Jury of One

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A feeling he cannot escape: Someone is watching. He has no visual confirmation but it’s a sense, his gut telling him that he’s not alone as he stands on the street outside the athletic club on the commercial district’s southwest side. The bitter air of a February evening stings his sweaty body, the light wind shooting over the top of his long black coat and filling the space inside his sweatshirt. His fellow players have left in their various directions, to high-priced condos along the city’s lakefront or, in some cases, to student housing at whatever school they are attending. Not so for this young man. He will walk four blocks to the Austin bus that will transport him to the city’s south side, to his middle-class home.

He looks at his watch. It’s early. Seven-forty. Open gym at the City Athletic Club-every Wednesday night, the basketball courts can be used free of charge-officially ends at eight o’clock and usually goes to eight-thirty, but tonight the game broke up abruptly after a minor fracas between players turned into a heated altercation, enough so that the gym supervisor sent everyone home. He wasn’t a part of the fight. He wouldn’t feel so comfortable shoving or throwing punches; it’s a class thing, an issue of hierarchy. He’s not one of them. He’s not their age and he doesn’t have their pedigree. They are college kids and grad students, mostly, who live in nice housing their daddies are paying for. He’s a high-school kid with a good outside shot. He understands his place.

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