Full Court Press

by Sierra Hill

  Well, that much is true. I hope the Judge doesn’t ask what we were doing to celebrate.

  “Mr. Winger, I’m well aware that Mr. Griffin has yet to turn twenty-one. That alone, in my opinion, is enough to sentence him to probation. However, I do not think there is need to bring in the character testimony for Mr. Griffin. I have several other cases to hear today, and I don’t want to waste the court’s time. But I think it would serve the court well if Mr. Griffin could speak to the choices he made that night. Why he was in the vehicle in the first place. Or for that matter, why he chose to drink and drive.”

  I gulp, taking in a long swallow of air. My hands tremble, so I place them in my jacket pockets. Gerry and I had spoken about this and drafted up my statement of apology. Even though I didn’t wrong any particular person, my statement is aimed to hopefully prove to the Judge that I am sincerely remorseful for my actions. And that I promise never to do something that stupid, ever again.

  I’d memorized the words. I’d practiced it more times than I can count. But now that I am standing in front of a Judge, my family and a courtroom of people – most of whom I’d never met – I have stage fright. I have a flash of panic that grabs my chest and twists it like a Red Vine licorice stick. I’m uncertain whether she will be able to hear the sincerity in my voice. I’m not sure I can remember what I’m supposed to say. If anything would even come out of my dry mouth, except maybe a weak croak.

  Licking my lips and taking a deep breath in through my nostrils, I exhaled slowly, nodding my head in acknowledgement. It’ now or never.

  “Your Honor,” I say, voice shaky and about two octaves higher. I sound like Screech from that Saved by the Bell show. “I make no excuse for my behavior and poor judgment the other night. My actions were reprehensible, and unbecoming of a member of this community. I disgraced my family – my parents. I embarrassed my Coaches and my teammates – who look up to me as a senior member of our team. I’ve let down my fans, for whom I should be acting as a role model. I acted disrespectfully to the woman I was with.” My mouth goes dry and I suck in a stream of air.

  This is harder than I thought it would be. I reach for the cup of water in front of me and take a small swig, getting my nerves back under control.

  “Your Honor, I realize I broke the law. I was drinking, but I had no intentions of ever driving in my condition. I realize that will always be an unknown, but I know who I am and what I’m capable of doing. I know my limits and would never put anyone else in jeopardy. The future is too important.”

  I pause for a moment. One, because this is what my attorney suggested I do. It helps that I appear thoughtful – remorseful.

  Although the pause was intentional, I really did need it to gather my courage. It feels like I have a thousand butterflies stuck in my throat.

  “Your Honor, I ask for the court’s leniency in my case. I will prove to be a law-abiding citizen going forward. I will do whatever is necessary to ensure this kind of thing doesn’t happen to any of my friends or other athletes. I’m ashamed of my behavior and am deeply sorry that my juvenile actions brought us here today. I’m prepared to accept the consequences.”

  This last part of my statement still scares the shit out of me. My attorney had warned me that the Judge has the right to sentence me up to six months in county jail, fine me a maximum of $2500, take away my license for a year, and throw community service on top, along with probation. My future and my life is literally in the hands of the Judge.

  Gerry clamps his unusually strong hand on the top of my shoulder again, squeezing it as if to say, “You done good, kid.”

  We are all standing facing the Judge. Facing the consequences of my poor decisions. She seems to reflect over my testimony and nods her head a few times, her lips pursed in a tight scowl, rubbing her temple, as if a tempest is raging inside her head. Maybe it is and I’m the catalyst of the storm.

  “Very well, Mr. Griffin. I appreciate your candor. It seems you’ve put a lot of thought and consideration into what grave consequences your actions could have resulted in, and for that, I do thank you. In light of the evidence in this case, your testimony, and the fact that there was no serious harm done and – being that it’s your first offense, I’m here by giving you three months of community service, a $250 fine, and one-year of probation.”

  My jaw drops as I vaguely register a collective sigh of relief from my parents behind me. My ears buzz and my brain is fuzzy as I try to wrap my head around what she just said. The sentence she’s given me.

