A Question of Murder (27 page)

“Is he related to the shortstop?”

She nodded, and her eyebrows flew up. “Junior is his son. And you can see why it’s been hard for Ty to get time on the field when they both play the same position. Buddy Washington tries his best—he knows Ty’s the better player—but the orders come from above, and Junior gets preference. It’s been very frustrating.”

“I imagine it would be.”

“Jack won’t come to watch the game if Junior’s playing. He even did some research to see if Bennett’s actions were a breach of league rules, but there’s no regulation about an owner’s conduct if he has a son on the team. It may be unethical, and certainly not good for the team, but it isn’t illegal. Too bad for us.”

It was late afternoon. The Arizona sky was a clear blue, the sun still high enough to heat the stadium to a constant simmer. Summer in my home of Cabot Cove, Maine, is plenty hot, but it never reaches the thermometer heights of the Arizona desert.

“Couldn’t Ty play another position?” I asked, fanning myself with the program.

“The manager uses him in the outfield every now and then to keep his bat in the lineup, but the regular outfielders complain when they have to sit one out. No one wants to miss a chance to play. Besides, Ty likes the action at shortstop. It’s a busy position, and he thrives when there’s lots to do.”

“I guess he’ll have to learn to be patient then.”

“Not for long. At least I hope not.” Meg lowered her voice and leaned closer to me. “We heard there was a scout from New York down here last week talking to the manager about Ty.”

“So he has a good chance to move up to the major leagues?”

“Most likely Triple-A first. The Rattlers are in the Chicago Cubs’ farm system. They have a good Triple-A team here in Arizona, too. Of course, there’s always the possibility of a trade to another major-league ball club. It doesn’t matter who he ends up playing for as long as he makes it to ‘the Show.’ That’s what the kids call the majors, ‘the Show.’ That’s what we’re all praying for. Everyone tells us how talented he is. All he needs is a little more experience. He’d get it on a Triple-A team once he’s out from under Junior and Harrison Bennett. If he does, it could be less than a year before he gets called up.”

“Does he have a say on who he wants to play for?”

“He’d be happy with any team, I’m sure. He loves the Cubs and their history.” She laughed. “Everything except their inability to get to the World Series. Naturally, his heart’s set on playing in New York, for the Mets or even the Yankees.” Meg shivered despite the heat. “To be candid, I kind of hope he’ll get to see another part of the country, San Francisco or Tampa or St. Louis, rather than New York.”

“But wouldn’t playing for a New York team bring him closer to your home in New Jersey? You’re only across the river from the city.”

“True, and we do love to attend his games. But New York is a big city, with big-city temptations, and it’s too close to Jersey City, where he had all that trouble when he was younger. I’d like to see him stay away from those kind of influences. He’s still so young and impressionable.”

 

Ty Ramos was only eleven years old the first time he was brought up before Judge Duffy on a charge of juvenile delinquency. His mother, who lived in the Dominican Republic, had sent Ty to live with an uncle in New Jersey, hoping to give her only son the benefits and opportunities of a life in the U.S. Instead, the uncle, who worked two jobs to support his own children, had little time to watch over yet another youngster. Ty was left to fend for himself inside a school where he didn’t speak English and where teachers were overwhelmed by a student body with myriad problems. Outside on the streets was no better. The young boy learned to endure beatings by the older bullies, most of them gang members, who demanded his jacket and gloves in the winter, his baseball cap in the summer. He hid his lunch money in his shoes until they took those from him as well.

Homesick and angry, he was a magnet for trouble, fighting in school, straying out all night, stealing change from his uncle’s pockets and fruit from the corner grocery. He joined the gang that had tormented him, carried a knife in his boot, and earned money by warning the drug dealers when a police car turned the corner and delivering messages for the owner of a local bar-owner, a low-level mobster who liked the fact that his errand boy didn’t understand enough English to testify against him. That hadn’t really been true anymore, but Ty let him believe it was.

Judge Duffy watched as an innocent first-time offender began to harden into a career criminal, and felt he had to intervene. Ty’s situation reminded the judge of his own childhood in a poor neighborhood in Trenton, where he had to fight hard for respect and even harder to finish his education. Sending Ty back to the Dominican Republic was not an option. His mother had moved, and no one could locate her. Sending him back to his uncle would only perpetuate the problems. Foster family after foster family rejected the boy as too disruptive to keep. But Judge Duffy saw a spark in Ty that the others had missed. He recognized a yearning to fit in, beneath the shield of resentment the teenager wore like armor, and Jack Duffy thought he might be able to reach Ty Ramos.

The first couple of years with Ty at the Duffys’ sprawling suburban ranch were daunting. More than once Meg thought Jack had taken on more than they could handle, but through a combination of love and discipline, they began to see a change. Ty’s transformation was helped by a new high school away from his old friends and enemies, one with strong academics and an even stronger sports program. Ty blossomed once he joined the baseball team, first as a catcher—the only boy willing to catch the streaking fastball of the team’s star pitcher—and later as a first baseman. But he was to shine brightest at shortstop, the perfect position for his quick moves and accurate ability to read the batter.

