Caught Up (23 page)

M
y hands and feet in shackles, two guards—one male, the other female—escort me into the elevator up to the second floor where juvenile court proceedings are handled. It is my retention hearing. Whatever that means. My attorney explained it to me when he came down to the holding cell to speak with me. But everything he was saying went over my head. This is all confusing to me. Aside from watching Court TV, I know nothing about a retention hearing. Or being in a real courtroom. And what's most frightening is knowing that right at this very moment my entire fate is in the hands of someone else. I feel so helpless not knowing what's going to happen to me.

My stomach quakes with anxiety as we enter the courtroom and I am seated at a wooden table. My hands remain cuffed. Every few seconds, I glance over my shoulder to see who comes to court for me.

A few short minutes later I hear large wooden doors behind me open. I glance over my shoulder. It's Daddy dressed in a navy blue suit. He looks so worn out. He's flown in from Dubai, has had to take a leave of absence from work, just to be here for my court date.

I feel so horrible.

My mom is ignoring me.

My brothers are all pissed at me.

Jordan and Hope aren't speaking to me.

Sasha is all of sudden acting as if she can't be so bothered with me.

And the only thing Malik seems to care about is me keeping my mouth shut.

I have no one.

I half hoped, half expected, to see my mom walking in behind Daddy. I am disappointed when she doesn't. I mean. I am happy to see Daddy. I am. Really. I am a Daddy's girl. Still...

“All rise!” The bailiff says in a singsong voice, opening the back courtroom door. In walks a short, brown-skinhed lady. She looks nothing like what everyone said. She's pretty. And seems nice enough. I try to gauge her mood. But I can't. She's wearing no expression on her face.

The courtroom falls silent as she briskly makes her way toward the bench, her black judge's robe swooshing behind her as she climbs up the stairs to the bench and sits.

“Court is now in session!” The bailiff barks. “The Honorable Julia Lee Anderson presiding. All electronic devices are to be turned off now. Please be seated.”

Judge Anderson glances around the courtroom. “Good morning.” She clears her throat, placing her reading glasses on. “We are here on the matter of the juvenile Kennedy Simms. Docket number JV-dash-one-three-three-four-seven-two-thousand-and-thirteen. This is a retention hearing.” She looks up from her papers. “I see we have representation from the state. And counsel here for the defendant. Counselors, please identify yourselves for the record.”

The prosecutor stands up. A white woman. Blonde hair, pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Sparkling blue eyes. Milky white skin. Thin. She looks like she should be on a runway instead standing in front of a judge in a courtroom. She's all business as she says, “Emily Swanson for the state, Your Honor.”

My attorney stands. “James Ford for the defendant.”

The judge nods her head, then scans my file, glancing up and peering at me over the rim of her glasses. She is giving me dirty looks. Maybe it's my imagination. Maybe not.

She gets right down to business.

“You've been charged with the following: two counts possession of a weapon, specifically a .38-caliber tear gas pen gun containing a rifle bullet and a semi-automatic pistol . . .”

I choke back a scream.

“. . . possession of the narcotic painkiller oxycodone, possession of the prescription anti-anxiety drug Xanax, and possession of cocaine.”

The judge looks up at me. “Do you understand the crimes you are being charged with, young lady?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I say meekly. “But I didn't do anything. They weren't mine.”

She tilts her head. Gives me a blank stare. “Were they not in your possession when the police arrested you?”

I swallow. “Yes. But . . .”

She cuts me off. “Then you
did
do something. And now you've gotten yourself caught up in the middle of a big mess.”

I lower my head. I already know what she's thinking. It's what my attorney already told me down in the cage. I mean, holding cell. Like my attorney basically said: It was on my person. I was the one holding the backpack. I was the one with the guns and drugs that were inside.

I am guilty as charged.

