by Amir Abrams
His story.
I don’t know what to believe.
“You could at least write me back, Malik.” I feel myself getting teary-eyed. “I feel like I’m in this alone.” I start crying. “I don’t even have a way of talking to you. Didn’t Sasha give you my messages?”
“Nah,” he says. “I ain’t seen her in a minute.”
I frown. “She told me she gave you my messages.”
“Yo, eff dat broad, yo. She stay lyin’.”
“Well, I don’t know if she’s lying or not. She had no reason to lie to me. She said she told you that I wanted to talk to you. Now you saying she didn’t. Obviously somebody’s lying.”
“Oh, word? So you callin’ ya man a liar? Is dat how you doin’ it, huh?”
“I don’t know what I’m calling you. All I know is, I’m not feeling like you’re here for me. And I don’t feel like you’re my man. I feel abandoned in here.”
“Yo, c’mon, Kennedy. Chill. I got you, babe. Word is bond. I’ma handle that letter later tonight for you, a’ight? I’ma hit you wit’ a few dollas, too, a’ight? You know you my heart, boo. I ain’t gonna leave you stranded, ma. Ever.”
I sigh, reaching for a tissue on the social worker’s desk, then blowing my nose. “Money isn’t allowed in here, Malik. I’m in a youth detention center, remember?”
“Oh, right, right. My bad. So you good? You need some books or sumthin’?”
My nose flares. “No, I’m not good, Malik. I’m locked up. I want to come home. I hate it here.” More tears swell in my eyes, then rapidly fall unchecked. “I can’t do this, Malik. I think I’m going crazy. This place is horrible. The food is disgusting.” I glance over at the social worker. She’s playing a game of solitaire on her computer, pretending to not be listening in on my conversation. “I feel like I’m going crazy,” I whisper into the phone. “These girls in here are trifling. Always looking for a fight.”
“I feel you, babe. You gotta keep ya head up, though. Stay focused, you feel me?”
I sniffle. Wipe my tears with the arm of my sleeve. “I’m trying. But it’s hard. I just want to get out of here.”
“When’s ya court date?”
I tell him it’s in two days. Ask him if he can come to court. My heart drops when he tells me no. “I would if I could, babe. You know that, right?”
“Then why can’t you come?”
“I have warrants, yo. I ain’t ’bout to chance havin’ dem mofos run down on me if I come through.”
“I’m scared.” I feel myself starting to hyperventilate. “I can’t do this, Malik.”
“All you gotta do, babe, is play ya position, ya heard? Just sit tight and ride it out. This is your first time. You don’t have any priors. And you’re a minor. They’ll go easy on you.”
“Are you frickin’ kidding me! I shriek. “I don’t want them to go easy on me. I want them to release me. I want out of here! I didn’t do anything! That gun wasn’t mine and neither were those drugs. And you know it!”
“Whoa, whoa. Slow down. You sayin’ too much.”
“No I’m not. Obviously I’m not saying enough because I’m in here. And you’re out there. Living la vida loca. You have to come to court and tell them what really happened. Please, Malik, you have to come get me out of this place. You can’t let me sit in here and rot.”
“Oh, word? So now you tryna dry-snitch on ya man, is that it? You tryna talk all reckless in front of them social workers, is dat how you doin’ it, yo? You tryna hem me up, is dat it?”
I frown. “I’m not dry-snitching. Or trying to get you hemmed up or whatever that means. All I’m asking you to do is tell the truth. That’s all. I shouldn’t have to be locked up for helping you.”
My plea is met with a deafening silence.
“Hello? Malik? You still there?”
“Yeah, uh, I’m here. Look, I gotta go handle somethin’ real quick. Let me hit you back a li’l later, a’ight?”
Is he serious? I stare at the phone in disbelief. I blink. “You can’t hit me back, Malik. I don’t have the luxury of making calls whenever I want. I’m locked up! Remember?”
“Oh, true. A’ight, well, see if you can hit me up later. I gotta go make this run. I love you, a’ight?”
