Abuse of Discretion

by Pamela Samuels Young

  All I can do is shake my head.

  “I blame prosecutors,” Jenny continues. “They aren’t exercising enough discretion. Some of them will treat the immature fifteen-year-old who sends a picture of his penis to his girlfriend as harshly as the malicious bully who forces a classmate to strip and posts her picture all over Instagram.”

  Jenny stops to take a sip of coffee. “And in the process, they’re needlessly destroying a whole lot of young lives.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The Shepherd

  I’m relaxing in my cell, checking the most recent deposits into my Citibank account. Old School is standing in the doorway, poised to signal me to hide my phone if he sees the police in the vicinity. Another twenty-three grand hit my account yesterday. Birmingham is serving me well.

  When I’m done, I spend a little time educating myself. I’m a history buff at heart. I particularly enjoy studying little-known historical figures. Yesterday, I read up on Louise Wooster, a Birmingham madam whose brothels earned her a fortune in the late 1800s. How ironic that centuries later, I now satisfy the sexual desires of the gentlemen of Birmingham. Unlike Madam Wooster, however, I won’t be donating any of my profits to charity. I wonder if little Brianna is on her way down south yet.

  “I’m done,” I say, ending my web surfing.

  Old School steps back into my cell. I hand him two books of postage stamps.

  Inmates aren’t allowed to have money in prison, so stamps have become our black market currency. They limit us to no more than 60 stamps at a time, but that rule is routinely violated since stamps are so easy to hide. While the face value of a book of stamps is about ten bucks, in the prison bartering system, it could be worth much more or far less, depending on what’s up for trade and how many stamps are in circulation at a given time. For instance, a dude might charge one book of stamps for the extra pizza he pilfers from the chow hall. Or a haircut from an inmate with real skills could cost you two books. Four books of stamps might be enough for somebody to make your bed and do your laundry for two weeks. Old School usually trades his stamps for extra food.

  Dudes with a good side hustle have been known to rack up thousands of dollars during their time at The Low. When they earn a few books, they mail them home, where a friend or family member sells the stamps for their full face value and either puts the money on their books or deposits it into a bank account. Some inmates have left The Low with thousands of dollars waiting for them.

  Once Old School leaves, I place my phone back in its hiding place—velcroed inside my bath towel, hanging on my towel rack.

  I’m about to lie back down when an announcement changes that.

  “Four p.m. count call! Four p.m. count call!” a C.O. blares over the speaker system.

  Inmates are counted four or five times a day in the federal prison system. The 4 p.m. count is the one sent to the Bureau of Prisons, so the big shots in D.C. have an accurate count of how many people they have locked up on a given day.

  Every inmate needs to be in his room, standing by his bed by the time the two C.O.s conducting the count enter their cell. All across the yard right now inmates are hustling to get back to their cells in the allotted 15 minutes. Failure to make it on time means you get sent to the SHU—the Special Housing Unit—also known as the hole.

  Years ago, you could be stretched out on your bed during a count. That changed after one inmate was counted for a couple of days before a C.O. realized he was dead.

  Wallstreet hustles into the room, making it seconds before the C.O.s enter and check us off. We have to stay in our cells until the count of the entire facility is complete.

  When it’s over, Wallstreet’s about to head back out to the yard. He’s obsessed with the game of chess and would play 24/7 if he could. Considering all the time he spends on the game, he should be a lot better at it.

  “Hang on,” I say, stopping him in the doorway. “I need you to look out for the police while I make a quick call. It’ll only be a second.”

  Wallstreet scratches the back of his neck. Even though he’s the reason I have a phone, he doesn’t like bucking the rules. Any day now, he’ll be bumped down to a camp—the lowest level in the federal prison system—to serve out the remaining two years of his sentence. He doesn’t want an infraction delaying his transfer.

  “C’mon, Cali. I can’t—”

  Before he can balk, I’m on the phone talking to Willie. Wallstreet reluctantly stays put.

  “Status,” I say into the phone.

  I sense a nervousness on the other end of the line.

  “Uh, I need to tell you something,” Willie says.

  I close my eyes as tiny prickles of anxiety shoot down my spine. Has he screwed up already? Life at The Low is a privilege I don’t want to lose. Exposure of my outside activities could earn me more time, or worse, get me kicked up to a medium or maximum security prison.

  “I think I need to start working on another project,” Willie sputters. “This one ain’t working out like it should.”

  I don’t respond for some time. Dead silence will send more of a chill to this minion than a raised voice. I’m not clear yet what he’s trying to tell me. “Go on.”

  “The new guy had an accident while he was working on the project,” Willie explains. “Scared him so bad, he screamed like an Apache.”

  I freeze. Apache was the nutcase who nearly beat Clint, my No. 2 man, to death. Clint turned on me at trial to shave some time off his own sentence. I almost wish Apache had killed him.

  “Did your guy get hurt?”

  “Nothing serious. But he got the message that it might not be a good idea for him to be handling this project.”

