’m telling the truth, will the judge believe me? The Bad Boy of Russian Figure Skating?” His mouth twisted around the nickname he’d once enjoyed living up to.
The courtroom door opened and a thick-wasted woman in a blue uniform barked several names into the waiting room. Daniil tensed, then relaxed. His name wasn’t one of them. Yet. But his knack for finding trouble was about to deliver the fatal blow to everything he and his coaches had worked toward. “You and Anton did so much for me. Now it’s all for nothing.”
“Not nothing.” Ilya’s gaze seemed to bore into him. “We see the good man you are. Others will see it, too.”
Like that would happen. Daniil pushed himself up and into motion, pacing the floor, consumed with the familiar urge to escape. He couldn’t bear to look Ilya in the eye, but there was nowhere to go. He stared at the floor, seeing nothing.
If I get out of this without jail time... I swear to God, no more screw ups.
A flash of bright golden light drew his gaze upward. On the TV, the colorful linked rings of the upcoming Grenoble Winter Games splashed across the screen. They faded and were replaced by a view of a competition ice rink. A beautiful blond figure skater raised her arm.
Mesmerized, he watched the woman glide across the ice, a perfect balance of balletic beauty and athleticism. For a shining moment, the whirlwind of trouble surrounding him calmed. As long as he kept his eyes on her, everything would be okay.
Ilya stood at his side. “Isn’t that the American ladies’ champion?”
“Tabitha Turner.” Daniil felt the small tug of a smile. Though the TV was silent, his mind played the poignant notes of her music, Debussy’s “Clair de Lune.” She’d skated the program flawlessly at the World Championship this past spring.
The scene switched to a woman seated on a pumpkin-orange couch. The camera panned wide to show not only Tabitha, but also Mia Lang and another teenage skater whose name he didn’t know. Tabitha’s scarlet lips formed silent words, captioned at the bottom of the screen.
“... and I’m so excited to be competing this weekend at Star Spangled Skate...”
Star Spangled Skate. Daniil had expected to compete in Chicago too, and he’d been as excited as a kid with
a big, shiny present under the New Year tree. After three years of fighting back from a suspension that kept him out of the Oslo Games, he’d evolved from troubled footnote to Winter Games contender. He was skating the best he’d ever skated. Meeting Tabitha Turner would have been the prize on top of the prize.
And then, he’d fucked it all up.
Again.
Across the room, his other coach, Anton Belikov, conferred with the young lawyer who’d shown up this morning in place of the venerable white-haired attorney Daniil expected. Anton’s American father-in-law had recommended a high-powered firm known for defending politicians and CEO-types. A figure skater charged with vehicle theft should be easy as cake. But snow-top wasn’t here. Instead, Daniil’s future rested in the hands of a guy who looked too young to shave.
As the lawyer hustled out of the noisy waiting room, phone to his ear, Anton walked over. “Something they are stirring up,” he said. “He wouldn’t give details, only that we should wait for surprise.”
“Surprises suck,” Daniil muttered, as they returned to their seats.
Anton laid a sympathetic hand on Daniil’s shoulder. “I’ve been where you are, and everything came out fine. Today, we’ll hope for another lucky break.”
Back in his own skating career, Anton had punched out a tabloid reporter on live TV during the Lake Placid Winter Games. The zhopa deserved it, for slandering Anton’s wife Carrie, and her family. Anton was bailed out in time to skate with Carrie in the pairs competition. Later, he was cleared of all charges and called a hero.
But Anton had been a popular skater, with a reputation for being hard-working and responsible. The public loved him. The Russian skating federation loved him.
They didn’t love Daniil.
He looked down at his knees and straightened the already-perfect creases of his dark gray vintage trousers. He looked good in pinstripes. Isn’t that what they wore in American jails? Maybe that was the lucky break Anton was talking about.
The courtroom door opened again. Daniil’s tension spiked higher than even before the biggest skating competition as the woman called the next case— his. The young lawyer was back, smiling like his papa had just given permission to stay out past midnight. Joseph Gerber stashed his phone in his pocket. “Time to rock-and-roll.”
More like time to lose his breakfast. Willing his body forward, Daniil followed his lawyer into the courtroom.
The day of reckoning had arrived.
At the defendant’s table, the lawyer opened his briefcase and brought out a stack of pages clipped together. “Nothing has changed from what Barney explained the day of your deposition,” he said. “You’ll be questioned by the county prosecutor, then me. There’s nothing to worry about. Unless Judge Frederick had a bad round of golf this morning. Then, who knows?”
Cold sweat sprang out on Daniil’s brow. Then he noticed the lawyer’s grin. “That’s not funny. My life is at stake!”
The lawyer tugged his shirt cuffs straight in his jacket sleeves. “Look, your testimony should convince him this was a misunderstanding. If it doesn’t? I still have an ace in the hole.”
“Ace hole?” Americans had no shortage of confounding expressions.
The bailiff faced the room. “All rise. Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Paul Fredrick presiding.”
Daniil’s stomach lurched at the sight of the black-robed judge taking his seat. The man’s white hair, hard features and black-rimmed glasses made him the twin of Yuri Bogdanov, Daniil’s former coach, and now the head of the Russian skating federation. Daniil glanced over his shoulder. Anton and Ilya were wide-eyed with dismay.
Bogdanov’s doppelgänger shuffled through the pages on his desk. “The defendant is charged with Class G Felony Vehicle Theft.” The judge peered at Daniil. He hoped the man’s golf game had gone well.
