Hometown Favorite: A Novel (19 page)

"No, sir," Dewayne said.

"Simple enough answer, but would it hold up in a court of
law? Some people are saying you need a lawyer."

"What I need is for people to believe me. I don't need to
lawyer up. I've got nothing to hide. What you see here is God's
gift to me, and all I'm trying to do is glorify him with that little
bit of talent"

"Again with the modesty. Well, your little bit of talent displayed so brilliantly this week has boosted your chances to
be the first overall draft pick, something your good friend,
Sylvester Adams, could not keep quiet about. I caught up with
him in Miami."

Footage of Sly wearing sweats and holding a football outside
a training center appeared on the screen.

"I've known the D-man all my life, and that Dewayne Jobe
doesn't know what a steroid looks like. He doesn't even take
an aspirin. He'll tell you he's gotten this far because of God,
and who am Ito argue, but he backs up his talent with a great
work ethic. Anyone who has played with him knows that. The
talent my man has cannot be stopped by lies and rumors. He's
the best'

"You heard it, folks, from this year's Heisman Trophy winner. You don't get better street credibility than that;" Hickman
said as the image of Sly disappeared from the screen and the
camera returned to Hickman. "So, Mr. Jobe, does this drug
story have legs, or could this be the end of it?"

"No team has anything to fear when it comes to drafting me. I have submitted and I will continue to submit to a drug test
anytime and anywhere. I say bring it on cause none of it will
keep me from playing my best game every game."

"Thus endeth the statement from Dewayne Jobe as he attempts to put the kibosh on the rumors of drug use to increase
his speed. And when we return, we'll see highlights from this
year's combine and performances from other star college players trying to make their case for a career in the world of professional football. . . We're back after these messages."

He had planned his attack for days, going over varied strategies
in his mind, adjusting and readjusting based on the different
responses of his foe. He even drew out an assortment of scenarios on his school notebook paper, and when he felt he was
ready, he took his baseball bat and rehearsed his best plan,
taking swings at his phantom enemy. He thought of nothing
else night and day. He had to rid his family of this evil. He had
to be the hero.

Bruce squatted down behind the shrubbery inside the
apartment complex not ten feet from the entrance of his apartment, slapping the bat in his hand in a steady, rhythmic beat.
He knew his adversary. He knew his plan. He closed his eyes,
reenacting his victory in his imagination and the glorious
restoration of his family to health and prosperity. It was worth
the risk. It was worth whatever pain and suffering he inflicted
... whatever pain and suffering he himself might have to endure. His plan was the only way to end the nightmare ... the
only way. But there was one flaw, a flaw he never considered
in all the outlines he had drawn ... his sister.

Why was she with him tonight? She had told him she would
be spending the night out with girlfriends. He had waited to
execute his perfect plan when she would be absent. He had hidden his mother's secret stash of drugs-leaving her with
an ample amount to keep her incapacitated long enough to
carry out his mission-so she would have to call her dealer and
get him to come to the apartment to replenish her supply. He
had calculated the time to be late at night when darkness and
surprise would be his allies. Now his sister was in the mix.

He knew Tyler would not come alone. He was never alone
outside the protection of Bruce's apartment; he required the
company of like-minded minions at his beck and call, ready
to obey the master's every whim. In his well-rehearsed preparation, Bruce would use a single, deft swing of his bat to fell
each member of Tyler's crew, destroying his support system
so the two of them would face each other alone.

And that was precisely how it worked up to the point that
Sabrina grabbed him from behind. He never anticipated his
sister trying to stop him, working against him, aiding and abetting the enemy. There had been only two members of Tyler's
crew, and an energetic blow to the stomach of one and the knee
of the other rendered them useless.

Bruce took advantage of the element of surprise, pausing
after each blow to be sure the strike felled its intended target
and for a split-second to enjoy the cries and even the curses
from the wounded enemy. Sabrina grabbing his shirt brought
him back to reality-that and condescending threats to send
Bruce to meet his Maker.

Bruce yelled at Sabrina to let go of his shirt, and he strained
against her resistance, like a workhorse trying to pull a load
too heavy for its strength.

Sabrina struggled to hold on, to stop her brother's craziness
... until Tyler jerked the bat from Bruce's hand and smacked
him across the side of his head with it. She released the shirt and staggered back when she saw the squirt of blood projected
into the air like a geyser. Horror now held her captive.

With each curse followed a blow to Bruce's body until Tyler
grew tired or bored from the lack of response, except for the
muted groans.

A few lights came on in the apartments. One annoyed inquiry about the racket echoed within the enclosure, to which
Tyler responded with a vicious threat. The inquirer closed the
door, and the lights went out.

