Three Strikes and You're Dead

by Donald Bain

  “It was Meg who saved him.”

  “No, Jack. It was you.”

  “I’d come home and talk about Ty, frustrated that the system wasn’t following up, wasn’t taking care of him. Then, one night at dinner, Meg turned to me— I’ll never forget it—and she said, ‘Jack, bring him home.’ And I did.”

  “We had to wade through a lot of red tape, and the first couple of months were rough,” said Meg, “but what I realized was that Ty didn’t need discipline as much as love. Pure, unconditional love. Boy, did he respond to that. It was sad, Jessica, how much he craved it. He must have missed his mother so much.”

  “What happened to her?” I asked.

  “No one really knows,” Meg replied. “She sent him off to her brother, and then disappeared. He never talks about her, but I know he hasn’t forgotten her.”

  “Once he began to turn around, it was an about-face,” said Jack. “A quick and sudden change. Like Jiffy Pop popcorn. Pop! One minute you’re a kernel, next you’re a popcorn.” We all laughed at the comparison. Jack was known on the bench for his colorful analogies the way Yogi Berra was known for his Berra-isms.

  Meg splashed her husband gently, and he in turn threatened to overturn her raft.

  “You know, Meg,” he said in a sad voice, “I have an overwhelming fear that Ty needs to be rescued again. It’s the same sensation. The tension at that game celebration was as thick as my waist,” he said, patting his considerable girth. “If Ty doesn’t get called up to the majors soon, he may never make it there. H.B. has it in for the kid because Ty’s been upstaging Junior all season.”

  “If he doesn’t like Ty, why doesn’t he just trade him?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t want to look foolish to the league. Everyone here knows Ty’s the better ballplayer, and so do the scouts and agents. Bennett knows it, too. If he trades Ty away, he’ll lose face, as the Japanese say.”

  “You mean he’ll look like he doesn’t know his business?” I said.

  “That’s it. I really believe he’d rather thwart Ty’s future success, make the kid look bad, which was why he didn’t want Buddy Washington to put Ty in to pinch-hit for Junior. It’s ironic, really. Makes me wonder if he cared at all whether the Rattlers won tonight’s game or not. But I know one thing. He sure as hell didn’t want Ty to get the winning hit.”

  “Is that what you were talking about with Sylvester Cole tonight, when you so rudely abandoned my drink at the bar and left the ballroom?” asked Meg.

  Jack smiled. “My apologies to both you ladies for my abrupt but temporary absence. And the answer to your question is yes, Miss Manners. That’s what Cole and I were discussing. Cole says he’s meeting with someone in Phoenix and Los Angeles about Ty. He said he’d call tomorrow. I hope something works out to get Ty away from Mesa and the Rattlers. Bennett will stifle his opportunities and spirit here. I want him gone to another team.”

  I certainly understood Jack’s feelings. Without the support of the team owner, it would be difficult for even a gifted athlete like Ty to continue to develop his skills and to mature into a responsible adult. Harrison Bennett was so unlike Jack Duffy. Bennett championed his son’s future through intimidation and jealousy. Jack, on the other hand, was a positive force in his foster son’s life, encouraging him without criticism and setting a sterling example that the young man seemed eager to emulate.

  I remembered what Sylvester Cole had said to me—that Ty wanted to be a writer if he didn’t make it as a major-league baseball player. So many talented young men never do. If Ty gave a thought to a future career without baseball, he was wise beyond his years.

  I looked up at the twinkling stars, squeezed my eyes shut, and wished that Ty would be signed by another team and forge the sort of success in baseball that he was capable of, without the unwanted negativity of men like Harrison Bennett.

  “Does anyone know what time it is?” I heard Meg ask.

  Sitting up on my raft, I checked my waterproof watch. “It’s after midnight, way past my bedtime.”

  “The coolest part of the day in Arizona,” Jack said.

  “Past my bedtime, too,” Meg announced. “Come on, Jessica. I’ll get you settled in your room. The AC works fine, thank goodness.”

  I said good night to Jack and followed Meg inside the house, where the blast of refrigerated air hit me like a giant fan.

  “It feels cold now,” Meg said, opening the door to my room, “but you’ll appreciate it once you get acclimated. There are extra covers in the closet if you need them. And you can always open the sliders and let in some warm air. Jack loves it out here, but I have to admit, I’m not crazy about the weather. I’d like to be back in New Jersey before the leaves fall. I don’t want to miss the changing seasons.”

  “I like them, too,” I said. “Autumn is my favorite. Of course, I change my mind every spring.”

