Degree of Guilt (75 page)

Mack turned to Mike. ‘Is that right?’

Mike shifted from foot to foot. ‘Just a little. Not enough to come out.’

‘I want to do this,’ Carlo said. ‘I really want this guy.’

Mack looked from one to the other. ‘All right,’ he said to Carlo. ‘You know what you need to do.’

Carlo nodded. The coach no longer barked at him; he had learned that Carlo did not like or need it.

When they ran back onto the floor, Woodland was inbounding the ball, and Carlo was facing Farrow.

A dreamy smile crossed Farrow’s round face. ‘You?’ he murmured. ‘Uh-huh.’

Farrow stood with his back to Carlo, poised to break, staring at the blue-shirted teammate who stood out of bounds at half-court, ready to throw the ball inbounds. Three feet behind Farrow, Carlo tried to keep loose, running through what Woodland might do.

Farrow broke abruptly.

The ball floated to where he should have been. But Carlo had broken too, bumping Farrow with his hip as they sped toward the ball. For two steps, Farrow staggered.

It was enough.

The ball bounced free, and then Carlo got there in full stride. He hurtled toward the basket with three headlong bounces; the quicker Farrow was just fast enough to hack him as the ball left Carlo’s hand.

As the ball fell through the basket, Carlo’s right wrist went numb.

He winced, grasping it. Beneath the screaming from the stands, Carlo heard the whistle. ‘
Foul
,’ the bearded referee called out. ‘Blue, number twelve.’

Farrow stepped to his place beside the line. There was something almost perfect about him, Carlo decided. Short haircut, large brown eyes, smooth skin, a face of broad planes. Gazing at the basket, Farrow could have been contemplating the moon, with a mild and somewhat dreamy interest.

As Carlo stepped to the foul line, the other ref gave him the ball. He, too, was bearded and middle-aged; before the game, thinking jokes might help him forget his mother’s dilemma, Carlo had dubbed the two referees ‘the Smith Brothers.’ But nothing was funny now; his wrist hurt too much for him to shoot well, and the joke reminded him of how scared he was for Mary.

The stamping and jeering began again.

The pain from his wrist became nausea in the pit of Carlo’s stomach. It was foolish not to have eaten, when last night he had not slept. But today he could do neither.

‘
Choke
,’ the jug-eared kid yelled again.

Shut it out, Carlo told himself. Shoot as if there were no pain.

He breathed in, once. Then he cradled the ball in his palm, feeling its pebbly surface as he had a thousand times before, eyes focused on the hoop. The jeers became white noise.

He flinched as he shot.

But the ball had already left his hand. The arc was not flawless, merely good enough. It rattled the metal and fell through.

Carlo looked at no one now. He did not think of smiling. There were forty seconds left.

Backpedaling up the court, Carlo held his wrist loosely at his side, keeping three feet between himself and Tony Farrow.

Woodland took its time. The point guard crossed the center line, looking from right to left. They had a set play, Carlo saw. He tried to guess what it was.

The last game, they had set a screen; Carlo had diagnosed it, but Farrow had twisted in the air, sucking Carlo into a two-shot foul. Sooner or later, Carlo knew, the ball would come to Farrow again.

When it did, there were twenty seconds left.

This time, Carlo guessed, Farrow would do something different.

Farrow stood with the ball two feet in front of Carlo. Carlo crouched, hands raised in front of him, knees flexed.

Farrow suddenly drove the lane.

He was at full speed in less than two strides. But Carlo had guessed right again. He was a foot in front of Farrow, blocking his angle to the lane, when Farrow pulled up and shot a fifteen-footer before Carlo could even stop.

The move had the silken perfection of a dance routine, practiced until it involved only muscle memory and the certainty of instinct. The shot was far too good to miss.

Carlo watched it fall through the net.

With fifteen seconds, Woodland led by two.

Coach Mack screamed for time-out. But when Carlo ran to the bench, the coach was under control.

‘Nothing you could do,’ he said to Carlo.

‘It’s okay,’ Carlo answered. ‘They just bought themselves some overtime.’

At some point in the season, Coach Mack had learned to smile. ‘Your wrist okay?’

