Abuse of Discretion

by Pamela Samuels Young

  “I can assure you, Mrs. Carlyle, no school personnel had any involvement in any of this.”

  “Where’s my child? Put my baby on the phone!”

  “She’s with one of our guidance counselors. We thought you or her father should be here when we told her what happened.”

  “Well, at least you did one thing right. I just landed at LAX. It’ll take me about thirty minutes to get over there. In the meantime, you tell that boy’s parents they don’t need to be worried about the police. They need to worry about me.”

  “Hold on, Mrs. Carlyle, there’s no need for any threats. The school is doing everything it can to—”

  “I don’t care what the school is doing. The only thing that matters is what I’m going to do. This is my child you’re talking about. And that boy is definitely going to pay.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Graylin

  The backseat of the police cruiser smells like the bums that sleep outside the Quickstop Liquor Store on Manchester. And that makes me want to throw up. I can’t stop crying and my teeth are chattering even though I’m not cold.

  “We’re here.” Mean Cop glances back at me as the police car rolls to a stop. Two giant steel gates slowly open and I can’t help thinking we’re driving into a dungeon.

  Mean Cop opens the back door, grabs my arm and pulls me from the car. It’s hard to keep my balance with my hands cuffed behind my back. I dip my head and try to wipe the snot off my nose with my shoulder, but Mean Cop acts like I’m trying to escape and squeezes my arm real hard.

  They walk me inside where three men are standing behind bulletproof windows like at the bank. Mean Cop walks up to the counter, spouts off my name and starts filling out some paperwork.

  A gruff-looking Mexican man steps out from behind the counter. I hold my breath. I swear I can’t handle another evil cop.

  “I’ll take it from here,” he says in a harsh tone. “Take off the cuffs.”

  “He’s all yours.” Mean Cop unlocks the handcuffs, then follows Officer Fenton out of the door.

  “I’m Mr. Cardoza,” the man says, as I massage my sore wrists. “I’m a detention services officer.” He talks nicer to me than he did to the cops. “I’m going to explain the rules to you, okay?”

  I nod as he starts patting me down.

  “I’ll need you to answer yes or no so I know you understand me, okay?”

  I nod again. “I mean, yes, sir.”

  “This your first time here?”

  “Yes, sir.” I’m not crying anymore because I cried so hard I don’t have any tears left.

  “I thought so.”

  “So is this the jail?”

  He smiles. “No, this isn’t a jail. This is Eastlake Juvenile Hall. Take a look at that sign.” Mr. Cardoza points at a poster on the wall. “Can you read?”

  “Yes. I get mostly A’s.”

  “That’s good.” He gives me a wink. “Take a few minutes to look over the rules, then we’ll read them together.”

  I’m a fast reader, so it doesn’t take me long to read all 15 of them, which are in English and Spanish. No profanity, no gang slogans, no fighting or horse playing, no weapons or drugs, and no loud talking. A couple of them seem kind of lame, like no sex talk, mother talk, escape talk or race talk.

  Mr. Cardoza comes back and we spend another 10 minutes going over the rules one by one. There’s no way I can remember all of them, but since I never do that kind of stuff, I don’t even try.

  Mr. Cardoza uses a key on his belt to unlock a door and leads me down a long hallway.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the Boys Receiving Unit.”

  I want to ask what that is, but I don’t. I hope it’s not like it is on Lockup where you have to take off all your clothes and bend over so a guard can look inside your butt.

  “Um, do I get a phone call. I want to call my dad.”

  “Sure, as soon as we get you processed.”

  That makes me so happy I almost start crying again. I’m surprised that juvenile hall looks a lot like my old elementary school. Everything is beige and old with lots of windows. They even have grass and plants. We stop near an open doorway where a black woman is sitting behind a desk. She reminds me of my aunt Macie because of her dark skin and short hair. All of the staff, including Mr. Cardoza, are dressed in beige khakis and dark-blue golf shirts. Since they don’t have guns, maybe this really isn’t a jail.

  “This is Graylin Alexander,” Mr. Cardoza says. “A first-timer. He’s an A student.”

  The woman smiles at me. “I’m Ms. Turner. Here’s your towel roll. You need to shower and change into the clothes wrapped inside that towel.” She points at a man standing a few feet away. “Mr. Winston handles the boys.”

  I wish Ms. Turner could stay with me, but I’m too afraid to ask her to.

  I look through a big window and see two gangbanger-looking boys sitting on a bench. One of them has tattoos all over his shaved head.

  “The showers are over there,” Mr. Winston says.

  He points to a gray cemented area with four shower stalls that don’t have any doors. I put my towel roll on a bench underneath a small window. When Mr. Winston doesn’t move, I realize he’s going to stand there and watch me.

  “Let’s go. We don’t have all day.”

  I unwrap the towel roll and find a white T-shirt, briefs, socks, gray sweatpants and a gray sweatshirt. Turning my back to Mr. Winston, I pull my shirt over my head, then strip off my underwear, which reeks of urine.

  They didn’t give me a face towel, so I guess I have to use my hands. I take several pumps from a soap dispenser outside the shower stall and step inside. The warm water feels good and I want to stay here forever.

