The Fifth Circle

by Tricia Drammeh

  “If my mom’s out there…”

  “She’s coming. I talked to her last night. She’ll be here.” Mr. Olive looked rushed. He kept glancing around the courtroom. With his short, spiky hair and cheap suit, he looked like a kid playing dress-up. He looked too young to be defending me from life in prison, or worse—the death penalty.

  “What are all these people doing here? My mom won’t even be able to get a seat. They should have some consideration …”

  “Shut up. Some of those people out there are family members of defendants, but others are defendants out on Bond. The judge is probably hearing about fifty cases today—not just yours.” He spun away and went to confer with a bald man with a crapload of tattoos on his forearms. With a few frantic gestures, Mr. Olive finally made his point. Light dawned in the dude’s eyes, and he rolled down the long sleeves of his white dress shirt, thus covering his body art. He must have been one of the defendants Mr. Olive was talking about.

  This court appearance was just like my last one, but this time I was on the other side of the wooden divider separating lawyers from the clients and spectators. I was in the bullpen with the incarcerated. The last time I’d been here, I looked upon the orange-jump-suited dudes with pity. Now I was one of them.

  I thought it would be different. I knew all those crime and punishment shows on television weren’t real, but I figured my case would at least resemble other highly publicized cases like the murder trials for Chris Coleman or Casey Anthony. When I fell asleep the night before, I envisioned television crews, the flashing bulbs of cameras, reporters holding microphones, and police trying to organize crowd control.

  I’d envisioned my mother weeping, Alex entering the courtroom wearing sunglasses and a ball cap in an attempt to hide her identity from the press, or her crazy aunt screaming and accusing me of killing such a fine, upstanding man.

  Where was Alex? She wasn’t in school. Yesterday was the last day. Besides, she wouldn’t have gone back after what had happened. Maybe her mom wouldn’t let her go, or maybe she wasn’t feeling well. I hoped something wasn’t wrong with her or the baby. I made a mental note to tell my mom to check on her from time to time. Someone had to take care of Alex, and with me locked up, the task would have to fall to my mom.

  Chains rattled when I moved my feet. It was bad enough I had to be dragged into court in a jumpsuit—I was forced to endure the humiliation of being looped together with my criminal comrades in chain gang formation.

  “This fucking sucks,” I muttered. The guy next to me snickered and I shot him a nasty look. He was just a simple assault case and the only reason he was even in court was because he didn’t have anyone to post Bond.

  “Sean, dude, where’s your girl?” Ty’Reese asked, craning his neck.

  “I told my mom not to let her come,” I lied. If Alex didn’t come, I’d save face by telling everyone I’d forced her to stay home against her will. If she did come, I’d offer a few half-hearted complaints about disobedient girlfriends while basking in the secret joy of having her there.

  “I thought you said you wanted to see her,” Ty pressed.

  “Yeah, well, I changed my mind. A courthouse is no place for a pregnant woman.”

  Where was she? Didn’t she care what happened to me? I did it all for her, and this was how she chose to repay me?

  An eternity went by while I clanked my chains and glared at the clock. Nine-fifteen. Court was supposed to begin at nine. The judge must have thought she was hot shit just because she had a big, important job.

  At last, she showed up and the bailiff called the session to order. Everyone stood up when he said, “All rise. The Honorable Judge Castillo now presiding.”

  Just like the last time I’d been to court, all vestiges of formality flew away the moment she took her seat. The lawyers milled around, district attorneys mixing with the criminal defenders. Occasionally a lawyer would wander beyond the barrier to confer with a client or family member of a defendant. Attorneys on both sides approached the bench at will. When the bailiff began to read off the names of cases, the defendant was summoned to stand behind a podium. Rarely did the accused speak with the judge. All interaction occurred between high-priced, overpaid law school graduates and the woman who ran the whole show.

