Page 1 of Precise Justice

ONE

EIGHT YEARS AGO

Robert ‘Robbie’ Craig-Powell, age 11, stood at the chain link fence watching his classmates. On his feet were the latest high-priced Nike sneakers for boys, courtesy of his mother. Next to his feet, discarded, were the used and somewhat battered Rawlings baseball glove, and red and white used New Balance baseball cleats. On his head was the baseball cap Robbie had paid for to try out for his middle school team. Robbie bought the gloves and shoes himself at a garage sale a couple of blocks from his home.

Thirteen sixth grade boys had tried out for the team. Robbie, making his first appearance on a baseball diamond, was the only one cut. Just as well, he knew. If his mother found out, she would have a fit. What if he actually made the team? How would she even be able to show her face at future meetings of the Women for Women Organization or whatever trite name they called themselves?

Robbie, who was finishing his first year––sixth grade––of middle school, was the only child of Priscilla and Blake Craig-Powell. Priscilla, age 40 was the executive vice-president of a medium size cosmetics company. Blake was a 42-year-old building inspector for the City of Minneapolis. It was Priscilla’s salary and her parents’ money that allowed them to live where they did. A fact Priscilla never missed an opportunity to shove in Blake’s face.

The power structure in the marriage had been established before the wedding. Blake was the Craig in the Craig-Powell family name. Priscilla Powell, the number two offspring of Norman and Elizabeth Powell, had been raised to have power over others. Daddy Norman saw to that. The Powells, while not wealthy rich, were certainly well-off. Lake Of-the-Isles and country club well-off.

“Hey Robbie,” he heard a male voice from behind him say.

Robbie removed his fingers from the fence and turned around. “Oh, hi, Mr. Peterson,” he said to his algebra teacher. Peterson was also an assistant coach of the baseball team.

“You okay?” his teacher asked.

“Yeah, I guess,” Robbie replied.

“Don’t let these guys’ teasing get to you. Especially Junior Bonner. Just between you and me, someday he’ll be working for you. He may be a better ballplayer than you, but …”

“He’s a better player than most high school kids,” Robbie said. “Besides, I’m used to being teased. I get it all the time. I’m just not very athletic. When we play dodge ball, I’m always the first one out.”

“You need to learn to duck quicker,” Peterson said.

Robbie laughed and said, “I sure do.”

“You’re a good kid, Robbie. I wish all of them your age were as good.”

Robbie laughed again and said, “Yeah, but that sucks. I can’t even get into trouble. I don’t know how.”

“Well, don’t learn.”

Robbie bent down, picked up his glove and spikes, took off his hat and handed them to Mr. Peterson.

“What?” Peterson asked.

“Put them in with the other used equipment. I guess I won’t be needing them.”

“Don’t give up.”

“Maybe I’ll try golf,” Robbie said.

“Take some lessons first. Learn the basics. Golf can be fun,” Peterson said trying to encourage him.

“I was kidding, Mr. Peterson. I tried golf once. I swung at the ball fourteen times and didn’t hit it once.”

“It can be difficult,” Peterson agreed.

“I gotta go. See you tomorrow, Mr. Peterson,” Robbie said.

Robbie Craig-Powell was just one of those kids who develop late. Small for his age to begin with while some of the boys in his class were already entering puberty. A stage they had learned about in physical health class. Robbie was one of the unlucky ones still waiting.

It did not help that he was also the youngest boy in his class. Many of the others had already turned twelve. Robbie secretly believed the class bully, Junior Bonner, was at least fifteen. Although he had to present a birth certificate to play baseball.

It also did not help that Robbie seemed smarter than everyone else. Maybe not necessarily the girls, but certainly the boys. Robbie’s real problem, in fact his only problem, was that he simply did not know how to make friends. This made him seem a bit odd. Unknown to Robbie, a lot of the kids thought he was a snob.

The day after being dropped from the baseball team, Robbie was, as usual, eating lunch by himself. At least in the lunchroom, Junior Bonner and his pals had stopped harassing him. He could eat his lunch more or less in peace.

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