She lets out a grunt, shaking her head. “I don't know what in the world is wrong with you young girls today, wanting to be all fast and grown. Disrespecting your parents. Choosing the streets over your family.” The judge flips through my folder, then looks up over her wire-rimmed glasses and slams the folder shut. She points a wagging finger at me. “You, young lady, obviously come from a good home; with two parents who apparently love you and want nothing but the best for you. And they've probably spoiled you rotten, I'm sure.

“But obviously you want to squander everything they've done for you. You want to be in the streets. You want to play hood wife to some hoodlum. Well, guess what, young lady? You can play Bonnie if you want. The streets don't give two cents and a wooden nickel about you. And neither does Clyde, or Bobby, or Raheem, or Mustafa. But since you want to ride dirty for his cause, then you'll have to suffer the consequences . . .”

“I'm going to order a urinalysis and substance abuse evaluation. I suspect her urine may come back positive and I'd like to have that in writing if that is in fact the case.”

My heart stops.
Oh, my God. She's going to crucify me.
Her glare is burning into my flesh. All of a sudden, I break out into a sweat. And feel myself start to shake from the inside out.

She eyes me. “You want to be some gun-slinging thug-mami, don't you?”

I shake my head. “No, ma'am.”

“Oh, yes you do.” She glances over at the bailiff. He shakes his head. “You're a beautiful young lady. But those looks aren't going to get you anywhere in life unless you learn to use your brain. Sadly, intelligence doesn't guarantee common sense. So if you think for one minute those looks are going to get you out of this mess you're currently in, you are sadly mistaken.

“Judging by the crimes you are being accused of committing, it's apparent to this court that you would rather be out in the streets with the thugs, living a life of crime, hanging with a bunch of fast hoochie-mommas instead of being the respectable young lady your parents have raised you to be. There are rules put in place at home and in life for a particular reason. Do you know why there are rules, young lady?”

I nod.

“You are to open your mouth and speak when I speak to you. A head nod does not suffice, do I make myself clear?”

I swallow, hard. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Good. Now answer the question. Do you know why there are rules in place?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“So that there is order and structure. And to help guide us to do the right thing.”

The judge peers over her wire-rimmed frames; she studies me for what seems like forever, then narrows her eyes at me. Her burning glare causes me to squirm in my seat.

“Do you know the difference between ignorance and stupidity, young lady?” I nod my head, and am immediately scolded again. “I've warned you once. You open your mouth and speak. I won't tell you again. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma'am.” I speak. Tell her my understanding of the difference between ignorance and stupidity. That ignorance is not having information, of not knowing. That stupidity is having the information, having an awareness of what's needed to get something done, but choosing to do nothing with it.

“And did you not
know
what was expected of you by your parents?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And do you not
know
what the law expects of you?”

I nod my head. “Yes, Your Honor, I do.”

She scowls at me. “Yet, you
chose
to disobey both your parents and the law. Is that correct?”

I swallow. “Yes, I mean, no, ma'am,” I say almost in a whisper.

“What is it? Yes or no? Did you or did you not disobey your parents' rules?”

“Yes.”

“And did you not disregard the law?”

I swallow. “Yes.”

“And that makes you what?”

I swallow back the thick lump in the back of my throat.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
I can't bear to say it aloud. I am so screwed. The truth, the realization, is too painful for me to deal with right now.

My attorney stands to address the court. “Your Honor. If I can interject for a brief minute . . .”

She looks up from my file. “Make it quick, counselor.”

“My client is a straight-A student with no priors. And, though she's made some foolish mistakes, she's a good kid. We ask that she be allowed home on house arrest until her next court hearing. Mr. Simms, the juvenile's father, is here also on behalf of my client. And he's prepared to take her home today.”

The judge peers over the rim of her glasses, again. “Mr. Simms, is this true?”

Daddy stands.

“That is correct, Your Honor. If the court is prepared to release my daughter then we are more than willing to have her home, with conditions of course. Perhaps under some sort of house arrest . . .”

