James Ross - A Young Adult Trilogy (Prairie Winds Golf Course)

by James Ross

  “Look at their faces,” Julie said softly. “There isn’t one that isn’t covered with a smile.”

  As had been prearranged, one special needs instructor or one volunteer was assigned to each child specifically. The kids would come in shifts every sixty minutes. Aieshia and Carla worked with several organizations around town to co-ordinate a play day for kids that had never been exposed to a golf course.

  For some of them, the task of getting dressed was monumental, but their excitement and enthusiasm was contagious.

  J Dub had gone to a friend that owned a miniature golf course and had explained the situation. He borrowed golf balls in various colors and several shorter putters. The golf course remained open for business. J Dub simply shut down the practice green for the day.

  To make the experience of putting even more fun for the challenged teens Aieshia handed out golf-related words for some of the kids to spell. After making a putt the kids would go to a roped-off area and find a plastic letter that coincided with the next letter in the word that they were to spell. Not only was the experience an opportunity to get out of a classroom, it provided another chance to learn spelling. Words such as golf, putter, ball, hole, grass and the like were offered up.

  One of the most gregarious girls was a teen by the name of Shayla. She bounced around the green like a homecoming queen working the senior class for votes. Dressed in a short red and white polka dot skirt, calf-high cowboy boots and an ear-to-ear smile, Shayla was in her element. The sun glistened off of her braces and she gave a high-five to whomever she made eye contact. As she moved from person to person she skipped and even made special time for kudos for BowTye.

  After Shayla selected a putter, J Dub had a chance to visit with her aide, a woman named Pat. “She certainly likes make-up,” J Dub observed.

  “She’s fourteen, you know. Girls that age see their friends wearing it.” Shayla had layered a glittery blush on her cheeks and wore three shades of eye shadow.

  “I can’t get over her energy and how she rubs off on every person she meets.”

  “Mentally Shayla is five. There is not one day where she is unhappy. She’ll do anything you ask of her; a very helpful girl.”

  J Dub watched as Shayla concentrated hard to hit the ball. As it rolled it was obvious that her skills did not allow her to control the speed. When she was ten feet away from the cup she hit the ball two feet. On a one-foot putt she hit the ball fifteen feet. “She’s battling distance control.”

  “Oh she wants to get the ball in the hole. This is her favorite game,” Pat smiled.

  J Dub found that odd. “Golf?”

  “No, she loves spelling words and to immediately associate a new word, like golf for example, is thrilling to her.”

  A minute later she picked the orange ball up and put it in the golf hole. Curt, Doc, Captain Jer, Pork Chop and Elia clapped their hands, exchanged high-fives with her and then watched as she scampered off to the roped off area to grab a G for her word. After placing it at Pat’s feet she headed for the next hole.

  J Dub chuckled. “She’s one fourth of the way.”

  After the music from the van had ceased BowTye stood up, placed one leg on the bench and rested the guitar on his thigh. He ramped up the tunes. Shayla stopped, stared at him then placed a free hand on her hip after she thrust it out. “She’s such a ham,” Pat said. “Who suggested playing music out here?”

  Aieshia had made it known to J Dub that a lot of the kids did activities to music.

  “Music seems to affect them all. For some, it soothes their mind; for others it perks them up or makes them smile or move or clap. They all respond one way or another.”

  “Enjoy yourself out here,” J Dub told Pat. “We’re glad to host an event like this.”

  The tall, lanky pro looked dapper in his golf wardrobe. He approached Julie who was preoccupied watching a five-foot-ten boy spin in circles. He held a cane for the blind and had stuck it in the ground. Two teenage girls were with him.

  “That’s Daniel,” the middle aged woman said. Her name was Barb and she was one of his instructors at Footprints of Hope.

  “Tell us about him,” Julie said as she watched Pabby and Shae play host and hostess in the background.

  “Daniel is legally blind.”

  “Why the glasses?” J Dub asked.

  “To protect his eyes more than anything.”

