Free A Case of Redemption by Adam Mitzner Page B

turned over his hole card. The jack of hearts, which gave him sixteen.
    â€œDealer hits,” Oneil said, and then he flipped over a deuce. “Eighteen.”
    In a swift movement, Oneil clicked a stack of yellow chips against Brooks’s two eighteens and my own, and then paid out on Brooks’s two winning hands.
    â€œYou’d already counted that one in your pocket, didn’t you?” Brooks said to me, chuckling. “But that’s the thing about life, isn’t it?”
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œNothing’s ever for certain.”
    â€œI suppose that’s right,” I said.
    â€œMind if we take a break,” Brooks said to Oneil, without the inflection of a question. “Keep the table clear, will ya.”
    â€œWhatever you want, Mr. Brooks,” Oneil answered.
    Brooks got up and led us to another blackjack table nearby. This one was empty.
    As we sat down, I looked up at the ceiling. Brooks must have been reading my mind, because he said, “Don’t worry. Even though they record everything, it’s video only. They won’t know what we’re saying. That’s why you need to use hand signals when you’re playing.”
    â€œThank you for meeting with us,” I said, “and, of course, thank you for the ride.”
    â€œLike I said, whatever I can do to help. I really appreciate that you two are willing to take on L.D.” He shook his head. “I mean, talkabout getting killed in the press. It’s like the presumption of innocence just doesn’t apply if you’re a black man or a rapper, and unfortunately for L.D., he’s both.”
    I nodded along with Brooks’s comments on the racial insensitivity of our judicial system. He shook his head ruefully. “And I got to be honest with you, I feel like part of his situation is my fault, because I was the guy who told him to include ‘A-Rod’ on the album. You know, if he hadn’t, he might not be in this mess. Or at least it wouldn’t be so bad.”
    â€œCan I take that to mean that you believe he’s innocent?”
    Brooks grimaced slightly, followed by a subtle shrug. “How can anyone really know if someone harbors that kind of rage? So I can’t tell you that. But what I can tell you is that I’ve always liked L.D., and the public doesn’t really know the real man, if you catch my drift.”
    I looked over at Nina to see if she understood. The blank look on her face told me that she didn’t.
    â€œI’m not sure that we do,” I said.
    He let out a deep sigh, suggesting he was worried this might be a problem. But then he said nothing more, waiting for us to ask him directly.
    Nina did the honors. “We’ve met with L.D., and he’s explained his side of things. There was nothing he said that caused us to think he wasn’t being candid.”
    Brooks seemed startled by the sound of her voice. When he turned to her, he gave her a particularly wolfish smile, and then said, “Maybe you didn’t ask the right questions.”
    I looked at Nina, who didn’t betray any reaction. When I met Brooks’s eyes again, I didn’t get the leer he’d just given Nina, but a contemptuous grin that belied his claim of liking L.D.
    â€œDid you ask to see his scars?” Brooks asked.
    â€œExcuse me?” I said.
    â€œThe scars from when he was shot four times and left for legally dead?”
    â€œNo, we didn’t. Why?”
    â€œBecause there aren’t any,” Brooks said with a satisfied smile. “The thing is, when I met the man, his name was . . .” Brooks’s pupils rolled back in his head, as if he was searching for the information in his brain. “Calvin . . . Mayberry, I think? Definitely Calvin Something-or-Other. Anyway, he was this suburban kid from outside Boston. His mother was a schoolteacher. I can’t remember what his father did, but they were