Read Online Playing for Pizza by John Grisham - Free Book Online Page A

seat.”
    Rick obeyed and tried Sam’s number once more. Same voice mail.
    Romo disappeared into one of the offices. There was no name on the door, nothing to indicate where the accused was or whom he was about to see. There wascertainly no courtroom nearby, none of the usual hustle and noise of frantic lawyers and worried families and cops bantering back and forth. A typewriter rattled in the distance. Desk phones rang and voices could be heard.
    The cop in the uniform drifted away and struck up a conversation with a young lady at a desk forty feet down the hall. He soon forgot about Rick, who was quite alone and unwatched and could have nonchalantly disappeared. But why bother?
    Ten minutes passed, and the cop in the uniform finally left without saying a word. Romo was gone, too.
    The door opened and a pleasant woman smiled and said, “Mr. Dockery? Yes? Please.” She was offering him an entrance into the office. Rick walked inside. It was a crowded front room with two desks and two secretaries, both of whom were smiling at Rick as if they knew something he didn’t. One in particular was very cute, and Rick instinctively tried to think of something to say. But what if she spoke no English?
    “A moment please,” the first lady said, and Rick stood awkwardly as the other two pretended to return to work. Romo had evidently found the side door and was no doubt back on the street pestering someone else.
    Rick turned and noticed the large, dark double wooden doors, and beside them was an impressive bronze plaque that announced the eminence of Giuseppe Lazzarino, Giudice . Rick walked closer, then even closer, then pointed to the word “Giudice” and asked, “What is this?”
    “Judge,” the first lady said.
    Both doors suddenly flew open and Rick came face-to-face with the judge. “Reek Dockery!” he shouted, thrusting a right hand forward while grabbing a shoulder with his left, as though they had not seen each other in years. Indeed they had not.
    “I am Giuseppe Lazzarino, a Panther. I am fullback.” He pumped and squeezed and flashed his large white teeth.
    “Nice to meet you,” Rick said, trying to inch backward.
    “Welcome to Parma, my friend,” Lazzarino said. “Please come in.” He was already pulling on Rick’s right hand as he continued to shake it. Once inside the large office, he released Rick, closed both doors, and said again, “Welcome.”
    “Thanks,” Rick said, feeling slightly assaulted. “Are you a judge?”
    “Call me Franco,” he demanded, waving at a leather sofa in one corner. It was evident that Franco was too young to be a seasoned judge and too old to be a useful fullback. His large round head was shaved slick; the only hair on his head was an odd thin patch on his chin. Mid-thirties, like Nino, but over six feet tall, solid and fit. He fell into a chair, pulled it close to Rick on the sofa, and said, “Yes, I am judge, but, more importantly, I am fullback. Franco is my nickname. Franco is my hero.”
    Then Rick looked around, and understood. Franco was everywhere. A life-size cutout of Franco Harris running the ball during a very muddy game. Aphoto of Franco and other Steelers holding a Super Bowl trophy triumphantly over their heads. A framed white jersey, number 32, apparently signed by the great man himself. A small Franco Harris doll with an oversize head on the judge’s immense desk. And displayed prominently in the center of the Ego Wall, two large color photographs, one of Franco Harris in full Steeler game gear, minus the helmet, and the other of Franco the judge here, in a Panther uniform, no helmet, and wearing number 32 and trying his best to imitate his hero.
    “I love Franco Harris, the greatest Italian football player,” Franco was saying, his eyes practically moist, his voice a bit gravelly. “Just look at him.” He waved his hands triumphantly around the office, which was practically a shrine to Franco Harris.
    “Franco was Italian?” Rick asked slowly.