Excerpt from “The Law of Momentum”

Just saw where the average attention span in the smart phone era has plummeted to 8 seconds. That ranks us humans just below the goldfish. Thanks science! No wonder nobody out there reads books anymore. That being said, I didn’t spend the last five years pouring everything I have into the Miranda Rights series so that it could collect dust in an Amazon warehouse. I need to at least attempt to advocate for my characters. If not me, who?

The following scene takes place at a female Correctional Institution just outside of Ocala, Florida, named Lowell Annex. It’s the evening of the 2021 NFL Draft, and after snorting a sizeable piece of Suboxone, Miranda McGuire joins her two besties in the dayroom—Tasha Pitts, a lifer who once played cornerback for the Pensacola Power (a once-dominant women’s football team); and Dixie Adams, another lifer whose face is covered in scar tissue. Tasha is hoping that her son Cedric, also a talented corner, is drafted in the early rounds . . .

Miranda was surprised by the number of women who remained in the dayroom to watch the NFL Draft when Dixie got up to change the channel. Besides the handful of studs who made a big show out of watching every sporting event—and who she suspected were really not as into it as their ostentatious bluster might suggest—there were more than a few ladies who were obviously football fans.

On the bench behind her, two middle-aged women were engaged in a heated discussion over who the Miami Dolphins would choose with their first-round selection. A few rows back, a belligerent older woman was ranting about how it didn’t matter who the other 31 teams drafted as long as Tom Brady was in Tampa. Even Bad Breath Beth was into it, standing beneath the television and cupping her ears to hear better as the announcers gushed about the arm talent of someone named Lawrence.

“These are good,” Dixie mumbled through a mouthful of food. She pointed at the half-eaten burrito in Miranda’s lap. “You gonna eat that?”

“Quit being so damn greedy!” said Tasha. “You already ate three.”

“I ate two,” she clarified.

“Two plus all the leftover soup and chips in my bowl.”

“You told me to clean it,” Dixie growled.

The food was delicious. In addition to the standard ramen noodles, spicy refried beans, and Shabang Extreme chips, Tasha had acquired stolen fresh bell peppers and cherry tomatoes from her connection in food service, all boiled in Throkkie’s stinger, topped with ranch dressing and jalapeno cheese, and wrapped in tortilla shells. The entire dayroom smelled like Los Rancheros.

Miranda passed Dixie the remainder of her burrito. She swallowed it in two bites.

Tasha shook her head. “I can’t believe you. You know damn well the girl’s trying to get her strength back after quitting that old nasty drug.”

Dixie looked at Miranda and smirked.

The tiny sliver of Suboxone she snorted that morning was like a rickety wooden pier beneath a storm surge of shame. She stared up at the television and busied her hands in her lap.

“So, is your son there? In the audience?”

“Nah,” said Tasha. “He’s at his high school coach’s house in Pensacola with his girlfriend, his auntie, and cousins. He’ll be on that zoom thing whenever they call his name though. They’re all excited about being on TV.”

Miranda watched a tearful mother and a proud father speak to an interviewer after their son donned a green cap and bounded across the stage, a massive kid with cornrows in a sharp-tailored suit. His thousand-watt smile reflected camera flashes as he vigorously shook hands with the man who called his name.

“Who’s the dude in the yellow jacket?” asked Dixie.

“The commissioner.” Tasha stared up at the mother being interviewed, a plus-size woman in a sequined gown. She fanned tears from her eyes with a gloved hand as she touted her son’s character and work ethic.

Miranda could feel her friend’s regret and longing like barometric pressure in the next seat. She attempted to cheer her up. “Maybe they’ll pick your son next.”

“I doubt it,” said Tasha.

“Why not? You told me he was the best quarterback in the draft.”

Dixie shot her a condescending look.

“What?” she said. “What did I say?”

“Cornerback.” Tasha’s eyes remained locked hypnotically on the screen. “Cedric is a cornerback. And he is the best in this draft class as far as raw talent is concerned. He’s the fastest, tallest, most physical, he can mirror receivers in their routes, has the best instincts . . . pure ballhawk, that boy. An interception machine.” She glanced at Miranda. “I showed you the JPay videos from his Pro Day, didn’t I?”

Miranda vaguely remembered a grainy, thirty-second video clip on the kiosk when she was going through withdrawals. “I think so.”

Another hulking kid in an expensive suit strutted across the stage to shake hands with the commissioner, another proud mom was being interviewed.

“Nah, Ced’s problem ain’t talent. All those analysts up there on the TV agree on his skills. But my son is a hot head. He’s got a short fuse. See the man on the left in the blue tie?”

Miranda nodded.

“He called him a locker room cancer.”

“That’s a mean thing to say.”

She stared at the television. Her jaw clenched and unclenched. “He punched a teammate in the face on the sideline of the spring game. Got him kicked off the team.”

“It’s a violent sport,” Dixie rasped. “You’d think they’d appreciate the testosterone.”

Tasha shook her head. “I shot his dad when he was eleven years old. He’s been getting in fights ever since. ‘Course it ain’t his fault. He was just a little boy out there in that cold world, doing his best to survive. Livin’ on his auntie’s couch, livin’ at his coach’s house, livin’ with friends. It’s a miracle he made it this far.” A salty tear slid over her chiseled cheekbone. “My baby is about to go to the NFL!” She smiled, inhaled, exhaled. “He just should’ve been a first-round draft pick. He should’ve been up on that stage. We should’ve been up on that stage.”

Miranda touched her shoulder.

“What round do you think he’ll go?” asked Dixie.

“His agent says no later than the fourth.” The television projected geometric patterns of light against her ebony skin. “But it really just depends on who has a need at his position and who’s willing to take a chance on him. He could go earlier.”

“And what’s the difference between the first and fourth round?” Dixie noticed a morsel of ramen on her leg and popped it in her mouth. “Moneywise.”

She leaned back on the bench and sighed. “I don’t know. Thirty million? Forty? A whole ass-grip of cash. Fourth round picks are lucky to get a few mil.”

Miranda fantasized about what she could do with that kind of money—buy her dad a house, hire a post-conviction attorney, put some in a trust for Cameron . . .

“But I ain’t gonna lie, even fourth-round money would be enough to get me back to court,” said Tasha. “I’ve got rock solid issues.”

Dixie shot Miranda a here-we-go-again look.

“I see you cutting your eyes, Dixie Adams. Don’t be a hater. You know damned well I’ve got a strong case. Florida is a stand your ground state.” She glanced at Miranda, as if seeking confirmation that those laws were still on the books.

“Florida is a stand your ground state, thanks to strong conservative leadership,” said Dixie. “If our ginger law clerk buddy here had her way, the standup men and women who enacted that law would be replaced with a bunch of woke transgender Greenpeace socialists.”

“Hey,” Miranda protested. “It’s Democrats that do the most for—”

“Save it.” Dixie threw up a stop sign. “I don’t want to talk politics. I’m trying to watch the draft.”