Abuse of Discretion

by Pamela Samuels Young

  “Our investigator interviewed her and she said she saw you and Crayvon going into Kennedy’s backyard a few days before you got arrested. Is that true?”

  Graylin almost chokes on his donut. “Um, yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us that?”

  He lowers his head. “You didn’t ask me, Ms. Jenny. And if I’d told you I’d gone back there, you would’ve thought I’d taken that picture of her.”

  “Did you take the picture?” she asks.

  His head shoots back up. “No ma’am! I swear! You have to believe me, Ms. Jenny. We were only playing around. They have a huge waterfall. We weren’t even back there that long. Crayvon’s the one who likes her, not me.”

  “Crayvon likes Kennedy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t tell us that either.”

  “You didn’t ask me.”

  That’s the problem with a child client. They often don’t understand the relevance of certain information.

  “Do you remember when you went back there?”

  “Yes, it was on Tuesday, that same week that I got arrested.”

  “How do you remember that?”

  “Because we have Math Club meetings after school on Tuesdays and sometimes I go to Crayvon’s house afterward to help him with his algebra.”

  “After you two came out of Kennedy’s backyard,” Jenny continues, “what did you do?”

  “I went home.”

  “What time did you go home?”

  “I don’t remember. But I’m sure it wasn’t dark yet because I’m not allowed to ride the bus at night.”

  “Did you take any pictures while you were back there?”

  “No, Ms. Jenny. You have to believe me. And Crayvon didn’t take any pictures either.”

  “Taisha said she saw Crayvon go back into Kennedy’s backyard by himself a few minutes after you left.”

  Graylin shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. I went home.”

  It takes a couple of seconds for his brain to process the implication of Jenny’s statement. And when he does, outrage crawls across his face like an ugly rash.

  “I told you! I knew it was Crayvon! He took that picture! He set me up!”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Jenny says. “We spoke to him too. He says he didn’t take it.”

  Graylin didn’t seem to hear Jenny’s words. “I was wondering why he hasn’t called or come by to see me since I’ve been out. That’s why! Because he set me up!”

  “Calm down, Graylin,” I say. “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “I do! Crayvon’s the only one who could’ve taken that picture. He lives right across the street from Kennedy. I thought he was my best friend.” He starts to cry. “How could he do this to me? You have to tell the police it was Crayvon and not me!”

  My phone chimes again. I pull it from my purse. It’s Dre again. This time I read his text.

  IMPORTANT RE GRAYLIN. CALL ME!!!

  While Jenny tries to calm Graylin down, I step into the hallway to call Dre back. If this is a ploy to get me to talk to him, I’m going to be pissed.

  “I got your text,” I say, as detached as ever. “What’s up?”

  I listen as Dre speaks at twice his normal pace, clearly revved up about what he has to share. When he’s done telling me about his conversation with Brianna, I’m more excited than he is. It won’t be a stretch for the jury to believe that a kid who puts his hands underneath a girl’s dress at church could also be a peeping Tom.

  Graylin is absolutely right. Crayvon took that picture and set him up to take the fall.

  CHAPTER 66

  Angela

  Graylin’s trial is two short weeks away. Now that we have another plausible suspect, our energy level is off the charts.

  Jenny and I are parked outside the apartment of LaShay Baker, Kennedy’s best friend. When we called to set up the interview, the girl’s grandmother was more than receptive.

  Naomi Baker opens the front door before we can even knock.

  “Get on in here and give me a hug!” she says, throwing her arms wide open.

  Mrs. Baker is a tall, bulky woman with a gracious smile who speaks in a booming female baritone.

  She squeezes me so hard I gasp for air. When she gives Jenny the same treatment, I almost burst out laughing.

  “I’m so proud of you girls. Graylin’s a good boy and I’m glad he has you two fighting for him. C’mon in here and have a seat.”

  She shows us into a living room that’s a throwback to the 1970s. There’s beige shag carpeting and her antique couch has plastic slip covers.

  “Thank you,” Jenny says, massaging her ribcage. “So you know Graylin?”

  “No, but LaShay told me all about him. And the Holy Spirit tells me things. He’s a good boy. I can feel it.”

  Jenny throws me a bewildered glance. She’s wondering if Mrs. Baker is playing with a full deck.

  “Mrs. Baker,” I begin, “we wanted to talk with LaShay about—”

  “Everybody calls me Mama Baker,” the woman says. “So you girls should call me that too. I made some coffee.” She points to a white decanter sitting on the coffee table. “Let me go get the rest of the food I prepared.”

  Mama Baker returns carrying a silver platter with finger sandwiches and chocolate cake cut into neat squares. Jenny eyes the food like she just ended a ten-day fast. She reaches for the cake first and immediately starts gushing.

  “This cake is absolutely amazing!”

  “Is LaShay here?” I ask as Jenny chows down. Cake must be her thing. I’m jealous that she can eat like a pig and remain as thin as a straw.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess y’all didn’t come here to chit-chat with me.” She yells down the hallway. “LaShay! Come in here, baby!”

  A petite girl wearing cornrows appears in the entryway.

