Three Strikes and You're Dead

by Donald Bain

  “End of his baseball dream, wouldn’t you say?” Locke asked loudly, with what could be characterized as a smirk on her face.

  Jack stopped in his tracks and spun around. I could feel him shaking with anger. He started to respond but stopped in midsentence and said to us, “Let’s go inside before there’s a second member of this family charged with murder.”

  The restaurant’s owner greeted Jack warmly and had seated us at a booth in the back where we could have some privacy when my cell phone rang. I peered at the tiny screen. Caller ID told me it was Mort Metzger on the other end.

  “If you don’t mind,” I said to Jack and Meg, “I’d like to take this call.” I pressed the TALK button.

  “Mrs. F, I just heard on the news about your friends’ kid being accused of killing another ballplayer. How are they taking it?”

  “Please hold on a moment, Mort.” I excused myself and slipped out of the booth to go outside. Not only did I not want to disturb anyone by talking on my cell phone—I find it exceptionally rude when people speak on a cell phone in a restaurant or other public place—but I didn’t want Meg or Jack to know that the news of their son’s murder charge had already traveled all the way to Cabot Cove, Maine.

  As I opened the restaurant door to go outside, I saw Karen Locke heading straight for it. I quickly retreated and went into a small, dark hallway that led to the restrooms to continue my conversation. Ms. Locke entered the restaurant and was hurrying in my direction. I faced the wall outside the ladies’ room, hoping she wouldn’t recognize me. She forcefully swung the ladies’ room door open, bumping into me as she did, but she looked to be in too much of a hurry to apologize. Not that I would have expected it from her. Karen Locke didn’t strike me as being the most polite of women.

  Mort must have heard the commotion on the other end because he asked, “You okay, Jess?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, Mort,” I whispered. “It’s tough for me to talk right now. I’m in a restaurant and the place is buzzing with media and Lord knows who else.”

  I was afraid to continue, fearing that Ms. Locke could hear my conversation through the wall. “I’ll have to call you back,” I said.

  “Sure, no problem. Call me whenever you can.”

  “Thanks for understanding, Mort. I’ll speak to you later. And by the way, I don’t think Ty Ramos murdered anyone. Good-bye.”

  Knowing Ms. Locke was in the ladies’ room, I debated going in. But she’d been at the Coyote last night. What did she know about what took place there? I braced myself and pushed through the door, expecting to see her in front of a sink, perhaps preening for her next on-air moment. But the bathroom was eerily quiet, and for a moment I wondered whether she had magically slipped past me, or disappeared through the exhaust vent like an apparition. But my escape-artist suspicions were lifted when I heard the sound of someone being sick.

  I remembered what Ty had told us about the Crazy Coyote, that Locke had been sick last night, too. That’s quite a hangover, I thought. Or perhaps she had the flu. In good conscience, I couldn’t leave her alone. I scanned the openings beneath the stall doors. There she was—her red slingback shoes gave her away.

  “Are you all right?” I called. “Do you need any help?”

  “No, thank you,” she replied. “I’ll be okay.”

  She flushed the toilet and emerged, pale and perspiring.

  “Too much partying?” I said, hoping to raise the topic of the Coyote.

  “I don’t drink,” she said as she washed her hands and checked her face in the mirror. “Had some bad clams last night. That’s the last time I eat in that restaurant.” She took a piece of chewing gum from her pocket and gave me a wan smile.

  “Ms. Locke, I’d like to talk to you if I may.”

  “No time. Sorry. I’m on a hot story.” She brushed past me and left the ladies’ room.

  And you’re part of that story, I thought. But what part?

  Chapter Seven

  “Mr. Ramos, do you understand the charges against you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ty replied. He spoke softly and tentatively, like a little boy caught by the school principal.

  “How do you plead, Mr. Ramos?”

  “Not guilty, sir.”

  “It’s my understanding that you reside with an officer of the court, Judge Jack Duffy.”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “I’ve taken that into consideration regarding whether to grant you bail. The district attorney, as you’ve heard, has asked that no bail be granted. Under ordinary circumstances, I would support the prosecution in the matter of bail. But considering your young age, and the fact that you’ve not been in trouble with the law since moving here to continue your baseball career, I’m going to have you post bail at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. You’ll surrender your passport to the court clerk and must understand that you are not to leave Mesa until this matter has been fully adjudicated. I’m also ordering that you be under house arrest and wear an ankle bracelet to monitor your location for the duration.” The judge, an elderly gentleman with wispy rust-colored hair and a ruddy complexion, smiled at Ty. “Congratulations on winning your game with that home run. I was rooting for you to do it.” Realizing he might have gone too far, he cast an embarrassed glance at the prosecutor and announced in his best stentorian voice, “Court adjourned.” The gavel came down hard on the bench and he strode from the courtroom, black robe trailing behind him.

