by R. J. Blain
“Please tell me she’s not telling the truth,” the judge begged.
“She’s telling the truth,” the angel confirmed.
“Why aren’t these shanking incidents listed in your record?”
“Because the prison guards reviewed the tapes and determined it was an act of self-defense. Self-defense in prison doesn’t get added to the record. If they hadn’t tried to get uppity, I wouldn’t have had a need to shank them.” I shrugged. “Let me tell you something, though. Shanking someone with a bowl is hard work.”
Once again, silence fell over the room, and both unicorns stared at me. The stallion canted his head, one ear twisted back and one ear forward.
“Yeah, buddy. I’d wise up and put those nice, shiny hooves of yours to good use, as I am totally the kind to shank a bitch with a bowl.”
The judge looked ready to cry. “How do you shank someone with a bowl?”
“You hit them really hard, and when it finally breaks, you use the edge as your shank. You hit them really hard numerous times until you cut them. For the record, prison bowls? They don’t really make good shivs or shanks. They don’t like giving inmates anything that might be used as a shiv. I mean, the bowl definitely did some cutting, but it’s really the wrong shape to classify as either a shiv or shank. The guards praised me for defending myself until they could intervene, however. When in prison and there’s not much else to do, well, I exercise.” I showed off my rather defined bicep. “See?”
As someone who rarely received praise, I’d basked in the glow of having beat an asshole with a bowl and being complemented on doing it.
“She is telling the truth,” the angel confirmed.
“The jury is present to evaluate your case and determine how long is a fair time for your punishment and rehabilitation,” the judge announced.
“I thought that was your job. You just go with it if the jury says I’m guilty. By the way, I’m guilty.”
“The court has decided that your situation requires special care. It’s obvious our previous measures have been ineffective.”
“The court, with all due respect, Your Honor, has lost its marbles providing someone like me with an angel and two unicorns. I’m still not sure how the unicorns play into this, as you seem determined to prevent me from stealing them. I’d totally steal the stallion, though. I could put him up on show and make a fortune showing him off. He’s pretty. You can’t show me pretty things and expect me to not want to steal them. Sorry to the unicorn’s sister. You’re also pretty, but he’s totally prettier. He looks extra naughty with a side dish of naughty, and apparently, I like that sort of thing? You’re kind of pure compared to him.”
The unicorns stared at me, likely questioning why they’d agreed to become involved with my case.
“The unicorns require a caretaker, Miss Kellen. You have been selected.”
A laugh burst out of me, and I doubled over, tears stinging my eyes while I gasped for breath. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“He is telling the truth,” the angel announced.
“Did someone finally counter shank me in prison? This could be a concussion-induced hallucination that just happened to coincide with my court date. Let me tell you, I’ve been looking forward to this.” I checked my non-existent watch, as inmates weren’t allowed such nice things. It was less that it was a nice thing, and more that a few inmates had figured out how to weaponize even watches, so they were taken away as a safety precaution.
I had a little to do with that, as I’d taken a watch and forcibly shoved it down an asshole’s throat for trying to cop a feel. If the asshole hadn’t tried to cop a feel, I wouldn’t have gotten creative.
“That gesture worries me,” the judge muttered.
“Two months, three weeks, and three days waiting to meet you, Judge Davids. That’s what my attorney told me earlier. Really, you seem pretty cool for a judge, so the wait was worth it.” I checked my imaginary watch and squinted. “My hour and minute hands seem to have vanished, so I can’t give you the exact time, sorry.”
“It takes time to make arrangements of this nature. You also signed the paper consenting to a delay in your trial for your cupcake theft. You told your parole officer you deserved a minimum of three months for snatching the cupcake, and that you thought this was fair.”
“Well, it is. I totally violated my parole. Honestly, I do not understand why I was let out on parole in the first place. I’m hopeless.”
“The court doesn’t feel that way. The court feels that you haven’t been given sufficient opportunities to experience a positive household with responsibilities and rewards for accomplishing those responsibilities.”
“You mean a paycheck?”
“I do.”
“Inmates get a paycheck, almost. Sorta. Well, not really. It’s a buck fifty an hour, and if we get through our parole terms, the state cuts the check as compensation. I mean, I assume the rest of the minimum wage went to the taxes and boarding expenses of being in jail, which is fair enough, but a buck fifty an hour doesn’t go all that far, or so I’ve been told. As I’ve never made it through parole, that check’s not coming. I’m just being realistic. But the motivational stubs I get once a month are fun to think about, I guess. Let’s say you all let me out of parole today. According to my attorney, if I’m released on a six-month term and if I make it, I’d get a check for fifty thousand dollars. For the record, that’s for fifteen years as paid work, as they kindly started paying me to do work when I was twelve. Or so my attorney says. Also, Your Honor, you should probably tell somebody child labor is bad. I’m not exactly the shining example of goodness here, but even I’ve figured that out.”
Ah, good old silence spurred on by the discomfort of those just realizing for the first time their system really made use of child labor as part of its rehabilitation program.
