Alexandria of Africa (3 page)

I shook my head and then stopped. Maybe that was like showing off that I
could
move my head.

“Any of you?” he asked.

There was a general shaking of heads.

“You are all very fortunate. It’s not pleasant. In fact, it’s rather painful. If I didn’t have medication I’d be in constant pain.” He held up a little bottle of pills and shook it. “Now I’m going to share with you all how I received this injury. Very informative.” He paused and looked directly at me. “Ms. Hyatt, this story isn’t boring you, is it?”

“No.” It
was
starting to get a little long, but I wasn’t going to say anything. I wasn’t stupid or rude.

“Good. I was driving along when I made the terrible mistake of stopping at a red light. How, you might be asking yourselves, could this be a mistake? It was a mistake because the car behind me decided that the red light was merely a suggestion and plowed into the rear of my car.”

“How awful,” I said.

“How kind of you to feel that way. Actually, in all fairness, it wasn’t that the driver made a conscious decision to go through that light. She surely knew that red means stop and green means go, but she failed to see either the light or my car stopped at it. She was, in fact, doing what my kids like to call ‘multi-tasking.’ Mr. Hyatt, a successful businessman such as yourself must be very adept at this practice.”

“It’s part of the job description of any successful CEO.”

“Then apparently I must have been rear-ended by a future Fortune 500 CEO, because this young lady was not only driving, she was also talking on her cellphone and, this is truly remarkable, retouching her nails!”

Not that impressive. Everybody I knew stripped them down and reapplied. Retouching nails was so tacky!

“And all of this at the tender age of sixteen while driving her father’s very expensive car. Do you drive your father’s car, Ms. Hyatt?”

“My client is only fifteen,” Mr. Collins said.

“I know her age, Mr. Collins. It’s all in this report,” he said, holding up some papers. “My question is, have you ever driven your father’s car?”

“Well …”

“I let her drive in parking lots,” my father said, jumping to his feet. “I’m just helping her to become a better driver, the sort that wouldn’t crash into a judge’s car. She’ll be sixteen soon.”

“And then she’ll drive your car,” the judge said. He paused. “Or will you be buying her a car of her own?”

“Well, I was thinking that might be a possibility.”

I knew it was more than a possibility. It was a locked-down, guaranteed thing. I expected a car to be waiting at the end of the driveway on the morning of my birthday. I’d been taking driver’s education and had already spent time behind the wheel of a car. I was a pretty good driver already.

“So, back to my story. This young lady rammed my car, and do you know what she was most concerned about? The air bag, which probably saved her from injury, had smashed her sunglasses … her
Versace
sunglasses.”

I could understand how that would hurt.

“Do you have Versace sunglasses, Ms. Hyatt?”

I shook my head. I didn’t like the look. I had a pair of Guccis and a really cute little pair from Chanel. I looked
so
good in those.

“Perhaps your mother could buy you a pair to go along with your new car. But again, I digress. My point is, this young lady didn’t care if I was injured. She didn’t care that two cars were badly damaged or that countless lives might have been put at risk. Aside from her distress over the sunglasses, she showed no remorse or concern. None!”

He practically yelled out those last few words, which startled me a bit.

“And do you know why I decided to tell you this story?”

Again I shook my head. I had no idea, although I had to admit he hadn’t been boring.

“Because of this report,” he said, as he slammed it down on the bench in front of him. “You, Ms. Hyatt, are without remorse!”

Mr. Collins jumped to his feet. “Your Honour, my client is willing to plead guilty and she has offered to pay for
the merchandise and she feels terrible about what has—”

“Sit down, Mr. Collins! You know full well that your client feels terrible only about getting caught. You’re here to speak on her behalf, not to issue bald-faced lies believed by no one.”

Meekly, Mr. Collins sat down beside me.

“My report also states that you have been expelled from three private schools.”

“But she’s doing very well in her new school,” my mother chimed in.

“Is she? And how long has she been in attendance at this latest school?”

“It’s been almost two months,” my mother answered sheepishly.