  I remain quiet, trying to put all the pieces together.

  “So, since they’re under twenty-four-hour surveillance right now, I have another idea for a project.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The guy on the project has a girlfriend. She’s an attorney. Maybe we should concentrate on her instead.”

  I remember seeing a chick in court with Dre Thomas during my trial. I assumed she was his woman because after he finished testifying against me, she hugged him. My attorney told me she used to be a federal prosecutor. It surprises me, but I like Willie’s proposal.

  “I like it,” I say, grinning now. “I like it a lot.”

  This time, we won’t be announcing our intentions. Now that our focus is on this lady lawyer, I need to carefully plot out exactly how we should proceed.

  “Chill for a minute and let me reevaluate,” I tell Willie. “I’ll call you in a few days.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Angela

  When we arrive at juvenile hall, Graylin hugs us like we’re his long-lost sisters.

  “My dad was here,” he says, beaming. “But they only let him stay for three hours. Tomorrow he can stay for four hours because it’s Sunday.”

  Visiting hours for parents are limited to weekends and following court appearances, but there are no restrictions on lawyer visits.

  “Have you talked to anybody about your case since we spoke to you last night?” Jenny asks.

  Graylin looks down at the floor. “Um, well, not really.”

  “What do you mean not really?”

  “Um, my friend Andrew asked me what I was in for. I had to say something because he was being friendly. So I just said I was accused of sexting and that was it. I swear.”

  “What about your dad? Did you talk to him about your case?”

  “I told him you said I wasn’t supposed to, but he made me. He only wanted to know whether I took the picture and I told him I didn’t. Please don’t tell him I told you. He’ll be mad at me.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll handle him.”

  Jenny pins a stern look on Graylin. “Going forward, it’s important that you don’t talk t
o anybody else about your case. Okay?”

  Graylin nods. “Okay. I won’t.”

  She pulls a pamphlet from her satchel and hands it to Graylin. “I want you to read this after I leave. It explains how the juvenile court process works.”

  She hands another copy to me. “You should read it too.”

  I glance at the title and stiffen. Understanding the Juvenile Delinquency System. Is she trying to belittle me in front of our client?

  “Why does Ms. Angela need one?” Graylin asks. “Doesn’t she know this stuff?”

  “Of course I do,” I reply with a phony smile. “I’m going to give my copy to your father.”

  Jenny takes out a yellow legal pad. “I want you to tell me everything you can remember about what happened on Friday. The police report says you had a naked picture of a girl from your school on your phone. Is that true?”

  Graylin blows out a breath.

  “It’s okay to talk to us,” I prod him. “Whatever you tell us is protected by the attorney-client privilege.”

  Graylin squints. “What does that mean?”

  Jenny hurls a chiding look my way and I instantly realize my mistake. I’m talking to Graylin as if he were an adult, not a kid.

  “That means whatever you tell me, even if it’s something you did that’s bad,” Jenny explains, “I have to keep it a secret. I can’t tell anybody about it unless you give me permission.”

  “And Ms. Angela too? She can’t tell anybody either, right?”

  I nod. “That’s correct.” Maybe if Jenny would use the word we instead of I, Graylin would understand that.

  “Not even my dad or my granny or my Uncle Dre?”

  “Not even them,” Jenny confirms. “That’s one of the rules attorneys have to follow.”

  He doesn’t look at us. “Um, yeah. I had the naked picture of Kennedy on my phone.”

  “Did you take it?” Jenny asks.

  “No, ma’am.” Graylin raises his right hand. “I swear on the Bible.”

  “Then how did it get on your phone?”

  “Somebody sent it to me on Snapchat.”

  “But Snapchat pictures disappear,” I say.

  “As soon as I saw it, I took a screenshot of it.”

  “Do you know who sent it to you?” Jenny asks.

  Graylin shakes his head.

  “You have to click on the sender’s name to open the picture, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. But I didn’t recognize the person.”

  Jenny scribbles something down on her legal pad. “Do you remember the name?”

  “It wasn’t a name. Just some letters and a number. I don’t remember what they were.”

  “When did you first see it?”

  “Right before first period ended.”

  “Describe the picture to us,” I say. “Could you tell where it was taken?”

  Jenny stretches her palm out toward me, her eyes still on Graylin. “Let’s slow down. It’s best if we ask him one question at a time. Describe the picture for us, Graylin?”

  My jaw tightens from her rebuke. I keep my mouth shut and let the prima donna do her thing.

  “It looked like she was in somebody’s house and she didn’t have any clothes on.”

  “What part of the house?” Jenny asks.

  “A bedroom, I think.”

  “Was she posing for the picture? Like a selfie?”

  “No. It looked like it was taken through a window because it was kinda far away.”

  “And you have no idea who sent it to you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Do you think Kennedy sent it to you? Maybe she likes you.”

  “Naw. There’re some sluts at our school, but not Kennedy.”