‘Fine.’ Carlo hesitated. ‘If it’s in the plan, I still want the ball.’

Mack nodded. ‘It’s in the plan.’ He drew the team around him. They leaned forward, faces drawn and intent. ‘We’ll get the ball to Carlo,’ he said, and gave them the play.

The whistle blew and then Academy inbounded the ball. Carlo danced in the wing, feinting to keep Farrow off balance, waiting to make his break.

When he broke for the lane with five seconds left, the ball was there for him.

A great pass, perfect timing. But when he spun to drive, Tony Farrow slapped his wrist so hard he heard the sound before he felt it.

The whistle blew.

Carlo doubled over in pain. That sonofabitch Farrow had done it on purpose. ‘Two shots,’ the referee called out.

The game was on Carlo’s shoulders, where he wanted it. With his wrist hurting the way Farrow wanted it.

Still bent over, Carlo tried to flex his wrist. It felt stiff, he straightened, keeping his face impassive, and walked slowly to the line.

Two shots. He had to make them both.

Carlo knew from experience that the wrist would swell. It would lose all flexibility; he would have to miss practice tomorrow and ice it. Except that there was no more practice; this game was the end of their season. Tomorrow there was only the courtroom, and his mother.

At both sides of his vision, three players lined the key. A blue uniform, then a red, then a blue again, poised to fight for a rebound should Carlo miss. To his right was Tony Farrow. The Woodland kids were stomping again. There were three seconds left.

Forget about it. Just concentrate. Look at nothing but the hoop: screen out the score, the noise, the pain in your wrist. Screen out anything else in your life.

By the time he shot, all he saw was the basket.

Pain ripped through his wrist to his elbow.

The ball bounced on the metal rim, once, then twice more, each time closer to the inside of the rim. The angle of the last bounce was right; the ball rattled within the rim and fell through the net.

The crowd erupted. Carlo never changed expression. But his hand felt like a catcher’s mitt. He guessed the truth then; Tony Farrow had fractured his wrist.

One shot to go.

He did not really blame Farrow. He had not meant to break anything. Farrow was just exploiting a weakness, putting the pressure on Carlo by forcing him to shoot fouls with a wrist that hurt. That was the game; people who thought basketball wasn’t a contact sport weren’t watching hard enough. It was what his father, joking, had once said about law.

What to do about his wrist?

He would have to shoot differently. He could no longer flip the ball with his hand; he must push more with his arm.

The gym was hushed now; it was as if Carlo’s first shot had sucked the air out of it. The jeering had stopped.

Just one more.

Carlo straightened at the foul line. He breathed in again, breathed out, felt loose. His vision narrowed to the net.

He held the ball at chin level, cradled in his left palm. Then, with his right hand, he pushed it toward the basket. His eyes stung. But he could see that the trajectory looked decent. Just slightly to the left side of the basket.

It hit the inside left of the rim.

Good, Carlo thought.

The ball bounced, hitting the back of the rim, circling around the edge of the basket. Then it paused, teetering on the rim, and fell to the floor without passing through the net.

There were groans, cheers, a brief scramble where Tony Farrow got the ball. Then the Woodland players gathered in a knot, celebrating.

Carlo bent forward, head down, palms resting on his knees. He had no feeling in his wrist now.

He had lost the game.

Teammates filed by, patting him on the back. The coach put his arm around him. ‘You’re the best we had,’ he told Carlo. ‘If I had to lose, I’d want to lose with you.’

‘Thanks,’ Carlo said. He did not look up; he needed time to gather himself.

He felt Tony Farrow next to him.

Pull yourself together, Carlo.

He looked up. ‘Your hand okay?’ Farrow asked.

‘Fine.’ Carlo shrugged. ‘It doesn’t really matter. Season’s over.’

Farrow was staring at Carlo’s wrist. It had swollen visibly; the skin near his hand seemed discolored. Then Farrow looked at Carlo again, his face solemn. For once, it seemed that someone was home in there. ‘Man,’ he told Carlo, ‘you turned out to be a player.’

Carlo nodded. ‘I figured you didn’t want to play alone.’