“That is quite the accomplishment. Let’s organize a parade and declare a national holiday!”

“There’s no need for that tone or attitude!” my father said.

The judge slammed his hand against the bench. I jumped, and my mother let out a little shriek.

“Mr. Collins, please advise your client’s family member to keep his comments to himself. Otherwise he will either be escorted from the court or he will find himself in contempt.”

“Well, if that isn’t—”

“I will apologize for Mr. Hyatt,” Mr. Collins said, turning around to face my father and gesturing for him to be calm and silent.

“Now, back to the reason for our little gathering. Ms. Hyatt, you readily admit to stealing the items. There is no argument, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“I appreciate that. You are a thief but not a liar. Good
for you. And my report states that when you were apprehended you had over four hundred dollars in your purse. You must have a very lucrative job.”

I shook my head. “I don’t have a job. I’m only fifteen.”

“Then how did you come to have such a large sum of money? Are you a drug dealer?”

“Your Honour, I ob—”

“Mr. Collins, I wasn’t seriously thinking that your client was a drug dealer. Dealing drugs would involve actual work. I was just curious as to how she got such a sum.”

“It’s my allowance.”

“You get a four-hundred-dollar allowance?”

“No, that was two weeks’ allowance,” I said.

“Only two hundred dollars a week—however do you get by on that?”

I could tell that he was mocking me. He was just upset because he couldn’t be that generous with his children. After all, how much could a judge make? Certainly not the sort of money my father did.

“So the question I really want answered is very simple. If you had that amount of money, and you knew that each week you would receive your allowance, why did you not simply pay for the items you stole?”

I shrugged.

“Not the most articulate answer. Think again, because this, Ms. Hyatt, is perhaps the most important answer you have given thus far in your young life. Why did you choose to steal these items?”

“Well …”

“Well, what?”

“Well, I guess I just wanted them.”

“But why did you not simply pay for them? You had the money.”

“I guess I didn’t want to.”

“And,” he said, “I imagine that you are accustomed to always getting what you want, correct?”

“I guess, a lot of the time.”

“Then today is going to be quite a shock for you, Ms. Hyatt. To quote that eminent philosopher and rock and roll legend Mr. Mick Jagger, you can’t always get what you want, but sometimes you get what you need.”

I gave him a confused look. What sort of judge quoted rock musicians? I looked directly at him. Was he leaning slightly to one side? And there was something about his eyes—he looked a little wild.

“If we consider your previous offence, the violation of probation, the new charges, and the fact of your having been expelled from a number of schools, a consistent pattern emerges. In my court, money does not buy justice or influence. Do you understand where this is going, Ms. Hyatt? Do you have even a hint of the fall that is about to happen? Are you aware that you are about to face the consequences of your actions?”

“Whatever,” I muttered.

“What a surprise that you gave that response. It’s the same answer you gave to twelve separate questions in this report. It is the answer given by somebody who either doesn’t care or is simply not bright enough to understand the situation. Are you stupid, Ms. Hyatt?”

“You can’t speak to my daughter like that!” my father thundered.

“I can speak to anybody in my court in any way I wish. Bailiff, if that man opens his mouth again, even to breathe, I order you to remove him from the court and place him in a holding cell!”

My father’s mouth snapped shut. He looked
unnerved—no, he actually looked frightened. I’d never seen my father with that expression before. This man was starting to scare me.

“It is about time somebody spoke to you this way,” the judge said. “It is time that somebody spoke to this whole dysfunctional family this way. Unfortunately, only one of you is technically before the court today, and I’m going to do that person an incredible favour.”

Favour … he was going to do me a favour?

“Ms. Hyatt, stand up.”

I got to my feet.

“Ms. Hyatt, for this charge, the breach of probation, and the original charge being reinstated, I am sentencing you to juvenile detention for a period of one hundred and twenty days.”

“What?” I gasped, not able to believe my ears. “But … but you said you were doing me a favour.”