  The trio observed the teen. Daniel’s right foot never moved. He spun clockwise continually by moving his left foot six inches at a time. His head was cocked over to his left shoulder and his jaw was dropped revealing a slightly open mouth. He looked like he was sleep walking in his own private world.

  “I don’t want to be rude,” Julie said, “but does he know where he is?”

  “Are you kidding?” Barb said. “He’s been looking forward to this for three weeks. He may not have a concept of time, but he knew something special was afoot and he was going to be a part of it.”

  The comment caught J Dub. He realized that Daniel would never be able to see the river, the putting green or ever be able to swing a club. All the little things in life that he had learned to appreciate would forever escape Daniel. They watched as one of the girls tapped on a 2 X 4 indicating where the hole was located. The other girl placed a golf ball in Daniel’s hand. His coordination would only allow him to drop it in the hole’s direction.

  “This made his whole summer,” Barb continued. “He’s finally getting a chance to play golf.” The girls moved Daniel three feet closer to the hole and repeated the scene. After he dropped the ball two more times they positioned him over a large red circle and let him drop the ball again.

  “You made it!” Daniel jerked his head back and forth repeatedly. A stifled smile spread across his lips while his circling sped up. He tapped the guide stick rapidly on the ground. The crew from Prairie Winds erupted with applause as J Dub became suddenly aware that he had teared up. He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.

  “Daniel is completely blind,” Barb said. “And he is autistic. I can tell you that this experience has made an impression on his life. Thank you.” Barb took J Dub’s hand. “He is so happy!”

  “How can you tell?”

  “He speeds up when he’s excited.” Barb went to Daniel as J Dub and Julie walked across the green.

  A buddy gave a high-five to a teenage girl for making a putt. The girl pulled her hair to her mouth and chewed. “Do not tickle me! Do not tickle me!” she shrilled.

  “What’s that all about?” J Dub asked an aide.

  “That’s Natalie. She talks to fairies. She lives in a one-room home covered with ivy and the flowers bloom the day after it rains.”

  “Do not tickle me!” Her gait quickened. “Do not tickle me!”

  “She has to watch out for the troll that lives under the bridge.”

  “Does she always act like that?” Julie inquired.

  The aide nodded. “She talks to fairies day and night.”

  On another side of the practice green a volunteer pushed a wheelchair onto the putting surface. J Dub made his way over. “Have you met Richard yet?” Jeretta asked. J Dub shook his head from side to side. “He wanted to thank you.”

  “Sure, I’d be glad to meet him.”

  Richard’s hair was blowing in the wind. His head was tilted back and cocked at a forty-five degree angle toward the sky. Both arms were strapped at their elbows to the wheelchair. His legs were twisted and lacked muscle. “Richard, this is J Dub, the head golf pro that let us all come to the golf course today.”

  Richard seemed to give everything he had to make sounds in several tones as his head jerked with effort and emphasis. His teeth were crooked and his lips and tongue were unwilling; they rendered his speech unintelligible.

  “It’s nice to meet you too, Richard,” J Dub adlibbed. “I’m glad you could come out to the golf course today.” The pair stepped away.

  “What happened to him?” J Dub asked Jeretta.

  �
�Richard has CP—cerebral palsy—and he has a mixed seizure disorder. A loss of oxygen at birth damaged the cells in his frontal and temporal lobes. He didn’t get the right kind of care early on that may have patterned his brain. Now he is too spastic to leave the wheelchair and we often have to bind his arms when he is overly excited to prevent him from hitting or biting—himself or others. He doesn’t do it to be mean, he’s just releasing energy and there are so few ways he can do it. He needs care twenty-four seven.” Jeretta paused. “His mind is alert and while we do not know how he really feels about being trapped in an uncooperative body, he knows where he is and he’s having a ball.”

  J Dub hugged Jeretta. “I’m glad we could accommodate him.”

