Page 1 of Hail Marry
1
LUCA
Smiling isn’t my thing.
But as my lawyer, James Monroe, finishes his arguments and joins me at the defense table, the pointed expression he shoots my way clearly suggests that I sport one.
I do my best, but if it looks anywhere near as unconvincing as it feels, I would’ve been better off keeping my usual expression—which, according to him, is “menacing.”
James sits down in his slick navy suit and hides his fist under the table, waiting for me to bump it with mine. “Piece of cake,” he whispers.
“Thank you, Mr. Monroe,” the judge says. “As the prosecution chose not to oppose the petition, we will proceed with the ruling.”
James pulls out his phone and brings up his boarding pass. He flew to L.A. yesterday just for this, and he’s leaving straight from the hearing. I feel bad he even bothered. The hearing is nothing but a formality.
And yet, it’s a formality that will change my entire future, so let’s formalize the formality, I say.
“Mr. Callahan,” Judge Greene says, organizing his papers, “after careful consideration of the totality of circumstances related to your conviction, I feel strongly that there is only one possible conclusion for this court on the question of expunging your criminal record.”
I bump James’s shoe with mine, and he turns off his phone and pays attention.
The judge looks up at us over the rim of his glasses. “The petition for expungement is denied.”
The unnatural smile I’d pasted on my face evaporates, and the victory fist James had ready and hiding in his lap goes limp.
Did I hear right? Did the judge saydenied?
James is dumbfounded as he meets my eye, the same questions on his face that are rushing my mind. We were certain this petition was a shoo-in. I gave double the community service hours required of me, never missed a therapy session, was a model probationer—basically did everything short of curing world hunger. Not to mention the fact that the conviction was questionable to begin with.
Judge Greene’s grim gaze fixes on me over the top of his wire-rim glasses. “While I commend you for the steps you’ve taken toward rehabilitation, Mr. Callahan, the violent nature of your offense and your status as a non-citizen leads me to believe it is in the best interests of both the state of California and this country to retain record of your crime. I hope you won’t let this deter you from continuing in your efforts to become a model member of this community.” He picks up his gavel. “This hearing is adjourned.” He slams it on the block, and the sound echoes through the wood-paneled room.
Even though I know it’s not there, I swear I can see smoke billowing up from the place the gavel hit. That smoke is my dreams. It’s everything I’ve worked for over the past decade, and it’s suddenly all for nothing.
“Luca.”
I blink and look up at James, whose hand is on my shoulder. He’s holding his briefcase, waiting for me.
“There’s another hearing after this,” he says in a low voice that’s got a hint of pity. “Let’s go talk in the hall real quick.”
Dazed, I stand and follow him out of the room, absently doing up the buttons of my suit coat. I can’t wrap my brain around what just happened, but he’s already talking about the next move.
“We have thirty days to file an appeal,” he says, opening the door into the hall.
A sequence of flashbacks rushes through my mind—a dozen moments from the games, practices, and training I’ve done over the past decade in pursuit of the NFL. Grandma’s smiling face and her homemade cheer posters while I was on my high school’s varsity team pop into my brain. Feeling sick, I grab the chain around my neck and pull out my grandparents’ wedding bands, fiddling with them.
How can this be where everything leads? How can this be the end of the road?
“That’s just for filing,” I say. “Which means a decision wouldn’t come for…”
He blows out a breath. “Months, probably.”
“We don’t have months.”
“I know.” He grimaces as he faces me. “But, unfortunately, an appeal is our only option. And for this one, the decision’s just a written one. No in-person hearing.”
I clench my fists, staring ahead at nothing, trying not to give way to the frustration that’s bubbling inside me. If I’m being honest, a chunk of it is directed at James. How many times did he assure me the petition for expungement would be granted?
My therapist would tell me my anger is actually hurt and sadness dressed up in a scary costume, looking for someone to pounce on. She’s probably right. James has only been trying to help me, and he’s as flabbergasted as I am.
