by Ni-Ni Simone
But the screams wouldn’t stop.
“I can’t stay in here!” I finally spat out. “I gotta get back to my baby! You can’t keep me here! You can’t!”
The judge didn’t say a word. He just stared. Two sheriff officers yanked my arms behind me, while I did my all to twist outta their hold. “You don’t get it! I can’t be away from my baby! Please don’t do this! She’s all I got! I don’t have nobody else! She don’t have nobody else! Please let me go! Please! I need to leave! Please!”
My cries echoed off the walls, throughout the courtroom, and down the hall, as the two officers whisked me back to the bullpen and left me in the middle of the cold concrete floor to die.
7
Holy Intellect
“What’s my name? Tell e’rybody who I am? Is you serious?” I said in disbelief.
“Yes, I am,” Ms. Conyers, the tall, lanky, brunette social worker said to me, as she stood in the middle of the room, smilin’ and lookin’ stupid.
I’d been locked up for two solid weeks and in order to keep my sanity, I kept to myself and focused on mindin’ my bissness. But today, of all days, when I felt like if somebody looked at me wrong, it was gon’ be on, one of the COs ordered me to group therapy, swearin’ it was mandatory.
So I sat in a circle, in a sunshine-painted concrete room, with two barred windows and four simple broads. Two of ’em who twirled each other’s hair, one who thought she was a boy, and another one who was clearly dope sick.
All of ’em pretty much did they own thing until I said, “My first name is Accused of Assault With a Deadly Weapon. And my last name is For Supposedly Beatin’ Somebody’s Ass.” Then they all sat up at attention and all eyes was suddenly on me.
The boy-girl giggled, looked over at the twirlin’ twins, and said, “Told y’all that was her.” She looked back over to me. “You the one who dragged Munch at the bus stop? I heard about you. Heard you housed her, yo. But I also heard you was a rat and that I needed to watch you.”
Dope-sick jumped in. “That e’rybody needed to watch you.”
If we was on the street, I’da already smacked both of these hoes, but since we wasn’t and I wasn’t in the mood to be thrown in the hole, I swallowed the urge to palm-kick the man-chick and the fiend. Instead, I looked at the boy-girl and said, “S’pose I said I heard you was a rat, too.” Then I looked over at the fiend. “And s’pose I said I heard you was in the alleyway on yo’ knees e’ryday? Then what? That make it true?”
“I ain’t no rat, yo,” the boy-girl said.
The fiend didn’t say nothin’.
I continued. “How I know that?”
“’Cause I said it. And I wouldn’t never do that!” The boy-girl huffed, heated.
I shrugged. “So? And? People say a lot of things. E’ry-body say they ain’t a rat, but somebody rattin’, and usually the main ones who say they wouldn’t never do that, be the main ones doin’ it.”
“Don’t call me no rat, yo.” She stood up and Ms. Conyers stepped in front of her.
“That’s enough, Myesha,” Ms. Conyers said. “Now sit down.” She paused. And the boy-girl sucked her teeth, then flopped back down in her seat. “It’s one thing to disagree; after all, working out disagreements is healthy. But you cannot get into each other’s faces. I have zero tolerance for that. Now . . .” She looked over to me. “Perhaps we should start again. Please tell the group your name and a little about yourself.”
I pressed my elbows into my thighs and leaned forward. “What you wanna know about me for? Don’t none of y’all up in here care. Far as y’all concerned, my name is Assault. Ain’t that’s how y’all see me? As a charge?” I leaned back in my chair and flicked her off.
“No,” Ms. Conyers said. “I see you as a scared young lady who expresses her hurt by way of anger.”
I rolled my eyes. “Y’all kill me, always tryna evaluate and diagnose somebody. Don’t nobody wanna hear all that. And I’m not angry.”
“Then what would you call it?”
“Pissed off.”
“Why are you pissed off?”
I smirked. She was workin’ e’ry one of my nerves. “Why you think I’m pissed off? You ain’t crazy. You ain’t stupid. I’m pissed off ’cause I’m in here. ’Cause y’all got me locked up like I did something wrong. Tryna blame e’ry-thing on me.”