Tyler threw the bat on the ground and stormed off, his
wounded comrades hobbling behind him. Sabrina knew Bruce
was still alive because the blood gurgled in his mouth when he
took a breath. She dashed inside their apartment and tried to
rouse her mother, whose system was overwhelmed by heroin.
She refused to budge off the sofa.

Sabrina ran back outside and dragged her brother to the
street, hoping Tyler would be there, take pity on this bloody
wreckage, and drive them to a hospital, but there was no sign
of him.

She screamed for help in all points of the compass, but there
was no response. Her neighborhood was too accustomed to
screams, too accustomed to noisy, vicious chaos, to come to
her aid. Her loyalty to Tyler was supposed to make her and her
family immune from danger, but instead, it had brought it to
her, laid it at her feet, and expected her to take the blame.

No longer able to prop up her brother's limp body, she crumpled onto the sidewalk, sobbing. She wrapped her arms around
Bruce, searching the darkness for any help that might emerge.

The call came at 2:37 a.m. Rosella heard her niece's hysterical voice on the other end of the line, giving her a jumble of information: Bruce was hurt bad, almost killed. A police officer
had come by their apartment, making his rounds, and driven
them to County Hospital. She was calling from the emergency
room, and come fast, Bruce was bad.

It took some coaxing on Rosella's part to get Sabrina to turn
in her boyfriend as they sat in the emergency room waiting
for the doctors to put the finishing touches on repairing the
damage to Bruce.

"I tried to protect him," Sabrina kept repeating, but it was
unclear whom she was trying to protect until she had calmed
down enough to tell Rosella, Dewayne, and the police officer
what had happened. Her effort to keep Bruce from attacking her
boyfriend had saved Tyler the pain of a blow from the bat, but
had brought unholy destruction upon her brother, something
she thought she could prevent if she had just kept Tyler out of
Bruce's range. But Tyler had proven too formidable.

The judge's head tilted back against his chair, signaling that if
he had to listen much longer, he would have to take a nap. He
listened to Bonita make her final plea to keep custody of her
children, but he had witnessed too much harm under her care.
Her drug addiction had impaired her ability to be a mother,
and to listen to her own children testify to that fact was a knife
in his own heart.

From his place on the bench, he could view the plaintiff's
mother constantly wipe the flow of tears from her eyes, while
the father's eyes were vacant, looking away at anything other
than the scene before him. He did not blame them for their
conflicting reactions as they listened to the demoralizing history of a lost branch of their family that reappeared without
warning to overwhelm them.

He observed Rosella's distraught face as she dug her nails
into Dewayne's hand, and held onto Sabrina's arm with her
other hand. Her husband had his free arm draped over her
nephew's shoulder, his fingers lightly tapping the bare skin
between Bruce's shirtsleeve and the cast that went from his
wrist to above the elbow.

He watched Bruce, who kept his eyes focused on the images
of baseball bats he had doodled onto this new cast. The healing
for the rest of his wounds-the fractured skull, the busted eardrum, the concussion, the black eyes, the one broken rib, and
numerous bruises-had accelerated because of his youth.

As the story unfolded, the judge acknowledged the one
benefit to come from this painful mayhem. Bruce had played
the role of protector and removed the evil that had leached into
his family. Tyler would spend the rest of his life as a juvenile
behind bars, wearing a wardrobe of orange and not given the
rehabilitation opportunities to become a productive member
of society until he turned eighteen.

The judge kept his poker-face expression through Bonita's
impassioned arguments and promises to reform. How many
times had he seen a family united in this way by one member's
destructive behavior? He could not recount the number of
times this type of case had appeared before his bench, and he
was thankful that this time he did not have to separate the children or place them in foster care. He would see them removed
from a squalid and dangerous environment and given the care
and protection they had never received. He was impatient to
pronounce his verdict.

He brought down his gavel with a hard snap of his wrist.
The ruling was final. Bonita would go to a court-ordered rehab
program, and after six months, if she proved a model citizen,
showed a consistently drug-free bloodstream, and gained some level of steady employment, he might consider reuniting her
with her children.

But Bonita did not make a good first impression on the judge
with the new beginning he had offered. Instead of thanking his
Honor for the prospect of redemption, she castigated him for
separating her from her children, accusing him of practicing
the evils of slavery. Then she turned on her family, condemning
them all to eternal damnation.

The judge did not hesitate. The restraining order was instantaneous, and it took two bailiffs to hustle her out of the
courtroom. When the sound of Bonita's curses became a faint
echo, the judge stood behind his bench and dismissed the court.
He looked at the family and whispered brief words of encouragement before disappearing into his chambers.