Rochelle looked at him.
“I’m not speaking to you.”
The attorney stopped.
Brent folded his arms.
“This is not about race.”
“No,” Rochelle said. “It is about what you believed you could do to a boy whose mother could not pay you.”
The sentence landed harder than shouting would have.
Brent glanced toward the cameras.
Rochelle continued.
“You knew his arm had value when you put the numbers under your son’s name. You only pretended he had no value when he stood in front of people.”
Mason Harlan stood several yards away.
He heard every word.
He walked toward them.
“Mom Reed?”
Rochelle looked at him.
“I didn’t know the numbers were his,” Mason said.
Brent snapped, “Do not speak.”
Mason turned toward his father.
“You used his readings.”
“I used test data.”
“You put them on my profile.”
“The profile needed complete metrics.”
“I told you I wasn’t throwing ninety-five.”
“You were close.”
“I was throwing eighty-eight.”
“With proper mechanics, you will reach ninety-five.”
“But I didn’t.”
Brent lowered his voice.
“Everything I did was for you.”
Mason looked at the folded banner in his hands.
“No. You did it so people would see what you wanted.”
He placed the banner on the ground.
Then he faced Isaiah.
« Je suis désolé. »
Isaiah ne savait pas quoi dire.
Mason poursuivit.
« J’ai ri avant. Pas aujourd’hui. D’autres fois. »
Isaiah se souvenait.
Mason avait ri quand Brent avait traité Isaiah de garçon à seau.
Il a ri quand Isaiah a demandé comment s’était inscrit au show.
Il avait aussi laissé une nouvelle paire de gants de batting à côté du casier d’Isaiah sans nom.
Isaïe n’a jamais su qui les avait mis là.