  And then her stern voice fills the room once again. “But if I so much as see your name on any of my court dockets again, Mr. Griffin, you better believe that I will be handing down the toughest penalty there is to administer. Do you understand me?”

  I nod, and then remember I’m supposed to address her. “Yes, your Honor. Thank you.”

  “Mr. Griffin, I trust that you’ll make good on your commitments and I will not see you in my court room again. Court adjourned.” The judge announces this with a bang of her gavel before she stands. The bailiff once again commands everyone to stand, and I stare as Judge Hawkins departs to her chambers.

  My relief is so great, I nearly stumble back into the chair, falling into the cushioned seat below me. The shock of what transpired over the last three days, along with the anxiety that’s built up in my body, has left me shivering from the impact.

  Gerry grasps my hand with a strong handshake, then turns to my father, who is waiting with a pleased smile on his fact to congratulate my attorney on his win. I guess that’s what lawyers do. My mother, who has been toying with her strand of pearls the entire time, now stands and wraps her thin arms around my waist and hugs me tight.

  I don’t know what all of this means – the community service, the probation – but I definitely know I’ve dodged what could be a nasty, death-sentence of a bullet.

  Now I just need to meet with Coach Welby to find out my fate for the final season on the team.

  And that could be a much tougher penalty than anything else I’ve experienced so far.

  3

  Ainsley

  To anyone living in the Tempe vicinity, and certainly to all ASU students, Mill Avenue is known as party-central of the campus. Regardless of the time of day, the street is crowded with students, faculty, shoppers, business people, and civil servants who work in the courts or city offices. There’s also a plethora of vagrants and homeless people milling around the streets, looking for handouts from passers-by.

  It’s especially bad around the Tempe Transportation Center, my bus stop on campus. I’m usually hit up for spare change a minimum of three times from the short walk from the bus stop to Bristol’s, the small café I’ve been working at since we’ve moved here. Most of the panhandlers are relatively nice, and I’ve gotten to know a few of them – like Crockett.

  I watch people on the street from inside the restaurant. Crockett and his dog, Tubs, sit in their usual morning spot on the curb facing the café’s entrance, asking people for handouts. He’s one of the nicer homeless men on the street, and offers me up a smile and a little good-tiding every time I see him. I tried to talk with him once about his life, but he just evaded the questions, turning the conversation into some nonsense about alien abductions and the corruption of the Catholic church.

  I’ve been on shift since six-thirty this morning, when we open the doors. It’s generally pretty slow until seven-thirty, when a lot of the county administrative staff, court personnel, attorneys and legal professionals will wander in for coffee and pastries before heading into the City Municipal court building right around the corner. And from that point on, the breakfast rush grows in number, usually in a steady stream until I leave for the day at three p.m.

  I chose this job for the location, planning in advance that once I enrolled in my nursing program at ASU, I’d need a job close by. This was also before I got my job at Ethel’s. Thankfully, I’ve been able to work my schedule around the needs of both employers, who have
also been very accommodating to my needs as well.

  I’m interrupted from my mindless staring by my manager, Kimmi.

  “So what do you have planned this weekend?” Kimmi asks, her blue eyes wide in question. I’m surprised she even has to ask me because she’s known me long enough to know I don’t have a life.

  Kimmi’s a great boss and has an even busier life than me. A few years older than me, Kimmi’s in a graduate program for civil engineering, and has an eighteen-month old baby boy named DJ, after his father.

  I give her a playful eye roll. “You do know it’s me you’re talking to, right?”

  Kimmi chuckles, shrugging her shoulders.

  “Well, I figure maybe someday I’ll ask you and you’ll surprise me with an answer other than work and homework.”

  If only.

  “Sorry to disappoint, but today’s not the day. After my shift here, I’ve got some reading to do for my physiology class and some diagrams to study and memorize. Then it’s over to Ethel’s for my overnight shift and right back there again on Sunday morning. Winner-winner, chicken dinner.” I give her a double thumbs-up and a goofy grin that would make even the Joker jealous.