“Bye, Malik.”
I hang up, glancing at the timer. I’ve wasted eight minutes of my ten-minute phone call on nothing. I dial home. The phone rings for what seems like forever before someone finally answers. My heart skips a beat.
“Hello?”
“Hello? Mom?” I burst into tears. “I’m so sorry for everything. You have to get me out of here, please.”
“Who is this?”
I blink. What the heck is wrong with everyone acting like they don’t know my voice?
“It’s me. Kennedy, Mom.”
“And where are you calling me from?”
I choke back a scream. “In . . . in the d-d-detention center.”
“That’s what I thought. No, sweetie. This isn’t the Kennedy I know. This is some imposter calling here. Because the Kennedy I gave birth to wouldn’t be calling me from some detention center. No. She’d be home with her family. The Kennedy I know wouldn’t have cursed me out, or been sneaking out of the house, or telling me to stay out of her life. The Kennedy I gave birth to would have never run away, or brought drugs into this house. No, not my child.”
Tears sprout from my eyes. “Mom, please. I know I screwed up. Can you please . . .”
“Oh, no. Don’t ‘mom, please’ me, Miss I’m Grown. Remember, you chose the streets over your family. You told me to stay out of your life, remember? Now you want to call here, crying. Now you need me, huh. Well, guess what, Miss I’m Grown? You don’t get to pick and choose when you want your family in your life, or me as your mother.”
I scream and cry and can barely breathe. I am crying hysterically. Hearing the hurt and disappointment in her voice is killing me. I wish I could take everything I said back. Wish I could undo what I’d already done. But I can’t. And I don’t know how to make it better.
“I know, Mom. Pllllease. Don’t say that. I was wrong.”
“That’s too bad,” she says evenly. Distant. “Now what do you want, Kennedy?”
“Are you going to come to court for me?”
“No. Let the streets be there for you. You made your bed, now lie in it.”
The line goes dead.
And I’m left being lifted up from the floor like a rag doll by two COs then dragged back to my cell. All I remember hearing is the door clanking shut.
And I am alone.
40
My hands and feet in shackles, two guards—one male, the other female—escort me into the elevator up to the second floor where juvenile court proceedings are handled. It is my retention hearing. Whatever that means. My attorney explained it to me when he came down to the holding cell to speak with me. But everything he was saying went over my head. This is all confusing to me. Aside from watching Court TV, I know nothing about a retention hearing. Or being in a real courtroom. And what’s most frightening is knowing that right at this very moment my entire fate is in the hands of someone else. I feel so helpless not knowing what’s going to happen to me.
My stomach quakes with anxiety as we enter the courtroom and I am seated at a wooden table. My hands remain cuffed. Every few seconds, I glance over my shoulder to see who comes to court for me.
A few short minutes later I hear large wooden doors behind me open. I glance over my shoulder. It’s Daddy dressed in a navy blue suit. He looks so worn out. He’s flown in from Dubai, has had to take a leave of absence from work, just to be here for my court date.
I feel so horrible.
My mom is ignoring me.
My brothers are all pissed at me.
Jordan and Hope aren’t speaking to me.
Sasha is all of sudden acting as if she can’t be so bothered with me.
And the only thing Malik seems to care about is me keeping my mouth shut.
I have no one.
I half hoped, half expected, to see my mom walking in behind Daddy. I am disappointed when she doesn’t. I mean. I am happy to see Daddy. I am. Really. I am a Daddy’s girl. Still...
“All rise!” The bailiff says in a singsong voice, opening the back courtroom door. In walks a short, brown-skinhed lady. She looks nothing like what everyone said. She’s pretty. And seems nice enough. I try to gauge her mood. But I can’t. She’s wearing no expression on her face.
The courtroom falls silent as she briskly makes her way toward the bench, her black judge’s robe swooshing behind her as she climbs up the stairs to the bench and sits.
“Court is now in session!” The bailiff barks. “The Honorable Julia Lee Anderson presiding. All electronic devices are to be turned off now. Please be seated.”
