One on One

by Michael Brandman

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “What don’t you believe?”

  “Everything you said.”

  “Such as?”

  “How long have you been here, Fred?”

  “What?”

  “How many years? Ten? Twenty? Thirty?”

  “Where are you headed with this, Buddy?”

  “For argument’s sake, why don’t we just say twenty? You’ve been at Freedom High for twenty years. Is that a fair assumption?”

  “I’m not liking this, Buddy.”

  “Who cares what you like or don’t like, Fred. In the real world, what you did was despicable.”

  “What did I do?”

  “You looked the other way.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Is it? Twenty years on the job. Twenty years of day-in and day-out supervision of the Physical Education program. Twenty years of overseeing the well-being of every kid who came under your wing.”

  “So?”

  “In all those years was there ever a member of your staff who wined and dined the students? Who insinuated himself into their lives? Who impacted them to the point of sexual involvement?”

  Maxwell lowered his eyes.

  “Guy like you, who relished his role as mentor and friend to all. Many of whom still regard you as an inspiration. Everybody loves Fred Maxwell. Just like those kids at Penn State loved that child molester. Everybody loved him, too. Until the dam broke, that is.”

  He looked up and glared at me. “I never touched one of those kids.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t. But you looked the other way, Fred. You allowed what was going on to continue without intervention. You let them all down. Every one of them. You chose to ignore what you knew was a crime. And in the doing, you committed a crime yourself. Why?”

  “I wasn’t certain.”

  “Bullshit. All you had to do was open your eyes to see what was going on right in front of you. Every one of these kids was in pain. Scared to death. I can’t imagine the number of hints they must have dropped that you chose to ignore. You. Mister I’m-on-Top-of-Everything.”

  He hung his head and stayed silent.

  “I’ll wait twenty-four hours for you to turn yourself in.”

  “What?”

  “Twenty-four hours. If you haven’t done it by then, I’ll bring you down so hard you’ll bounce.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  I stood and faced him. “Twenty-four hours, Fred. It’s only out of respect for your good years that I’m not perp-walking you into jail right now.”

  I turned away but stopped.

  “If you think you can skate on this, you’re dead wrong. You can hire every attorney in Freedom. You can scream innocent all you like. But there’s no way you’ll walk. I’m going to haunt you, Fred. Think of me as your personal Javert. Accountability. That’s the price tag. And you can bet the ranch you’re going to pay it. Shame on you, Fred. Shame on you big-time.”

  Chapter Sixty-two

  It took place in the schoolyard of Freedom Junior High. On Saturday morning at ten. Several wet spots still dotted the court, the residue of a few late-night rain showers.

  To my surprise, there was a turnout. A bunch of people whom I would have much preferred to do without were milling about, gabbing and laughing, waiting for the game to begin and with it, the chance to rattle the players with jeers and taunts.

  Helena Madison was already there when I arrived. She was surrounded by her family, husband Gregory and their two kids, Vanessa and Greg, Jr., who was giggling and pointing at me.

  Among those who had shown up was Big Game James Worthy, the former Laker great, who had played in the pick-up game down at Venice Beach where Helena and I first met.

  The deck was heavily stacked in her favor and she knew it. She was all attitude, strutting and jiving and carrying on with the assurance of someone who was expecting to seriously stick it to her opponent.

  I was aware of how well-conditioned she was and how out of shape I was. But unbeknownst to anyone, I had been regularly sneaking over to the half court rig that one of my neighbors had set up for his teenaged son. The kid and I had played a bunch of half court one on ones, which had sharpened me and made me somewhat hopeful but not cocky.

  I was greatly surprised, however, when I spotted my father and stepmother heading toward the stands, led by Johnny Kennerly, and accompanied by District Attorney Michael Lytell and A.D.A. Skip Wilder.

  A number of staffers from the Sheriff’s Department had shown up, including Deputies Al Striar, P.J. Lincoln, and the dispatcher, Wilma Hansen. The town librarian, Sarah Kaplow, was there, as were Father Francis Dugan and Rabbi Herbert Weiner.

  The presence of all these luminaries served to raise my anxiety level. “What are they doing here?” I wondered. “Are they all nuts?”

  James Worthy was to referee the game. He offered me his best wishes, but was clearly unimpressed with my chances. “Just try not to make a total ass of yourself,” he snickered.

  That same sentiment was echoed by Marsha Russo, who told me she had arranged for a team of paramedics to be on call. “At your age, you never know.”

