by Donald Bain
“How about going out to the patio?” I said. “It’s covered, so we won’t get wet. I’m feeling sleepy. I think the air will perk me up a bit.”
“Sure thing.”
He picked up my glass of iced tea, opened the sliding door with his elbow, and led us out to the patio. I considered asking Ty if he’d like to join us but decided to let him set his own schedule.
“Ty sleeping?” Cole asked, sitting in one of the wooden chairs. I sat in a matching chair; a wooden table separated us.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “He was downstairs a short while ago.”
“My heart aches every time I think of that kid,” said Cole. “He’s the kind of person you gravitate to. I wasn’t drawn to Ty only because of his baseball talent. The kid’s got so much charisma and a lot of smarts. Those are the kinds of things that make a superstar, and even more important, a great person.” He shook his head. “It’s such a shame he’s got to go through all of this. Who knows how it’ll end up?”
“You don’t think he’ll be exonerated?” I asked. “I assume you feel as I do, that he had nothing to do with Junior Bennett’s death.”
“Sure, I feel that way, but I’m enough of a realist about the legal system to know that being innocent doesn’t always translate into being acquitted. You read about all these cases where someone spends years behind bars, only to have new DNA evidence prove he or she couldn’t possibly have done the crime. Of course, it depends a lot on this Pierce guy. If he’s as good a lawyer as Jack thinks he is, then the kid has a chance. But the DA has an agenda, and this is one DA who’s out for blood and to make a name for himself.”
“What is his name?” I asked.
“Larry Martone. Young guy, mid-thirties, a real hotshot.”
“Martone. I noticed a Martone Plaza somewhere in Mesa. Is that—?”
“Yep, same family. Lots of Martones in Mesa. They own a ton of real estate. Good reputation. Martone Plaza is going to be a new strip mall with a Starbucks, gourmet food store, places like that. I’m sure you’ve seen those big billboards announcing the new mall.”
“I can’t say that I have,” I replied. “So you’re convinced that Ty didn’t do this but that the legal system might fail him?”
He looked at me, paused, and said, “Ty is a class act. The Ty Ramos I know would never have done this. He’s learned the lesson of life at the School of Hard Knocks. He came up the tough way, which is what makes this all so sad. This is a kid who has worked so hard to become what he is, and he ends up accused of murder. The irony in this isn’t lost on me, nor on you either, I’m sure. That’s what makes it so crazy and so hard to swallow. I want to work with this kid, be his agent. We have all the details of a contract hammered out—Jack and I did that the other night—and I’ve already started promoting him. Then this had to happen. He’s got the potential to be a star, and I know I can help him achieve it. At least that’s my prayer, my plan. At least it was my plan until this happened. Ty’s going to be acquitted—he didn’t do it, right? Then, we can forge ahead.”
“Sylvester, what do you know of Junior’s relationship with his father?”
“Whoa. That was one dysfunctional relationship. That was textbook. Overbearing father—always-looking-to-please son—son never good enough in father’s eyes—son constantly trying to impress dad. Lots of anger issues because of it. Very unhealthy.”
I appreciated Sylvester’s use of psychobabble, but I was looking for more specifics. “Have you ever witnessed an incident between the two of them? A physical confrontation?”
He took a long look at me before replying, “Of course. We all have.”
“An example?”
“Like the time he hit Junior for no reason. Why? Because he found out I was at the stadium to scout Ty. I was in the men’s room and heard H.B. tell Junior that if he didn’t make it to the big leagues, he’d be a disgrace to the family, ‘family’ meaning, of course, H.B. I hear this whacking sound, and when I come out of the stall, Junior is washing his face and there’s a big red mark on his cheek.”
“Oh, how awful,” I said. “That poor boy. What he must have gone through growing up.”
“You want to know the saddest part, Mrs. Fletcher? Junior was a good kid with God-given talent. But his dad ruined him. H.B. is ambitious and greedy. He’s all about showing off. Fancy restaurants, state-of-the-art electronics in his home, private planes, cigarette boats. That guy’s got at least half a dozen cars, including a brand-new Mercedes. If I were going to buy a new car, I sure as heck wouldn’t get a green one. Kind of have a superstition about the color green—unless it’s money.”
“I remember reading that Duke Ellington felt the same way,” I said. “He refused to ride in a green car.”
“See? I’m not the only one. Nice to know I’m not crazy,” Cole said. “Of course, to H.B. the money he spends on such stuff is just chump change. He must have been furious with Junior for taking the car to the Crazy Coyote that night. What could Junior have been thinking? That’s what happens when you have an overbearing, super-strict parent. Kids rebel, one way or the other.”
“Sylvester, when was the last time you spoke to H.B.?”