“Believe me, I am. This is exactly what you need.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t need that and I’m not going. I’m going home, right now!”

I started to get up, but Mr. Collins grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back down. Whose side was he on, anyway?

“Let go of me!” I screamed. “You can’t touch me!”

He released his grip.

“And you can’t tell me what to do!” I yelled at the judge. “You’re not my parent!”

He laughed. “Apparently, nobody has ever been a parent to you. Well, for perhaps the first time in your precious little life you’re finally going to get what you need rather than what you want. Bailiff, remove Ms. Hyatt and place her in a holding cell.”

I sat on the bed—if you could call the thin, lumpy piece of material lying on the metal platform a bed. With my arms wrapped around my knees, holding them tightly to my chest, I was rocking back and forth. I’d tried to stop myself a few times but I just kept doing it. At least I’d finally stopped crying. My eyes were all puffy, and my nose was stuffed up—thank goodness! I couldn’t imagine how much worse that toilet would have smelled otherwise. It stood there in the corner of the room, staring at me. I didn’t care how badly I had to go, I would never use that thing! I’d just wait until I got home and … 
home
 … I felt the tears starting to come again.

“Ms. Hyatt?”

I looked up. There on the other side of the bars was Mr. Collins. I was so relieved to see him I wanted to jump up and rush over and … there beside him was that nasty gorilla of a bailiff. On his cheek was a bandage covering
the place where I’d raked my nails across his face. He’d won, but I’d put up a fight, and he had the marks to show for it! The only regret I had was that one of my expensive silk gel nails had come off in the scuffle. That was just another thing to add to the bill when we sued these people!

“Are you all right?” Mr. Collins asked.

“Do I look all right?” I demanded. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to hold back the tears.

Slowly I stood up, holding on to the bed with one hand to steady myself. The coarse material of the pants they’d given me scratched against my shaking legs.

“Those female guards took my clothes,” I whimpered.

“No choice,” the bailiff said. “There was a belt in your skirt.”

“What has that got to do with anything?” I demanded. “That outfit needed a belt as a contrast to the—”

“They didn’t want you to have anything that you could use to hang yourself,” Mr. Collins explained.

“Hang myself? Why would they think I would do that?” Obviously somebody thought I might. “Well, how about my makeup? They took that away, too. Did they think I was going to stab myself with my eyeliner?”

“No personal items allowed,” the bailiff said.

“I must look a mess,” I moaned.

Neither of them answered, which was, I guess, an answer. I knew my makeup would have run down my cheeks with the tears. I hated looking that way, but almost as much I hated wearing the evidence that they’d made me cry. How awful did I look? The cell didn’t even have a mirror. Now
that
was cruel and unusual punishment.

“We can’t do anything about how you look,” Mr. Collins said, “but we might be able to do something about the larger issue. Come on.”

The bailiff pulled out his keys and opened the cell.

“I’m going home?” I asked, not daring to believe it.

“You’re going to go to a meeting to discuss if going home is an option,” Mr. Collins explained.

“Is
he
going to be there?” I said, pointing to the bailiff.

“He will be escorting you to the meeting and supervising you.”

“If
he’s
going, then
I’m
not.”

“Works for me,” the bailiff said. He slammed the door shut with a loud clang.

“Wait!” I screamed. “If I don’t go to this meeting, what happens to me?”

“Simple. You stay here until they make arrangements for you to be transported to the detention centre, where you will start to serve your sentence,” Mr. Collins explained.

“And if I come to this meeting?”

“You could possibly go home.”

“I could … really?”

“Of course, that also depends on whether or not additional charges are filed against you.”

“How can they charge me with anything else? I’ve been locked inside this cell!”

“Resisting arrest and assaulting a court officer, to begin with,” Mr. Collins said.

“But he started it!”

“The bailiff was following a court order. He was allowed to remove you to the holding cell. That’s partly why it’s important for him to be part of this meeting. The decision to press the assault charge or not is his and his alone.”

I was dead.

“And he’s agreed to consider not pressing charges.”