  “And how about you? Aren’t you and David celebrating his promotion this weekend?”

  David, her fiancé, had recently been promoted to Assistant Designer at the architectural firm he’s worked at for over the last four years, ever since he graduated with his degree. Kimmi was so excited, because it would mean more income for their small family, and would afford them a babysitter once a month so they could go out on date nights.

  She sweeps up some crumbs from underneath a table as I hold the dust pan handle to collect the mess.

  “Yes, we are going out to celebrate tonight and David won’t tell me where we’re going or what we’re doing. All he’s told me is that I have to wear the dress he likes and some” – she glances around surreptitiously and whispers – “sexy underwear.” Kimmi giggles, turning a cute shade of pink.

  I make a grab for the broom she clutches in her hand and turn toward the sound of the bell over the door. Sparing a quick glance, I notice it’s a party of three adults. Kimmi starts to head off in their direction to get them seated at my table, but not before I have a chance to tell her what I think about her date.

  “You deserve it, Kim. And I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

  I walk toward the kitchen closet to store the cleaning supplies and wash my hands at the sink. I grab my notepad and pen, along with a tray of water glasses, and head back to the table where she’s seated them.

  Over the years, and especially working where I work, I’ve become rather adept at understanding body language. Within seconds, I can observe and make quick assessments of what people are thinking or how they’re feeling based on the tells of their facial expressions. This breakfast trio is no different. It’s written all over their faces.

  The older of the two men and the woman sit stiffly across from one another. There seems to be a familiarity there – maybe a couple, but not a loving one. She mindlessly plays with her strand of pearls and looks out the window while he’s talking in a clipped tone at the younger guy sitting next to the woman. They both wear a look of stern weariness, with a hint of relief. Interesting.

  My gaze now wanders to the third person at the table. His face is hidden because he’s hunched over the table, head in hands. You’d think he was a five-year old being disciplined for stealing a cookie before dinner with the way he’s postured, along with the stern talking to he’s receiving. As I step in, I plaster a welcoming smile across my face, hoping I don’t get sucked into the vortex of tension that surrounds them.

  “Good morning. Welcome to Bristol’s,” I say in my practiced cheery, I-just-love-waiting-on-people tone. “Here’s some water to get you started, but can I grab something else for you to drink this morning?”

  The woman is the only one who looks at me and she gives me a tight grin. The older man finishes what he’s saying and the guy mumbles something in return, huffing out a grunt of displeasure. I’m looking directly at the woman, since she’s the only one who seems to notice my existence. The two men’s heads are buried in their menus.

  “Oh, yes please. A small glass of grapefruit juice for me, and two large orange juices for them. And three coffees, also.”

  Easy, peasy, cool-n-breezy.

  “Absolutely. Cream with that?”

  “Oh yes, for me. Thank you. Kincaid? Do you take cream?”

  The guy – or Kincaid – lifts his head up peering through his lashes. I place the third water glass down in front of him and his eyes snap to mine. They are the same shade of blue-green as the woman’s, but so intense it looks like a tempest is brewing in them. His face is blank, but I can see the anger within him – he’s like a bomb ready to detonate.

  A snarl appears on his mouth. “Cream. And lots of sugar. I like it sweet.”

  I almost stumble back from the force of the double entendre he lobs out. The comment alone wouldn’t be cause for alarm if it wasn’t for the way he said it. With both spite and sexual deviance.

  He pushes himself upright and leans his back against the booth giving me a smirk. As if he’s waiting for me to say something in defense. And normally I would. I have a feisty tongue. But for some reason, I feel trapped in his snare, unable to do anything about it. Even with eyes that hold the intensity of a serial killer, he’s incredibly good-looking. Gorgeous, in fact.

  It’s rare that I even notice the opposite sex. I either don’t have the time or the inclination, because really, what would become of it? Nothing. My life is busier than Grand Central station at rush hour. And I’m not one of those single girls who just hooks up or has one-nighters. That’s my mother’s style, and I am definitely not my mother.

