Andrew and Steven

by Kenneth Wise

  Chapter 1

  Steven Cross was just sixteen when the Juvenile Court Judge softly uttered those clamorous words that echoed off the walls and windows until they had become like hundreds of bass drums being pounded in unison and forming a single point of light driven to a spot directly between his eyes. It drilled a hole to the center of his brain where it exploded and reduced his ability to comprehend to zero. “Steven, I am ordering that you be committed to the Boys’ Correctional Facility for an indeterminate length of time. I hope some good will come from this unfortunate occurrence in your young life.” Steven sat there, stunned; his entire body on fire, not knowing if he should be laughing or crying. He wanted to scream, “You want good to come from this ‘unfortunate occurrence in my young life’? You fucking moron! You are sending me to the ‘prison preparatory school’ and you hope some good comes from it?” His whole body was shaking from a combination of fear, anger, and frustration.

  “Do you understand this court’s ruling?” the judge was asking. Steven sat speechless playing with the black tie he had worn today to impress the judge. Starched white shirt and black pants topped off with a black tie that made him look like the bread deliveryman; some impression that effort made on the judge. He understood the words but he sure as hell did not understand the logic behind them. A light touch from his father brought Steven back to reality. “Yes Sir!” were the only words he could find.

  “Do you have anything you would like to say to the court or to anyone in attendance here today?” Steven’s mind was racing. There were a lot of things he would like to say; he would like to tell the judge what an asshole he thought he was, or to tell the Juvenile Officer, Mr. Howell where he thought he should go, but he knew that wouldn't help his situation any, even though the personal satisfaction might have been worth whatever the consequences.

  “I just want to say I’m sorry to my parents for all the trouble I have caused them and to thank Mr. Howell for trying to help me and that I am sorry I didn’t take advantage of his help,” Steven said in a clear, strong voice that betrayed his rage and his fear.

  “So,” the Judge said, “That concludes our business. The Sheriff’s Deputies will now take you into custody and you will be escorted to the County Juvenile Detention Center; there to await transport to the state facility. You may have five minutes to say good-bye to your parents.” With that the Judge got up and exited the third floor office that served as the Juvenile Court Room.

  Steven hugged his mother, who was softly weeping, and who did not want to let go. If he had sad feelings for anyone, it was his mother. She did not deserve all the bad things that had happened in her young life. When talking to his friends he would always call her his “old lady”, like everyone else did; the “old man” and the “old lady.” It was not until this very moment that he realized that she was not really old, but through unfortunate experiences, she had aged far beyond her years. He was sorry that he added more sorrow to her life. He wished he could tell her that someday she would be proud of him but he knew that they would be only empty words that had been said many times before; he let it go and whispered in her ear, “I am sorry mom, I do love you.” Then he shook hands with his father; said he was sorry. His father wished him good luck and said to his wife, Steven’s mother, ”We better go, I don’t want to be late for work.” They left and that was that. “Good luck”, that was all he could say to his son who was being needlessly sent to an institution where he would probably learn how to be a criminal. “I guess that’s all he had time for”, Steven thought. He had looked at his father as they were engaged in the manly expression of nothing; the handshake. He was in his late fifties, still thin, his red hair turning gray and his hairline receding. The years of alcohol abuse showed in his face like a street light on a dark night. Alcohol, that was his father’s one and only love. Alcohol, it always came before his wife, his kids, or his responsibility as the head of a household. “Good luck to you too”, he wanted to say, but just couldn’t find the energy to say anything to the man who had lost interest in his son before he was even old enough to learn the “times tables.”

  The deputies who were waiting asked Steven to empty his pockets, frisked him a little, handcuffed his shaking hands behind his back and walked him to the third floor of the parking garage to their waiting patrol car, and helped him into the back seat. Before he closed the door, one of the deputies squatted so that he and Steven were face to face. “I think you got a raw deal in there son", the officer said, "but that’s over; nothing you can do to change that. From now on, though, behave yourself up there; follow every order, work hard, don’t let anyone drag you down and you can get through this. Good luck!” He bowed his head slightly for just a few seconds, then stood up, and said to his partner, “Let’s go Rob.” They closed their doors and off they all went. Steven was sure the officer had said a quick silent prayer for him; it was a kindness he would never forget.

  The three week stay at the detention center was not so bad. Everyone there fell into one of two categories. One group was waiting to find the terms of their probation and then heading home. The others, like Steven, were all headed to the Boys Correctional Center. Some were afraid; some were cocky; while others were a mixture of many complex emotions, like Steven. He was very scared but had made up his mind that no one would ever see his fear and yet he would avoid trouble, unless it was impossible. All he wanted was to get this ordeal over with and he was not going to let anyone else screw up his chances of getting his life back. He was just as sure that he was not going to let anyone hurt him. He knew he was embarking on a very treacherous path that could turn to quicksand under his feet and send him sinking into an abyss from which there would be no return and would alter his life forever.

  His day finally arrived when a man and woman came to escort him to the facility known as “The Hill,” and into the hands of the officials of that state facility.

  Before they left, Mr. Alomar, the director of the detention center, and a former professional boxer, put his hands on Steven’s shoulders and said, “Keep yourself strong and straight. Keep your eyes on the goal. If you do, you will soon be home and putting your young life back together. OK?” Steven looked in Mr. Alomar’s eyes, thanked him and said; “Don’t worry! The next time you see me, you will be proud of how well I did.” Alomar and Steven shook hands, not a cold handshake like his father’s. Mr. Alomar grasped his hand with both of his huge rough hands and Steven knew that the man was sincere and cared about him. He wished him well and turned him over to the ’escorts’. He never saw Mr. Alomar again. He periodically would think about him and wonder how he was and if life was as good to him as he was to the kids he took under his wings and tried to give hope.

  The Hill. The Boy’s Correctional Facility was a collection of about thirty dark red, ivy-covered buildings that must have all been designed by the same architect. There were dormitories, a massive dining hall, a school, a hospital, a power plant and various other buildings and facilities that would be needed to operate a self-contained village. The whole thing sat on a hill, one that had been bulldozed into a Midwest mesa, with a commanding view of the flat farmland that spread out in every direction.

  The current residents, on the day Steven arrived, included murderers, gang members, sex offenders, and hardened criminals, all under the age of eighteen. There were others, like Steven, who had been sent here for some petty offenses by a petty Judge and Juvenile Officer. In fact most of the kids here were like Steven and ended up here because they just did not fit into the expected boundaries of behavior, which had been determined by people who had forgotten what it was like to be young.

  Steven looked around and knew he would have to try to be invisible, but be tough when circumstances demanded it. He hated everyone who had conspired to send him to this god-forsaken dungeon.

  The normal stay in the reception center dorm was three weeks, and then each new “resident” was assigned to a permanent cottage. When nearly four weeks had passed and he had
no permanent assignment, Steven, after being given permission to speak, asked the lead cottage manager when he might expect his assignment. “Don’t worry about it,” the manager bellowed, “you are being shipped to some other facility.” Steven started to ask about the change but the manager signaled that his speaking time was over.