  “That’s long enough,” Mr. Winston says, after only a few minutes.

  I step out of the shower and run over to the bench to grab my towel. Our bathroom at home has a heater, which I miss right now because it’s freezing cold. I quickly dry myself off with the towel, which isn’t thick and soft like the ones we have at home. I always put on deodorant and Vaseline after getting out of the shower, but I guess they don’t have any here.

  After I’m dressed in my sweatshirt and sweatpants, Ms. Turner asks me a bunch of questions.

  No, I don’t take any medications. No, I don’t have any allergies. No, I don’t have asthma or seizures or lice. No, I’m not autistic and no I don’t have any mental conditions or health issues like ADD. After what seems like fifty more questions, she leads me down another hallway to an office with two desks that seem too big for such a little room. A man with an Afro stands up and shakes my hand.

  “I’m Mr. Jackson. What’s your full name?”

  “Graylin Michael Alexander.”

  “Okay, Graylin, have a seat. I’m your Detention and Control Officer. You’ll also be assigned a probation officer.”

  Probation officer? I haven’t even had a trial yet. How can I be on probation already?

  I know my dad told me not to talk to anybody, but I have to ask. “Why do I have a probation officer? I haven’t even been convicted of anything.”

  Mr. Jackson laughs. “Every kid gets assigned a probation officer. I’ll explain how it works in a second.”

  “The other man”—I try to remember his name but I can’t— “the one who told me all the rules said I could call my dad.”

  “You sure can. I have a few things to go over with you first.”

  Mr. Jackson types something into his computer, then turns back to me. He tells me that the police arrested me for possession of child pornography, California Penal Code 311.1, then he starts reading me my rights.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” he begins. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

  I’m mad because Mean Cop should’ve read me my
rights before they took me in that conference room. Then I wouldn’t have said anything or given them my phone. The words sound just like they do on TV, which makes me want to start crying again because I’m not a criminal.

  “Do you understand the rights I’ve just read to you?”

  “Yes, sir.” I’m not too sure I understood everything, only the part about being silent.

  “Would you like to speak with me?”

  I can hear my dad yelling at me through the window of the police car, telling me not to talk to anybody. But Mr. Jackson is being so nice to me, I don’t want to make him mad.

  “Um, no, sir.” I try to sound respectful so he won’t get upset. “I want to be silent.”

  “This is a chance for you to tell me your side of the story. Are you sure you don’t want to speak with me about what happened at school?”

  I do want to explain everything to him so he can let me go home. But I have to do what my dad told me to do.

  “My dad told me not to talk to anybody.”

  “Okay, that’s fine.”

  I’m glad Mr. Jackson doesn’t seem mad. Now he starts asking me almost as many questions as Ms. Turner.

  I tell him the name of my school, my age, my grade, my birthdate, my address. No, I’m not a foster kid. No, I don’t have a social worker. No, I’ve never been arrested or suspended from school or picked up for truancy.

  Then he starts asking me about my family. I tell him that I’m an only child, that I live with my dad and my granny, and that my mama is on drugs and we don’t know where she is.

  “Do your father or grandmother drink alcohol in the home?”

  That question makes me kinda nervous. “Only my dad. But he never gets drunk.”

  “What about drugs?”

  “My dad and my granny don’t do drugs. Just my mama.”

  “What about weed? Does your dad smoke weed?”

  My dad has never smoked weed in front of me, but I’ve smelled it on him a couple of times. I don’t want to lie again, but if I tell the truth, my dad could get in trouble. Maybe if I hadn’t lied about that picture, they wouldn’t have arrested me. Then I remember that weed is legal in California now. It’s the same as drinking alcohol, so they can’t arrest my dad for that.

  “Um, I think my dad smokes weed, but not in front of me.”

  I expect Mr. Jackson to look surprised, but he just moves on to the next question.

  My head is hurting by the time I finish giving him my whole life story. Then he goes over the same rules the other officer made me read, even though I told him we already did that.

  “Can I call my dad now?” I ask when we’re done.

  “Sure.” Mr. Jackson picks up the telephone receiver from his desk. “What’s his number?”

  My mind goes as blank as a computer screen. I always call my dad from my Favorites. I try to concentrate, but his number won’t come to me. I can’t even remember my home number so I can talk to my granny.

  “I don’t know my dad’s number.” Tears start falling again and my chest is hurting now. “It’s…it’s in my phone.”

  Without my phone, I don’t know anybody’s number.

  CHAPTER 11

  Angela

  Most people hate sitting in traffic, but I welcome the downtime. The bumper-to-bumper congestion on Slauson Avenue right now gives me a chance to think.

  After bugging me for weeks about living together, Dre’s suddenly too busy to check out the place I found. Is he suffering from cold feet or is he about to ghost on me?

  My phone rings and I brighten with relief when I see that it’s Dre. Maybe he’s changed his mind about seeing the place.

  When I pick up, his words come at me like he’s firing them from a machine gun.

  “Dre, slow down. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  “Graylin got arrested!”

  “Arrested? For what?”

