Free Trial & Error by Paul Levine Page A

floundering. She didn’t know how to respond. There didn’t seem to be case law to refute the notion that college football is more important than felony murder. On the other side of the table, Steve kept quiet, not even trying to suppress that infuriating grin.
    “But let me ask you this,” the judge mused. “You two aren’t gonna be playing footsie under the table, are you?”
    “Certainly not,” Victoria said.
    “Not till after court,” Steve said.
    “Y’all argue when you’re on the same side of the table. I don’t see much chance of collusion, so I’m inclined to let you have a go at each other. State’s motion to disqualify is hereby denied.”
    Oh, no. This judge clearly played football too long without a helmet.
    “But, Your Honor,” Victoria said, “lawyers have to go for the kill. Crush the opposition. When you’re in a relationship, how can you be expected to—”
    “That train’s left the station.” The judge hit a switch and the train’s whistle
toot
ed. “You two are gonna try this case. Now git, both of you. Go home and figure it out.”
    “Figure what out?” Victoria said, bewildered.
    “How to litigate by day and copulate by night,” the judge replied, hitting the whistle for one long, last
toot.

Sixteen
    SQUID PRO QUO
    His ball cap pulled low over his eyes to shade the sun, Bobby stood in right field, legs crossed, gloved hand brushing a mosquito from his neck. He watched his own elongated shadow stretch toward the outfield fence and tried to figure the exact angle of the sun. If he knew that number, he could compute the length of his shadow within ten centimeters.
    His mind drifted. He wasn’t thinking about the pitcher or the batter or the consequences of a fly ball floating his way. He was thinking about the wad of bubble gum in his mouth that had lost its flavor, about the yellow jackets buzzing around the wildflowers, and about Rich Shactman.
    What’s the best way to kill The Shit?
    Poison?
    The Beth Am Bobcats were ahead 9 to 6, no thanks to Bobby. He’d struck out twice and dribbled a feeble ground ball to the first baseman his last time up. So far, no one on the Plymouth Church Pioneers had hit a fly ball to right field.
    One of the hexacyanides? Pour it in Shactman’s Coke.
    The prick had clobbered two home runs, strutting across home plate each time, posing, chest thrust forward, as his father shot video.
    Plastique? Blow him to kingdom come.
    Bottom of the seventh inning, the last inning in the Palmetto Sunday School League. Bobby vaguely knew there were two outs. The game would be over any moment, and he could get out of the sun.
    Speargun? Grandpop shoots Florida lobsters…when the Marine Patrol isn’t around.
    Bobby wondered what was taking so long. Now he noticed the bases were loaded with Pioneers. He heard the
clunk
of metal bat hitting leather ball. He looked up.
    Oh, shit.
    Short fly ball over the second baseman’s head, into right field. Bobby took off, a flurry of elbows and knees. He wished he could run like Uncle Steve, smooth and fast.
    “Catch it, dickwad!” Rich Shactman screamed from center field.
    The ball reached its apogee; it started its descent. Bobby’s brain crackled.
    Catch the ball and the game’s over.
    If it drops in front of me, it’s only a single. One run scores; maybe two. We’re still ahead by a run.
    Or I could dive and make the catch.
    On
Sports Center,
they always show those diving catches on the Top Ten plays. Major leaguers make it look easy. Slide on your rump; reach out; grab the ball underhanded just above the grass; hoist the glove to show the ump you caught it clean.
    Go for it!
    Bobby tried to slide, but his legs tangled and he tumbled forward, arms spread, as if he’d been shot in the back. A second later, he felt a thump as the ball bounced off his butt and landed in the grass.
    “Pick it up, dipshit!”
    Shactman again, louder. Running toward Bobby, maybe to pummel him, maybe to grab the ball himself.
    The