Chapter 31: Community Service Surprise The silver handcuffs felt heavier this time, biting into my wrists as they led me back through the precinct. Miguel’s phone call had really fucked me. Demitra’s voice, cut short, echoed in my head. What was she going to say? Regret? Disappointment? I didn’t even know anymore. The booking process was a blur of paperwork, mugshots that I’m sure would end up plastered all over the internet, and the now-familiar feeling of being stripped of my dignity. At least this time I knew the drill. Hours crawled by in the holding cell. I replayed everything in my head: Valeria, Miguel, the pregnancy, the bodega, Demitra’s voice, the sirens… It was a goddamn disaster reel. Finally, Lenny showed up. He looked tired, older than his 46 years, and stood next to a woman in a crisp navy suit carrying a briefcase. “Jim,” he said, his voice low and strained. “This is Ms. Hanover, from Gold and Associates.” Ms. Hanover gave me a curt nod. “Mr. Feder. Let’s get you out of here.” The next few hours were a legal whirlwind. Ms. Hanover worked her magic, negotiating with the DA, smoothing things over, and generally running the show. Lenny mostly stood by, his face a mask of controlled frustration. By dawn, I was back in the backseat of Lenny’s car, the skyline of Manhattan hazy in the distance. “You’re lucky, Jim,” Lenny said, breaking the silence. “Ms. Hanover managed to get the assault charge dropped to a misdemeanor, disorderly conduct. And the fire alarm… that’s a whole other can of worms, but she’s working on it.” “Lucky?” I scoffed. “I’m facing jail time, Dad! My career is over.” “Don’t exaggerate,” Lenny sighed. “You’re facing a judge who’s tired of seeing your face in his courtroom. He’s willing to give you a chance, but it’s going to take work.” He turned to look at me, his eyes serious. “This isn’t some slap on the wrist, Jim. You pulled a fire alarm in an airport. People could have been hurt. You assaulted a teenager. This shit has consequences. Duke is already rethinking their offer. NBA scouts are going to run for the hills if you keep this up.” “So what do I do?” “You apologize. You show remorse. You convince the judge that you’re not a menace to society.” “And how do I do that?” “You start by listening to Ms. Hanover. She’s going to guide you through this. And you’re going to attend those anger management sessions with Dr. Klein.” I grimaced. “Seriously, Dad? That shrink?” “Seriously, Jim. No more arguing. No more outbursts. You do exactly what you’re told, or you can kiss your future goodbye.” The next few weeks were a blur of legal meetings, community service applications, and awkward apologies. Ms. Hanover managed to secure a deal where I would perform community service at a local youth center, coaching basketball to underprivileged kids. It was either that or a stricter punishment, and a criminal record would have really ruined my chances of ever getting into the NBA. The first day was brutal. The youth center was in a rundown part of the Bronx, a world away from my comfortable life in Manhattan. The gym was cramped, the equipment was old, and the kids were… skeptical, to say the least. They were a mixed bag of ages, ranging from ten to fifteen, all with that hardened city look in their eyes. They knew who I was, of course. The news of my Times Square antics had spread like wildfire, even reaching this corner of the Bronx. “Yo, it’s the table-flipping baller!” one kid shouted as I walked in, earning a chorus of laughter. I tried to ignore the taunts, forcing a smile. “Alright, guys, let’s get started. I’m Coach Jim, and I’m here to… help you improve your game.” More laughter. “Coach Jim? More like Coach Crazy!” another kid yelled. I took a deep breath, reminding myself that this was court-ordered. “Okay, look, I know you guys probably don’t want me here, and frankly, I don’t really want to be here either. But we’re stuck with each other, so let’s try to make the best of it.” I started with basic drills, dribbling, passing, shooting. The kids were surprisingly talented, but they lacked discipline and teamwork. They were more interested in showing off than actually playing together. “Pass the ball!” I yelled at a skinny kid who was trying to dribble through three defenders. “This isn’t a one-man show!” “Shut up, Coach Crazy!” the kid retorted. “I got this.” He promptly lost the ball, leading to a fast break for the other team. I blew the whistle, stopping the play. “Alright, that’s enough,” I said, my patience wearing thin. “We’re