  Naturally, I was extremely pleased with the judge’s decision, as I knew Jack and Meg were. But I also realized that, as restricted as it might be, Ty’s getting his freedom because of connections Jack might have had would become added fodder for the media. A great sidebar story.

  Meg and I waited in the hall while Jack arranged for Ty’s bail, putting up his house back in New Jersey as collateral. A policewoman, who looked to be over six feet tall, waited with us for security purposes. I smiled and thanked her for holding the door for us. She did not return the smile nor acknowledge me in any way. An imposing lady, not one you’d want to come up against.

  Given the original media interest in the story, I feared reporters would hound everyone involved, day and night. We’d be beset by TV stations and other media competing for viewership and readership, which translated into ratings, which further translated into higher advertising revenues. The story of Junior Bennett’s murder, and the accusation that Ty had committed the crime, was “hot,” as Karen Locke had said. How frightening it must be for celebrities to be relentlessly pursued by paparazzi. I thought about what Ty had said, that people wanted to see him fail. How sad that he thought that, and even sadder that it might be true. He was a young man who’d had the world by the tail—with brains and talent and good fortune. From the depths, he’d been singled out of the crowd and given a chance to succeed. That he had succeeded inspired admiration, but it also engendered jealousy. A tough lesson for any young man. For superior athletes, it starts early.

  Jack, Ty, and Ty’s lawyer came down the hall, escorted by two policemen.

  I didn’t know who appeared to be more exhausted, the father or the son. In contrast, David Pierce was as immaculate as when we’d first seen him, not a wrinkle in his suit or shirt. Ty and Jack had five-o’clock shadows, and Ty’s eyes were practically swollen shut, a combination of that fatigue and the effects of weeping.

  When Ty reached us, Meg gave him a kiss on the cheek. He tried to smile at her, but it came out more like a grimace. He seemed too tired to try again.

  “Sheriff Hualga said we can leave by a back door,” said Jack, familiar with the need for behind-the-scenes routes in courthouses. “David was able to arrange with him for a police guard at home to keep the press away from the front door.”

  “Please thank the sheriff for me when you see him again,” Meg said to Pierce.

  “I’ll do that,” he said, ushering us down a hall to a metal door with a push bar. “My car is parked a few rows down. Wait here and I’ll drive up to the door. I’ll honk onc
e when I get there.”

  “What about our car?” Meg asked after Pierce had left.

  “I’ll come back for it tonight or tomorrow,” Jack replied.

  It was one of those infrequent times when I wished I had a driver’s license. I could have driven Jack’s car home for him and perhaps served as a decoy for the pursuing press. Ironically, I do have a private pilot’s license, and had hoped to get in some flying hours while in Arizona, where the weather is perfect for it. But I doubted I’d find the time to rent and fly a plane, or to do much of anything personal.

  I sat next to Ty in the backseat of the car. Thankfully, the press hadn’t caught on that we had left the courthouse, and there were no suspicious-looking vehicles following us. Ty sat stiffly in his seat and stared out the window. The air outside was oppressive. You could see the heat in the shine on people’s faces, feel it reflected from the stucco walls of the squat buildings we passed. You could sense the landscape baking under the hot desert sun. It drew out our energy and replaced it with lassitude. We were too weary to talk, too hot to sleep.

  David Pierce was smart enough not to play the radio, sparing us from news reports of Junior’s murder and Ty’s arrest, lest they further sour what was already a bleak atmosphere. Meg, who sat up front with the lawyer, leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. I’m sure Jack would have liked to do the same, but he sat stoically next to me in the backseat, his expression a mirror image of his foster son’s.

  The silence was uncomfortable. I wondered briefly if I should leave, move into a hotel. What would they prefer? This was a family matter. A legal matter. Not the place for a visiting friend with a reputation for snooping and sleuthing. But as much as I wanted to stay out of this family’s sudden troubles, I knew that Meg and Jack needed me. And I would do what they asked of me.

  “I’m going take a shower and try to get some sleep,” Ty said as the car rounded the corner to Hedgehog Court—and once again faced a clog of media vehicles. “I can’t believe this,” he said. “This is a nightmare.”

  Several television station vans were in front of the house, along with two police cars, their red lights flashing. An officer backed a patrol car away from the entrance to the driveway and waved us in.

  Pierce pulled up to the garage, and we hurried out of the car and into the house. I watched him back out of the driveway with almost reckless abandon and wondered whether he would have taken pleasure in running over the few reporters who jumped out of his way. He didn’t hit anyone, though, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Ty went straight upstairs. Meg, Jack, and I headed for the kitchen, which was flooded with sunshine, a welcoming contrast to the bleak emotional day it had turned out to be.