  Mama Baker pats the couch next to her. “Graylin’s attorneys wanna talk to you, baby.”

  LaShay perches herself on the edge of the couch, across from Jenny and I. She rests her hands in her lap, which is also where she keeps her gaze.

  I take the lead since Jenny is too busy munching. “We understand that you’re friends with Kennedy Carlyle.”

  The girl nods. “Yes. She’s my best friend.”

  “Then you know about the picture that was taken of her?”

  LaShay nods.

  “Can you think of anybody who might’ve wanted to hurt Kennedy by taking that picture of her.”

  “Nope.”

  “Did Kennedy ever tell you she thought she knew who took it?”

  “Yeah. She said Graylin took it.”

  “Do you know why she thinks that?”

  “Because he had it on his phone and because that’s what everybody is saying at school.”

  “Do you know Crayvon Little?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Crayvon like Kennedy?”

  “Yep, he told me he wanted her to be his girlfriend. But she can’t stand him because he’s always making jokes about her.”

  Jenny takes a break from her orgasm over the cake to ask a question. “When did he do that?”

  “All the time. He’s always trying to embarrass her.”

  “Can you give us an example of something he did to embarrass her?” I ask.

  “One time, in the cafeteria in front of everybody, he called her stuck-up and said her breasts were flatter than pancakes. Everybody laughed. It really hurt Kennedy’s feelings.”

  Mama Baker shakes her head. “These kids today are a mess with all this bullying stuff.”

  For the next thirty minutes or so we listen to LaShay’s depiction of eighth-grade behavior.

  “Did Kennedy ever report Crayvon to a teacher or anyone else at school?”

  “Nope. She was
too afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “If she reported him and he got in trouble, he might start teasing her more.”

  “Did Kennedy ever tell you she saw Crayvon or Graylin in her backyard before?”

  “No.”

  Jenny asks a few more questions, then gives me a look that says she’s all out. I’m about to announce that we’re done when another question comes to mind.

  “I have one more question. Do you know if Kennedy has started counseling yet?”

  “Nope,” LaShay says.

  “Why not?”

  “Because her daddy doesn’t believe in it. He says he doesn’t like telling strangers their business.”

  “You don’t take your problems to man,” Mama Baker says. “You take them to Jesus.”

  With that, we begin packing up to leave. Mama Baker asks if we’d like to take some cake to go. Jenny doesn’t even let the woman get the words out before saying yes.

  Mama Baker leaves the room and returns carrying two Ziploc bags with the cake wrapped in foil inside.

  “Would you girls mind if I lay hands on you?” Mama Baker asks, moving in without waiting for our consent.

  Jenny’s eyes blaze with uncertainty. She has no idea what that means.

  “That’s fine,” I say. Jenny remains mum, clutching her cake.

  Mama Baker stands facing us. She grips the front of our heads, curling the heel of her large hands underneath our foreheads, and starts to pray.

  “Father, I ask you today to bless these two women with the power to bring justice where justice is long overdue. Give them all your power, Father, to help young Graylin out of this mess. Father, give these girls the insight of Perry Mason and the oratory gifts of Johnny Cochran. Help them convince that jury that if the glove don’t fit, they must acquit.”

  I glance over at Jenny, who has one eye open. She looks petrified. Mama Baker goes on for what seems like another five minutes.

  “That I ask of you in Jesus’ name. Amen! Hallelujah!” She squeezes both our heads then gently pushes us, sending us stumbling backward a step or two.

  “Thank you so much,” I say.

  “You’re welcome, baby. Give Mama Baker a hug.”

  She pulls me into her arms, then turns to Jenny, who crosses her eyes at me over Mama Baker’s shoulder.

  “What was that head-grabbing thing?” Jenny says as we’re walking to our cars. “I should’ve told her I’m Jewish.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t. She might’ve tried to pray you into a Christian.”

  We both have a good laugh.

  “I still can’t believe the Carlyles haven’t gotten Kennedy into counseling yet,” I say.

  “Maybe they’re afraid of something coming out during the sessions,” Jenny replies.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, but I hope we’re not missing something obvious. I don’t have a good feeling about the father.”

  “So you think Mr. Carlyle had something to do with this?”

  “Maybe.”

  I shake my head. “That would be way too weird. I don’t buy it and neither would a jury. It’s Crayvon. A kid who puts his hand underneath a girl’s dress—in church no less—is a predator in the making. We just have to convince the jury of that.”

  CHAPTER 67

  The Shepherd

  I transferred ten grand to Sims’ and Phillips’ accounts and so far, it’s been worth every penny. I see Oaktown from time to time in the chow hall, but he hasn’t even looked my way. My only gripe is not having a cell phone. The two C.O.s are trying to teach me a lesson for threatening them.

  Staying in my room is making me stir crazy, so I decide to catch a movie. There’s rarely anything playing that I want to see, but tonight they’re showing Sully with Tom Hanks. I’ve always been interested in how that dude landed that big bird on the Hudson River. I don’t know if I could’ve been as cool under that kind of pressure.

  I enter the TV room and take a seat near the back, always careful to watch my surroundings. The racial divide in prison is deep. There are separate TVs for the blacks, Mexicans, and whites.