  As Dre explains the situation, I feel an eerie sense of foreboding. I’ve read about kids charged with possession of child pornography for sending naked selfies. Kids as young as twelve and thirteen.

  “They took him to juvenile hall. We have to go down there and get him out.”

  “Which one?” There are at least three juvenile facilities in the L.A. area.

  “Eastlake. Gus is with me. We’re headed there now.”

  I make a left on LaBrea and head for the Santa Monica Freeway. “I’m on my way.”

  As soon as I’m on the freeway, I get to work on something Gus hasn’t yet asked me to do—finding legal representation for Graylin.

  Since I practice criminal defense in addition to employment law, Gus will probably want me to handle Graylin’s case. But my practice is almost exclusively in state and federal court. Juvenile court has totally different rules and I don’t speak the language.

  I call a couple of friends and ask them to recommend a top-notch juvenile defense attorney. “I want the attorney you’d hire to represent your kid,” I tell them.

  Within twenty minutes, both of them call back with three names. Only one name appears on both lists: Jenny Ungerman.

  I transition to the Harbor Freeway north, hop off at 9th Street and pull into a metered parking space so I can Google Jenny’s name. Her website boasts of multiple victories and even provides helpful videos for parents about the juvenile justice system. I look up the other attorneys as well. I’m also impressed with them, but Jenny is the clear standout. I get back on the road and call Dre.

  “Graylin’s going to need an attorney. I have someone who comes highly recommended. Her name is—”

  “Why can’t you represent him?”

  “I don’t practice in juvenile court.”

  “You were a federal prosecutor. A juvenile case should be easy.”

  “It doesn’t work like that, Dre. I don’t know the rules or the players. I’d almost be committing malpractice by handling Graylin’s case. Just trust me on this. Put me on speakerphone so I can talk to Gus.”

  After getting his okay, I give Jenny a call. When I start gushing over her reputation, she abruptly waves off the praise. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  She listens to the few facts I can provide, then sighs long and hard.

  “Don’t worry. Graylin’s father can pay your fee.” I’m not sure that’s true since I haven’t asked about her rates.

  “That sigh wasn’t reluctance to take the case. It was frustration. So far this year, I’ve had eight cases where the D.A.’s office went after kids for sexting.”

  “That many?”

  “Yep. And they’re not just charging them with possession and distribution of child pornography, they’re actually locking them up. My last client, who was fifteen, got a year for convincing his girlfriend to pose nude and then sending her picture to his best friend, who put it on Instagram. It ultimately ended up on some underground pedophile site.”

  “You couldn’t plead it down to a lesser charge?”

  “I tried, but the asshole D.A. wouldn’t budge. Prosecutors have a lot of discretion as to who gets charged. Some of them read the statutes literally and will go after anyone in possession of a naked picture of a kid, even if it’s a thirteen-year-old child.”

  I pray to God Graylin hasn’t taken a naked picture of some girl. “So will you take the case?”

  “Yes, of course. It’ll take me about forty minutes to get down to Eastlake.”

  “Thanks. It sounds like Graylin might be in some serious trouble.”

  “If he has a naked picture of an under-aged girl on his phone, there’s no might about it,” Jenny says. “These days, a smartphone in the hands of a kid can have more devastating consequences than giving them a loaded gun. And the average parent doesn’t have a clue.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Simone

  I have t
o wait far too long for a cab and when I finally climb inside one, it stinks of cigarette smoke. To add to my stress, I can’t reach my worthless husband. Rather than call Percy a third time, I send him a text.

  URGENT. CALL ME RE KENNEDY. IF YOU EVEN CARE THAT IS.

  As my finger hovers over the send button, I have a sudden and rare change of heart. Antagonizing Percy usually brings me tremendous joy. But even I have to admit that now isn’t the time for heightened discord. I delete the last sentence.

  Seconds later, my phone pings with a return text.

  ALREADY KNOW. PICKED K UP FROM SCHOOL.

  What? I wanted to be there when they told Kennedy. That principal called Percy because she didn’t want to face me. I plan to give both of them a piece of my mind.

  Twenty minutes later, I charge through the front door like I’ve arrived to put out a fire. Kennedy’s in the den, sitting on the couch next to Percy.

  “My baby!” I call out, pulling her into my arms. Her eyes are puffy and her bangs are matted to her forehead. “I’m so sorry this had to happen to you.”

  “Oh, Mommy, I’m so embarrassed. LaShay says everybody at school is talking about the picture. I’m never going back to that school again!”

  I glare over her head at Percy. “I can’t believe you didn’t wait for me to get there.”

  “Now’s not the time, Simone.” He peers down at Kennedy. “Honey, we need to talk about what happened. Was this kid your boyfriend or something?”

  “Boyfriend?” I scream. “Percy, you know darn well Kennedy’s not allowed to date until she’s sixteen.”

  Percy pats Kennedy on the shoulder. “Everything’s going to be fine, sweetie. But I don’t understand how that boy got a naked picture of you? Do you even know him?”

  I pull Kennedy closer. “How in the world would she know how he got it? He’s probably some pervert.”

  “Please turn off the drama machine for a second, Simone. Okay? I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this.”