If I Were Your Boyfriend (11 page)

fficer Sanchez entered the common area and asked the detainees that were assigned specifically to him to form a large circle with the chairs. We were about to have a group discussion about the reasons why we were being detained and what changes we were going to make once we got out.

  "I wanted to take some time to talk about what you can do to change your life so that you don't end up back here or in a maximum-security prison. Yesterday during visitation I noticed that Wesley here—" Officer Sanchez nodded his head in my direction "—was being very disrespectful to his mother. He was so disrespectful that when she left she was in tears. Wesley, why were you being so insolent to your mom? And second, does anyone in the group feel that it is ever appropriate to be rude to your parents?"

  "You all just don't understand the things my mom has put me through," I said as my stomach began doing flips. I didn't think that I'd have to defend my ill feelings toward my mother.

  "Well, tell us." Officer Sanchez encouraged me to open up to the group, but I wasn't about to spill my guts to a bunch of guys I didn't know. I'd look like a complete punk if I did that.

  "Let's just say she doesn't do the things that a mother is supposed to do," I answered, and wanted the conversation regarding me and my mother to end.

  "Hey, man, that's your mom," said Santiago, a short Latino guy with thick black eyebrows whom I'd spoken to only briefly during lunch break. At the time of our greeting we only said hello and asked each other what we were in for. I learned that he was here for vandalism. However, he certainly didn't know me well enough to be offering up advice about my situation. "I know that I don't know you all that good but it's your mom, man. You're going to need her before she needs you. In my opinion, you need to settle whatever beef you have with her."

  "You don't have a clue," I answered him, feeling as if he was sticking his nose in my private business. "That woman has done things and said things that no mother should do or say."

  "Like what?" asked Officer Sanchez.

  "Forget it, man. Move on to someone else. I don't want to talk about my problems right now."

  "But it's your problems that got you here, cowboy." Santiago kept running his mouth and I didn't like it. "Don't you think that having a bad relationship with your mom has led to you being here?"

  That did it. I felt rage starting to flow through my veins.

  "What about your mom? What's your relationship with your mother like?" I snapped at him. I locked my gaze upon him so that there was no mistaking my anger.

  "Man." Santiago dropped his eyes and focused on the

floor before him. It wasn't the reaction that I was anticipating. "I wish I could have a relationship with my mom. She's gone. She left me with my elderly grandmother when I was two years old to try to make it big as a singer in Las Vegas. She left Chicago with a suitcase, a bus ticket and a big dream. She ended up on the streets, selling herself. Eventually, her lifestyle took her life. So I'm talking to you from the perspective of someone who would've loved to have one more day with my mother, regardless of how much I disagreed with her."

  I leaned back in my seat because I didn't know how to respond to that. All I knew was how I felt. My mom bruised my heart in such a way that I vowed to never allow her to get close to me again, and when I made that commitment, I shut my emotions toward her off. Right now I just didn't see any way to change my animosity toward her.

  "You have your court hearing tomorrow," said Officer Sanchez, speaking to me. "When you go before the judge, what are you going to say in your defense?"

  "I'm going to tell her that I don't want to live in my mother's house anymore and that I want to go and live with my dad. Life is so much better with my dad. We get along very well and I just think everything will be much better than what it is now," I said.

  Officer Sanchez looked directly at me, searching my eyes for sincerity.

  "Okay, perhaps living with your dad will be much better for you. Do you respect your father?" he asked.

  "Yeah, I respect him."

  "Do you argue and yell at your dad?"

  "No, he isn't going to put up with me shouting at him. I just don't have a reason to be angry with him," I said.

  "That's good," Officer Sanchez said. He was satisfied with the answers I'd given him. Officer Sanchez shifted his attention to Deon and began speaking about the fight he'd gotten into and how he could have prevented the brawl.

  A few hours later I found myself hanging out with Santiago and a few of the new detainees. Deon had already gone before the judge and I'd received word that the judge released him to the custody of his parents. I heard that he got off with twenty hours of community service. The news of his release sparked conversation between Santiago and me. "Who is the judge in your case, man?" asked Santiago.

  "I got Judge Hill," I answered briefly, wondering when and where I'd run into Deon again. I was thinking that he could've at least come back to say goodbye, but then I realized that he probably couldn't.

  "Aw, man. She's tough. I've gone in front of her before. She doesn't play around. I know when she sees me again, she's going to throw the book at me."

  "You've been in here before?" I asked, sort of surprised.

  "Yeah, I'm kind of a repeat offender. I saw Judge Hill about five months ago on a trespassing case. This home construction company was building a new subdivision near my home. Some friends and I waited until after the construction workers left for the evening and jumped the fence. We ignored the giant No Trespassing sign and wandered around to check out the new homes. Some nosey neighbor saw us jump the fence and called the cops. When the police arrived, my friends and I scattered, but I was the only one they caught. I was arrested and they booked me on trespassing charges."

