John Lescroart - The Mercy Rule

Graham held them all back. His breath was coming in gasps. He took a last look around the table, at his family. Then, half running, the tears threatening to break again, he was past his mother and stepfather, up the steps through the French doors, and gone.

The Blazers had formed a line in the infield. Sarah Evans, who’d run in from left field after the last out, was at the end of the line. ‘Good game,’ she repeated as each of the Wombats came by her, slapping palms. And they said it back to her. It was a ritual, a nod to sportsmanship – they played hard, sure, but everyone realized it was just a game. You congratulated the other team on a good one and then you went home.

The dugout area was a bench behind a low fence, and the Blazers filed into it to grab their bats and equipment bags and clear out for the next team. Sarah, recounting the highlights of the game with some of the other women, suddenly stopped talking and focused on Graham Russo standing behind the fence in his Big Dog T-shirt and Giants hat. Staring at her.

Grabbing her bag – she had her gun in it – she walked out of the dugout and around the fence, up to him.

He smiled easily. ‘I thought that was you. I was pretty sure, actually.’

‘Did you follow me here?’

The question seemed to surprise him. ‘No.’

‘How did you know I was here, then?’

She wished her heart would stop its pounding. She could feel the light nylon fabric of her jersey pulsing to its rhythm.

‘I didn’t,’ he said. ‘I grabbed a burger at the beach and came here to watch a few games, take my mind off some things.’

‘Yeah, I’ll bet.’

He broke another smile. ‘I was cooped up inside most of the day, maybe you heard. It was such a nice night, I thought I’d sit outside awhile. I got a six-pack back in the stands, if you feel like a beer. Watch the late game.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think we ought to be seeing each other. If you think you’re scaring me showing up here, you’re wrong. It’s a bad idea, stalking a cop. I’ll put you back in jail so fast, you’ll forget you ever got out. I hope you’re hearing me.’

A couple of her teammates were passing them on the way to the parking lot. They heard the sharp tone and stopped. ‘Everything all right, Sarah?’

‘Sure. Fine.’ She turned back to Graham. ‘You stay away from me,’ she said quietly. Then, to her teammates, ‘Wait up, I’m coming.’

There were four softball diamonds, one in each corner of the enormous field. Sarah’s game had been on #2, closest to the parking lot, and she could sit in her car and see Graham clearly in the stands – ten rows of raised benches – behind home plate. With her windows down she watched him for twenty minutes. He appeared to be engrossed in the game, occasionally drinking from his can of beer. At least, she told herself, he hadn’t made any move to follow her out to the parking lot. She thought his plan might have been to let her get a head start, then light out after her. But he hadn’t even glanced after her when she’d left. He’d gone back to watch the next games as he’d said he was going to. Maybe he was telling the truth.

Which didn’t mean he hadn’t followed her here. He might have already found out what he wanted – where she lived and played. On the other hand, she told herself, his own explanation made sense. He’d been in jail all day and the city possibly wouldn’t have a nicer night for the rest of the nineties.

She opened her car door and grabbed her equipment bag. Pulling a light warm-up jacket on over her jersey, she crossed the dark space between the parking lot and the stands.

She stood awhile longer, watching him. He was sitting forward, hunched over, his elbows on his knees, his hands dwarfing the can of beer he held between them. His T-shirt stretched itself tightly over the muscles of his back.

The DA had let him go. He wasn’t charged with anything. She could go down and sit with him and there would be no grounds for any professional complaint. She rationalized another half-lie for herself – that he might make a verbal slip with some beer inside him and say something incriminating. She was still in cop mode, working. That’s why she was staying around, why it was defensible to go talk with him.

On the field a young man hit a ball well over three hundred feet, outside the circle of the diamond’s lights. Graham was on his feet, following the trajectory, his face alight with excitement, lost in the moment. It was a child’s look – unguarded, simple, innocent, pure. A doubt flashed briefly in her consciousness: could someone who had committed a murder summon such an expression? She didn’t think so.

She’d changed out of her cleats and now wore running shoes, which made no noise as she walked down the benches. She sat down next to him.

‘Okay, I’ll have that beer.’

He glanced over, his face showing nothing. Casually, he reached under him and pulled up a can, popping the top, handing it to her. ‘You see that hit?’ he asked.

She tipped the can. ‘That letter from your dad,’ she said, ‘you were playing pro baseball?’

He didn’t answer right away. On the field the shortstop went deep into the hole for a ground ball, flipped it back to second, then on to first for a double play. It ended the half inning.

Graham finished up his beer. ‘I thought I could hook on as a replacement during the strike. I couldn’t.’ He risked a look at her. ‘I really didn’t follow you,’ he said. ‘This is where I come sometimes, that’s all. Then I saw you, watched you play a little. I figured, what the hell, we’re both here, I might as well say hello. It didn’t occur to me you’d think I’d followed you.’

‘But I arrested you.’

Graham nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. ‘I did notice that.’

‘Most people,’ she said, ‘you arrest them, they don’t like you anymore.’

‘But then they let me go. They’re not charging me. So you and me, we’re both citizens.’

‘I don’t think so, not exactly. I’m still a cop. You’re still a suspect.’

He chewed on that for a beat, then shrugged it off. ‘Well, guess what? I myself am an officer of the court. And P.S., I didn’t kill my father.’ He indicated the field. ‘You play pretty good, Sergeant. I saw your triple.’

She found herself loosening up. ‘Most exciting offensive play in the game.’

‘So my dad said.’

‘You still think so?’

‘Sure.’

‘Me too.’

‘Well, there.’ Graham pulled another beer from underneath his seat, popped the top. ‘Something else we’ve got in common. You want another one?’

She’d nearly finished the first. Sarah had never been much of a drinker, and she was already feeling the slow warmth of even so little alcohol beginning to spread. ‘I’d better not,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to be going. Work starts early.’

‘I remember,’ he said.

She hesitated another couple of seconds, taken aback by his ready acquiescence, surprised at the act of will it took for her to stand. ‘Thanks for the beer,’ she said.

He nodded. She’d gone off a couple of steps when he stopped her. ‘Sergeant Evans?’

She turned.

‘What’s your first name?’

Her face clouded, then suddenly cleared! She shook her head, laughing at herself, then met his eyes. ‘Sarah.’

‘Sarah,’ he repeated. His smile seemed completely genuine. Endearing. ‘I love that name.’

Back in her car, she checked her face in the rearview mirror. She felt absurdly pleased with herself and wondered if it showed. So what? Graham Russo liked her name. Big deal.

The warmth had spread. She told herself it was the alcohol. She’d better be careful driving home.