  I sat ignored and unrecognized—it was just like school. I looked up to see my mom enter the courtroom. She allowed the heavy door to ease shut behind her, then scampered to a row of seats and eased in quietly. Even from a distance I could tell her eyes were puffy and swollen.

  Case after case was called before the judge. Petty theft, marijuana possession, hit-and-run drivers…I couldn’t believe I’d been lumped in with such insignificant defendants. On television, murderers had a trial of their own. Under the big top of the courthouse, they were the stars of their own circus. Instead, I was stuck listening to meth-heads and crack-whores plead their pathetic cases.

  Lunchtime came just two hours later and the judge, attorneys, and spectators drifted off to indulge their appetites while the incarcerated were taken back to the tunnel that led from the courthouse to the jail.

  “This is bullshit,” I said. “Seriously, the judge wasted so much fucking time, it was unbelievable. So, now what? We sit around and wait for her to quit stuffing her face?”

  “Dude, what the fuck else you got to do?” Ty’Reese laughed. “Better get used to this, man. This is your life—waiting for nothing.”

  I waited for nothing the whole rest of the day. Mine was one of the last cases called. My feet twitched when I heard my name, but all the chain-rattling in the world didn’t get me any closer to telling my side of the story to the judge. It was just like my assault case—the DA was still compiling evidence. They weren’t ready to plead their case. They asked for a continuance.

  Mr. Olive spoke on my behalf. “Your Honor, the defendant is not a flight risk. He needs psychiatric care and access to medication. We asked that bond be set at ten-thousand dollars, ten percent.”

  The bored-looking District Attorney smirked and asked the judge not to allow any bond at all.

  “One-hundred thousand cash only,” Judge Castillo said, turning her attention to the next file in front of her.

  Just like that, I was dismissed. My mom flashed me a watery smile of support right before I was led away. Back to my hole. Back to my life without Alex.

  Where the hell was she?

  Chapter 27- Alex

  That which before had pleased me then displeased me

  And penitent and confessing I surrendered

  (Canto XXVII, lines 82 & 83)

  My steps slowed on my way back to Mr. Chalmers’ classroom, my previous elation at changing my life already beginning to deflate. Making plans was easy. Following through was harder. I knew where I needed to go, but had no idea how to get there. Vague thoughts of college and independence drifted through my mind, but as always, everything seemed so hard.

  Making the decision to go to college was simple, but all the steps leading up to actual enrollment were more difficult. By the time I turned down the hallway toward the Senior English classroom, I was already feeling overwhelmed. Empowerment was just a passing emotion, as it turned out.

  Mr. Chalmers looked up when I walked in. His expression was guarded, unreadable. He looked old.

  “You sat in my classroom every day for almost a year and I never knew what your life was like outside of this school,” he said, bending his head down to write something. “I teach six classes a day. There are thirty students in each class. Over the course of my teaching career, I’ve taught hundreds of students. Over the past few years, I’ve barely noticed any of my students—they seem to blend together after a while.”

  What should I say to that? I waited for him to continue.

  “I think I’ll look at everyone a little differently next year. Maybe reading your essay will be one of the most significant moments of my teaching career,” he said. “I’ve given you an A.”

  “Thank you, but I hope
you didn’t grade me based on pity.”

  “I would never do that. An A wouldn’t help fix your life—neither will writing an essay. Alex, you have to follow through. Don’t lose your momentum.”

  It was too late. It had already begun. I’d spent my entire life in the Fifth Circle of Hell, playing the part of the Sullen, pulled asunder by my own apathy, and held there by Wrath. Was seeing the truth enough of an incentive to make a change, or would it take more?

  “I liked what you wrote about changing patterns,” he said, breaking into my thoughts. “You have to change your patterns, Alex; otherwise your child will repeat them. Can I keep a copy of this essay?”

  I hesitated for a moment. I’d written the essay under duress—the shock and stress of the assignment topic somehow loosened my usual self-restraint. Against my better judgment, I nodded.