I look over at Daddy with pleading eyes. He gives me a pained look. Then asks the judge if he can address the court again. I do not even realize that I've stopped breathing until I hear him say, “My wife and I are very concerned with our daughter's recent behaviors. I'm not sure what has gotten into her. In a matter of weeks, between the drinking and lying and doing God knows what else, she's turned into someone my wife and I barely recognize.”

I start sobbing.

“Save the tears,” the judge snaps unsympathetically. “You'll have plenty of time for crying back at the detention center, where you will sit until your next court hearing.”

“Ohgodnoooo! Why can't I go home? I didn't do anything. I want to go home.”

The judge scoffs. “Well, guess what, young lady? It doesn't matter what you want. And you've already proven that it doesn't matter what your parents want, because if it did, you wouldn't be sitting here in my courtroom, taking up my time.”

The judge looks at me long and hard, causing me to break out in a sweat.

Doomsday.

The beginning of my end.

“Disappointing.” She shakes her head. “Just sad. It's obvious you come from a good home, young lady, but that isn't good enough for you. It isn't hood enough for you. And the fact that you have a clear understanding of right from wrong speaks volumes, young lady.” The judge narrows her eyes at me. “It says that you think you can do whatever you want, whenever you want with no regard to how your choices will affect other people around you, particularly your parents . . .”

“No I don't,” I cry out. “I want my life back! I want to be home with my family! I'm going to go crazy in that hellhole! Daddy,
pllllllease
! You can't let them do this to me! Don't let them keep me!”

Judge Anderson brings her gavel down on the bench. “Order in the court! Young lady, your outburst will not be tolerated in my courtroom. Another outburst like that and I will have you thrown out of my courtroom. Do I make myself clear?”

I glare at the judge through tear-filled eyes. My jaw is twitching. I feel like I am on the verge of having a nervous breakdown.

After a few tense seconds, the judge breaks our stare down, looking over at my attorney. “Counselor, I'd advise you to—”

“I don't need him to advise me! I want to go home! Pllleeeease! You can't keep me locked up like this.” I raise my shackled hands. “Like some animal.”

The judge slams her gavel down, again. “Order in the court! Sheriffs, get her out of my courtroom before I hold in her in contempt! You had a home, young lady. But you chose the streets over your home. You would rather be in the streets with the thugs and hoochie-mommas. Now your home for the next two weeks will be in my house. The Lorna P. Johnson Youth Detention Center. I have found sufficient evidence for probable cause in which case, juvenile to be remanded. Get her out of here,
NOW!
Next case . . .”

I let out a blood-curdling scream.

Just like that.

It is over for me.

I am being dragged out of the courtroom, yelling and crying out hysterically.

“S
tuck up, trick!”

“Yo, word is bond, Kreesha, you should take it straight to her face.”

“Yeah, you right, I should. But she don't want none'a dis knuckle work right here.” She holds her fists up and starts punching and swinging up into the air.

I shift my weight on the steel bench in the dayroom.
Please, God . . . you have to get me out of here. These girls in here are crazy! I don't know how much more of this place I can take.

I keep my eyes locked on the television mounted up on the wall as I say my prayer in my head. Every so often I glance over at the stainless steel table this Kreesha girl and her groupies are sitting at.

“That stank
bish
thinks she's better than us. Over there sittin' all up under da COs like that's gonna stop sumthin'. Pfft. Please.”

“A'ight, Wilkens,” the female CO sitting at the table with me says sternly, looking up from her crossword puzzle. “That's enough out of you.”

Kreesha sucks her teeth. “Yeah, whatever. You can't babysit that
thot
forever.”

I press my lips tightly together and tap my foot determined to not let her get to me. I keep my eyes on her in case she decides to sneak me. I'm learning fast here. Never sleep. Never keep your back facing the door. Always face forward so you can see everything coming and going around you. I don't want to fight her. Truth is, I think her friends will jump in if I do. Still, she keeps taunting me. And I'm getting tired of her and her cronies bullying me.

“Mmph. Isn't that the same stink
bish
who was effen ya cousin Hennessey's baby daddy?”