  It was a two-story house and my bedroom was at the back, with sliding doors leading to a small balcony. I went through my nightly ablutions, slipped into a lightweight nightgown and a powder-blue cotton bathrobe that I always travel with, and sat outside the sliding doors for what seemed a very long time, looking out into the darkness and reflecting on what had transpired that evening. I thought of the epithet Junior Bennett had uttered as he passed my chair, and of the cell phone conversation I’d overheard outside the hotel. The man had said that “Ramos” would pay the money. The only Ramos I knew was Ty Ramos. What money? To whom?

  None of my business, I told myself as I closed the drapes over the doors, dropped the robe on a chair, and climbed between the delightfully cool, fresh sheets.

  In my dream, I was being chased by a dozen giant scorpions wearing cowboy boots, the spurs jingling. Away from home and in a strange bed, I was groggy trying to fend off the scorpions. I reached for a button to shut off the ringing alarm, but the clock didn’t have one. I had awakened confused, until it came to me that it was the sound of a telephone that had stirred me from my sleep. After three sequences, the ringing stopped and I realized where I was.

  “We’ll be right there,” Jack said outside my door. Meg and Jack spoke in hushed tones. I glanced at the clock: 4:06 A.M. I put on my robe and slippers and walked cautiously into the hall, where Meg met me.

  “Jessica, I’m so sorry we disturbed your sleep.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Ty. He’s—he’s been arrested.”

  “Arrested? For what?”

  “We don’t know. Jack’s getting dressed. He’s going to the jail. I’m going with him.”

  “I’d like to go, too, if you think it’s all right.”

  “Of course it’s all right, but only if you want to. I don’t want to put you out.”

  “I’ll get dressed right away,” I said. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  We spent most of the thirty-minute car ride to the jail not speaking. It was one of those times in life when you have so many questions but are afraid that to ask them would be inappropriate, considering the shock my friends were suffering. Jack’s face was set in stone, eyes focused on the road, his square jaw in motion as he chewed on his cheek.

  Meg and I stared out our respective windows and watched as Mesa began to stir. It was already in the eighties, and the horizon grew lighter as the desert sun promised to peek through within the hour. We passed several strip malls, a school, and a succession of neighborhoods.

  “Jack phoned a lawyer friend of his in town and asked him to meet us at the jail,” Meg finally said.

  “That’s good,” I said, “although hopefully it’s all been a mistake and an attorney won’t be needed.” While my words were positive and meant to comfort, my inner feelings didn’t match them. Somehow, this was no mistake. I could feel it in my bones, and in a stomach that had been churning ever since Meg told me that Ty had been arrested.

  “I pray that you’re right,” Meg said.

  “What’s the drinking age in Arizona?” I asked.
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  “Twenty-one,” Jack growled, never taking his eyes off the road.

  “Is it possible that in the midst of the celebration, Ty might have had a beer or two and has been taken in for driving while under the influence and for being underage?” I asked.

  Meg sat straighter and brightened. “I’ll bet that’s it,” she said. “Boys that age do so many silly things.”

  “I wouldn’t call that silly,” Jack said, taking a corner too fast and pressing me against the door.

  “You know what I mean,” Meg said. “Maybe ‘foolish’ is a better word.” She turned to me. “We bought Ty a used Jeep Wrangler, one of those small ones with a canvas top. First-year ballplayers make so little money. Jack said he’d heard that Ty drove too fast when his teammates were with him. I hope he hasn’t been in an accident.”

  “I spoke with Buddy Washington about it,” Jack said as we turned into the police headquarters parking lot. “I suggested he have a talk with the players about responsibilities off the field as well as on. He said he intended to do that, but—Damn it!”

  “What’s wrong?” Meg asked.

  “Look,” Jack said. “The press is already here.”

  A television news van was parked outside the station, its floodlight lighting up the lot like a Holly-wood set. I recognized the reporter, Karen Locke, from the locker room at last night’s game. She was leaning against the van, her arms crossed. Another female reporter, a pretty black woman, stood next to Locke, primping in one of the van’s side mirrors. Jack got out of the car first. When Locke recognized who it was, she alerted the cameraman and they rushed toward us. Ms. Locke shoved a microphone into Jack’s face and asked, “Judge Duffy, how do you feel about your foster son’s arrest for murder?”

  Chapter Five

  As the early morning grew warmer, thanks to a bulbous sun that began to appear above the horizon, the media frenzy outside the jail began to swell. A shaken Jack had brushed off questions from Locke and other reporters and led us inside, where an officer at the desk told us to wait. Sheriff Hualga was unavailable and would get in touch with us later.