  “I’m hoping this essay will remind me to keep my mind and heart open in the future. I’m hoping it will make me a better teacher,” he said, scanning the document into his computer. “Can I have your email address so I can keep track of how you’re doing?”

  Rattling off my email address, I marveled at the idea that Mr. Chalmers somehow became my most trusted teacher, or my unlikely pen-pal. Strangely, it seemed right. Maybe the knowledge that he was keeping tabs on me would give me an incentive to do something with my life.

  I left school with a kick-ass grade point average and tentative hope for the future. I could change my life. I had to do it for my baby. And for me.

  ***

  Just when I decided to change my patterns, I discovered I wasn’t the only one making ripples in the pond. Everyone had a pocket full of stones and they were standing at the shoreline, tossing a pebble in each time I turned my back.

  My first stone-thrower wasn’t even born yet, but his or her prospective due date managed to put the first kink in my plans. Using my last menstrual date and my symptoms as a guide, the nurse at Planned Parenthood gave me a due date of October twenty-sixth. I could begin the fall semester, but would I be able to finish it? If I did manage to drag myself back to classes days after giving birth, how well would I do in my sleep deprived, post-partum state?

  “Well?” my mom asked when I joined her in the waiting room.

  When I’d asked her to drive me to the clinic, she approached the errand with her typical blend of apprehension and denial. She didn’t ask why I needed to go. She only asked if it had to be today. Yes.

  “I’m pregnant and the baby is due in October,” I said, leading her out the door.

  “Oh, Alex,” she said, tearing up. Out in the parking lot, she turned to me. “What are you going to do? You can’t have a baby.”

  “Well, I am. Can you take me to the DMV?” I asked.

  “What for?”

  “I’m eighteen and I don’t have a driver’s license.” I’d had my permit for several months, but hadn’t logged many driving hours.

  “Honey, you need to practice some more before you take the test,” she said, backing out of the parking lot. “I’ll take you out this weekend.”

  “No. I want to get it over with now while I have the courage. I need to run a bunch of errands this week, and you can’t take time off work to drive me around. Please.”

  “I’m just so tired…”

  “So am I. Let’s just go.” If I pushed her hard enough, she’d give in. I’d seen my dad browbeat and manipulate her for years. I felt guilty for taking advantage of her docility, but I had my own agenda. Once I got my driver’s license, I wouldn’t need her help. I could drive myself where I needed to go, and she could wallow in self pity without being disturbed. It was a win-win.

  The driving portion of the test wasn’t very difficult, but the parallel parking test nearly broke me. With great trepidation, I eased the car toward the orange cones.

  “Either I do this right now, or I leave here a loser. I will not blow this,” I whispered to myself, causing the DMV examiner to shoot me a strange look.

  Without hesitation, I whipped the car between the cones and felt the thrill of victory. My driver’s license was my ticket to relative freedom, and with the laminated card in hand, I drove my mom home and used her car the rest of the afternoon.

  I took my pregnancy test results, social security card, proof of residency, and most recent savings account statement to the Family Services office. I filled out the paperwork to apply for temporary Medicaid, but walked out approved for not only medical assistance, but food stamps as well.

  Next stop was the Health Department to apply for WIC. I received nutritional counseling, a list of obstetricians in the area who accepted Medicaid, and vouchers for free milk and eggs. I’d accomplished a lot that day—about three-quarters of what I’d planned to do. So, why did I feel like a loser? Oh, yeah. Because I was now part of the system, a public assistance recipient, a teenage mom, a statistic.

  Exhausted and depressed, I returned home without completing my final task: a trip to Saint Louis Community College to discuss my options for enrollment. I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, fought back flashbacks of the last night I’d spent there while my dad was still alive, and let my despair engulf me as I drifted off to sleep.

  I spent the next few days napping, reading, and avoiding my future. I put away the trash bags full of clothing and personal belongings I’d removed from Sean’s house after the murder. I placed my jewelry box on the dresser and opened it up. The ring was still there—the ring Sean gave me for Christmas. I doubted I would ever wear it again. I couldn’t look at it without remembering every bad thing that had ever happened in my life. I put the ring in the bottom of the box and turned away.