The prosecutor called the bike’s owner to the stand and laid out the damning case. The owner had ridden his motorcycle to his girlfriend Becky’s farewell party before she returned to Australia. “I gave her the keys, because I wouldn’t need them again that night. I never drink and drive. Around midnight, Becky told me that guy,” he thrust an accusing finger at Daniil, “had swiped the keys from where she’d put them and taken off.”
“Objection!” Joseph Gerber called from the table. “Hearsay.”
“Sustained,” the judge intoned.
Now, Gerber approached the witness stand. “Did you see my client take the keys?”
“No, but my girlfriend said—”
“That’s not what I asked.” Gerber flipped through his notes. “Did you see him take the keys?”
“No.”
“Did your girlfriend ever ride the bike without you?”
He shrugged. “Once. Sometimes.”
“Which is it? Once or sometimes?”
“Sometimes,” was the grudging answer.
“No more questions.”
The prosecutor called Daniil to the stand. First, he explained that he was in town to train with his choreographer, who worked out of the University of Delaware’s Figure Skating Training Center. He’d met Becky outside his apartment, when he’d seen her getting off the bike. She’d said he was welcome to a ride anytime.
“So the night of the party, you took her up on her offer.”
“Yes. She told where to find the keys.”
“Did anyone hear Rebecca McCutcheon give you permission?”
“No.”
The prosecutor scoffed. “In the middle of a party? No one heard a word of this alleged conversation?”
“We were, um, outside.”
She rolled her eyes. “So there’s no proof at all.” She stepped back and peered as if he were a bowl of crickets served as dessert. “Mr. Andreev, following the best season of your career, you were suspended from competitive figure skating because you tested positive for banned substances, is that correct?”
Daniil stiffened. The way she’d juxtaposed the suspension and the positive test implied that he’d cheated his way to becoming one of Russia’s top skaters. He hadn’t. Nor would he ever.
Gerber objected loudly. “Irrelevant!”
“Sustained.” The judge sounded bored.
Damn it! Daniil wanted to answer this question. That way, everyone would know the suspension was for marijuana, not PEDs. But he wouldn’t get the chance.
The prosecutor smirked, showing her disgust. “No more questions.”
He trudged back to his seat. He’d thought his past mistakes were behind him. Instead, he was back in hot water, waiting for the next sentence.
His coaches’ sympathetic looks only made him feel worse. He wished it would just end already, and they’d drag him off to jail and be done with it.
Then, hushed whispers rippled through the mostly empty courtroom. Daniil’s pulse quickened, as everyone turned toward the back of the room. A tall, very unhappy-looking young woman came down the center aisle, escorted by another baby legal type. Her disheveled t-shirt and hair made her look as if she’d not slept in two days. If she’d traveled all the way from Australia, she probably hadn’t.
Anton leaned forward and whispered to the attorney. “I thought you could not find her!”
“And you told us not to stop looking until we did.” Gerber looked pleased with himself. “Finding her was the easy part. Getting her here?” He chuckled. “We didn’t know for sure if she’d be on the flight when it landed this morning. But here she is.” He rose to his feet and buttoned his suit coat. “The defense calls Rebecca McCutcheon to the stand.”
“Objection,” the prosecutor shouted, and charged toward the bench. “We’ve had no time to depose this witness!”
The judge glared. “Mr. Gerber, what’s the meaning of this? I don’t appreciate grandstand stunts in my courtroom.”
“And I wouldn’t dream of pulling one,” he said, in a smooth tone. “Miss McCutcheon was on the list of potential witnesses we provided to the court. Is it possible the prosecution didn’t expect her
to travel all the way from Sydney to testify, and therefore, is unprepared?”
The judge turned an angry eye toward the prosecutor. Daniil had received similar looks from Bogdanov and almost felt sorry for her. Almost. “Miss Knight?”
“Your Honor, the cost and inconvenience of dragging this poor woman all the way from Australia is grandstanding of the most egregious sort! Mr. Andreev is accused of a low-level felony, not capital murder.”
Gerber gaped with exaggerated shock. “Are you suggesting the court isn’t entitled to hear testimony from a witness who could clear my client?”
“Of course not. But Your Honor, I ask for a recess.”
Now what? Daniil’s heart pounded as his lawyer, the prosecutor and the judge disappeared through the door behind the bench. He turned back to where Anton and Ilya sat. Anton spread his hands and shrugged. Ilya’s head was bowed, presumably in prayer.
Across the aisle, the motorcycle owner mouthed something to Becky, who sat two rows behind him. Becky shook her head and mouthed something back. That had to be one hell of an interesting conversation. Then the guy realized Daniil was watching and glared. Rather than respond with an obscene gesture, Daniil shoved his hands in his pockets. There was nothing to do but wait.
Fifteen minutes later, they were back. Joseph Gerber’s satisfied look suggested good news, but Daniil feared giving into false hope. The prosecutor shot a cold look at the defense table. “Counselor, is your client prepared to plead guilty to charges of Misdemeanor theft, unauthorized use of a vehicle, and accept a fine of $1,500?”
No jail? Daniil’s mouth went dry, and his breathing slowed. He prayed he wasn’t dreaming. With his heart pounding and gooseflesh breaking out beneath his clothes, he faced his lawyer and the judge. “Da! I mean, yes!”
“Mr. Andreev, I’m giving you a chance to turn your future around,” said the judge. “Everyone has challenges, but the test of our character is whether we let them define us, or we define ourselves.”
Shining Through Page 2