  They stepped back and watched as one of the teen girls placed a ball on Richard’s knee. He flicked it off and let it roll toward a cup. “Almost, Richard! You’re close to making it!” The volunteer rolled the wheelchair closer to the hole. She placed the yellow golf ball on his knee once again. When it hit the ground she picked it up and dropped it into the cup. “You made it!” Richard’s assorted sounds indicated he was well pleased. The guys applauded.

  While J Dub walked off a butterfly fluttered in the breeze. The black and orange Monarch dipped and darted, sailing upwards ten feet and diving back down to land on a golf ball. After a momentary respite it flapped its wings to tour the practice green, the wind dictating its movement until it neared the crew from Prairie Winds. Pabby saw it and started flailing his arms. “Get it away! Get it away!” He circled around Doc, Fred and Pork Chop until the vet grabbed him. “No! No! No!”

  “It’s not going to land on you,” Doc said. Pabby’s breath was quick, his heart racing. They watched it intently as it landed on another golf ball.

  “The butterfly is mainly a day-flying insect. Its life cycle consists of four parts, the egg, larva, pupa and adult. Butterflies have large colorful wings and fluttering flight.”

  “Come on, Pabby,” Shae said. She walked up and waved her hand over the butterfly. It soared back up into the air and onto the golf course. “Quit being such a wuss.”

  Captain Jer handed out bottled water to the kids. He approached them slowly, cautiously, not wanting to scare them. The customary alcoholic beverage had been shelved and he used both hands now to untwist the caps and present the plastic bottle like a precious elixir. As he was returning to the cooler he passed Julie. Noticing a different look in his eyes, she reserved comment about how rare it was to see him happy without a beer in his hand.

  J Dub had taken B2 to the cart barn. Upon his return, he stopped by the ice chest and stared back out to the river. Julie walked to his side. The pro took a deep breath then turned to his assistant. “You know, we take so many things for granted.” He checked himself. “These kids will never get the chance to experience the things that we get to do every day.”

  Julie put her hand on J Dub’s shoulder. “There’s a lot to be thankful for.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Benjamin Blum was at it again.

  He was the defense attorney in one of the highest profile double murder cases to hit St. Louis in decades. For years an older Jewish couple, Joseph and Meta Silverman, owned a family bakery. Every morning to service the public they got up at 3:30, worked seven days a week and built the business.

  They offered numerous kosher products and a dozen breads. They carried anything from pumpernickel, marble rye and honey wheat to chala, corn tzizel and ciabatta. Bagels, hoagies, dinner and dollar rolls, as well as hamburger, hot dog buns and focaccia were shipped all over town. Joseph and Meta made muffins, cakes, cookies, cupcakes, bear claws, tarts and brownies. Grocery stores, restaurants and catering companies all over St. Louis and beyond used their products.

  All that came to an end one spring night, or morning depending on what version was to be believed. Charged in their murder was Tre’fluglar Lassiter. On the streets and in the courtroom he was simply known as Tre’f. A Jewish attorney named Benjamin Blum had been retained to defend Tre’f. Public outrage directed at Atkins, Blum and Charles exploded as the very thought of a Jewish lawyer defending an inner city client in the twin slaying of an elderly Jewish couple breached unwritten rules.

  Final arguments in the case put Benjamin Blum once again on center stage. His dress was immaculate; his long, dark hair perfectly coiffed; his scent appealing. And Blum loved every minute of it regardless of the guilt or innocence of his client.

  After the prosecution spoke Blum walked into the center of the courtroom to argue his client’s case in front of the jury. He walked to the easel and pointed to a picture of the slain couple lying face down in a pool of blood. “This photo does not solve any issues in this case. It is merely presented to sway your emotion. It is understandable for the public and the family of the victims to be angry. But this picture does not in any way prove the guilt of my client.”

  Blum took two steps toward the jury. “The prosecution has presented school records, work records and military service records as well as letters and correspondence from the accused. This was done to sway your emotion. None of these documents point to the guilt of my client.”

  Benjamin turned his back to the jury as if in deep thought. “I understand why the prosecution presented this material. They want to show that my client is prejudiced against people of the Jewish faith. This is preposterous and simply not true. I’m of the Jewish faith. This was all staged by the prosecution to raise your emotions and get you to overlook the facts in this case.”

