Джон Гришэм - Sooley

As they ate, the family went through the menu for the afternoon’s feast. In addition to the turkey, there would be oyster dressing with cranberry sauce. Candied yams. Collard greens in ham hocks. Corn fritters. Giblet gravy. Jalapeño cornbread. Pumpkin and pecan pies. At first, as he stuffed another pecan waffle in his mouth, he thought they were joking about so much food for one meal. Then he realized they were quite serious.

He enjoyed the rowdy bantering and warmhearted fun, but there were flashes when he couldn’t help but think of his mother and brothers, and his neighbors and friends from Lotta. Some dead. Some missing. The lucky ones barely surviving in makeshift huts, shanties, and tents, patiently waiting in line for hours for another bowl of rice.

Late Sunday, the team gathered at The Nest for a much-dreaded practice. Their coach, though, was in a better mood. In the film room, he made them watch the Campbell game and replayed some of the worst of it. Then they took the floor for two nonstop hours of drills, with all four coaches yelling at even the slightest mistake.

Two days later they rode the bus ninety minutes to Greenville to play East Carolina, a 10-point favorite, and lost by three in overtime. It was their fourth straight loss and led to another quiet bus ride back to campus. Other than the loss, the most disturbing event of the night was a bad injury to Evan Tucker, a second-string forward. Midway through the second half he went up for a rebound and landed on his elbow, shattering it. He was still at the hospital in Greenville with Coach Jackie Garver. The X-rays were not promising and he would not be returning anytime soon.

The football season was over and the team won six and lost that many. Samuel had made many friends in the locker room and hated to see it end. Lonnie pulled some strings and kept him on the payroll, a couple of hours a day tidying up the weight room and doing whatever T. Ray wanted. The $7.25 an hour was important and Samuel spent little of it. His goal was to send as much as possible to his mother.

Murray and Mitch Rocker, the captain, had organized a small relief fund for refugees in Uganda. They had a website and were soliciting donations from the student body. Without naming Samuel, the website painted a grim picture of life in the camps and settlements and pleaded with the students for humanitarian relief. By December 1, they had raised almost a thousand dollars, and Sooley was grateful beyond words. The challenge was getting the money into the right hands. Beatrice had warned him that refugees with a little cash were often targets.

Beatrice had managed to discreetly buy shoes and clothing for the eight children, James and Chol and the six others from Lotta. This had not gone unnoticed in their neighborhood, and it was well known that her son was studying and playing basketball at an American college, but so far there had been no trouble.

Their dismal existence improved dramatically with the news that a new school was opening at the far edge of Rhino South. Early one morning, she and her two friends and their eight children walked an hour, following the crowd to see if the rumors were true. They were stunned to find a spanking-new modern building that workers were still finishing. A sign announced the opening of a U.N. school for all children and the excitement was palpable. They waited in line for hours, filled out the paperwork, and left to find lunch. The following day they returned to the school and handed over their children. Well-dressed administrators and teachers, all Ugandan, all men, welcomed them and handed out pencils, pads, and workbooks. The women left their kids and drifted back to their tent village, childless for the first time in months. A long school day meant everything — education and a nice lunch.

And uniforms. When the children were released late in the afternoon, they were given identical outfits — white shirts and navy shorts for the boys, white shirts and navy skirts for the girls. They were excited to be dressed alike. All were suddenly equal now, all accepted members of a real school.

A four-game losing streak will breed discontent in any locker room, and Central’s was no exception. Jabari Nix was a sophomore forward who had averaged five minutes a game the year before and got about the same in the early games. His best friend was DeRell Compton, a 5'10" guard who couldn’t shoot. They were dissatisfied with their playing time and it was obvious they were unhappy.

Samuel stayed away from them. He wasn’t playing at all but was still delighted just to be on the team. He watched as Mitch Rocker and Roy Tice, two of the seniors, tried to offer them encouragement. Murray was playing ten minutes a game and not happy about it, but he was still optimistic things would improve. He had said several times that Jabari and DeRell could cause trouble.

After Friday’s practice, Sooley and Murray showered and returned to their dorm room. Robin had gone home for the weekend and Murray was lost without her. He suggested they eat out and they drove to a pizza place. There was a home game tomorrow and Coach Britt had imposed a strict 10 p.m. curfew. Coach Garver had threatened to check their rooms.

While they were eating, Murray’s phone rang and he talked to Harry Greenwood, a junior forward who lived off campus. Harry’s father was a lawyer in Charlotte and the family was more affluent than most. After the pizza, they drove to Harry’s apartment where a party had materialized. The whole team was there, along with some nonathletes and a bunch of girls. The music was loud, the beer flowing, and the girls were friendly and flirting. Sooley had quickly learned that on campus the athletes were special and admired by the other students. Murray, single for the evening, soon zeroed in on a couple of coeds and introduced his roommate.

Samuel declined a beer. Where he came from, kids, as well as their parents, couldn’t afford alcohol or drugs, and he had not been exposed to the temptations. He was chatting with a pretty coed named Nicole, who seemed curious about where he was from. A friend handed her a joint, and, quite casually, she took a hit and offered it to Sooley, who declined. He was suddenly aware of the aroma in the apartment and realized that pot was everywhere. He was not that familiar with the smell but it was obvious. Several students, nonplayers, were crowded over a small table in the kitchen doing something that they preferred to keep out of view. He found a bathroom, locked himself inside, collected his thoughts, then, without a word to anyone, left the party. Central was at least an hour’s walk away.

Without the benefit of an automobile, he had not seen much of the area and was not sure where he was. The sky to his right was illuminated by the brighter lights of downtown Durham, but they were far away. He zigzagged for a while in that general direction but was soon lost. He turned along a narrow street with fancy modern condos on both sides, no doubt a white section of town. There were no sidewalks, and as he walked at the edge of the street he was aware that he was being followed by a car. It was the Durham police, inching along behind him.

It was Friday, December 4, and the air was cold. Sooley kept both hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his Central pullover.

He had been in America long enough to understand the rules of engagement for young black men walking through white neighborhoods at night, and he was suddenly stricken with fear.

The car pulled beside him and a gruff voice said, “Stop right there.” Sooley stopped and waited as two policemen, both white, got out and slowly made their way over to confront him. His knees were trembling, his hands shaking.

One flashed a bright light into his face, then clicked it off. A nearby streetlamp shone enough for the three to see one another clearly. Officer Swain said, “May we ask where you’re going?” He was polite and even smiled.