It made Farrow smile. He hesitated a moment, as if to say more, and then extended his left hand.

Carlo shook it.

‘See you next season,’ Farrow said, and was gone.

Next season, Carlo thought. Where would he be? He felt empty.

‘Care to go to dinner?’ someone asked.

It was his father. His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he had picked up Carlo after practice.

It surprised him. For a moment, Carlo recalled the first time he could remember meeting this man, and he had seemed so tall. It made him feel like a child again. But it was surely still the pain that stung his eyes.

‘Better take me to the hospital first,’ he said.

The beach looked different than it had the night before.

Terri had expected it to be shadowed by her meeting with Christopher Paget. But they had left no trace. The late-afternoon sun glistened at the water’s edge, fuller at high tide. The sound of the waves was deep and lulling.

She sat in a small cove carved into the cliffside, sheltered from the wind. Elena played at her feet. With a child’s solemn concentration, she arranged toy people in various formations around pieces of plastic furniture. There seemed, Terri realized, to be a mother, a father, and a little girl; she wished that she could see into Elena’s mind. Then Paget broke into her thoughts once more.

He would, she was certain, never again represent Mary Carelli. But Terri thought his final argument had been all that Mary could have asked. Perhaps it was because Terri knew, as others did not, that Paget had spoken to the truth of what Mary had done; perhaps Terri only imagined that he had reached Caroline Masters. But Caroline’s last comment, a warning against passion, struck Terri as Caroline’s warning to herself.

Terri might be inventing this. Lawyers, their fears unrelieved for days on end, come to read too much into the silences and stray comments of a judge: sometimes, Paget had once quoted Sigmund Freud, a cigar is only a cigar. At least Paget had taken the part he could control to the end. But she was far less sure that the part Paget could not control – the trial of Mary Carelli and the ordeal of the tapes – would end with Caroline Masters. For a moment, she wished that
life
were a tape, which she could fast-forward to tomorrow, so that she would know that the hearing was over.

The tapes.

It scared her now, though she would never say that to Paget. But if he had destroyed them, and they were traced to her, the district attorney might hold her at fault. Paget would try to protect her, Terri knew, but it would hurt her career were the tapes to vanish. And Terri’s career, it seemed, was the only security she and Elena had.

She turned back to her daughter.

Elena was talking to her plastic people. ‘You sit
here
,’ he insisted, ‘and Daddy sits there.’

‘Who are you talking to?’ Terri asked.

‘You. You’re sitting next to Daddy.’

‘And where do you sit?’

‘Right there,’ Elena said triumphantly, and placed a plastic child between its plastic parents.

A child, Terri thought sadly, ordering the world of adults. Terri had been certain that she had given Elena no sign of her conflicts with Richie; now she searched her mind for times when she had. She found none. But Elena must have some intuition; she had spent an hour at this game of family, far beyond her usual attention span. Terri had seldom seen her so intent.

Let her be, Terri told herself. At least for a while.

Thoughtful, Terri gazed down the beach.

It was a workday afternoon. The beach was not crowded: mothers with children; a couple or two; a few singles who were used to being alone, and so walked or sat by themselves. A shirtless student type threw a Frisbee for his collie to retrieve, his bare skin stretching as he threw, as if there were hardly enough to cover his slender frame. The collie trotted eagerly into the surf, returning with the Frisbee in his mouth; he shook the water from his coat as he ran toward his master. It reminded Terri that Elena kept asking for a dog.

She turned back to her daughter. Elena had moved the figures again; now they sat at a kitchen table. The child was still between her parents.

‘Do you like playing that?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’ Elena stopped, staring at her plastic family, and then looked up at Terri. ‘Why are you so mean to Daddy?’

Her daughter’s voice was part inquiry and part accusation; there was an eerie certainty in it, as though Elena knew she was speaking an indubitable truth.

Terri was momentarily speechless.

Keep it neutral, she told herself; don’t seem defensive or annoyed. Sound as if you’re merely seeking information.

‘How am I mean to Daddy?’ she asked.

Elena did not answer. But her voice still held conviction. ‘Daddy cries, you know.’