“I’m really sorry, sir,” he said. “I really am.”
“Now do you want those ‘old-fashioned’ milk and cookies or not?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
Anger is not always a bad thing. When I was twenty, it helped get my adrenaline flowing and pulled me out of a few tight spots. At three years before retirement and five pills a day to keep my blood pressure down, anger was not a good thing.
I drove carefully home, parked the car in the driveway, and started for the house.
“So this is Kevin.” Carolyn smiled. “I’ve heard a lot about you, young man.”
We went in and I saw that Carolyn had put out cookies on the coffee table. She asked Kevin if he would prefer diet soda to milk.
“The milk is fine, thank you,” he said, glancing in my direction. “Ma’am.”
“Nice to have some manners in the house again,” Carolyn said.
She got the milk and we sat down on the leather couch we had bought the previous Christmas. Carolyn smiled again and then said something about looking at the roast in the oven.
“So—did you do anything to piss McNamara off?”
“No.”
“Did you and Christy have a fight that night?”
“No.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“I think cops”—Kevin shrugged—“deal with a lot of people who tell lies.”
“And you always tell the truth, I guess?”
“Yeah, I— There was that one time when the gym roof leaked,” Kevin said. “He was pretty mad then.”
“When the gym roof leaked? Tell me about it.”
“Christy kind of gets by in school,” he said. “Early this year she was out a few days, and then she blew a test big-time. It was a Tuesday, and she got a call at school because of something and she left in a big hurry. She was pretty upset. They had to let her go, but the teacher wasn’t happy. I saw that she had left her backpack. Between classes I called her and asked her if she wanted me to bring it by her house after school.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, that would have been after school and then after soccer practice. It was raining, and we were supposed to have practice in the gym.”
“But the roof leaked?”
“Right, so since gym was the last period that day, I finished gym and practice and went right over to her house. I got there a little before three. I was there for maybe two minutes when her father comes home and he hits the ceiling, yelling at Christy about why she has a guy over to the house in the middle of the day and asking her if she went to school, that kind of thing.”
“You said she was called home. Was there a problem?”
“I didn’t think it was anything big,” Kevin said. “Her mother wasn’t feeling good or something and wanted her to come home.”
“He say anything to you?”
“Just wanted to know who I thought I was hanging out in his house. The veins in his neck were all bulging and stuff. I thought he was going to take a swing at me. Then Dolores told him I was only thirteen and he kind of calmed down. He told me he didn’t want me in his house when he wasn’t there.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“I didn’t care. He’s got nothing going on in his house, anyway. Christy doesn’t do anything. She has to make supper for him sometimes or go to the store.”
“What does the woman who works for them do?” I asked.
“She’s like the mother sometimes,” Kevin said. “I practice my Spanish with her. My grandmother wants to talk to me in English all the time except when there are strangers in the house and she doesn’t want to talk bad English.”
“Someone in the department interviewed McNamara when we were looking into illegal hiring practices. Some of the legal workers who didn’t speak good English were being underpaid, too,” I said. “Nothing came of it.”
“You think Dolores is illegal?”
“Do you?”
“That’s like a policeman’s answer,” Kevin said. “You just turned that right around.”
“I don’t have any reason to believe she’s illegal,” I said. “McNamara looks pretty straight to me.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t like anybody in the world. Some people are like that.”
“Fortunately, not many,” I said. “You been talking to the girl?”
“She said he doesn’t want us speaking,” Kevin said. “I think that’s like those shows you see on television where the judge says that nobody is supposed to talk about the case.”
“You like Christy?”
“No!”
“You had a fight?”
“No.”
“You were driving in the car with her that night, Kevin.” I spoke slowly for emphasis. “You just told me a story about how you brought her backpack to her house because she had left it in school. So what happened that you don’t like her?”
“I mean, I like her, but I don’t like her like I like her or anything like that,” he said.
“You’re not in love. You’re just friends.”
“Right.”
“Best friends.”
“Just friends,” he said. “We went to preschool together.”
“Who is your best friend?”
“Cal is now. My dad was. I’m not like him.” He looked away.
“You don’t have to answer this, of course, but why aren’t you like him?”
“I have the right to remain silent?”
“Yeah, you have the right to remain silent,” I said. “I didn’t want to get into your personal business.”
“My dad was good at a lot of things. You said that you learned not to get involved with criminals or victims. He told me he always worried about anybody he arrested. He would even pray for them at mass.”
Kevin stopped talking, and I could see he was breathing more deeply, as if the emotions he was holding in were suddenly threatening to come to the surface. It came to me that this might be the source of his anger, the sarcasm, that they were all strategies to keep his emotions in check.
“You want another glass of milk?” I asked. “It’s still old-fashioned, but I love it.”
“You know my dad was better than me at soccer, too,” he went on. “He said I’d be better one day and we would go into the backyard and play one-on-one. I always wanted to win, because he tried so hard to teach me that I knew he wanted me to win, to be as good as he was. I have a pair of the shoes he played in. One day if I ever get to play in a championship game . . . ”
“You’ll wear his shoes?”
