Abuse of Discretion

by Pamela Samuels Young

  I hate lying to my woman, but the way I see it, I don’t have a choice. I just pray she can hang with me until The Shepherd is dead.

  CHAPTER 18

  Graylin

  I don’t know how I’m going to survive in here for four whole days. And I still don’t understand how they can put somebody in jail when you haven’t done anything wrong. As soon as I find out who sent me that picture, I’m going to make sure my attorneys put them in jail.

  Mr. Morris, the guard who took me to see my dad, is taking me to my unit. I’m trying to keep up with him at the same time that I’m trying to check out everything around me. It really does look like a school except that there are some high fences and you have to have a key to go through almost every door.

  “How come the guards don’t have guns?” I ask Mr. Morris.

  “Because we’re not guards, we’re staff. This ain’t a jail.”

  We walk near a grassy area toward a brick building with GH on the front. Mr. Morris uses his key to open the glass doors.

  “This is the day room,” he says, showing me inside.

  It’s a wide-open area about the size of my aunt Macie’s den. Along the back wall is a smaller room with a large glass window. Behind that, I see a tiled wall with showerheads sticking out.

  Two black kids and three Hispanics, all dressed in gray sweat suits like me, are sitting at a long table like the one in my school cafeteria. Until a second ago they were watching the TV hanging near the ceiling. Now they’re watching me.

  “This is Graylin Alexander,” Mr. Morris says to a black man who walks out of a glass enclosure. It seems like almost everybody who works here is either black or Mexican.

  I peer behind him and see lots of buttons, computer screens and TV monitors. It reminds me of the dashboard at the sound studio in Hollywood where my cousin Trey recorded a rap album.

  “I’m Mr. Dennison,” the man says, shaking my hand.

  “He has a detention hearing on Tuesday.” Mr. Morris rolls his eyes. “Another sexting case.”

  “I didn’t sext nobody,” I say. “I’m innocent.”

  Mr. Dennison nods as if he’s heard this before. “Let’s go over the rules.”

  I press my hands to my face. “I went over the rules already. Twice.”

  “And now we’re going to do it one last time to make extra sure you don’t forget.”

  I barely listen as he tells me the same rules all over again.

  “You’re in room number seven.”

  I peer down a long hallway and see pairs of tennis shoes outside some of the rooms. “We can’t wear shoes in our cells?”

  “They ain’t cells, they’re rooms. And no, you can’t wear shoes inside your room. Set them outside the door so the staff knows you’re in there.”

  Mr. Dennison hands me a cloth bag containing deodorant and lotion.

  “Dinner’s at five. After dinner, once you get your homework done, you can watch TV until it’s time to shower at seven-forty-five. Lights out at nine.”

  I wish he would hurry up because I’m tired.

  “Wakeup time is six-fifteen,” he continues. “You need to have your bed made and room cleaned by seven. School starts at eight-thirty. We all leave the building as a group. Everybody walks in lines of two. Did you understand everything I just said?”

  “There’s school tomorrow on Saturday?”

  Mr. Dennison smiles. “Sorry about that. No school tomorrow. And wake-up time is at seven on weekends. There’s church on Sunday in the chapel if you want to go. So did you understand everything I said?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Dennison raises an eyebrow. “A kid with some manners. I like that.”

  “How many inmates are in here?”

  “None. This ain’t a prison. We have twelve rooms, but only eight other boys are here now.” I follow him down the hallway. He opens a door with the number seven on it.

  “This’ll be your room for the next few days.”

  The room looks kind of like the prison cells on TV, except there aren’t any bars or a toilet. My bedroom at home is about six times as big. There’s a rectangular window on the door about the size of a sheet of paper. My eyes widen at the slab sticking out from the wall.

  “I have to sleep on that hard cement without a mattress?”

  Mr. Dennison laughs. “No, I’ll get you a mattress.”

  “Do I get pajamas?”

  “No pajamas. Sleep in your underwear.”

  “Do I have a cellmate?”

  “No, you don’t have a roommate. When the lights go out, the doors are locked from the outside.”

  My eyes get wide. My granny says never lock the doors from the outside. You can die in a fire like that. “But what if there’s a fire? How do I get out?”

  “We’ve never had a fire. Don’t worry, we’ll get you out if that happens.”

  “Can I keep the lights on?” I’m too embarrassed to tell him that I have a night light in my room at home.

  He points up at the ceiling. “There’s a dim light up there.”

  I look around. “Where’s the light switch?”

  “There isn’t one. We control the lights from the booth up front. That one stays on all night so we can look into your room and check on you.”

  Mr. Dennison leaves and returns with a thin blanket and a worn, striped mattress about as thick as a double cheeseburger. I look up at him. “This is the mattress?”

  “Yep. You’ll be fine. You’re just in time for dinner.”

  As soon as he says that, I realize that I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast and I’m suddenly starving. We go back into the day room where eight boys are now sitting around the table.

  “We got a new kid on the block,” one of them says as they all seem to approach me at once.

  “What’s your name?” somebody asks.

  “Graylin.”