  A few minutes into the movie, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s C.O. Phillips. He signals me to come outside.

  I grunt, angry that I’m going to miss part of the movie. We walk over to the exercise room and enter a small backroom.

  “Sims and I are still a little concerned about you threatening us,” Phillips says.

  I exhale. I paid them ten grand and now they’re trying to extort me for more?

  “I thought that was all behind us. I didn’t mean any harm. I was desperate.” Just like you’re desperate right now.

  I realize that I hold all the power and it feels good. If the warden found out about their misdeeds, they wouldn’t just lose their jobs, they’d end up in prison like me.

  “You and Sims got the ten grand I sent, right?”

  A C.O. at their level makes about fifty thousand a year. That’s a twenty percent bonus.

  “Yeah, we got it. But you need to understand that money can’t buy everything.”

  I wish this buffoon would hurry up and finish messing with me so I can get back to the movie.

  The door opens and C.O. Sims steps into the room. That’s when I sense that something’s about to go down. Before I can gather my thoughts, Sims charges forward, punching me in the face.

  I retreat to the nearest corner.

  “You messed up by threatening us,” Sims says. He pulls a rag from his back pocket while Phillips rushes me, pinning my back against the wall. Sims stuffs the rag into my mouth so deep I start gagging.

  When I turn my head, I see one of the monsters, the bigger one, who attacked me in the hole. There’s another man—a known chomo—standing behind him. His eyes are glistening like he’s about to enjoy a tasty meal. And then I see Oaktown.

  “No, no!” I yell, but my words are muffled by the rag. “You can’t do this! Help!”

  “Scream all you want,” Oaktown says. “Nobody can hear you. Everybody’s enjoyin’ the movie. Except you.”

  I manage to spit out the rag just as Phillips releases me. I fall to the floor and scrunch up in the fetal position.

  “Please, please don’t hurt me. I can pay you. I have lots of money. I can help your family!”

  Sims turns to Oaktown. “He’s all yours. Have fun.” The two C.O.s walk out and shut the door.

  Oaktown signals the monster with a simple nod. He immediately drops his pants and urinates in my face. I hold up my hands to block the stream, fearful and incensed at the same time.

  “I can pay you!” I plead, crab-walking away. “I can pay you anything you want!”

  The monster snatches me up from the ground, rips my pants off and slams me chest first into the wall. “He’s all yours,” he says to the chomo, still holding me against the wall.

  The chomo strips off his clothes and rushes toward me. I try to wrestle free, but in seconds I feel a searing pain pierce my buttocks. “Owww!”

  “Is this what you did to Blaze’s daughter and a whole bunch of other dudes’ kids?” Oaktown asks. “I thought you outta know what it felt like.”

  The chomo moans with pleasure as his hairy chest presses into my back. He’s sweaty and smells like rotting garbage. I vomit into the wall. The pain of this violation is so intense I’m close to blacking out.

  “Please, please,” I whimper, “help me!” My eyes meet Oaktown’s and I see nothing but disgust.

  “Hurry up and finish rapin’ that fool,” Oaktown says, holding up a long, rusty-looking shank. “So I can kill his ass and get back to the movie.”

  CHAPTER 68

  Angela

  It’s close to midnight the day before trial and we’ve just finished putting the finishing touches on our exhibits, exa
mination outlines, and my opening statement.

  “I’m so tired, I can’t see straight,” Jenny says, scratching her forehead.

  I’m stretched out on the couch across from her desk. “At least you can see crooked. I can’t see at all.”

  “So how do you feel about our case?” she asks, yawning.

  “Pretty good. They have nothing to support the invasion of privacy and distribution charges and the criminal threat count is just as weak. And unless Little Slice testifies, the witness intimidation charge is a loser too.”

  The prosecution turned over the forensic analysis of Graylin’s phone. It definitively showed that the picture was not taken on the phone, nor did Graylin forward it to anyone. The Snapchat account that sent him the picture was linked to a website that allows users to create untraceable email addresses. So there’s no way for us to identify the sender.

  I’m pissed that Sullivan hasn’t dropped everything except the possession charge. She’s trying to muddy the waters. Even if the jury acquits him on the other charges and finds him guilty on the possession charge, he could still be locked up for a year.

  “I’m just glad Taisha and Crayvon aren’t on Sullivan’s witness list,” Jenny says.

  Her cell phone rings. A call this late at night can’t be good. As she listens, her expression turns gloomy. “What?” She springs forward in her chair.

  I’m sitting up now, praying that whatever she’s hearing has nothing to do with Graylin.

  Jenny hangs up and props her elbows on the desk.

  “What’s the matter? Is Graylin okay?”

  “That call wasn’t about Graylin.”

  “Then what? What happened?”

  “You need to call your boyfriend.”

  “Dre?” I stand up so fast my head starts swimming. “You got a call about Dre?”

  “Yeah. You need to call him. Now.”

  “Why?”

  “To ask him if he had anything to do with The Shepherd being murdered in prison two nights ago.”

  It takes a minute before I speak.

  “I don’t have to ask him. He didn’t have anything to do with it.” I have no idea why I just said that.