  “You’re staring at me,” he says with a low chuckle, leaning forward now on his forearms, the smirk not yet vanished from his cocky mouth. “It’s okay. A lot of people recognize me.”

  “Excuse me?” I tilt my head to the side, totally confused over what he’s talking about. Recognize him? Should I? No clue.

  He narrows his eyes on me, his eyebrows pinched as he assesses my response like he’s confused too.

  “Number 23.”

  Like that clears everything up.

  I’m still confused. My gaze darts from him to the two others at the table, who are clearly uninterested and talking amongst themselves in a hushed whisper. I drop the hand that’s holding the tray to my side and bite down on my lip and take a good look at his face for any sort of recognition.

  Nope. None whatsoever.

  I shake my head and shrug my shoulders in a quick jerk.

  The guy laughs out a huff.

  “Not a basketball fan, then. Well, that’s okay. I’m sure you have other redeeming qualities.”

  Geez, thanks. I’ll give you a redeeming quality right up your asshole. Asshole. If only I could say what’s really on my mind sometimes. Like Donald Trump does.

  But instead of letting my honest and unfiltered response fly, I give him a tight-lipped smile, adjusting my facial expression to appear apologetic.

  “Uh, nope. Sorry. Not any kind of sports fan. But I’m great at table-hockey.”

  He seems to think about this for a second, letting his eyes rove up and down the length of my body. My uniform is not a sexy little waitress outfit. It’s a pair of khaki shorts and a collared shirt. So I see nothing that could possibly attract him to me. But something flickers in his eyes, as they turn a deep shade of turquoise, that creates a flutter of excitement in my belly.

  “Well, that’s a good talent to have. Means you have quick reflexes and you like it fast and hard.” He winks.

  OHHHH. EMMMM. GEEEE. Was that his attempt at a come on? I don’t know what to say, so instead of saying anything, I whirl around on my heels and set off to get their drinks. I can hear his low chuckle as I walk away and wonder who the hell this guy thinks he is…and why his comment has me fired up.

&nbs
p; I’m literally sucking down a 16-oz iced-latte and rubbing my feet on the little stool back in the kitchen. It’s Friday afternoon and I’ve just finished my nine-hour shift at Bristol’s, one that kept getting busier and busier as the day went on.

  The lunch rush was insane and because Lacy called in sick, I had to cover for part of her shift. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad for the extra money but annoyed because I still have a full shift ahead of me tonight at Ethel’s. I’ll barely make it home in time to shower, change, make a quick dinner for Anika, and then hop back on the bus to head over to the nursing home.

  My poor feet ache, and unless it’s a quiet shift at the house, I’ll be working on them all night. I groan as I rub the balls of my feet, ready to throw myself a pity-party. But really, what good would it do? After witnessing the threesome in my booth earlier this morning and hearing even a small portion of their heated conversation, I want to throttle all stupid, rich kids that get away with everything and aren’t grateful for a single thing they have.

  Every time I stopped by their table, all I heard was the guy lamenting over whatever his parents were chastising him about.

  “Kincaid,” the man had warned in a hushed tone. “You have one year left before you’re out on your own. You’re a smart boy, so why do you insist on screwing around? Get your act together, son.”

  “Why, Dad? Because it’s hurting your image? Because your son didn’t make the Dean’s List? And you can’t tell me that you didn’t screw around when you were in college.” His tone had dripped with venom and attitude.

  I’d only heard bits and pieces of their conversation, but enough to learn a few things about them. One, his parents were extremely disappointed in him. Two, whatever he’d screwed up doing, it was pretty bad. And three, they needed him to do something about getting on the straight and narrow.

  The guy seemed to think he was God’s gift to the world. Make the arrogant bastard suffer. Though, this kid…man-child – douchebag – admittedly was easy on the eyes. He had this boyish, broody Ryan Phillipe thing going on. His dark wavy hair cropped close at the ears with a mop of curls on the top, styled with some sort of product that still made it look soft to the touch. His eyebrows were a little on the thick side and prominently displayed his moss green eyes, which hinted flecks of gold.