  A skinny, light-skinned black kid steps forward. “I’m Tyke. What you in for?”

  I hesitate. “My attorney told me not to talk about my case.”

  “I don’t care what your attorney told you. I asked you a question.”

  The other boys snicker. Tyke is obviously the bully of the group.

  I stand a little taller and try to look tough. “I can’t talk about my case.”

  “You think I’m a snitch or something? Cuz if that’s what you trying to say about me, I’ma have to do something ’bout that.”

  My head starts to hurt. I don’t need this bully bothering me on top of everything else I’ve been through today.

  Before I can respond, Mr. Dennison walks up and Tyke changes his tune.

  “Hey, Mr. Dennison, whazzup?”

  Mr. Dennison ignores him as he removes plates from a metal container and hands one to each of us. We all sit down at the table to eat. I unwrap my plate to find chicken steak, tater tots, and broccoli. It tastes about the same as the food at school. My plate is empty in seconds.

  I sense someone behind me and turn around to find Tyke hovering over me.

  “Don’t think I’m done with you,” he whispers. “You can’t call me a snitch and get away with it.”

  “I didn’t call you a snitch.”

  “So now you callin’ me a liar?”

  I know it will only get worse if I let him know how scared I am. So I try to act hard. “Get outta my face.”

  The other boys start whooping with laughter, which makes Tyke’s light skin darken like he’s been sitting in the sun too long.

  “You better not let me catch you alone,” Tyke seethes. “Cuz if I do, I’ma fuck you up.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Willie

  It’s early Saturday morning and I’ve been sitting in my car on Springpark Avenue in Ladera Heights for the last hour. I’m pretending to read th
e newspaper, but I’m on the lookout for Dre Thomas.

  Last night, I parked outside his apartment building not knowing whether he was even there or not. Just when I was about to call it a day, he pulled up in a cheap-ass Jetta. I watched him go inside and come out only ten minutes later carrying a small duffel bag. My first thought was that he was dealing drugs again.

  I followed him west on Slauson, then south on La Cienega to Centinela. He disappeared inside an apartment building on Springpark. I hung around for a couple of hours, then split, figuring he was in for the night.

  It was around seven when I got back here this morning. Dre’s Jetta was still parked in the same spot. It’s now well after eight and I’m getting antsy. All this waiting ain’t my thing.

  I’m ready to call it quits for the second time when I see Dre and a woman walk out of the building.

  Okay, this makes sense. He spent the night with his lady.

  Dre walks the woman over to a silver-blue Saab. When he gives her a peck on the lips, the chick rolls her eyes, says something, then gets into the car and drives off. Dre just stands there with his arms folded, looking pissed.

  Trouble in paradise?

  My plan was to follow Dre for most of the day, but without giving it much thought, I decide to trail this chick instead. Depending on how tight they are, The Shepherd might want the 411 on her too.

  The woman heads east on Centinela to LaBrea, where she makes a right. Only minutes later, she turns into an office building not far from the Inglewood Courthouse. I keep a safe distance behind as she pulls into the parking garage.

  I make another snap decision and decide to follow her into the building. I’m dressed in one of my finest suits, a gray gabardine, so I should blend in just fine. I look around for security cameras and I’m happy not to spot any.

  It’s almost nine o’clock on a Saturday morning, but people are already going in and out of the building. Stepping onto the elevator with the woman and two other men, I watch her punch the fourth-floor button while one of the men presses the third floor. Dre’s woman is glued to the screen of her phone and hasn’t noticed me or anyone else in the elevator. She’s still looking at her phone when I step off behind her.

  I hang back until she disappears inside double doors that read Law Offices. I study the four names on the plaque to the right of the door. One female and three males. Since there’s no law firm name, I assume the attorneys have separate practices but share office space.

  Is this chick a lawyer or a secretary?

  Inside, a long counter takes up most of the small reception area. A young girl with tiny braids is sitting behind the desk. She has yet to look up from her computer screen. To the left, is a tall door that I assume leads to other offices.

  “Good morning.” The receptionist smiles up at me. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for an attorney who can help me with a real estate matter? Do any of the attorneys here handle real estate law?”

  The woman shakes her head. “Sorry. All of our lawyers do criminal defense work. But I think there’s a guy on the first floor who handles real estate cases.”

  “Okay, I’ll head down there.” I notice four business cardholders on the counter and take a card from each stack. “Never know when I might need a criminal attorney.”

  “Let’s hope not,” the woman says with a laugh.

  “Who’s the best criminal attorney here?”

  The receptionist leans forward and lowers her voice. “Angela Evans hands down.”

  “Is she the one who walked in here a few seconds ago wearing jeans and a yellow blouse?”

  “Yep. She used to be a federal prosecutor. She’s smart and nice too. Always has extra work for me to do on Saturdays. Thank goodness.”

  I study the business cards as I head back outside. “So, Mr. Drug Dealer is banging an ex-prosecutor,” I mumble to myself. “That’s some information Shep would want to know.”

  My phone rings as the elevator doors open. I step inside before answering.