The judge scowled and flipped through my file. “The judiciary system didn’t see fit to include your prison work record with your general information.”
“Well, it’d be real stupid of them to put in just how much they’d owe me if I ever did make it out of the slammer. Also, they don’t pay out overtime, and they assume we get two weeks of vacation, which we don’t. We work six days a week, eight hours a day when in the work camps, and even if we’re not assigned to a work camp, we’re doing something productive to the system. Also, if you ever tear those robes, let me know. I’ve got a mean stitch, and I can make those tears disappear without a trace. I’m not a great person, sure, but I work like I mean it.”
I had plans for my fifty thousand if I ever got my dirty hands on it.
“Can you verify the truth of her statement, please?”
“She’s telling the truth,” the angel reported, and I marveled that a being lacking a head could spit words so effectively. “I would recommend you ask a few questions regarding when she first learned to sew in the prison system.”
I enjoyed the angel’s laughter, but her anger made me want to leave the room immediately and climb into the nearest sewer, where it’d be a lot safer.
“Thank you. Miss Kellen? How old were you when you learned to sew in the prison system?”
“How old was I when I went to prison for the first time? It’s been a while.”
“I have the date here. You were five, almost six.”
“That old.”
“She speaks the truth,” the angel announced.
“How many hours were you expected to sew or do other tasks?”
“Not much has changed over the years,” I replied, wondering if I stepped into some form of trap or another.
“When did you learn to read and write?”
I arched a brow at the judge. “Who said I could read or write?”
For the first time in my life, I witnessed a judge erupt, spew curses vile enough even my fellow inmates hesitated to use them, and storm out of the courtroom, informing everyone between profanities the court session would resume in an hour. He ushered in a different sort
of silence, one I wanted to break before the attention of everyone in the room made me snap, too.
I shrugged. “If you think the read and write thing is bad, I count to a hundred by counting how many times it takes me to count to ten. After that, things get a little confusing, but whatever. That whole thing with fifty thousand? That’s what I was told when I asked the corrections officer, which my attorney confirmed. Bless their hearts, they did try to explain the numbers to me, but they don’t make sense, you know? But don’t worry about it. I just ask somebody to read for me if needed. It’s not a big deal, really.”
If anything, my words deepened the silence.
“It is a big deal,” the angel said, and all I heard was sadness in her tone. “That is the sound of guilt, for even the hardest of hearts understand you were robbed of something far more valuable than anything you have pilfered over your years.”
“Huh. Really? What’s that?”
“Your childhood, of course.”
Of course. “Well, I’m not really worried about it. I mean, what would I even do with fifty thousand? Well, beyond buy cupcakes. Hey, how many cupcakes could I buy with that much?”
“I could tell you the number, but would it mean anything to you?” the angel asked.
“Well, not really. Is it a lot of cupcakes?”
“You could fill this entire courtroom with cupcakes with that much money.”
My eyes widened, and I whistled. “I’m going to need a really patient man if I’m going to be eating that many cupcakes off his chest. Damn.”
The angel laughed, and I appreciated how everyone else in the room relaxed at the sound. “And many, many long years.”
I guess I would, to eat that many cupcakes. “Oh, well. A girl can dream, right?”
“You certainly can,” the angel replied, her tone solemn. “But I’m certain you can find something better to do with all that money.”
“You act like I’ll ever see it.”
“You will,” the angel replied. “It’s only a matter of time. I think you’ll still find things will work out in your favor for a change.”
“That’ll take a miracle,” I muttered.
“Or a pair of unicorns and a few cupcakes.”
“With pixie dust on top?”
The angel laughed. “You won’t need any pixie dust to find happiness. You’ll see.”
Angels were crazy, but since I wasn’t one to talk, I kept quiet.
Chapter Two
After an hour, Judge Davids returned, the clerk went through the motions of opening the session, and the attorneys—both of them—went under fire over my criminal record, the system, and anything else he felt had gone wrong with my so-called rehabilitation. To add a complication to my situation, the system owed me more than I’d been told, not that I understood the numbers the judge discussed with the attorneys.
My attorney argued for another court session, one that would audit my earnings while part of the prison system determined if my skills had resulted in my constant cycling through various jails rather than proper rehabilitation. One that would establish how much I would be owed following a successful rehabilitation.
The judge listened to the attorneys argue over whether or not my case should be reviewed immediately or delayed for more research. Twenty minutes into the debate, the judge snapped, “Enough. The jury will decide if this is resolved now or later, as we have an angel in attendance. Does the jury require time to discuss, or do you feel you can come to a decision with what you have heard?”
Every jury had some poor schmuck who had to speak for everyone, and after a minute of chatter, the appointed sacrifice stood and announced, “We do not need additional time to discuss, Your Honor.”
I wondered if I could wander out without anyone noticing. While I sat beside my attorney, she focused on the other attorney and the judge. The angel’s attention fell on me now and then, but she seemed more interested in the unicorns. The stallion kept a close watch on me, while his sister’s ears flattened back, and she whipped her tufted tail.
