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Chapter 42
Generally, I listenedto Harry Grissom. Why not? He was a smart guy. You didn’t get to be where he was in life without making good decisions. As a lieutenant with the NYPD, a friend, and one of the people I would trust with my life, I listened to him. Except when I couldn’t.
He’d told me to let this go. He wanted me to come home. But I couldn’t. Seamus was big on going with your feelings. Usually he’d apply that by saying, “Trust in faith.” It was a Catholic way of saying, “Don’t overthink things.” That’s why I was trying to figure out why I felt this need, this compulsion, to find Emily Parker’s killer.
It made me remember an incident from my childhood. Something I hadn’t thought about in years. I got a nice Spalding basketball for my twelfth birthday. At least it was nice for me. It was one of my most treasured possessions.
One day I decided not to use the courts at Holy Name, where I knew everyone and they knew me. I made the perilous journey across West 97th to the courts at PS 163. I knew a bunch of kids from the neighborhood who went there. It just felt a little cooler to be playing with my new ball at a public school instead of a private, Catholic school.
A few minutes into a three-on-three pickup game I made a beautiful pass to a kid a little older than me. Maybe thirteen or fourteen. He tried to look like a surfer with long blond hair that hung in his face. He caught the pass, smiled at me, turned, and ran away with my ball.
He was fast. I chased him. I guess it was my first foot pursuit of a criminal. After a few blocks, I lost sight of him and lost my ball. I was heartbroken. I remember sitting on the steps of Holy Name and crying uncontrollably.
Later, at home, Seamus told me to let it go. Just like Harry had done. The next day he bought me another ball and told me not even to think about the last one. In his own odd way he could be quite comforting. He explained that not everyone had the same sense of right and wrong. He even said maybe the boy couldn’t afford his own ball. We should consider it a good deed that he’d ended up with mine.
But it still bugged me. Enough that even Sister Sheilah—a much younger version of the one who has guided my ten kids through Holy Name—sensed something was wrong. When I told her what had happened, she simply said, “You’re a good boy, Michael. I’ve never seen you show malice toward anyone. The boy who took your ball had a lapse of judgment. Perhaps one day he’ll see his error. Either way, God will work it out in the end.” She suggested I pray for the boy’s soul.
I should’ve listened. Of course I didn’t. I haunted the courts around PS 163. Not playing. Just watching.
Eight days later, I saw him. The same kid, playing with my ball. His hair still flopping in his face. I thought about what Sheilah had said. Looking at him, I realized he wasn’t poor. He was wearing new Nike Air Maxes. He was just a jerk.
I marched up to him. When someone passed him the ball, I intercepted it. Then I ran. What I hadn’t considered was that if the boy could run away from me, he could also catch me. And he did.
He was at least a year older than me and a fair amount bigger. He punched me in the arm, then punched me in the face. The second blow knocked me off my feet. Then he calmly picked up the ball and stared me down.
I sprang to my feet. I got in one good lick. Straight jab right to his face. He stumbled a step backward. Then he smiled. A trickle of blood ran from his nose. I waited for the thrashing, but it turned out to be worse. He just looked at me and snickered. Then he walked away with my ball.
I remember the feeling of satisfaction that I’d at least done something. It hadn’t helped the situation, but I’d felt better.
Maybe I hadn’t changed. Because right now I drove past Supreme Court justice Robert Steinberg’s beautiful house in Georgetown. It was a freestanding three-story with a brick facade. The lights were off, but at least I felt like I was doing police work. I was seeing where a potential suspect lived. There was something comforting in the action. I felt like it was exactly what I was supposed to be doing.
Then a car pulled up behind me.