  “There was one eyewitness in this case. He said that from a distance of fifty yards he saw a black man in sweats with dreadlocks running down the street. Yet I’d like for you to look at the photograph of the police lineup. Only one of these six men has dreadlocks. That man is my client. Who do you think the only eyewitness identified?”

  “When asked what percent chance that this was the man he saw, from a distance of fifty yards mind you, the eyewitness said sixty percent. That is not enough surety to convict. Two out of five times the eyewitness would be incorrect.”

  “We’ve had testimony from so-called experts. But who paid those experts? The prosecution, that’s who! We’ve had another eyewitness that wrote down a license plate number but on cross examination that witness acknowledged that it was written down erroneously. Hair was found at the crime scene. It was tested. That hair was not from Tre’fluglar Lassiter.”

  Blum walked closer to the jury box. “What about the DNA evidence? The crime scene investigators collected nine blood samples. Not one sample was linked to Tre’fluglar’s DNA. You ask about the bloody footprints at the scene. The evidence indicates that the footprint is that of a size twelve Sky-to-Jam athletic shoe. My client wears a size fourteen and doesn’t own any Sky-to-Jam shoes. When hauled into the lineup he wore a pair of Backboard Cleaners that were free of any traces of blood.”

  “The getaway car has been identified as a recent model Wakayama luxury SUV. With the amount of blood that was at the crime scene you would expect blood to be all over, around and in that vehicle. Not one trace of blood was found.”

  Over thirty minutes had passed. “When the arresting officers knocked on the door my client was watching cartoon re-runs of Sedric, Giant Kitty. This was verified by his sister, his half-brother, two cousins and a friend Marcus Ligg.”

  In conclusion Blum stated, “The State of Illinois has tried their best and the prosecutor has tried his best to point guilt at Tre’fluglar Lassiter; however, there are numerous items they cannot explain. Because of that they have appealed to your emotions. Tre’fluglar Lassiter is not guilty. Not guilty means not proved guilty. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, if you have reasonable doubt then you must not hesitate to act. With reasonable doubt you must say not guilty.”

  CHAPTER 37

  J Dub was an early riser. It was dark when the alarm sounded. By the time he showered, fixed a light breakfast and grabbed a banana for the road it was just starting to get light out. By no means had the sun risen above the
horizon. He still needed his headlights to see the road.

  At that hour of the day nothing was going on. A few deer might hop in front of the car. Seldom did he see more than a handful of cars on his way to work. It was a short drive—no more than five miles—on a two-lane state highway and a surface road onto the property. He had the radio on catching up on the news briefs from the night before and listening to some tunes.

  He was thinking about the golf course, what needed to be done, getting the place ready to open and tapping his fingers to the beat on a song when he glanced in his rear view mirror. Flashing lights had rapidly approached from the rear. The car flashed its lights on and off signaling him to the shoulder. J Dub had no idea what was wrong. He reached into his rear pocket for his driver’s license. Then he opened the glove box and retrieved his title and insurance card.

  The officer motioned for him to roll down his window. “Are you in a hurry?”

  “No, just going to work. I come by here every morning about this time.” He watched as the officer checked his identification. “Is there something wrong? Do I have a burnt out taillight or low tire or something?”

  “You were speeding.”

  “Speeding? I had my cruise control set.”

  “Yeah, I clocked you going thirty-eight. The limit is thirty-five through here.”

  “It’s not even five thirty in the morning. This is the most peaceful and quiet time of the day.”

  “And we’d like to keep it that way.”

  “There’s no one on the road.”

  “All the more reason not to speed.” The officer headed back to his car. J Dub checked his rear view mirror wondering if he would get a ticket or a warning. Three minutes later the officer returned. “Normally we give warning tickets in a situation like this,” he said as he ripped paper off of his pad, “but this time I’m going to give you a ticket. There were other violations that I cited.”