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When a high-profile basketball star is accused of rape, ex-lawyer and pro sports investigator DiMaggio is called into the case and must sift through a media circus of innuendo and lies in order to discern the truth.
exhausted even to show you an attitude. What could you possibly say that could interest them? What did you have to offer them? It was like dealing with gang members, except everybody in this gang was rich. DiMaggio had seen it when he was a player, but it had gotten worse now. The only way you could get their attention was to find something they wanted. People had been giving them things their whole lives, from the time when they could hit a ball harder than the next kid, get up closer to the
to the right, where Perez was, waving at them like a traffic cop. Marty Perez waited and let them pass, making sure the rest of the press could see him as part of the entourage, there on the inside, briefly lingering in the doorway, waving at someone, then making a strut exit of his own. DiMaggio shook his head. Still a rooster. Hannah kept whipping her head around, trying to keep up with all this guy stuff. There was a whole roomful of it. They were all talking at once, like she wasn’t even
dealers and the crackheads, who always had the best leather basketball shoes and leather jackets and nice designer jeans. “Here come the KAY-mart boys,” the corner boys would say. “Been saving up their allowance money, here they come in their fifteen-dollar discount values. Buy ’em for fifteen dollars, have ’em last fifteen days.” Then they’d chant at Ellis and Richie as they disappeared toward Booker: “KAY-mart! KAY-mart! KAY-mart!” Making it sound as bad as nigger nigger nigger somehow. Now
until his senior year that he realized Perez could work a lot better for him, more doors could open for him by being ethnic, especially in newspapers. It was funny, when he thought about it. He had spent most of his life trying to get as far away from Palmas as he could, and now all of a sudden, the last name was like a credit card. It helped him with the ballplayers, that was for sure. It seemed that every season, baseball was importing about one hundred more guys from the Dominican or some
fell out of the Top Ten after a year. Then she was out of the Top Twenty, and then she was out of the rankings completely and they were living in Roslyn, Long Island. She remarried, a plastic surgeon. “Dad Number Two,” Hannah said. Jimmy was packed off to Phillips Exeter. At sixteen, Hannah was a good enough tennis prospect to be the best girl at a place called the Port Washington Tennis Academy. And she hated it. “It isn’t even probably a surprise, though, that my mother looked at my tennis