Judge Anderson glances around the courtroom. “Good morning.” She clears her throat, placing her reading glasses on. “We are here on the matter of the juvenile Kennedy Simms. Docket number JV-dash-one-three-three-four-seven-two-thousand-and-thirteen. This is a retention hearing.” She looks up from her papers. “I see we have representation from the state. And counsel here for the defendant. Counselors, please identify yourselves for the record.”
The prosecutor stands up. A white woman. Blonde hair, pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Sparkling blue eyes. Milky white skin. Thin. She looks like she should be on a runway instead standing in front of a judge in a courtroom. She’s all business as she says, “Emily Swanson for the state, Your Honor.”
My attorney stands. “James Ford for the defendant.”
The judge nods her head, then scans my file, glancing up and peering at me over the rim of her glasses. She is giving me dirty looks. Maybe it’s my imagination. Maybe not.
She gets right down to business.
“You’ve been charged with the following: two counts possession of a weapon, specifically a .38-caliber tear gas pen gun containing a rifle bullet and a semi-automatic pistol . . .”
I choke back a scream.
Those weren’t my guns!
“. . . possession of the narcotic painkiller oxycodone, possession of the prescription anti-anxiety drug Xanax, and possession of cocaine.”
Those weren’t my drugs!
The judge looks up at me. “Do you understand the crimes you are being charged with, young lady?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say meekly. “But I didn’t do anything. They weren’t mine.”
She tilts her head. Gives me a blank stare. “Were they not in your possession when the police arrested you?”
I swallow. “Yes. But . . .”
She cuts me off. “Then you did do something. And now you’ve gotten yourself caught up in the middle of a big mess.”
I lower my head. I already know what she’s thinking. It’s what my attorney already told me down in the cage. I mean, holding cell. Like my attorney basically said: It was on my person. I was the one holding the backpack. I was the one with the guns and drugs that were inside.
I am guilty as charged.
She lets out a grunt, shaking her head. “I don’t know what in the world is wrong with you young girls today, wanting to be all fast and grown. Disrespecting your parents. Choosing the streets over your family.” The judge flips through my folder, then looks up over her wire-rimmed glasses and slams the folder shut. She points a wagging finger at me. “You, young lady, obviously come from a good home; with two parents who apparently love you and want nothing but the best for you. And they’ve probably spoiled you rotten, I’m sure.
“But obviously you want to squander everything they’ve done for you. You want to be in the streets. You want to play hood wife to some hoodlum. Well, guess what, young lady? You can play Bonnie if you want. The streets don’t give two cents and a wooden nickel about you. And neither does Clyde, or Bobby, or Raheem, or Mustafa. But since you want to ride dirty for his cause, then you’ll have to suffer the consequences . . .”
Please, God! Where are you when I need you?
“I’m going to order a urinalysis and substance abuse evaluation. I suspect her urine may come back positive and I’d like to have that in writing if that is in fact the case.”
My heart stops. Oh, my God. She’s going to crucify me. Her glare is burning into my flesh. All of a sudden, I break out into a sweat. And feel myself start to shake from the inside out.
She eyes me. “You want to be some gun-slinging thug-mami, don’t you?”
I shake my head. “No, ma’am.”
“Oh, yes you do.” She glances over at the bailiff. He shakes his head. “You’re a beautiful young lady. But those looks aren’t going to get you anywhere in life unless you learn to use your brain. Sadly, intelligence doesn’t guarantee common sense. So if you think for one minute those looks are going to get you out of this mess you’re currently in, you are sadly mistaken.
“Judging by the crimes you are being accused of committing, it’s apparent to this court that you would rather be out in the streets with the thugs, living a life of crime, hanging with a bunch of fast hoochie-mommas instead of being the respectable young lady your parents have raised you to be. There are rules put in place at home and in life for a particular reason. Do you know why there are rules, young lady?”
I nod.
“You are to open your mouth and speak when I speak to you. A head nod does not suffice, do I make myself clear?”