“Trying to blame what on you?”
“Look, I ain’t gon’ recap that. You know how y’all do.”
“Who’s y’all.”
“You, the police, the prosecutor, my PD; at the end of the day, all y’all the same. Lockin’ folks up for a paycheck.”
“That is true,” the fiend agreed. “That’s how I feel too.”
“Me, too,” one of the twirlin’ twins said. “Nobody really hear you. Nobody really listen to you. ’Cause if they did, they would see that this ain’t the place to be.”
Ms. Conyers nodded, like she was interested in what we’d just said. “Okay, well let me ask you all this: What part did you all play in getting here? Surely you did something to bring you to this moment.”
I sat up in my seat and pointed. “See, told you. Now it’s our fault that we locked up?” I eyed the group. “Now we the reason we in here. So I’m in here ’cause of my actions, is what you sayin’? Not ’cause some bird was out in the streets runnin’ her mouth, ruinin’ my rep, and I couldn’t even walk down my own block without watchin’ my back and lookin’ over my shoulder. Not ’cause somebody put my life in jeopardy for somethin’ I didn’t even do. Nah, she’s the victim. But me, I’m public enemy number one.”
“No one said that,” Ms. Conyers replied.
“You ain’t gotta say it, to say it. Listen, so what if I dragged somebody for lyin’ on me? What’s the problem wit’ that? That’s how it goes. You come for me, I shoot you. Period. E’rybody knows that.” I looked around the group and they was all noddin’ they heads in agreement. I continued. “Yet, y’all got me sittin’ up in here wit’ a buncha chicks I don’t even know, wantin’ me to spill my guts, like that’s normal. Hell, no! You don’t care that my name is Yvette. That I’m sixteen. A child without a mother and a mother without a child. That I don’t have nobody. Y’all don’t care about that. All y’all see me as some blade-swingin’ maniac wit’ anger problems, who needs to be locked up. Well, that ain’t who I am.”
“Who are you?” Ms. Conyers asked.
“First name Accused of Assault with a Deadly Weapon and last name For Supposedly Beatin’ Somebody’s Ass.”
8
Microphone Checker
A month later
Lately, I’d been tryin’ not to sleep.
But I kept failin’.
And fallin’ victim to stupid dreams. That made me think I was back wit’ my baby, holdin’ her, kissin’ on her, blowin’ bubbles into the folds of her chubby brown belly and makin’ her cough up wet giggles.
Then bang!
I’d wake up to the sound of the COs unlockin’ the cell doors and orderin’ e’rybody to mess-hall for breakfast.
Which I half ate.
Mainly ’cause the eggs was orange and runny.
The oatmeal was tree-bark brown and stiff.
The bacon was pork and I didn’t eat swine.
The bread was the only thing I wasn’t afraid to swallow, and most of the time, that was stale.
But I had to eat somethin’.
After breakfast, it was against the rules to go back to your cell. If you wasn’t in school, then you had to sit in the rec room and watch these numbered skeezers pretend the only thing that mattered was hip-hop, break dancin’, LL Cool J, UNO, which one of they dudes was worth doin’ time for, and the community dick they left chillin’ on the block.
Ignorant broads.
Wit’ no dreams.
No responsibilities.
No thoughts.
Just silly.
Sittin’ in here talkin’ and laughin’ wit’ the COs, like this was Showtime at the Apollo and no
t jail.
Me. I still ain’t talk to none of these lunatics, ’cause I wasn’t in here to make no friends. I was just here.
Unwanted tears filled my eyes.
But I couldn’t cry. I ain’t need none of these chicks thinkin’ I was soft, then try and test me, and I’d have to turn into a tick-tick-bomb and pop off.
“Simmons!” Officer Wallace, one of the COs, yelled my name from across the room. Of course, the happy jailbirds took pause so they could look and see what I was doin’. The twirlin’ twins rolled they eyes, ’cause they couldn’t stand me. So I gave ’em a look that dared ’em to leap. When they didn’t move, I walked past ’em and said, under my breath, “I ain’t think so.”
