Part 3 — Frank Mullins Field
Judge Bell held up a thin folder. “In 2016, Mr. Burke bought the land under this field for $90,000,” he said. “Two weeks earlier, Mr. Lowell, as council president, had received a private briefing on the city plan to buy it. The city then purchased the land from Mr. Burke for $310,000.”
A murmur rolled across the bleachers. In the fourth row, a county prosecutor lifted her hand. I had sent my findings to the Indiana State Board of Accounts in August, with copies of every public record.
Rick Burke insisted it was all legal. The judge answered quietly. “A donation does not wash away a conflict of interest, sir.”
Jerry Lowell stood, set down his notes, and resigned as council president right there in the infield. Nobody cheered. It was the saddest quiet I have ever heard at a ballpark.
One councilwoman, Mrs. Alvarez, moved to rename the field. The vote was taken on the spot, with a show of hands from the bleachers, and it was six to zero. The oldest Cardinal in the stands, a retired firefighter named Tommy, pulled the tarp off the sign.
You cannot buy a name that eight hundred children already wrote on their hearts.
The State Board of Accounts audit confirmed the conflict of interest. Burke repaid the city $220,000 in profit, and Lowell was fined under the state ethics law. The council passed a rule that no member may do business with the city while in office.
The new sign read Frank Mullins Field, Home of the Cardinals. Burke scoreboard stayed, with no name on it, and a small plaque thanking the donor anonymously.
More than two hundred of Frank former players came that Saturday, some from as far as Phoenix. They wore faded jerseys and brought their own kids. They lined the first base line and held their caps over their hearts.
Judge Bell threw the first pitch with Frank old glove, the one I had given him from our garage. It was a strike.
I sat in the front row of the bleachers with Frank cap in my lap, and I swear I heard him say from somewhere behind me, “Good one, Marcus.”