  The first one of us to score ten baskets would be the winner, but you had to win by two. I bumped fists with a grinning Helena Madison. As always, she looked amazing and I could feel her enthusiasm heighten when, while giving me the once-over, she noticed the bump of a stomach I had developed.

  “Nice conditioning,” she said.

  “I thought so.”

  “You know, Buddy, I have to admit I never expected you to show up.”

  “What, and miss the chance to wipe that shit-eating grin off your face?”

  “We’ll see who wipes what off of whom, big boy.”

  Helena won the coin toss, which gave her first possession.

  Before I had even adjusted to the fact I was playing in a competitive game, she hit three baskets. She danced around me as if I was a stanchion pole. The crowd was whooping and hollering, most of them jeering me.

  Now it was my ball and I took a deep breath. Making use of my weight advantage, I succeeded in backing her into the post, feinting left, and then sliding around her to the right and scoring.

  Three to one.

  This time when she had the ball, I played defense. I guarded her closely, bumping and shoving and continually slapping at the ball. Which caught her by surprise. So much so that I succeeded in stealing it and scoring again.

  She launched an off-balance two-hander that missed, and I, in turn, hit an outside jumper.

  Three to three.

  We exchanged baskets until we were tied at eight.

  Our respective defenses had tightened considerably and we were now playing tough and close. She was throwing her bony elbows at me with impunity and I was constantly hip-checking her.

  We were both breathing heavily when I put on an unexpected burst of speed and managed to glide past her for a layup to take the lead.

  I heard a giddy Marsha Russo shouting, “Medic,” from the sidelines.

  Helena managed to elude me and downed a hail Mary from the top of the key to tie. It remained that way until the score was twelve to eleven, her lead.

  Talk about pressure. Seeing the look of near total exhaustion on my face, Worthy took his time in turning the ball over to me. “Do your best not to die on this possession,” he said.

  I whispered my response in his ear.

  Helena established her position, extended her outstretched arms, and began waving them in my face. When I feinted as if I were going to move right, she blocked the lane, figuring she would steal the ball and leave me standing flat-footed.

  But her mistake came when I took a step backward as if to shoot and she rushed me, her arms wildly slapping at the ball. When she missed, it opened up the lane.
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br />   Instinctively sensing my advantage, I rallied whatever was left of my stamina, and raced past her toward the basket. I could feel her gaining on me as we both ran full-steam forward. Then I stutter-stepped and deked to the right. She barreled by me, allowing me to slow down and score an easy jumper from the key.

  Twelve twelve.

  I nodded to Big Game James.

  He held the ball in the air and, as we had agreed, he blew his whistle and yelled, “Game ends in a tie. Twelve Twelve. Both players win.”

  At first, a stunned silence came over the crowd. Then the applause began, followed by the cheering. Everyone rushed the court, congratulating us both on a game that had been well played beyond their expectations.

  I saw Helena’s husband, Gregory, smiling and giving me a thumbs-up. My father and stepmother made their way to my side and the two of them uncharacteristically locked me in a three-way bear hug.

  Helena and I managed to find each other amid all the back-slapping and hugging.

  “Good game, Geezer,” she snarled.

  “Ditto.”

  “Rematch?”

  “In your dreams.”

  We were enveloped by our respective friends and family. Hugs and kisses all around. Their warmth and joy was infectious.

  As I gazed at this ragtag group who had come here to be with us, I found myself dumbstruck with unanticipated emotion.

  For the moment, I was totally happy, experiencing happiness as a state of being. The cynic in me regarded this as nothing more than a passing change of emphasis.

  But cynicism aside, here I was among friends and family. And, like it or not, I was home.

  At least for now.

  Author’s Note

  San Remo County, plus its cities, including Freedom, is a fictional place. No such cities in this fictional county exist in the State of California.

  Acknowledgments

  WITH GRATITUDE…

  …to the amazing, multi-talented Poisoned Pen Press gang… Diane DiBiase, Holli Roach, Beth Deveny, and Raj Dayal,

  …to the inimitable Michael Barson,

  …to the intrepid Annette Rogers,

  …to the pluperfect Barbara Peters,

  …and to Robert Rosenwald, who makes the trains run on time.

  AND TO MY EXTRAORDINARY TEAM…

  …Steven Brandman, Miles Brandman, Roy Gnan, and Melanie Mintz,

  …with special thanks to Tom Distler,

  …and to my longtime friend and partner, Tom Selleck,

  …and to Helen Brann and the Parkers, Bob and Joan, whom I miss every single day.

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