“Not for a couple of days at least. Not since the murder, actually. Let’s see, it must’ve been at the victory dinner, when he came to our table. H.B.’s in mourning, you know. I don’t want to disturb him. Besides, I’m the last guy he wants to hear from. I’m public enemy number one in his book because I wasn’t interested in signing his son.”
We were interrupted when Meg opened the sliding door and joined us. “Hi, Sylvester, Jess,” she said. “Sorry it took me so long.” We followed her into the kitchen, where two overflowing grocery bags sat on the table.
“I think I got everything,” Meg said. “I thought it would be nice if we made tacos. I got all the trimmings. Ty loves making tacos; it’s kind of festive and casual. Hope everyone’s up for it. I got some fish for those who want fish tacos, and ground beef for the carnivores among us.” She laughed. Her mood seemed lighter, probably because she had people to entertain at dinner.
“You sure you want me in my ruffian clothes?” Cole said.
“You’re welcome anytime, Sylvester. You know that. Besides, I love to entertain. There’s nothing as satisfying as sharing time with people you enjoy being around. If I had my way, I’d throw a dinner party every night of the week. Of course, Jack doesn’t necessarily share that view. He likes his quiet nights with just the two of us, or three of us if Ty is home. But we compromise pretty well.” She started emptying the bags. “Did you notice that the press has abandoned us?” she asked, glee in her voice.
“They’ll be back,” Cole said.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said, “but even a brief respite is welcome.”
“The menu sounds delicious,” he said.
I agreed with him, even though I had to admit that I was somewhat “tacoed” out. But as long as it lifted Ty’s spirits, I was up for anything.
I’ve always loved a kitchen gathering where everyone chips in to make a meal that will eventually be enjoyed by all. Ty arrived in the kitchen, and while Meg and I took care of prepping and cooking the fish and ground meat, he and Sylvester handled the chopping of onions, peppers, and tomatoes. Jack had called and told Meg that he wouldn’t make it home for dinner after all. He and Pierce needed more time together because Ty was due back in court the next day for a hearing with the judge, something to do with motions by the DA and Pierce that were, according to Jack, vitally important. Meg seemed almost relieved that Jack wouldn’t be joining us. I hated to admit it, but I shared her feeling to an extent. Jack was tightly wound of late and snapped easily. He would always apologize afterward, and I couldn’t blame him for being uptight. Still, it became uncomfortable at times, and I knew Meg suffered through those moments.
Ty shared some laughs with Sylvester during their kitchen prep duties. It was nice to see Ty enjoying himself, and Sylvester seemed up to the task of kee
ping things light without forcing the issue.
“Hey, Ty,” said Sylvester, “you cut up the green peppers, I’ll cut up the red. I hate green.” Sylvester looked at me and winked. “Did you hear that H.B. bought a flashy green Mercedes convertible?”
“No,” said Ty.
“Yeah, that was the car Junior drove to the Crazy Coyote,” Sylvester added.
“Oh,” Ty said quietly, almost a mumble. It was obvious he didn’t want to speak about that night.
“Anyway, I hate green, Ty, so you cut up the green peppers.”
“Okay,” Ty said, shaking his head and laughing. “But will you eat the green peppers?”
“Oh, yeah, I’ll eat anything,” said Cole. “I don’t care what color it is as long as it tastes good. But don’t ask me to look at it if it’s green. I close my eyes when I eat green things.”
“Okay,” said Meg cheerily. “Meat and fish are ready. You guys set to go?”
“Ready to rock ’n’ roll,” Cole said. “Time to chow down.”
Meg and I knew and appreciated that Cole was making an effort to relate to Ty and to speak on his level. Although he was older than Ty, he came off as a cool sort of guy, comfortable and conversant with the younger man’s world. Like his teammates, Ty used what sometimes seemed a different, almost foreign language. But Cole was able to fit in, a chameleon of sorts.
We all took a plate, created our individual tacos, and sat down to enjoy them. I had a fish taco and a beef taco, both of which were delicious. Meg had made a batch of margaritas for herself, Sylvester, and me, and a virgin margarita for Ty.
When dinner was over, Ty excused himself, saying he was tired and didn’t feel well. He left us and went upstairs. Cole said he had to leave because he had an early-morning appointment and wanted to hit the gym before it.
“I think it’s still raining out,” I said as Meg and I walked Sylvester to the front door.
“I heard it’s going to rain tomorrow, too,” said Cole. “Arizona in the summer loves rain. Bring it on!”