“Yeah.”
“You ever think of joining the force?”
“If I don’t go to jail first,” he said.
Carolyn came back into the room with two more glasses of milk, and Kevin and I both turned them down. Kevin asked if there was anything else I wanted to ask him and I said no and we started for the car.
We didn’t talk much on the way to his house. We hadn’t talked that much in my house, but I felt as if I had seen the real Kevin for a change. There was a lot going on in that head, a lot of good things. I was hoping that if I could keep him out of trouble, they would keep on going on.
When I got home, I was tired to the bone and was glad of Carolyn’s offer of hot lemon tea.
“Jerry, are you putting too much into this case with Kevin?” she asked. “You’ve always made it a point to keep your job away from your personal life, and now . . . ”
“Now, I’m all into it?”
“Something like that.”
“You know, when Judge Kelly first started talking about working with kids, I started thinking about all the kids I’ve arrested over the years. Sometimes it had to be done, but in a way I’ve always felt that by locking them up, I was betraying them somehow. I think we need to give the kids a chance to show who they can be if they get the right support. They want to do the right thing, and sometimes they just need somebody who’s there to show them what that right thing is. They’ll still make mistake
s, but maybe not the biggest ones.”
“You’re a good man, Jerry Brown,” she said.
“And handsome, too,” I said.
“I’ll leave it at good,” she answered. “And don’t put the teabag on the end table.”
Chapter 06
I knew that Dolores would be at Christy’s house on Friday, so I headed over there after school to check things out. I just hoped that Christy’s dad wouldn’t be home. He was scary. Always mad at something, and always watching everyone like he was looking for trouble. I felt like I should try to help Sergeant Brown with his case, even though he didn’t ask me to. I felt like I had a responsibility, since he was trying to help me. The whole thing was kind of interesting, too. Maybe even the kind of thing my dad used to do.
I felt kind of funny, though. I didn’t want Christy to get into trouble because I was helping Sergeant Brown. That wouldn’t have been right either. But what if Mr. McNamara wasn’t paying Dolores what he should have been?
I rang the doorbell once and was about to push it again when Dolores opened the door. Yes! I’d seen her a lot more than I’d let on to Sergeant Brown. I’d known her since she’d started working for the McNamaras a few years ago, and I liked her a lot. She called for Christy, and I heard a faint voice yell “One minute” from upstairs.
“How are you, Dolores?” I asked in Spanish.
She looked glad to see me. Dolores didn’t speak much English, so she was always happy when I went over to Christy’s house because then she had someone to talk to in Spanish. I followed her into the kitchen.
“I’m fine, Kevin. How’s your family?” she asked. Dolores didn’t know my mom or grandma, but she always asked about them anyway.
“They’re doing fine—my mom is always working hard at the doctor’s office,” I answered back in Spanish. “How’s your family?”
“Well, you know, it’s hard being away from them, but I do what I have to.”
Dolores’s family lived back in San Salvador. She was trying to earn enough money here to send back to her kids, who lived with their grandma.
“So who do you live with here? You live all by yourself?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she said before turning sharply and crossing the small kitchen to the dishwasher.
“Would you like something to drink?” Dolores asked me.
Just then Christy came to the kitchen door.
“Kevin, what are you doing here?” Christy looked surprised. And worried.
“Let’s go sit on the porch,” I said, walking toward the hall. “Bye, Dolores.”
Christy flipped her light brown hair and followed me out.
I felt really uncomfortable, and me snooping around didn’t make it any better.
“How’s your mom?” I asked, sitting down on the porch steps.
“Not good,” she replied softly. She looked sad. It was the same sadness I had seen the night I was arrested.
“I’m sorry.”
“It sucks that you got arrested. How was Bedford?”
“Not too bad, once you get past the terrible food, awful bed, and the gangs,” I lied.
“You didn’t . . . tell?”
“No.”
It was weird seeing Christy after everything that had happened. Even though we were friends when we were really little. I felt so sorry for her, but I was kind of pissed off. I knew it wasn’t her fault, but it wasn’t my fault, either. And I was being blamed. Maybe my sneaking around sort of evened things out between us.
“One, two, three, Highland Raiders!”
I was nervous as we ran onto the field, ready to play our first State Cup game. Since Mom was at work, Sergeant Brown had driven my grandma and me to the game. He had called to see if I needed a ride and I told him I was going with Cal. Of course I ended up going with him.
I was happy to be a starter, and I was glad Coach Hill was still letting me play. I didn’t want Sergeant Brown to come to the game to watch me sit. I wasn’t sure exactly how I felt about him, but I still wanted to impress him.
I had watched East Ridge practice before. They had dynamite uniforms. They were the kind of team that really looked good until they started playing.