I cringe when I hear that name. Now I knew why she looked so familiar to me. She was one of the girls who were with that Hennessey girl at the restaurant that day when she came in causing a bunch of commotion.

“Yeah, that's her. Now she in here 'n' I bet you her so-called man is back at Henney's house right now knockin' it down.”

Her friends all high-five each other, laughing.

The Kreesha girl asks one of the COs if she can get up to get a drink of water from the fountain. She gets up from her seat, then heads for the water fountain. On her way back to her seat she makes a fast beeline over to where I am, jumping in my face. “
Bish
, facts,” she says through clenched teeth. “If you even think 'bout snitchin' on my cousin's man, I'ma bash ya eye sockets in . . .”

My heart drops. I look over in the direction of the guards. They all seem preoccupied playing games on their phones or texting or doing whatever it is they aren't supposed to be doing while on the clock. I think to write a grievance, but quickly dismiss the idea. The last thing I need is problems with them, too.

No one likes a snitch.

Malik's voice plays in my head.
“I need you to ride dis one out for me, baby, ya heard?”
That's what he told me last night when I called him from the social worker's office.

“Malik, I can't. I-I . . .”

“You love me, right?”

“Y-yes. But . . .”

“Am I ya man?”

Tears started falling from my eyes. “I don't know. I hope so.”

“Yo, c'mon, don't do that, Kennedy. You know I'm ya man, yo. It's me 'n' you. Don't I always have ya back?”

“Yes.”

“Then a'ight. You already know what it is. I'd do it for you.”

“Then get me out of here, Malik! This place is driving me crazy! This food! These nasty girls! I can't stand being caged in like some animal.”

“Babe, listen. I hear you. I know what it's like, feel me?”

“No, I'm not feeling you. I'm not feeling anything you're saying. The only thing I'm feeling, Malik, is alone. I'm feeling like you don't care what happens to me as long as it isn't you.”

“Here you go again wit' dis ish. You know I care 'bout what happens to you. Don't I pick up e'ery time you call?”

“It's not enough, Malik.”

“Yo, check it. All you gotta do is keep tellin' 'em it ain't yours. They have no proof, yo.”

“Yes, they do. I was the one holding the bag. Your bag.”

“Yo, chill-chill. You doin' too much. You know dat bag wasn't mine. You was mad twisted dat night, babe. Remember how ish popped off? Dude threw his bag down on da ground when he heard Five-oh comin'. Remember? I tol' you not to touch it, but you did anyway. You was on one dat night, babe.”

I blinked. I couldn't believe he was really trying to make me second-guess what really happened that night. Yeah, I had a few drinks. And, yeah, I smoked that blunt with him, but I was still very cognizant of what was going on around me.

Wasn't I?

Yeah. I was.

That was/is Malik's bag. And those were
his
guns and
his
drugs. Not mine. And not anyone else's.
His.

“I know what happened that night, Malik,” I whispered into the phone. “And I know exactly what you told me.”

“Oh, so now you wanna snitch on ya man, is dat it?”

“No, Malik. I want you to tell da truth.”

“Yo, real spit, baby. You gonna have ta chalk it up to da game. Da truth is, you were da one holdin' dat bag. You wanna rock wit' a baller, then you need'a know how to bounce wit' da ball. It's on you, baby. Now what you gonna do? 'Cause if you really love me like you say you do, then ain't no way you tryna see ya man get bagged.”

“Malik, please,” I begged. “Don't do this to me. Don't I mean anything to you?”

“Yo, you my world, baby. But you got my head all effed up. I can't believe you tryna snitch, yo. You my heart, Kennedy; dat's on e'erything. But I ain't rockin' wit' no rat, yo. You wanna move cheese then do you. But you do know what dey do to snitches, right?”

I swallowed, hard. My heart pounded in my chest.

“They wake up wit' stitches . . .”

I scream when Kreesha's fist crashes into my face.