Cole thanked Meg for dinner and left. Meg went back into the kitchen, but I lingered at the glass front door for a minute, watching Cole walk down to the driveway. As he navigated the path, he stumbled on an uneven stone and inadvertently stepped in a small puddle, leaving muddy footprints behind, illuminated by a row of solar lights that flanked the walkway. Footprints, I thought. Whose footprints were at the murder scene? When I glanced back up, Cole had stopped and was watching me curiously from outside his car. I waved and he responded in kind before getting in the car and driving away.
“I just don’t understand who’s leaking all this erroneous stuff to the press,” Jack growled as he paced back and forth, a crushed newspaper in his hand. “Are they making it up? It’s like they’re dressing him up to be a giant monster, and dancing around their own creation.”
Meg and I were seated on the buttery leather sofa in the den, sipping from dainty glasses filled with Sambuca, while Jack nursed his second martini since getting home.
“Jack, you’re going to have a heart attack if you don’t stop,” Meg said. “You’ve got to calm down. There is nothing you can do, absolutely nothing, to prevent the stories in the press. I suggest you forget about reading the papers. In fact, I’m going to cancel the subscriptions in the morning.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m going nuts.” He came behind the sofa and rubbed her neck. “It’s just that the DA is getting a rise out of all this and it really burns me. Meg, they’re saying the most awful things, digging up Ty’s past and embellishing it with stories about how he has a child with a drug-addict girlfriend who gave birth when she was fourteen, how he went from bad to worse, from bad parents to worse parents. Listen to this quote: ‘Jack Duffy is a poor excuse for a father, a hapless, desperate man who took in an antisocial felon when his marriage was falling apart because he and his wife, Meg, couldn’t have children of their—’ ”
“Enough, Jack! That’s enough,” said Meg. “Please.” She turned to me. “They are just awful, Jessica. And there’s nothing we can do.”
I touched her arm. “It’s okay, Meg,” I said. “It’s going to be okay.”
My voice conveyed more conviction than I felt inside.
Chapter Fifteen
The mood in the Duffy house the following morning was understandably glum. The prospect of having to appear in court is unpleasant even for minor legal matters. But today’s hearing was about murder and the fate of a young man who, I was convinced, was unjustly accused.
I was up and dressed early and assumed that I’d beaten everyone downstairs. I was wrong. Jack and Meg were already having coffee on the patio when I arrived. Their greetings were strained, at best, and I wondered whether they preferred to be left alone with their thoughts. I started back inside, but Jack said, “Please, Jess, sit down. There’s something we’d like to discuss with you.”
I joined them at the table, and Jack poured me coffee from a carafe. Meg said, “I’ll get breakfast going in a minute.”
“Don’t worry about breakfast for me,” I said. “I’ve been eating far more than I’m used to and—”
“Jess,” Jack interrupted, “I hope you plan on being with us today for the court hearing.”
“Of course—if you think it’s appropriate.”
“It’s more than appropriate, Jess,” he said. “Ty needs to be surrounded by positive people. Judge McQuaid is the sort of man who puts a lot of stock in the caliber of people a defendant associates with. It also turns out that he’s a big fan of yours and of your books.”
“That’s very flattering,” I said, “but I don’t see why it’s relevant.”
“I know Mike McQuaid from back East. He’s always been a judge who wears his heart on his sleeve. Some claim he’s too easy on defendants, too quick to latch on to their positive attributes and forget the crimes they’ve committed. That should be good for us.”
“You saw how he congratulated Ty on getting the winning hit,” Meg said. “That’s typical of him, according to Jack.”
“It strikes me,” I said, “that such behavior could get a judge in trouble, and create the basis for a mistrial.”
Jack was thoughtful. “I’m not worried about that, Jess. He knows when to put on the brakes and get tough. Besides, once a defendant is found not guilty in a trial, the prosecution can’t claim a mistrial and call for a new one. That would be double jeopardy. Only the defense can do that if they lose a case and the judge has misbehaved or made legally questionable decisions. At any rate, David Pierce told me that Judge McQuaid is aware that you’re staying with us, and presumably in Ty’s corner. He said he’d enjoy meeting you following the hearing this morning. He’s bringing a couple of your books for you to sign.”
“I’ll be happy to sign his books,” I said, “as long as you think it’s not a legal misstep to do so.”
“It might be if you bought the books for him, but the ones he’s bringing already belong to him and his wife. She claims to be your number one fan.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “What’s today’s hearing about?”
“Larry Martone, the DA, has filed a motion asking that Ty’s bail be rescinded.”
“Oh? On what basis?” I asked.
“Martone claims that Ty’s been having too much contact with his teammates, which he claims is a breach of house arrest rules.”
“Is it?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned, but that doesn’t mean he won’t prevail. He’s also asking that the court subpoena Meg and me and take our depositions.”
“Whatever for?” I asked.