Alexandria of Africa (2 page)

“He can’t send me to prison … can he?” I asked my lawyer.

He smiled. “Of course not.”

I felt a rush of relief. How stupid of me to even think—

“Prison is only for adult offenders. You’d be sent to juvenile detention.”

The anxiety came rushing back, only worse.

“Could you please explain to us what juvenile detention is?” my father asked.

“It’s a secure setting for young people who have committed crimes but are not old enough to be placed in an adult facility, i.e., a jail.”

“What does that mean,
secure
setting?” I asked.

“Locked doors, bars on the windows, locked rooms.”

“But that sounds like a jail!”

“It is,” he said. “It’s a kiddie jail. Cells, guards, no personal possessions, including, of course, no telephones.” He pointed at my purse. He’d made me turn off my phone and stash it in my purse because it had been ringing so much while we were waiting to come into court. Was it my fault that I was popular?

“You would share a room with two or three other prisoners,” he continued.

“I’d be with prisoners?” I gasped.

“You would
be
a prisoner.”

“Mr. Collins, isn’t that a little bit harsh?” my mother asked.

He shook his head. “That’s what they’re called. People who are in detention are prisoners. Most rooms have one or two sets of bunk beds and a shared toilet in the corner.”

“The toilet is in the
room?
That’s … that’s just
disgusting!”

“And, of course, you’re issued a standard detention uniform.”

“You mean I couldn’t wear my own clothing?” I gasped. “But what would I wear?”

“Everybody dresses in the same jumpsuit.”

“But nobody wears jumpsuits any more! They’re so yesterday!”

“That’s what they wear. Orange jumpsuits.”

“Oh God! I look awful in orange!
Everybody
looks awful in orange!” I felt my lower lip start to quiver. I was on the verge of tears—the real kind, not the trying to-get-my-own-way type!

“Please, Mr. Collins, there’s no point in getting into any of this,” my mother said. She wrapped an arm around me. This time I didn’t brush it away.

“It’s my job to let you know what might happen,” he said.

“But you’re scaring her!”

“Still, detention time is one of the possibilities.”

“How possible?” my father asked.

“It’s hard to say.”

“Ballpark it for me. What do you think the odds are of her serving time?”

“Umm … I hate to make a prediction … maybe less than a 10 percent chance.”

“I like those odds,” my father said. “I’ll always take a business deal where there’s a 90 percent chance of success.”

Suddenly this had become a business deal? I didn’t know whether I should be honoured or insulted. After all, I knew how much his business meant to him.

“And if it all did go south and she was sent to detention, what sort of time would we be talking about?” he asked.

“There are established guidelines for each offence, but the judge has a lot of discretion within those guidelines.”

“So, what’s the worst-case scenario? How bad could the damage be?”

“Up to six months.”

“Six months!” I exclaimed as I jumped to my feet. “That’s crazy! It was just a few things! It wasn’t like I killed somebody! I’ll tell the judge I won’t do it again!”

“Unfortunately, that’s what you told him the last time,” Mr. Collins said.

“Anyway, just calm down,” my father said. “You can’t lose your cool. People smell fear in business deals.”

“This is my
life
, not a
business deal!”
I protested.

“Everything
is a business deal. Besides, we’re not talking about what
will
happen, just what
could
happen.”

“But you won’t let me go to juvenile detention, will you, Daddy?” I pleaded.

“Your father has very little say in this,” Mr. Collins said before my father could answer.

“But still, six months for shoplifting, that makes no sense,” my mother argued.

“This wouldn’t just be for shoplifting. It would include the charge of violating probation and also the reinstatement of the original charge of vandalism.”

“How can that be fair?” I protested. “I even paid for her car to be repaired.”

“Your father paid,” Mr. Collins said. “And that doesn’t change the fact that you pummelled a car with a golf club, causing thousands of dollars in damage and terrifying the girl who was in the car during your temper tantrum.”

Hey, it wasn’t a temper tantrum. It was about getting even, getting back, not letting somebody get away with something. I almost smiled at the memory. She deserved to have a golf club taken to her car. Now that little tramp would think twice before trying to steal anybody’s boyfriend again.