  After what seemed an eternity, the three of us were escorted down a narrow hallway to a small, inadequately air-conditioned room in which Ty sat with Jack’s lawyer friend, David Pierce. In his mid-forties, with broad shoulders and a thick neck, Pierce looked more like a football player than any lawyer I knew. He had a healthy head of wavy black hair and a closely clipped goatee. Even though it was so early in the morning, he was dressed in a beautifully tailored navy blue suit, a crisp white shirt, and a red regimental tie. When he stood to greet us, it was apparent that he was a man who’d once been an athlete and who probably devoted a good part of each day to staying fit.

  By contrast, Ty looked exhausted, his eyes half closed, his body language testifying to his fatigue. An orange jailhouse shirt hung loosely from his lanky frame, and his shoes were missing. He still wore his own jeans and socks, now dusty and soiled from his ordeal. As we made eye contact, I smiled, silently reminding myself that he, like every other person charged with a crime in America, was innocent until proven guilty. His eyes flitted back and forth between Meg and me, but their expression was vacant. Up until that point, he hadn’t looked at the judge, his foster father.

  Pierce and Ty sat on one side of the wooden table, the three of us on the other, with Meg in the middle, between Jack and me. The police officer who had escorted us stood near the door with a second officer who had been in the room with Ty and Pierce when we arrived.

  “Ty, you look awful. Are you hurt? What happened?” Meg pleaded. “Tell us.”

  Tears tumbled down Ty’s face and he buried his head in his hands. Jack took Meg’s hand and asked Ty’s lawyer, “What’s the charge, David? A reporter outside said it was murder.”

  Pierce placed his elbows on the worn table and winced. He didn’t have to say a thing. His face confirmed the bad news. “That’s right, Jack. He’s being charged with second-degree murder.”

  Meg gasped, “Oh, my God.” She began to cry and I put my arm around her.

  “Who?” Jack bit out.

  “Junior Bennett.”

  Jack muttered a curse.

  “Junior was found bludgeoned to death,” Pierce continued. “They haven’t told me if they found the weapon yet.”

  “I don’t believe it. You didn’t kill Junior, did you, son?”

  Ty swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “No, sir,” he said in a hoarse voice. He turned to Meg. “I swear I didn’t do it.” He pounded his fist on the table. “Someone has to believe me. I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t.”

  Meg reached across the table and placed her hand over his fist.

  “Take it easy, son,” Jack said. “I want you to take a deep breath and tell us exactly what happened, everything that you remember.”

  “That’s the problem,” Pierce put in.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “He doesn’t remember—at least he doesn’t remember everything.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack said, his voice rising, his face getting red. He was holding in his temper, but the effort was taking its toll.

  “Why don’t you tell us what you do remember,” I said, drawing Ty’s attention away from his foster father.

  Ty closed his eyes, and then slowly opened them, looking at me. “I went to the Crazy Coyote with a bunch of guys after we left the hotel dinner— Nassani, Murph, Wilson, and Bobley. I drove my Jeep. Carter was driving some of the other guys and we were going to meet up there.”

  “Okay, stop,” said Jack. “Where is this place?”

  “It’s out of town on the road to Apache Junction.”

  “What time did you leave the hotel?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Maybe a couple minutes after you did. Sylvester wanted to talk to me before I left, but it wasn’t long. He was meeting someone for a drink in the bar.”

  “Go on,” Jack said.

  Ty shrugged. “That’s it. We left the hotel, changed our clothes in the parking lot, and drove to the Coyote.”

  Jack interrupted. “You changed clothes in the parking lot?”

  “We didn’t want to wear suits to the Coyote. We get hassled enough as it is in there. So I’d thrown a pair of jeans and a T-shirt into the trunk so I could change, and the other guys did, too.”

  “Why aren’t you wearing your T-shirt now?” I asked before Jack could interrogate him about the decision to use the parking lot as a changing room.

  “The police made me take it off.”

  “Apparently there was blood on his shirt,” Pierce said. “They took it for evidence.”

  “Your shoes, too?” I asked Ty.

  He looked down at his feet under the table, as if he hadn’t realized his shoes were gone. He nodded. “I guess.”

  “What kind of shoes did you have on?”

  “Nikes. Sneakers.”

  “How long did it take to get there?” asked Jack.

  Ty looked confused. “Where?”

  “To the Coyote.”

  Pierce interrupted, “Listen, folks, I think we should let Ty tell the story his way first, details later.”

  Jack put his hands up in defeat and mumbled, “Okay. Proceed.”

  “Where was I?” Ty said, picking up a pencil from the table and tapping it on his thigh. “Oh, yeah, so we went to the Coyote. We had some beer. Look, I know what you always told me, I know I’m not supposed to be drinking, but we were celebrating and I thought it couldn’t hurt.”