I swallow, hard. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Good. Now answer the question. Do you know why there are rules in place?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So that there is order and structure. And to help guide us to do the right thing.”
The judge peers over her wire-rimmed frames; she studies me for what seems like forever, then narrows her eyes at me. Her burning glare causes me to squirm in my seat.
“Do you know the difference between ignorance and stupidity, young lady?” I nod my head, and am immediately scolded again. “I’ve warned you once. You open your mouth and speak. I won’t tell you again. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I speak. Tell her my understanding of the difference between ignorance and stupidity. That ignorance is not having information, of not knowing. That stupidity is having the information, having an awareness of what’s needed to get something done, but choosing to do nothing with it.
“And did you not know what was expected of you by your parents?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And do you not know what the law expects of you?”
I nod my head. “Yes, Your Honor, I do.”
She scowls at me. “Yet, you chose to disobey both your parents and the law. Is that correct?”
I swallow. “Yes, I mean, no, ma’am,” I say almost in a whisper.
“What is it? Yes or no? Did you or did you not disobey your parents’ rules?”
“Yes.”
“And did you not disregard the law?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
“And that makes you what?”
I swallow back the thick lump in the back of my throat. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I can’t bear to say it aloud. I am so screwed. The truth, the realization, is too painful for me to deal with right now.
My attorney stands to address the court. “Your Honor. If I can interject for a brief minute . . .”
She looks up from my file. “Make it quick, counselor.”
“My client is a straight-A student with no priors. And, though she’s made some foolish mistakes, she’s a good kid. We ask that she be allowed home on house arrest until her next court hearing. Mr. Simms, the juvenile’s father, is here also on behalf of my client. And he’s prepared to take her home today.”
The judge peers over the rim of her glasses, again. “Mr. Simms, is this true?”
Daddy stands.
Please, God! I beg you . . .
“That is correct, Your Honor. If the court is prepared to release my daughter then we are more
than willing to have her home, with conditions of course. Perhaps under some sort of house arrest . . .”
Yes, please. House arrest. You can keep me under lock and key until my eighteenth birthday. Just let me go home.
I look over at Daddy with pleading eyes. He gives me a pained look. Then asks the judge if he can address the court again. I do not even realize that I’ve stopped breathing until I hear him say, “My wife and I are very concerned with our daughter’s recent behaviors. I’m not sure what has gotten into her. In a matter of weeks, between the drinking and lying and doing God knows what else, she’s turned into someone my wife and I barely recognize.”
I start sobbing.
“Save the tears,” the judge snaps unsympathetically. “You’ll have plenty of time for crying back at the detention center, where you will sit until your next court hearing.”
“Ohgodnoooo! Why can’t I go home? I didn’t do anything. I want to go home.”
The judge scoffs. “Well, guess what, young lady? It doesn’t matter what you want. And you’ve already proven that it doesn’t matter what your parents want, because if it did, you wouldn’t be sitting here in my courtroom, taking up my time.”
Oh no, oh no . . . please don’t . . .
The judge looks at me long and hard, causing me to break out in a sweat.
Doomsday.
The beginning of my end.
“Disappointing.” She shakes her head. “Just sad. It’s obvious you come from a good home, young lady, but that isn’t good enough for you. It isn’t hood enough for you. And the fact that you have a clear understanding of right from wrong speaks volumes, young lady.” The judge narrows her eyes at me. “It says that you think you can do whatever you want, whenever you want with no regard to how your choices will affect other people around you, particularly your parents . . .”
No, no, no, no, nooooooo!
Daddy, pleeeeeease say something.
“No I don’t,” I cry out. “I want my life back! I want to be home with my family! I’m going to go crazy in that hellhole! Daddy, pllllllease! You can’t let them do this to me! Don’t let them keep me!”
Judge Anderson brings her gavel down on the bench. “Order in the court! Young lady, your outburst will not be tolerated in my courtroom. Another outburst like that and I will have you thrown out of my courtroom. Do I make myself clear?”