“What?” I stood in front of Officer Wallace, who always sat in a rollin’ chair, ’cause she was too lazy to walk.
“Don’t what me, Simmons,” she said firmly, like she was lookin’ for a reason to get up. “I ain’t Washington.”
I know you ain’t Washington, ’cause if you was, I’da kicked you outta that chair by now. “Yes, Officer Wallace.”
She clicked her tongue. “That’s what I thought. Your PD is here.” She looked over at one of the other COs. “Johnson, escort Simmons to room two.”
* * *
The moment I laid eyes on Sheryl, in her black-power pants suit, hair feathered and curled to perfection, and her brown leather briefcase sitting next to her sunglasses, my attitude inched toward the ceilin’. I hadn’t seen her since the guards carted me outta the courtroom a month and a half ago. And now she wanted to show up, grinnin’, askin’ me how I was doin’, and holdin’ her hand out.
“You seriously trippin’.” I sat down in one of the chairs and reared back, leavin’ her hand hangin’. Then I looked toward the window and for a moment wished I could break the glass and squeeze through the bars.
She sat down in the chair across from me. “Look, I know you may think I’ve forgotten about you . . .”
“Yep. Pretty much.”
“Well, I haven’t.”
“Umm-hmm.”
“Could you turn around and look at me?” she asked.
Oh, now she wanted me to look her way. I pursed my lips, rolled my eyes, and gave her a quick glance. “What?” Then I looked back out the window.
She sighed. “Listen, Yvette. Today is not the day that I’ve elected to put up with your hood-rat attitude.”
Hood rat?
She carried on. “I have a million things to do, and a million and one other cases I need to attend to.”
“Then what is you here for? Lookin’ for gratitude? You came to see me. I ain’t call you. So today ain’t the day that I’ve elected to put up with your fake-ass esquire attitude.”
She took a deep breath. Held it. Then pushed it out and said, “You know, you have a right to be angry. However, you do not have a right to be angry with me.”
I turned around in my chair and stared at her. Clearly, she’s was tryna social-work me.
She continued. “I haven’t done anything to you.”
“You ain’t done nothin’ for me either. I asked you to get me outta here, yet I’m still sittin’ here, rockin’ this orange jumpsuit like it’s the bomb. My baby’s in foster care! CPS writin’ me letters and askin’ me have I ever considered adoption! And now you up in here tryna tell me I have a right to be angry, but not with you? Trick, please. Who is you, but some public pretender, collecting a paycheck from the same state that’s trying to take my baby and send me to jail for six years!”
“You may not believe it, but I care.”
“Yeah, yeah. My mother cared. Nana cared. Isis cared. Munch cared. Cali cared. E’rybody cared, but e’rybody gave me they behind to kiss.”
“Listen, I met with the prosecutor.”
“What, y’all had lunch or somethin’? ’Cause I know y’all homegirls.” I twisted my lips.
Sheryl frowned. “We’re not homegirls; we’re colleagues. And we met to discuss your case. After everything that happened in court, she felt for you and offered you a deal.”
I shrugged. “And?”
Sheryl hesitated. “Well, you’d have to plead guilty.”
I should slap this heifer. “What kind of deal—if you don’t get outta my face wit’ that. What I look, stupid to you? I ain’t doin’ that.”
“Hear me out. The prosecution can’t prove who cut the girl, and CO Washington is willing to drop the charges.”
“And that means what?”
“That means that since the fight is the only thing they can prove, because you confessed to it, you’ll only be charged with disorderly conduct. But there’s a catch.”
“What is it?”
“You have to spend a year in what’s called a professional parent home.”
“A group home?!”
“It’s not a group home, per se. It’s a professional parent home, so you’re not in a facility. You’re actually living in someone’s house. There’s no staff. Just someone who’s considered a parent.”
“So since the state can’t find my mama, they just gon’ assign me one. Psst, please.”
“Pretty much, and if you do not do well there, then you will either be back here, in jail, without your daughter, or in a group home facility, also without Kamari. One last thing, the professional parent home is in Norfolk, Virginia. The prosecutor’s giving you a week to decide. It’s the only one CPS could find that would take you and . . .”
