The Perk (36 page)

Slade glanced at Stutz, then said, "Hypothetically,
if I did use steroids, I would hypothetically experience 'roid rage. But if I
did, and if that caused me to hurt someone, I would adjust the dosage, hypothetically
speaking, of course."

Beck, Quentin McQuade, and Bruno Stutz were now
staring at Slade.

"Very good, Slade," Stutz said. "You
managed to use 'hypothetically' three times in two sentences."

Slade seemed pleased with himself. "Thanks."

"Are other players using steroids?"
Beck said.

"Hypothetically, yes."

"And what are they using?"

"Hypothetically, Deca-D … Deca-Durabolin,
Boli … Primobolan, Norbolethone, Winstrol, Dianabol, HgH."

"You sound like a pharmacist. What's HgH?"

Slade seemed amused now. "Where have you
been the last twenty years, Judge?"

"In a law firm."

"Human growth hormone. Makes muscles
tighter. Tighter muscles are faster muscles. The pros use it 'cause it's
harder to detect. Hypothetically."

"Slade—steroids, human growth hormone—it's illegal."

"It's required. Judge, the NFL's minimum
size for a quarterback today is six-three, two-twenty. I was one-ninety, now
I'm two-thirty-five. Being a pro quarterback is my dream, and the stuff will help
get me there. Just like it's helping lots of other players. I've met guys on
college teams all over the country, and they all say the same thing—they get to
school and first thing the coaches tell them is, 'You gotta bulk up.' They
don't say 'You gotta go on steroids,' but everyone knows what 'bulking up'
means. And how you do it. Why do you think they redshirt most freshmen? So
they can adjust to college life, make good grades, meet new friends? They need
that year to bulk up."

"And where do you get it from?"

"Gyms in Austin."

"Give me names."

Slade shrugged. "Look in the yellow pages,
that's what I did."

"No. Names of the people selling the
stuff."

He had amused Slade again. "Judge, you
don't get names."

"So you just go to any gym in Austin and buy steroids?"

"The hard-core bodybuilding places. We'd
inject the stuff right in the locker room."

"It's that easy?"

"No, it hurts. I can't do that to myself,
so I got the other guys to stick me, and then Nikki—"

"No. I mean buying it."

"Oh. Yeah, it's that easy. Heck, Judge,
it's harder to get cold medicine these days. Dopers used it to make meth."

"You're doping."

"Steroids aren't dope, not like cocaine or
heroin. I would never put that stuff in my body. I eat a low-fat,
complex-carb, high-protein diet. Four percent body fat."

"You eat right, but you use steroids."
Beck shook his head. "Slade, it's cheating."

"It's competing. Judge, the game's
changed. Bigger, stronger, faster. By any means necessary. That's the
deal."

Beck sighed. He knew in his heart that the boy
was right.

"Slade, you're endangering your long-term
health for short-term success."

"Judge, I saw a deal on TV about supermodels.
They smoke five packs of cigarettes a day to stay skinny. Why isn't that
illegal? Cigarettes kill people. Steroids just make you bigger. But tobacco
companies got lobbyists."

Quentin McQuade smiled. "That's my
boy."

"Slade, steroids are dangerous."

"Not if they're used properly."

"But you have 'roid rages."

"Only at the peak of the pyramid. It
levels out real fast."

"You could go bald."

"Why do you think so many athletes shave
their heads?"

"Steroids can make you sterile."

"I don't want kids."

"You can become impotent, steroid
dependent, your body won't produce its own testosterone."

He nodded. "That's why I take Clomid after
every cycle."

"Clomid? What's that?"

"Fertility drug. Stimulates natural
testosterone production. Keeps my body doing what it's supposed to do."

"You have an answer for everything, don't
you, Slade? Then answer this: What if you hurt someone else?"

"It'll never happen again, Judge. I
swear."

"If it does, Slade, your dad won't be able
to buy your way out. You'll go to prison. You understand that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Nikki said you suffered depression. Is
that true?"

"Sometimes. When I'm off the stuff. But
when I'm on it, I love the way it makes me feel."