“A lot will depend on the pre-sentence report, prepared by the court-appointed social worker,” Mr. Collins explained.

“Have you seen it?” my father asked him.

“It’s only for the judge to see.” Mr. Collins turned to me. “Do you have a sense of what the report might say?”

“How would I know?”

“The social worker did interview you. You were there.”

“Of course I was there,” I snapped.

“Well, how did the interview go?”

“It went fine … I guess.”

“You guess?” my father asked.

“Well, she was late and I had an appointment to have
my hair done and I couldn’t hang around.” I turned to my mom. “You know how hard it is to get an appointment with Mr. Henri and how angry he gets when you’re even a minute late.”

“He can throw quite the little hissy fit,” my mother confirmed.

“Please don’t tell me you blew off the interview because of some haircut!” Mr. Collins exclaimed.

“First off, it was a
style
, not a
cut
. “I almost said something about him
desperately
needing a good stylist because apparently he cut his own hair, but that was beside the point. “And second, I
did
do the interview.”

My lawyer let out a big sigh of relief.

“Although I refused to answer some of her questions.”

The shocked look on my lawyer’s face actually startled me.

“Well, some of her questions were just so
personal
. I thought, Who does she think she is? What right did she have to ask
me
questions?”

“She had the right to ask you anything she wanted,” Mr. Collins said. “She had the authority of the court! She was asking the questions that the judge wanted the answers to!”

“It wasn’t just the questions,” I said. “It was the way she asked them. She was totally rude. She had quite the attitude.”

“She
had an attitude?” Mr. Collins questioned.

I knew what he was implying but I chose to show some class and ignore him.

“Yes, the nerve of some woman who shops at Wal-Mart, and doesn’t even have the sense to have her bag match her shoes, to think that she could sit there and judge me!”

Mr. Collins put his head down on the table. How unprofessional! Not to mention that from that angle his
hair was even less flattering. Forget the hairstyle, a shampoo would have been helpful for a start.

The door off to the side of the bench sprang open and a large man in a uniform came in.

“All rise for the Honourable Judge Roberts!”

We all stood up as the judge entered the room. He was followed by another man in uniform, a man in a suit, and a woman with absolutely no sense of fashion. She was wearing the clunkiest shoes I’d ever seen, and her skirt and blouse didn’t go together at all. If the fashion police had been able to make arrests she’d have been in court for an entirely different reason. She went over to a table in the corner. She was the court secretary, so she was there to take notes and stuff.

The judge took his seat behind the high wooden bench.

“Please be seated,” Judge Roberts said.

My lawyer and I took our places at the table and my parents sat down directly behind us. The man with the suit took the table beside ours. The two guys in uniform stood on either side of the judge, like they were guarding him. Did anybody really think I was going to assault the judge?

“Court is now in session,” the court secretary said. “Our first matter involves a charge of theft under $500,
shoplifting, and a violation of probation. The defendant is Alexandria Hyatt.”

“That name sounds familiar,” the judge said, his eyes still focused on the papers on the bench in front of him.

People usually remembered me.

“… and that is not a good thing,” he added, looking up and staring directly at me.

My lawyer got to his feet. “Mr. Collins, representing Ms. Hyatt.”

“If I’m not mistaken, you were not the lawyer of record on Ms. Hyatt’s previous charge.”

“No, sir, that would have been Mr. Kruger, the senior partner in my firm.”

“Yes,” Judge Roberts said. “I recall how peculiar it was to have a senior partner of a major firm representing a juvenile on a first offence.”

“The defendant’s father and his business holdings are major clients of the firm, and he requested that Mr. Kruger be present at that hearing,” Mr. Collins explained.

“Must be nice to have pull,” Judge Roberts said, looking at my father.

I knew that would make him happy.

“Although obviously not enough pull to have Mr. Kruger make the return appearance,” the judge went on.

That my father wouldn’t like. I would have liked to turn around to see his expression. Hardly anybody ever spoke to him like that … really, nobody but my mother, and that was only before the divorce.