“I’m naming the girl one Beast, and the boy one Patience. Maybe Stalker,” I whispered to my attorney.
“I’d name her Pissy, personally.”
Well, I’ll be damned with sprinkles. My attorney had a sense of humor. “The angel got to you, didn’t she?”
“This whole case has gotten to me. I have some prison system clerks to correct. With my foot. Directly up their asses. I’ll line them up in order of responsibility, and the worst offenders will experience my wrath several times.”
Well, that mental image would haunt me for a while. I peeked under the table, confirming my attorney wore stiletto heels. “They’re going to need surgery and a lot of pixie dust to recover from that.”
“Correctional officers are not allowed to indulge in pixie dust within twenty-four hours of duty, and they’re scanned before shifts to make certain they aren’t under the influence.”
Hah. No wonder they got pissy with the rowdy inmates. “I’d always thought pixie dust was a requirement to deal with the inmates.”
Judge Davids cleared his throat. “Ladies, if you’re done gossiping?”
I raised my hand. “Do I get a say in this?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s harsh.”
“What is the jury’s decision?”
“The jury wishes for the information to be reviewed now while it can be verified by an angel. According to what we’ve been told, the correctional officer in charge of her file is present at the courthouse today, so it would be more efficient for the court to resolve this situation now.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how courts are supposed to work,” I muttered to my attorney.
“It’s not, but judges have a great deal of leeway in handling a case with an angel in attendance, as it’s simpler to get to the heart of the matter. The approval for the use of an angel gives the judge a lot more options than during a regular trial. So, everything you’ve experienced in court will be quite different from this. I expect it will take no more than ten minutes to resolve.”
“That’s it? Just ten minutes?”
“That’s it. If the correctional officer is brought in, I’ll ask a few questions, the angel will verify the truth, and it’ll be simple to determine if you were wrongfully incarcerated or given unfair parole terms to prevent rehabilitation.”
“Like barring pixie dust after I’d been clean for six months?”
“That’s a very good question, and it’s one I don’t have the answer to. Your Honor?”
“Ask,” Judge Davids ordered.
“Considering the value of the cupcake, would the court conclude my client should be returned to prison if she did not have a flag barring pixie dust on her record?”
“Of course not,” the judge replied. “The cupcake was recovered, undamaged, although it was ultimately consumed by the shop owner rather than a customer. The total charge for such a cupcake is no more than fifteen dollars.”
I sighed. “I hate numbers. I have no idea if that’s valuable or not.”
“If you were being paid a fair wage, you would be able to afford one after an hour’s worth of work.”
“That’s it? I could work for an hour and have a cupcake?”
“Yes, approximately. It’s more complicated than that.”
“Well, I figured that much out. Mostly. Somewhat.” I shrugged. “Okay, really, I have no idea what you mean.”
“I believe she is trying to tell you she has zero idea how money works, how it is supposed to be used, and the appropriate way to use it, and had she benefited from a proper education, she would have simply paid for the cupcake rather than steal it.”
“They give me this card when I’m on parole, and I was told if I give it to people, it would work, but I didn’t know who to give it to or how to use it,” I admitted. “And then it was just easier to pilfer what I needed. And that would land me right back into jail.”
“She is speaking the tr
uth,” the angel announced.
“Take the stand, Miss Kellen,” Judge Davids ordered. “This court will judge based on your testimony.”
I hopped to my feet, and on my way to the stand, I slapped the stallion’s rump. He squealed, jumped and bucked, and landed with a startled snort. If I’d been any closer, he might’ve nailed me with his hooves, but as he hadn’t hit me, I viewed myself the victor. Snickering over having goosed the stalker horse with a horn, I took my seat and chirped, “I’ll tell the truth, nothing but the truth, and that’s that. Can I have a cupcake now?”
“This is a courtroom, Miss Kellen, not a bakery.”
“Court sessions would be so much better if they were also bakeries.”
“She is most sincere about this,” the angel said.
“I didn’t need a verification of that but thank you. How old were you when you first went to a corrections facility, Miss Kellen?”
I shrugged. “As a visitor or a resident?”
“Resident, although I would like to know why you were a visitor,” the judge replied.
“My mother took me to the parking lot of a detention center once. People like me belong in places like that. Since she couldn’t drown me, I guess she wanted to make it clear what she thought of me. She wasn’t wrong. I mean, look at me now.”
“And your first time as a resident?”
“It’s in the paperwork. I guess I was three or four. Maybe five. Or so I was told. It’s sketchy, since I don’t really remember much of anything before my various residencies. The first few weren’t in prison. That was a little later.”
The judge’s attention landed on the prosecuting attorney, “Esquire, I hope you have a damned good explanation why she, as a child, was in a correctional facility rather than an orphanage. As the state’s prosecuting resident, I trust you have reviewed everything about her case? Including the increasing probability of unfair child labor?”
The man had a decency to grimace. “It’s not my jurisdiction, Your Honor. I’m just here for the cupcake case.”
“False,” the angel announced, and I shivered at the hostility in her tone. “Not a word of that is true.”