"How does it make you feel?"

"Better than sex."

Beck looked at Quentin McQuade and turned his
palms up. Quentin just shrugged.

"Hell, Judge, makes me want to juice."

Beck turned back to
Slade. "When you're depressed, have you ever thought about suicide?"

"
Suicide?
With my future? No way." Slade
smiled; it was the bright smile of a future NFL star quarterback. "Judge,
I like me way too much to hurt myself."

"Slade, if I agree to this settlement, will
you promise to stop using steroids?"

Stutz said, "
Ja
,
Judge, he promises."

"I asked Slade."

Slade looked at his lawyer and then at his
father; both were trying to nod a yes out of him. Slade turned back to Beck.

"No, Judge, I won't make that promise
because I won't keep it."

Quentin McQuade exhaled loudly and threw his
hands up. "Good thing the boy can play football because he'd never make
it in the business world. If I've told him once, I've told him a thousand
times: a successful businessman has got to be able to look a man directly in
the eye and lie convincingly."

Beck needed a coffee, so he was walking to the bookstore. He
hadn't made it one block down Main Street when he was stopped by a business
owner wielding the newspaper.

"Judge Hardin, I heard the Mexicans are
planning marches and street protests—on Thanksgiving weekend!"

"I'm working on it."

He kept walking, but the owner shouted after
him.

"When they marched in Houston over that
immigration law, they shut down the businesses! That's not supposed to happen
here!"

He got halfway down the block before he was
again stopped.

"Judge Hardin, Main Street voted for you.
We wanted change, but we don't want our businesses destroyed. The old Germans,
they wouldn't let this happen. They know how to keep order!"

"You want order or civil rights?"

"I want to make a living!"

He kept walking; the key was to not slow down.
Two more blocks and four more business owners later, Beck turned down the stone
path leading to the bookstore. At least this would be a friendly business
owner.

"I can't believe you would do such a
thing!"

Jodie jumped him before the door had shut behind
him. She pulled him back outside—

"Can I get my coffee first?"

"No!"

—and over to their bench.

"What thing?"

"Let Quentin McQuade buy you off."

"Jodie, McQuade isn't buying me off. He's—"

"Buying Slade off."

"No. He's—"

"What? What is Quentin doing?"

"He's
trying
to
buy Slade off."

"So you haven't agreed to it?"

"No."

"And you're not going to agree to it?"

"I didn't say that."

"Beck!"

"Jodie, you need to know all the facts
first."

She folded her arms. Her face was flushed
almost as red as her hair. By the time Beck had finished laying out the case,
her hands were in her lap and her face was pale.

"A raid at the turkey plant? Can you stop
it?"

"They're federal, Jodie. They don't answer
to a state court judge."

"Beck, you can't let that happen."

"What if Slade hurts someone else?"

"What are you going to do?"

Beck checked his watch: 4:30.

"School's out. I'm going to talk to
Julio."

"When will they unwire your jaws?" the judge
asked.

Julio Espinoza held up four fingers.

"Four more weeks?"

Julio nodded. They were in the living room.
Julio was sitting in the chair, a soccer ball in his lap; Judge Hardin sat on
the couch next to Julio's
madre
, who was cradling the baby. His
mother's black hair was wet. She always bathed immediately upon coming home
from the turkey plant. She wanted to get the smell of turkeys off her as
quickly as possible. Maria Espinoza was thirty-six years old, but sitting
there in her thick pink bathrobe with her face scrubbed clean, she appeared
almost like a girl. She was singing a quiet Mexican lullaby to Juan.

Rosita, the two-year-old, had climbed onto the
judge's lap, but he seemed unconcerned that she might throw up on his nice suit.
The judge now looked around at Julio's small home—the sparse furnishings; the
few toys; the bare walls except for the framed image of the Virgin Mary and the
crucifix; Margarita, the four-year-old, and Gilberto, the six-year-old, sitting
cross-legged in front of the little television and watching
Sesame Street;
Jorge,
the ten-year-old, picking his nose—and Julio saw in the judge's eyes the pity
of Anglos.