“Mr. Kruger was unfortunately unable to attend as he is presently in Hong Kong negotiating some sensitive arrangements on behalf of Ms. Hyatt’s father.”

“So, Mr. Hyatt wanted to make sure his business dealings were taken care of, rather than …”

He let the sentence trail off but I knew what he meant—instead of me. I hadn’t thought of that.

“Could I ask, Mr. Collins, how long you have been a partner in the firm?”

Mr. Collins laughed. “I’m not a partner, Your Honour. I’m one of the firm’s most junior lawyers.”

“Shocking!” Judge Roberts said, although his tone and expression were far from shocked. He actually sounded kind of amused. Maybe that could work in my favour—a judge in a good mood could only mean good things.

“And did the rest of the senior partners and all the junior partners and associates also accompany Mr. Kruger on his trip?”

“Um … no, sir.”

“Did you wonder how the
honour
of representing Ms. Hyatt fell to you?” the judge asked.

“No, sir. I was asked by one of my superiors.”

“Which must be almost everybody in the firm, with the possible exception of the mailroom staff and the guy who makes coffee. Mr. Collins, are you familiar with the term ‘sacrificial goat,’ or perhaps the admonition, ‘Don’t shoot the messenger’?”

“Um, both, Your Honour. The latter arises from a fear that the person who delivers bad news might somehow be held responsible for the content of the message and punished accordingly. He, in essence, becomes the sacrificial goat. But I don’t see how this applies to my being—”

“You might see the connection soon enough. Sit down.”

Mr. Collins took the seat beside me. I had no idea what any of this meant but I got the feeling that Judge Roberts wasn’t any more impressed with Mr. Collins than I was.

The judge was acting a little strangely, though. He certainly wasn’t the way I remembered him from the first
time I was in court. And there was a peculiar look in his eyes. They looked almost … glazed.

“Perhaps before I continue I should apologize for my tardiness. I personally detest being kept waiting and consider it the height of unprofessional behaviour to keep others waiting.”

“That’s okay,” I said, and smiled at the judge.

“That is so gracious of you, Ms. Hyatt. I was particularly worried about keeping
you
waiting.”

“Me?”

“Yes, I was afraid you might have to leave … as you did, apparently, when the pre-sentence report was being prepared.”

I swallowed hard. This was not a good sign.

“As well, I recall at your last appearance that you looked somewhat distracted, dare I say even … bored?”

“Not bored,” I said. “Although I guess things could have moved a tad more quickly.”

“Again, my apologies. I’ll try my best to keep things moving, and I’ll certainly make sure you aren’t bored this time.”

There was a tone in his voice and glint in his eyes that sort of scared me.

“I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t keeping you from something more important, something like a hair appointment.”

That woman had obviously said something about that in her report.

“By the way, your hair does look
fantastic!
My compliments to your stylist.”

“Thank you.” I’d worked on it for over an hour that morning. If I couldn’t wear the clothes I wanted, at least my hair could be right, and it was nice of him to notice.

“Mr. Collins, perhaps you could have Ms. Hyatt pass on to you the name of her stylist.”

“I’m afraid he really doesn’t take new referrals,” I said. “He’s pretty exclusive.”

“What a pity. Poor Mr. Collins is destined to spend his life appearing as though he is far more concerned with what is
in
his head than what is on
top
of it. I imagine that isn’t a concern you have been accused of having, Ms. Hyatt.”

“No,” I said. I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, but I had to agree with his assessment of my lawyer’s haircut.

“But I digress. The reason I was late was because I had to see my doctor. You might have noticed this.” He pulled his robe down slightly to reveal a thick white collar around his neck. I had noticed the white, but I’d assumed he was wearing a scarf. This was no scarf. It was the sort of thing people wore when they had a neck injury … it was called whip … ship … something.

“I am suffering from a case of whiplash,” he said.

“That’s it!” I exclaimed, without thinking.

“My doctor will be so glad that you agree with his diagnosis. Have you ever had whiplash, Ms. Hyatt?”