“Every one of them is big,” I told Sergeant Brown. “They look like tenth graders.”
“Your team have a chance?” he asked.
Yeah, we had more than a chance. I could probably outrun anyone on East Ridge, but I didn’t know how good their goalkeeper was.
We lined up in our 4-4-2 formation, with four defen-ders, four midfielders, and two forwards. I started at forward with Ricky. My stomach felt jumpy like it always did before every game. I didn’t know how I was going to be able to run.
East Ridge started with the ball. The ref blew the whistle. They passed the ball back toward their defenders, and I immediately sprinted upfield to get into position. There was no sense in chasing after the ball while their defenders played with it in the back. I needed to conserve my energy.
They started off playing better than I expected. They were using their size to their advantage, and playing dirty, too. As soon as one of our players got the ball, he would be lost in a swarm of red. They were deliberately stepping on our guys and pushing us down with body contact. Our guys started hesitating to take on a player, so East Ridge would pass the ball right back to the player who sent it to them as soon as they got it. The ref called them on a few fouls, but not as many as he should have. My mind wandered back to the arrest, but I tried to stay focused.
I stayed on number 7, the last defender before their goalie, so if my team got the ball, they could play it over the defenders to me and I could run on to it. About fifteen minutes into the game, East Ridge received a corner kick. They immediately went into their set corner kick positions. Our team lined up in the box around the goal, matching up against their attackers.
“Cut the pushing and shoving!” the ref yelled.
I was getting into the game and forgot about my stomach.
The corner kick landed straight in the middle of the box. Cal jumped up and headed it out.
We were on the offensive. Alex, one of our two center midfielders, took control of the loose ball. The East Ridge defenders scrambled to get back. There was space for a pass, and I yelled for the ball between the defenders. I made sure I wasn’t offside. Alex had great peripheral vision and saw me with my hand raised. The pass was beautiful, right through a hole between two defenders into the open field. I took off, sprinting past the other two defenders. It was just the goalie and me.
Low and into the corners. Nothing fancy, Kev, just fake in and cut out.
I slowed down as I approached the goalie, who had come out of his box. I faked a shot and took it outside to the right with the outside of my foot. I thought I had beaten him, when he dove down and grabbed the ball. I tried to kick it away from him, but he held on tight. I was so frustrated, I kept kicking the ball even though the goalie had his arms wrapped around it.
“Enough! Number thirteen, the goalie has possession of the ball,” the ref said.
“C’mon, Kevin, at least get a shot off!” Coach yelled. I wanted to ask Coach Hill if he could come out on the field and do any better.
Another corner kick and an East Ridge player, taller than anyone on our team, went up and headed the ball into the net.
Losing 1–0. Coach sat us down.
“You’re taking it to them and they’re getting tired. You should use your speed to your advantage. They can’t keep up with you. They had one lucky shot. You’re terrible on their side of the field.” Coach Hill was shouting. “We’re getting some good shots set up but no one is finishing them!”
“C’mon, Coach, I got no help up top!” Ricky complained.
I could feel anger building up inside me. He was blaming me for his mistakes.
Coach ignored the comment. “Do you want to lose in the first round? You’re sure playing that way. This is where you find out what kind of team you are!”
We had the ball in
the second half. Ricky and I stood next to each other in the circle in the middle of the field at the halfway line. The ref signaled to make sure the goalies were ready and then he blew his whistle. I tipped the ball to Ricky, and he passed it diagonally to one of the outside midfielders, Shawn, who had sprinted up the field and gotten the ball. Shawn could shoot with accuracy from nearly anywhere on the field, farther than the rest of us. He played either left or right wing, racing down the sidelines and shooting if he had the open shot. If the defenders converged on him, he was great at passing the ball into the center. He was one of the most consistent players on the team, rarely turning the ball over. But this time, Shawn was easily outnumbered six to one and lost the ball.
“Keep possession!” Coach called out.
Their defenders started to pass the ball among themselves.
When you see a defender standing like a statue, waiting for the ball to come to him, you intercept it.
I saw my chance and took the ball a few yards away from the surprised defender’s feet. I ran to the left corner of the field, looking to cross it in. I realized I didn’t have enough power in my left foot to cross the ball all the way into the box, so I cut inside, knocking the ball square into the box. Ty, who had his hand raised calling for the ball, connected with it and volleyed it with ease into the bottom corner below the diving goalie. I rushed to Ty and gave him a slap on the shoulder.
“Nice pass, man,” he said.
“Thanks, great goal.”
“Nice work, Ty! Good job, Kevin. Kevin, next time you go in for the cross on the left, don’t cut in, hit it with your left foot! C’mon, you should know better.”
Soccer coaches always put a lot of emphasis on learning to kick the ball equally well with both feet. If there was an opportunity to use the left foot, they hated to see the player use his right. I was happy, and I shrugged his comments off. I really didn’t care. I thought that was a nice cross. Why was he getting on my case when we just scored?