There was no question of college when Ty graduated from high school, although not due to lack of achievement. He wasn’t an honors student, but he’d acquitted himself well academically, passing all his tests with respectable grades, even the English literature exam, on which he’d scored an 89. But Ty had found his home in baseball, and an offer from the Cubs to join its Rattlers farm team had sealed his future—at least the immediate future.

 

“We’re back, and Buddy Washington is in the dugout talking to his shortstops.”

Ralph Trienza peered into the monitor as the camera trained its lens on the manager seated in the dugout. “Okay,” Trienza said, “he’s given the signal. Ty Ramos will pinch-hit for Junior Bennett.”

A round of cheers greeted Ty as he climbed up the stairs from the dugout, picked up two bats and swung them over his shoulder, choosing one and dropping the other before taking his place at home plate.

“There’s no love lost between those two,” Doug Worzall said into his microphone. “Ramos and Bennett have been battling it out all season for a permanent slot at shortstop. They’re not exactly friendly competitors, according to people close to the situation. That was a tough call to yank Junior.”

“But a good one for the team, Doug. It’s hard going up against Evans, a left-handed pitcher. Now we’ll see if Ramos can pull it off. A hit here would put the winning run on base and bring up Carter Menzies, who’s three for three today. But if Ramos fans, it’s the end of the season for the Rattlers. Tough position to be in. There’s a lot riding on those shoulders.”

A chorus of boos swelled up from the vicinity of the left field fence. Meg took my hand and squeezed it.

“Those boo-birds out there are from San Pedro,” Doug Worzall announced as the camera panned a contingent of Texan fans wearing yellow and red shirts, the team colors, and waving “We’re Number One” foam hands.

“Here’s the first pitch. It’s a swing and a miss. That ball was outside, out of the strike zone. Looks like Ramos might be a little anxious.”

“That corner is the pitcher’s favorite, Ralph. Evans has left a lot of Rattlers swinging at that curveball.”

“C’mon, Ty,” Meg whispered, watching her foster son intently. “You can do it.”

“Here’s the windup. It’s outside. One-and-one.”

Ty used his bat to knock dirt from between his cleats, and twisted his right foot into the batter’s box. He nodded to the umpire and squinted at the pitcher, taking a practice swing.

“Ramos is an interesting guy, Doug. He was born in the Dominican Republic. That country has baseball in its blood. It’s the national passion. They’ve contributed more ballplayers to Major League Baseball than any other nation outside our borders, and with a population of less than nine million. Amazing, isn’t it?”

The next pitch was low and outside, a ball.

“Those population numbers are almost the same as New Jersey’s,” Trienza said. “And don’t forget that’s where Ramos was raised. He was an all-star on his high school team, took them to the state championships.”

“He’s looking to take the Rattlers to the league championships now. Here’s the pitch. Ooh, he fouled that one off his instep. Got to sting. Two-and-two.”

The pitcher took off his mitt and rubbed the ball between his hands, pinching the top with his fingers as if he wanted to smooth out the leather. He stretched his back, put the glove back on, leaned over, and stared at the catcher, shook his head, then nodded and threw the ball. Ty jumped back as the ball whizzed by close to his head. He stepped out of the batter’s box and swung his bat twice.

“That was a close one, Doug. Evans was giving him a warning there—don’t crowd the plate. It’s a full count, folks, in the bottom of the ninth with two out. This next pitch could decide the game.”

Worzall laughed. “I’m feeling nervous myself, Ralph,” he said. “Imagine what Ramos must be feeling now. The whole team is counting on him. That’s a lot of pressure for a young player.”

“But he’s poised, Doug. Mature for his age. Let’s see what he does with this pitch.”

Ty tapped home plate with his bat, tugged on the peak of his cap underneath the batting helmet, and stole a glance at Meg. A small smile played around his lips. He adjusted his hips, swaying from side to side, lifted one shoulder after the other, then settled down into his batting crouch and waited. The pitcher wiped his lips, set the ball at his waist, reared back, raised his right leg and hurled the ball toward home plate.

Ty swung. There was a loud crack as his bat connected with the ninety-mile-an-hour fastball. The crowd rose to their feet, and Meg and I joined them to watch the ball sail toward the right field wall. The Texan outfielder skipped backwards, keeping his eye on the ball, then turned to watch it clear the fence and bounce on the street outside the stadium.

“Home run! The ball game’s over. Ty Ramos hits a homer to end the game. The Rattlers have won the championship, with Ramos’ long ball bringing in two runs for a four-three victory over the San Pedro Texans. Here come the tying and winning runs down the third-base line. The San Pedro Texans will have to wait another year. The Mesa Rattlers are the Pacific West Double-A champions!”

Meg gave me a hug, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Oh, Jessica. He did it. He won the game. I’m so excited. I’m so proud. I knew he could do it.”

“Congratulations, Meg. What a wonderful day for you and Jack.”

“Oh, I know Jack saw this. He’s watching our boy on TV.”

Around us, fans were jumping up and down, screaming and laughing, giving each other high-fives. The cheerleaders bounced onto the grass, doing back flips and somersaults. The team mascot, an oversized character in a carpenter costume, wiggled his hips and pumped his fist in the air. Ty’s teammates poured onto the field to greet him as he crossed home plate.

With one exception. Junior Bennett spat on the ground, threw his glove across the dugout, and stomped off toward the locker room.