“I don’t need a week to decide, ’cause I ain’t goin’ to no professional parent, group home, or whatever it is. I’m not leavin’ my baby for a year! And what the heck is a Norfolk? Is that even on this planet? I ain’t goin’ there. And, furthermore, if I’m only being charged with disorderly conduct, then I should be able to take my baby and walk.”
“Not exactly. You’re still a minor. The state of New Jersey is responsible for you. And CPS is not going to just give you your daughter, then stand back and watch two minors walk off into the sunset.”
“First of all, I’m grown. And I never said I was gon’ walk off into the sunset. But if that’s what I wanted to do, Kamari is my child, not CPS’s, not the state’s—so they should all just mind they bissness, while I take my baby and handle mines. Like I been doin’.”
“It doesn’t work that way. CPS and the state . . .”
“Psst, please. CPS? The state? They ain’t never cared about where I lived before. Now they got an opinion? Where was they when my mother had us squattin’? When we was sleepin’ in cars, corners, closets, alleyways, livin’ with this one, livin’ with that one, when I woke up one day and Nana was lookin’ in my face? Where was CPS and the state then? Now, all of a sudden, I gotta listen to them, when they ain’t never gave a damn until now? Girl, boo. I’ma do me. And what you can do, is tell ’em I said gimme me my baby and step off.”
Sheryl huffed. “Okay. Is that what you want?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Then fine. I’ll do just that. I’ll tell them you said step off. But then what? What will you do after that? Take this to trial? And lose? Because you will not win. Officer Washington will happily testify against you. And maybe the prosecution can’t prove who cut Munch today. But by the time they get her up on that stand, she cries, and tells the court the horrors of being attacked on her way to school, you will be found guilty. And you will serve every bit of time the court gives you.
“Then what happens to Kamari? In six years, she will not be a baby. She will be school age, probably adopted, calling someone else ‘Mommy,’ with little-to-no memory of you.”
I shot her a warning eye. “You going too far! And if I’m found guilty it’s ’cause you triflin’ and didn’t try.”
“So, let’s assume you’re found innocent. The state lets you take Kamari and walk. Then what?”
I smirked. “Whatchu mean, then what? I’ma take care of my baby.”
“How?”
“I’ma get a job.”
“Really? Where? When’s
the last time you were in school?”
Last year. Ninth grade. I stopped goin’ ’cause the only thing poppin’ was the hallway and I wasn’t beat. Plus, I had a baby that Nana wouldn’t keep. I looked at Sheryl and frowned. I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of even answerin’ that question.
She continued. “Obviously school is a distant memory. So that leads me to the next question: Do you have any skills?”
Silence.
Sheryl carried on. “Whether you know it or not, no answer is an answer. And your silence leads me to believe that your skill set, at this moment, consists of stealing penny candy from the bodega and boosting clothes from the mall.”
“Don’t try and play me out.”
“I’m trying to help you out. Now tell me, can you type? Are you familiar with computers? Because they’re taking over. Do you work well with people? Can you get along with them or is dragging folks off the bus and slicing their faces your expertise?”
“You buggin’ and I ain’t gotta listen to this!” I stood up and so did Sheryl.
“Sit your behind back down!” she said.
I didn’t know if it was the base in her voice, or the shock of her comin’ at me in a frustrated fit, that forced me to listen. But I did.
I sucked my teeth and fell back down in my seat.
She continued. “I have had enough of you! You think you’re the only one who had it hard? You think you’re the only one who didn’t have the best mother, the best father, or the best circumstances? Well you’re not. ’Cause guess what? I got a caseload of disappointed, pissed off, and broken-hearted juveniles. And, no, life isn’t fair. But we all get the same twenty-four hours, and you can either do the right thing or you can fight for street cred and end up in jail, or dead.”
She gathered her briefcase. “Choice is yours. However, if I were you, I’d accept the plea deal, get out of that distasteful orange jumpsuit, get my butt on that bus, go to Norfolk, Virginia, to that professional parent home—because it’s the only one that agreed to let you bring Kamari. Then when I got there, I’d act like I had some goddamn sense and make the best out of it!”