Julio pulled out his small notebook and pen and wrote:
I do not want your pity, Judge. I want McQuade's money. I want my mother
and my father out of the turkey plant and out of the barrio. I want to go to
college. I want to be visible.

He tore out
the page and handed it to Judge Hardin. The judge read it.
"Visible."
He turned to Julio's mother and asked, "Mrs.
Espinoza, do you and Mr. Espinoza want the settlement?"

Julio's mother stopped singing and first looked
to the judge and then to Julio. She spoke to Julio in Spanish.

He wrote:
Mi
madre, she is embarrassed to speak to you, the judge. Her English is not
good. But she wants what I want.

The judge read the note and said, "Julio, Slade
hurt you badly. He should be punished."

Julio wrote:
My
jaw will heal. Slade in jail will not give my family a better life. His
father's money will. That is what I want.

He tore the
page out and handed it to the judge then again he wrote:
Señor Delgado said
they have threatened a raid if I do not make this settlement. My parents are
fearful. Everyone in the barrio is afraid. If there is a raid, we will be
punished, not Slade. Do not let that happen.

The judge read the note then pointed at the
soccer ball. "You play?"

Julio nodded.

The judge said, "Have you ever been tested
for steroids?"

Julio laughed then
wrote:
Yes, 5 times last year, twice so far this year. Only Latino soccer
players are tested.

Julio was embarrassed each time the coach came
to his class and pointed at him and he had to walk out past the Anglos while
the hulking football jocks laughed because they knew they would never be
tested.

The judge read the note and sighed. "Eight
people live here? Where does everyone …"

Julio wrote:
Sleep?
He tore out that page and handed it to the judge, who read it and nodded. He
wrote again:
My father works nights at the turkey plant and sleeps during
the day. My mother works days at the plant, so she sleeps in the bedroom with the
niños. The others sleep in here.

"And where do you sleep?"

Julio stood and motioned for the judge to follow.
They walked out of the living room, through the kitchen, and then into the
small bathroom. Julio pointed at the bathtub.

"You sleep in the bathtub?"

"Es."

When they returned to the living room, Julio's
mother was breast-feeding Juan; his eyes were closed and his mouth was tight
around the nipple of her plump brown breast. The judge turned away.

"Julio, let's go outside."

They stepped outside and into the small yard. There was no
driveway, so Beck had parked the Navigator on the grass not ten feet from the
front door of Julio's tiny house.

"Let's take a walk."

They walked down the narrow asphalt street past
small houses, nothing more than shacks, sheds, and shanties. Several houses
were clustered on lots intended for a single residence. Some weren't even
houses in the structural sense. Some had once been on wheels, others tilted at
precarious angles, and still others were actually travel trailers with wheels
sunken into the ground, as if relatives had come to visit and refused to
leave. Some were small outbuildings or one-car garages that had been converted
into residences of a kind. Some were brightly painted, most were dull and
unpainted. One had a full Nativity scene out front; Mary, Joseph, and Baby Jesus were fake, but the goats, turkeys, and chickens were real. In the yards
young children were playing and speaking in Spanish. A girl who appeared no
older than Julio stood watch; she was very pregnant. She waved at Julio.

"Are the children citizens?"

Julio wrote on his
pad and handed a note to Beck:
Yes. Born in the USA. Isabel, she is 15
and Mexican. The young girls, they want to have the babies as soon as they get
here. They think the government will let them stay if they have American
babies.

"Do most people rent these homes?"

Julio wrote again:
Most
own. The law says they cannot work here, but they can own homes here. Who
makes these laws?

Beck nodded. "Doesn't make much sense."

Julio wrote:
The
trailers are rented. Maybe 15 men live in each one. They work at the plant, send
their money home to Mexico.

"How can fifteen men live in each
trailer?"

Julio wrote:
The
trailers, they are just for the sleeping. Each man pays $400 per month for a
pad on the floor. To the Anglo landlord. He owns many such trailers in the
barrio.