going to run suicides until you learn how to pass the damn ball.” The kids groaned, but they lined up and started running. I watched them, my arms crossed, trying to maintain some semblance of control. The next few weeks followed the same pattern: drills, taunts, arguments, and the occasional flash of potential. I tried to teach them the fundamentals of the game, but it was hard to get through to them. They were tough, street-smart kids who had seen things I couldn’t even imagine. I did start to develop a weird kind of respect for them. They were scrappy, resilient, and fiercely loyal to each other. They reminded me of my own teammates, in a way. One afternoon, during a water break, I noticed one of the younger kids, a scrawny ten-year-old named Marco, fiddling with something in his ear. He usually just watched, never involved in the games, but always observant. I squinted, trying to get a better look. “Hey, Marco, what’s that you got there?” Marco quickly covered his ear with his hand, his eyes darting nervously. “Nothing, Coach.” “Come on, let me see.” He hesitated, then slowly removed his hand. In his ear was a familiar glint of metal and diamonds. My blood ran cold. It was a diamond hoop earring. A *very* familiar diamond hoop earring. “Where did you get that?” I demanded, my voice suddenly sharp. Marco flinched, his eyes widening. “I… I found it.” “Found it where?” “Just… on the street.” I didn’t believe him for a second. There was no way this kid just “found” a diamond earring that looked suspiciously like the one Miguel had been wearing. “Don’t lie to me, Marco,” I said, stepping closer. “Tell me the truth. Where did you get that earring?” He looked down, shuffling his feet. “My… my cousin gave it to me.” “Your cousin? What’s his name?” He mumbled something I couldn’t quite hear. “Speak up, Marco.” “His name is… uh… Tony.” “Tony? I don’t believe you. Does he work at a hotdog stand?” I pressed. Marco looked up, surprised. “How did you know?” I felt a surge of anger, hot and familiar, rising in my chest. This was too much of a coincidence. Miguel, the smug, cheating bastard, was somehow involved in this. “Marco,” I said, grabbing his arm, my grip tightening. “Tell me everything. Did your cousin get that earring from a guy at a bodega?” Marco started to cry, pulling away from me. “Leave me alone, Coach! I didn’t do anything!” “Did Miguel give him that earring?” I shouted I ignored his pleas, my mind racing. Miguel had probably stolen the earring back from the bodega owner, and Marco’s cousin was his accomplice. That greasy Eurotrash was at it again. “Marco,” I said, my voice low and menacing. “If you don’t tell me the truth, I swear…” The other kids started to gather around, sensing the tension. They looked at me with a mixture of fear and defiance. “Leave him alone, Coach Crazy!” one of them shouted. “He didn’t do nothing!” “Yeah, back off!” another chimed in. “He’s just a little kid!” I ignored them, focusing on Marco. I needed to know the truth. I needed to know what Miguel was up to. “Marco, just tell me,” I pleaded, my voice cracking. “Please. It’s important.” Marco looked at me, his face streaked with tears. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he hesitated, his eyes darting towards the other kids. “I can’t,” he whispered. “They’ll kill me.” “No, they won’t,” I said, trying to reassure him. “I’ll protect you. Just tell me the truth.” “It was Miguel,” he blurted out, his voice trembling. “He paid my cousin to get it back from the guy at the bodega. He said it was his, and he wanted it back.” My fists clenched. I knew it. That son of a bitch was still playing games, even after everything that had happened. “And then what happened?” I pressed, my voice barely a whisper. “My cousin went to the bodega, but the guy wouldn’t give it back. They started arguing, and then… then they started fighting.” “A fight? What kind of fight?” “A bad fight, Coach. My cousin got hurt real bad. He’s in the hospital.” My stomach dropped. This was getting out of hand. Miguel’s petty revenge had escalated into something dangerous, something violent. “Where’s Miguel now?” I demanded. “I don’t know,” Marco said, shaking his head. “He just disappeared after the fight. We haven’t seen him since.” I stared at Marco, my mind reeling. Miguel was gone, Marco’s cousin was in the hospital, and I was standing in the middle of a rundown gym in the Bronx, holding a kid who was wearing Miguel’s stolen earring. I had to find Miguel. I had to stop him before he hurt anyone else.