  Jack walked around closing the blinds to shield us from cameras with telephoto lenses. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they bribed my neighbors into letting them shoot pictures from their bedroom windows,” he said. He went to the bottom of the stairs and called up to Ty to close the drapes.

  “Here, Jess, have a seat on the window bench,” Meg said. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee. Or would you prefer tea?”

  “Whatever you’re having is fine with me.”

  Jack excused himself, saying, “I want to talk with Ty some more.”

  “Maybe it’s best to leave him alone,” Meg suggested.

  “No,” Jack said, “I think it’s a good time to follow up with him, while what happened is still fresh in his mind. I won’t be long.”

  “How are you holding up, Meg?” I asked when he was gone.

  “I’m worried sick, Jessica. I don’t know what to do. Jack has experience with the legal aspects of this. He knows what we’re up against. I believe Ty. I really do. But unless there are witnesses to come forward and back up his story, I don’t see how he stands much of a chance of being exonerated.”

  “Have you had any messages from Buddy Washington?” I asked. “Or from anyone else affiliated with the team?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Meg. She walked to a small table in the kitchen on which there was a telephone and an answering machine. “Full,” she said, shaking her head. “The answering machine is filled with messages. I’d better wait until Jack comes down to listen to them.”

  The phone rang. Meg looked at the caller ID. “It’s Sylvester Cole,” she said nervously. “I’m not up to speaking with anyone.”

  “Want me to talk to him?” I asked.

  She nodded and handed me the phone.

  Sylvester’s hello was friendly, almost too cheery considering the situation. Surely he knew what had happened. “I have to speak with Jack right away,” he said after acknowledging me. I told Meg, and she went upstairs to get him.

  “Sylvester, while you’re waiting, let me ask you. What have you heard? What has been reported?”

  He answered with confidence. “I just saw Karen Locke’s live report on WXYK. From the preliminary results of an autopsy, it appears now that Junior Bennett was bludgeoned to death and died from a brain hemorrhage.”

  “Anything else? We haven’t had time to watch the news, for obvious reasons.”

  “Ty’s arrest for Junior’s murder is all over the tube, but there’s also an unsubstantiated report that the police are now interested in speaking with someone else who was seen hanging around the hotel during the time the team dinner was taking place, and who evidently showed up later at the same bar where the murder occurred.”

  I immediately thought of the man I’d overheard speaking on his cell phone outside the hotel’s entrance, the one who said that Ramos would pay someone money. But there were so many people at the hotel, between its guests and those who attended the team dinner, that it was silly of me to speculate about one man.

  “Has Harrison Bennett or anyone else associated with the team been quoted on the news?” I asked. “Have you spoken to any of the players?”

  “Spoke to Matt Muscarel, one of the guys on the team whose father is a pain in the butt, always insisting that I sign him. Matt’s a good kid, but he isn’t going anywhere. I ran into him this morning at Scorpions. Only news he had—and it’s just scuttlebutt from him—was that the TV reporter, Karen Locke, and Junior Bennett had a big fight last night and broke up.”

  “Broke up?”

  “Yeah. According to Muscarel, they had just started dating. It was a big secret because Junior didn’t want his dad to know because—well, the old man isn’t fond of reporters. Besides, the players were discouraged by Buddy Washington from having girlfriends during the season.” He laughed. “Seems old-fashioned in this day and age, but Buddy is an old-fashioned kind of guy. He sees girlfriends as a threat to a player’s commitment to the team.” Another laugh. “Buddy means well, loves his players like they were his own kids, but preaching celibacy is a bit much.”

  “And Scorpions?” I asked, remembering my nightmare. “What is that?”

  “A local breakfast and lunch place. Kinda like a New York diner, I guess, except no egg creams.”

  “Was his father with him?” I asked. “Was Muscarel with anyone?”

  “Didn’t see his dad. And believe me, if he was there I would have known it. That guy is always in my face. No, Muscarel was there alone.”

  Jack and Meg came downstairs. I handed the phone to Jack, who opened the sliding glass doors off the kitchen that led to the enclosed patio and pool—his shpool.

  “Ty’s in the shower,” Meg said. “He and Jack had a talk. Jack told me that he’s one hundred percent convinced that Ty had absolutely nothing to do with this. He said he could see it in Ty’s eyes more than anything.”

  Meg seemed relieved, calmer than I’d seen her all day, obviously relieved to have Ty home again. It must have been dreadful for her to think of him sitting in a jail cell.