  Jenny takes Graylin through every second of his day on Friday, starting with his arrival at school, his discovery of the Snapchat message and ending with his arrest.

  “Ms. Jenny, how did the principal know I had the picture?”

  “Someone left an anonymous note in the administration office saying you had a naked picture of Kennedy on your phone and that you were going to beat her up and post her picture all over Instagram.”

  Graylin rockets to his feet. “That’s a lie! Somebody’s lying on me!”

  “We know Graylin.” I rub his arm and guide him back to his seat. “And we’re going to prove it.”

  “Did you have any other pictures of Kennedy on your phone?” Jenny asks.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Did you have naked pictures of anyone else on your phone?”

  “No way.”

  Jenny scans the questions on her legal pad. “Did you send the picture to anyone?”

  “No, ma’am. Nobody.”

  “Did you show it to anyone?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Did you tell anyone about it?”

  Graylin pauses for the first time and averts his eyes. “No, ma’am.”

  “We need you to be honest with us,” Jenny says. “If you tell us something that isn’t true, it might hurt your case because we won’t be prepared.”

  He starts rubbing his palms up and down his thighs. “I was going to show it to my friend Crayvon, but I didn’t get the chance.”

  “What’s Crayvon’s last name?”

  “Little.”

  “So did you show it to him?”

  “No, but I sort of told him about it.”

  “What do you mean sort of?”

  “I saw him when we were leaving first period. I told him I had something I wanted to show him. But I didn’t get the chance.”

  “Why not?”

  “He had to go to the administration office to—”

  Light fills his eyes and Graylin springs to his feet again. “Crayvon must’ve been the one who sent me the picture and left that note! He’s supposed to be my friend. Why would he do that to me?” He starts to cry.

  “Hold on Graylin,” Jenny says. “You said you didn’t get a chance to tell Crayvon about it. How would he know you even had it?”

  “Because he must’ve sent it to me! He set me up!”

  I stand up and hug him. “We don’t know that for sure, but we’ll look into it.”

  It takes us a few minutes to calm Graylin down.

  It’s clear that Jenny is much more skilled at retrieving information from child clients than I am. I want to know more about Crayvon Little. But since that subject upset him, she moves on to another topic and will likely return to it later.

  “Let’s go over how the police got your phone again.”

  Graylin hangs his head in an exaggerated show of exhaustion. “We already did. I’m getting tired, Ms. Jenny.”

  “I know. We’ll take a break in a minute.”

  He exhales. “At first, when they asked me for it, I said it was in my locker. But then it started ringing.”

  “And then what happened?

  “The Asian cop made me take it out of my pocket and give it to them, so I did.”

  Both of us jerk to attention at the same time. The first time Graylin recounted what happened, he made it sound like he willingly handed over his phone.

  “What do you mean he made you give it to him?” Jenny asks.

  “The Asian cop was really mean. He said, Give me the damn phone and pounded the table with his fist.”

  Jenny and I eye each other with lawyerly glee.

  “Did they read you your rights before they started talking to you?”

  “Nope. I kept telling them that my dad told me not to talk to the police without his permission, but they wouldn’t stop asking me questions. So can you get me out because they didn’t read me my rights?”

  “We’ll see,” Jenny says.

  “Let’s take a break.” She motions me toward the door.
“We’ll be right back.”

  Once we’re outside in the hallway, Jenny bites her lip and starts pacing. “The biggest problem we have is that Graylin saved the picture to his phone. That makes the possession charge hard for us to kick.”

  Progress! She’s finally using the pronouns we and us as if we’re a team.

  “Sounds like our best shot is filing a motion to suppress the picture and Graylin’s statements because the police violated his Fourth and Fifth Amendment rights.”

  “That’s not our best shot,” Jenny says. “It’s our only shot.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Kennedy

  I hate it so much when my parents argue.

  I crack my bedroom door and take a few steps into the hallway so I can see into the living room. My parents are standing nose-to-nose.

  “This is a decision both of us have to make,” my dad says.

  “I understand that,” my mom spits at him. “What I don’t understand is why you want to sweep everything under the rug.”

  “I just don’t think it’s a good idea to make our daughter the poster child for sexting. You had no right to call the mayor’s office throwing around my name without my permission.”

  “We’ve raised a ton of money for that man. He owes us.”

  “Don’t you understand that pushing this case means the media could pick up on it. That could cause even more embarrassment for her.”

  “There’s nothing for Kennedy to be embarrassed about. Some pervert took a picture of her through her bedroom window. I want to teach my daughter to stand up for herself.”

  My dad throws up his hands and slumps to the couch.

  I don’t understand how my mom and dad started hating each other. Last Christmas, everyone was so happy. Then out of the blue, my dad sat me down and told me he was moving out.

  “And why won’t you go to counseling with us?” my mom asks. “Lord knows everybody in this house could use it.”

  He stands up, his hands at his waist. “I’m fine with Kennedy getting counseling, but I have no desire to air our dirty laundry before some stranger. So don’t ask me again.”