Chapter 28: Silver Handcuffs The flashing lights of the police cars painted the grimy bodega storefront in alternating hues of red and blue. I stood frozen, Miguel’s phone still clutched in my hand, earbuds dangling, the faint echo of Demitra’s voice – “Jim…” – ringing in my ears. Two officers, both burly and stone-faced, advanced towards me. The first, a woman with tightly braided hair and a no-nonsense expression, spoke, her voice cutting through the city’s din. “James Feder, you’re under arrest.” “Again?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. The second officer, a man with a receding hairline and weary eyes, stepped forward, pulling out a pair of silver handcuffs. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, kid.” I didn’t resist. What was the point? My life had become a revolving door of holding cells and court appearances. The metallic click of the handcuffs echoed the closing of yet another door. As they led me to the police car, a small crowd began to gather. Cell phone cameras flashed, capturing my latest public humiliation. I could almost hear the whispers and judgments: “There’s that basketball player… what a mess… throwing it all away.” The ride to the precinct was silent. I stared out the window, the city lights blurring into an indistinct mess. My mind raced, trying to make sense of the last few weeks. Duke, Valeria, Miguel, the café, the fire alarm, Demitra, Europe, Dev… it was a chaotic whirlwind that had spiraled completely out of control. At the precinct, the familiar routine began: fingerprinting, mugshots, the recitation of my rights. Each step felt like a nail hammered into the coffin of my dreams. “Name?” a stern-faced officer barked, his voice devoid of any warmth or empathy. “James Leonard Feder,” I mumbled, my voice hoarse. “Date of birth?” I rattled off the date, feeling a pang of shame. Just a few months away from turning eighteen, and I was already a repeat offender. “Charge?” “Disorderly conduct and assault,” the officer replied, glancing at a form. “Great,” I muttered under my breath. “Just what I needed.” They led me to a holding cell – a cramped, sterile room with a steel bench and a barred window. The air was thick with the smell of stale sweat and disinfectant. Graffiti covered the walls, a testament to the countless souls who had been confined within those same four walls. I sank onto the bench, the cold metal seeping through my jeans. The weight of my actions crashed down on me. I thought of my mom, Roxanne, her face etched with worry. I thought of my dad, Lenny, his disappointment a palpable force. I thought of Greg, Keithie, Becky… all of them caught in the fallout of my self-destructive behavior. And then there was Demitra. Her voice, that fragile “Jim…”, replayed in my head like a broken record. I had dragged her into my mess, using her as a temporary escape, only to hurt her again and again. I ran a hand through my hair, frustration building. What was wrong with me? Why did I keep making the same mistakes? Why couldn’t I control my anger? My earrings felt heavy, a constant reminder of who I was – or who I thought I was. A cocky, arrogant basketball star with the world at his feet. But the reality was far different. I was a mess, a disappointment, a walking disaster. A wave of despair washed over me. Was this it? Was my life destined to be a series of bad decisions and missed opportunities? Had I already squandered my potential? The hours crawled by. The sounds of the precinct – shouting, slamming doors, the constant drone of voices – faded into a dull hum. I was lost in my thoughts, replaying past events, dissecting every mistake, every misstep. The door to the holding cell clanged open. A familiar figure stood silhouetted in the doorway. It was Lenny. His face was etched with disappointment, but his eyes held a flicker of resolve. He didn’t say anything, just stood there, taking me in. “Dad,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Jim… what the hell is going on with you?” I shrugged, unable to meet his gaze. “I don’t know, Dad. I just… I keep messing up.” He stepped into the cell, the metal door clanging shut behind him. He sat down on the bench next to me, the silence stretching out between us. “You’re better than this, Jim,” he said finally, his voice low and steady. “You’re smart, you’re talented, you’ve got a good heart. But you’re letting your anger control you. You’re throwing everything away.” “I know, Dad,” I said, the words catching in my throat. “I know I am.” “This isn’t just about basketball anymore, Jim. This is about your life. You need to get your act together. Before it’s too late.” I looked at him, his face lined with concern. I hated seeing him like this, worried and disappointed. “I’m trying, Dad,” I said, my voice cracking with emotion. “I really am. But I don’t know how.” He put a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “We’ll figure it out, son. Together. We’ll get you the help you need.” “What kind of help?” I asked, my voice laced with skepticism. “Well,” Lenny began, clearing his throat, “after talking to the judge…” He paused, and I could tell this wasn't going to be good. “The judge is making this a mandatory thing,” he started. “It’s court-ordered, Jim.” “What is?” I asked. “Anger management,” he replied. My head snapped up, my eyes wide with disbelief. “Anger management? You’re kidding, right?” Lenny shook his head, his expression grim. “I wish I was. The judge has ordered you to attend mandatory anger management sessions with Dr. Klein. Starting next week.” “Dr. Klein?” I repeated, my voice laced with disbelief. “Who the hell is Dr. Klein?” “She’s a specialist,” Lenny explained. “She’s helped a lot of athletes with anger issues. The judge thinks she can help you too.” “But… I don’t need anger management,” I protested, my voice rising in pitch. “I just… I lost my temper a few times. It’s not like I’m a violent person.” “Jim,” Lenny said, his voice firm. “You punched a kid in Times Square. You flipped a table in a café. You pulled a fire alarm at the airport. These aren’t just ‘a few times.’ This is a pattern. And it’s got to stop.” I opened my mouth to argue, but the words caught in my throat. He was right. I couldn’t deny it anymore. My anger had become a problem. A big problem. “I don’t want to do this, Dad,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to talk to some shrink about my feelings. It’s embarrassing.” “It’s not embarrassing to get help, Jim,” Lenny said, his voice gentle. “It takes courage to admit you have a problem and to seek help. And this isn’t just for you. It’s for your family, your teammates, your future. Everyone is affected by this.” I looked down at my hands, my mind racing. Anger management… it sounded so… cliché. So… pathetic. But what choice did I have? The judge had ordered it. And if I didn’t comply, who knows what would happen? Maybe they'd throw me in jail for real this time. “I don’t even know what to say to this Dr. Klein,” I admitted, my voice laced with apprehension. “What am I supposed to tell her? That I’m a basketball prodigy with a rage problem?” Lenny chuckled softly. “Just be honest with her, Jim. Tell her what’s been going on. Tell her how you’re feeling. Let her help you.” I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Lenny shook his head. “Not really. But look at it this way: maybe this is exactly what you need. Maybe this is the wake-up call you’ve been waiting for.” I looked at him, his eyes filled with hope. Maybe he was right. Maybe this was a chance to turn things around. To get my life back on track. “Okay, Dad,” I said finally, my voice a little stronger now. “I’ll do it. I’ll go to anger management. I’ll talk to Dr. Klein. I’ll try to get better.” Lenny smiled, relief washing over his face. “That’s my boy,” he said, squeezing my shoulder. “I knew you’d come around.” We sat in silence for a few moments, the tension in the room easing. I was still apprehensive about the whole anger management thing, but I knew I had to do it. For myself, for my family, for my future. As we stood up to leave, Lenny placed a hand on my back, guiding me towards the door. As we reached the doorway, he spoke again, his voice low and serious, "The appointment is set for Monday at 10 AM, so don't you dare be late". With that he directed me towards the precinct exit, each footstep echoing the uncertainty of the path ahead, a path now unavoidably leading toward the office of Dr. Klein.