  “Man, I should’ve called you last night, but I was too shook up,” Bones says in a hoarse voice. “I had to go home and have a few drinks and I’m just now wakin’ up.”

  If Bones has messed up and done something stupid, I swear I’m going to shoot him. “What happened?”

  “This dude Dre Thomas ain’t no joke! They’re on to us, man. Snatchin’ that kid ain’t gonna be easy. While we watchin’ them, they watchin’ us!”

  He starts telling me about his run-in with Apache.

  I know the name well. Anybody in L.A. with even the most tenuous criminal ties knows all about Apache. Bones is lucky to be alive. Apache has a rep for shooting first and asking questions never.

  “How did they even know we was watchin’ them?” Bones asks. “And who is The Shepherd? Is that who you always callin’ The Man?”

  I can’t let Bones know who we’re working for. He’s likely to slip up and mention Shep’s name to the wrong person.

  “Naw. I don’t know who he’s talking about.”

  It was a mistake to let Dre Thomas know we were coming for him. A surprise attack would’ve been more effective. But Shep had to feed his ego by announcing it to the world.

  “So what we gonna do?” Bones asks.

  “Let me think.”

  I’m dreading my next conversation with Shep. He won’t be happy to hear about this. Maybe I won’t even tell him. If I do, he’ll blame me for selecting the wrong sidekick for this gig. But I’m already kicking myself for that.

  “You still there?”

  Bones is acting way too panicky.

  “Yeah. Hang tight and don’t make another move. I need to talk to The Man.”

  Since Dre and the kid have protection, we need another plan. If Shep really wants to send a message, it might make more sense to kidnap Dre’s woman. She’ll be a much easier target.

  I’ll just have to convince Shep of that.

  CHAPTER 20

  Miguel

  I park my Volvo along the curb in front of the Carlyles’ home on Valley Ridge in the View Park section of Los Angeles. The striking brick home is the length of two houses in my neighborhood. The homes here sell for over a million dollars and, for as long as I can remember, the neighborhood’s been overwhelmingly black. That’s why I’m surprised to see a white woman jogging behind a stroller and a thirty-something white couple walking a terrier.

  As I’m about to get out of my car, a black BMW pulls into the driveway. A man climbs out and waits as I head up the brick-lined walkway.

  “I’m Percy Carlyle. Kennedy’s father. You must be from the District Attorney’s Office. Thanks for coming by so early, and on a weekend, no less.”

  Mr. Carlyle is clean-shaven with angular features. He looks like a big-firm lawyer even in khakis and a Polo shirt.

  I wait for him to pull out a key and open the door, but he knocks instead.

  An attractive black woman answers and introduces herself as Simone Carlyle, Kennedy’s mother. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun and she’s wearing dark jeans and a starched white shirt that’s as stiff as the smile on her face. She acknowledges Percy Carlyle with something short of a nod.

  The first thing I notice when I walk inside is the elevator. The living room is the size of a two-car garage and is full of antique furniture with high backs and textured fabrics in deep red and burgundy. Heavy velvet curtains cover almost a complete wall, giving the room the feel of a funeral parlor. A teapot, tiny cookies, and expensive China sit in the middle of the coffee table. I wonder if it’s intentional that the pink and yellow sprinkles on the cookies are the same color as the stripes along the rim of the teacups.

  “I’d like you to know that the District Attorney’s Office is taking this case very seriously,” I begin. Mrs. Carlyle insists on pouring me some chamomile tea even though I decl
ined. “We regret what happened to your daughter. I’ll be prosecuting the case against the boy who was arrested. One of the things—”

  “His name is Graylin Alexander, right?” Simone asks.

  I hesitate. “He’s a juvenile, so we try to keep his identity confidential. How did you find out his name?”

  “It’s all over the school. That boy put my baby’s picture on the internet. Everybody needs to know his name.”

  I lean forward. “You have evidence that the picture is on the internet?”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Percy says, shooting Simone an annoyed side glance. “Go ahead. Finish what you were saying.”

  I tell them about the anonymous note and that the defendant is charged with making a criminal threat as well as possession of child pornography.

  “How many cases have you tried and how many guilty verdicts did you get?” Simone interrupts.

  Percy rolls his eyes. The couple has yet to say one word to each other. I assume they’re divorced and that it wasn’t an amicable breakup.

  “They’re called adjudications, not trials in the juvenile system and the judge determines whether a kid is delinquent. Technically, there’s no finding of guilt.”

  “I have no doubt the little thug is a juvenile delinquent. You still haven’t told me how many cases you won.”

  “I have a very solid record of success, Mrs. Carlyle. But you need to understand that the goal of the juvenile system is rehabilitation, not punishment.”

  “That boy needs to be punished.”

  This woman is way beyond pushy.

  “As I explained on the phone,” I say, trying to regain control of the conversation, “I’d like to interview Kennedy. Is she here?”

  Percy stands up. “I’ll go get her.”

  Simone’s eyes trail Percy out of the room. It’s almost as if she’s uncomfortable with him roaming the house unsupervised. After a few seconds, she gets up. “I don’t know what’s taking him so long.”