  ***

  A week after my final exams, I conjured up the energy to log on to the computer, intent on looking up Sean’s case on Missouri Casenet, but I never made it past my email.

  Mr. Chalmers had actually sent me a message. I double clicked to open it.

  Hello Alex,

  I hope this letter finds you doing well and following through on your dreams. Just remember: anyone can have an epiphany. It takes true courage and strength of character to act upon it. Perhaps the attachment will aid you in your quest for the true freedom of independence. Good luck in your endeavors. Do not hesitate to contact me if you need assistance of any sort.

  Fond wishes,

  Edgar Chalmers

  I opened the attachment and immediately wished I hadn’t. It was the essay I’d written for my final. My eyes settled on the word molesting and skipped ahead to control, finally settling on father. The combination was enough to induce a bout of severe nausea, and for the first time in days, I found myself on the bathroom floor, vomiting into the toilet.

  When I returned to my room, weak-kneed and dizzy, I deleted the email and collapsed in bed. Memories of my past washed over me in a deluge, pummeling my emotions until I couldn’t stop crying. I wept burning tears of hatred for my father, for Sean, for myself. Tears of shame. Tears of hopelessness, of fear, of despair.

  There was a soft knock at the door before it swung open. My mom entered hesitantly. “Alex? What’s wrong?”

  “Everything,” I sobbed.

  She sat down on the bed next to me and rubbed my back until my tears subsided. “I know you’re upset about the baby, but everything will work out. I’ll help you. You’re not alone. You’ll always have a home.”

  Tears of gratitude rolled down my cheeks. My mom was willing to stick by my side. She wouldn’t put me out on the street, but would she still have a place to call home? Was this the place I really wanted to raise my child—here in the small city where everyone would know who my baby’s father was and would judge him or her for it?

  “I got on Medicaid and food stamps,” I said, my words hitching weirdly as I tried to return my breathing to normal.

  “Good. That’ll help. If you can help out with groceries, I can pay the other bills. You won’t have to work while you’re pregnant. After that…well, I’ve thought about selling the house and moving to Cape G
irardeau with Becky. Won’t that be nice? Just us three girls kicking around that big old house? Cape’s a nice place to raise a baby.”

  That would be nice. We could escape Saint Edmunds and all our bad memories. Mom and Aunt Becky could help with the baby while I worked or went to school, so I wouldn’t have to worry about childcare. My baby would have a chance at a normal life—no abusive men around to spoil everything.

  Mom led me downstairs with promises of a junk food feast, and I followed her gratefully. Sugary, salty food full of preservatives always helped put things in perspective. We could veg out in front of the television, watch the kind of movies we only used to watch if my dad was out hunting, and forget about our real lives for a while. I’d had enough of reality.

  As we gathered the supplies necessary for our movie fest, I thought about my mom’s proposition. If we were going to be moving in a few months, it would be stupid for me to enroll in college here in Saint Edmunds. I should probably look for a school out toward Cape. As far as jobs were concerned, my mom already told me I didn’t have to work. Who would hire a pregnant girl anyway? With the two of us sharing her car, my availability would be limited to the times she wasn’t working.

  Once the baby was born, I would qualify for more food stamps and vouchers for WIC. I could even get money from welfare so I could stay home with the baby for a little while. It would be really hard to work or go to school with a newborn.

  With my immediate future planned out, I sprawled out on the borrowed sofa. None of the original furniture remained. We’d filled the house with Uncle Alan’s ferret-smelling castaways. It was still our living room though. Changing the interior design didn’t trick us into forgetting what had happened there.

  With chips and dip in hand, I let The Prince and Me carry me away to a world where everything was simple. Perfect. Why couldn’t my life be like that? Where everything was easy? I shoved my unhappy thoughts aside and tuned into the drama unfolding on TV. I loved a good chick flick.