  "She's really not going to be happy about seeing you brought in this time on vandalism charges."

  "I know. Judge Hill is going to scream at me, I just know it. She gave me three months' worth of community service for trespassing and she'll probably triple my sentence for vandalism." Santiago paused in thought. "I had to get up every Saturday morning and go down to the homeless shelter and work like a slave. I'm being real with you. If she doesn't sentence you to community service, she'll fine your parents, or worse, she will leave you locked up, especially if she thinks for a second that you haven't learned your lesson."

  I didn't say anything because I was at a loss for words. I also didn't feel good about going before a tough-as-nails judge. I suddenly wasn't so sure if she'd see my side of the story or at least be willing to listen to what I had to say.

  "So, what do you suggest I do when I see her?" I asked. I wanted to get a better sense of what to expect.

  "Hey, man, just don't be disrespectful and tell your side of the story. Maybe she'll understand," said Santiago.

  About a half hour later Officer Sanchez and several other security staff members came toward me, carrying handcuffs and shackles for my ankles. I was still sitting at the table with Santiago, playing a card game.

  "Okay,
amigo,
I need you to turn around and kneel down on the floor with your hands behind your back."

  I took a deep breath and did as Officer Sanchez said. He placed my ankles and hands in the shackles. Officer Sanchez helped me stand on my feet and then escorted me out of the common area and over to the court building.

  "Your parents have already arrived," he told me as we walked down a long corridor.

  I didn't say anything because my emotions were swelling like a water barrel about to overflow. I was trying to contain them as best I could, but it wasn't easy. We stopped in front of a wooden door that said Courtroom Nine, Judge Nancy Hill. I swallowed hard as Officer Sanchez opened the door. I stepped inside and awaited further instructions.

  "I'm going to take off the handcuffs. You are to have a seat over there next to the attorney your father has gotten to represent you." Officer Sanchez pointed to a bald-headed African-American man who wore glasses similar to those that fictional character Harry Potter wears. I said okay and did as I was told. As I moved deeper into the courtroom I saw my dad and acknowledged him by nodding my head in his direction. My mom was sitting as far away from him as possible. We made eye contact but did not exchange greetings through body language.

  "Hi, I'm Rick Waters," the attorney said as he shook my hand. "I've been talking your case over with your father, who has filled me in on some of the problems you've been going through with your mother. I want to ask you a few questions before the judge enters the courtroom."

  "Okay," I said. Mr. Waters asked me a series of questions about my relationship with my mother and my father. His tone was serious as he inquired about where I'd gotten alcohol from and how long I had been drinking. He also asked me how I was introduced to alcohol and how often I drank. I answered his questions openly and honestly. Just as we were finishing up, the judge entered the courtroom. Everyone had to rise to his or her feet when she entered and then sat back down after she did.

  "Okay, I've read over the circumstances involving this case and I want to start by asking a few questions of Ms. Carter," said Judge Hill. "Ms. Carter, would you please have a seat up here next to me on the bench?"

  I watched as my mom took a seat next to the judge. I could tell that she wasn't comfortable.

  "Ms. Carter, can you explain to me what happened and why you reported your car stolen?"

  "Yes." My mom paused for a second as she cleared her throat. "I was taking a nap and when I woke up to run an errand, I noticed that my car was gone. I didn't know what happened to it. I figured that it must have been stolen because my neighbor's car was stolen a few days earlier."

  I held my head down in disgust. I could tell that not only was my mother telling a lie, but also by her speech patterns, she'd been drinking.

  "Ma'am, do you allow your son, Wesley, to drive your vehicle?" asked Judge Hill.

  My mother repositioned herself in her seat. Her body language was giving her away. Now it was not only clear to me that she'd been drinking, but Judge Hill was also suspicious. "You know, I let him drive sometimes. Around the neighborhood or to the— What do you call it?" My mom began snapping her fingers because she couldn't recall the word she was trying to say. "Oh, dammit, what's the damn word I'm searching for? You know the word." She looked at the judge for an answer.

  "No, I don't know the word." Judge Hill appeared to be irritated with my mother. "And I ask that you refrain from cursing in my courtroom."

  "The place where the kids go and buy clothes." Mom raised her voice to Judge Hill. "The mall." The word finally came to her.

  "Ma'am, are you under the influence of any prescription medication or perhaps a narcotic?"

  "I'm no damn drug addict," my mom snapped at Judge Hill.

  "Ma'am, one more outburst like that and I will fine you," Judge Hill barked back at my mother. "Now answer my question. Are you under the influence of anything?"

  "Okay." My mom began trying to explain herself. "I was just a little bit nervous." She squeezed her thumb and index finger closely together to emphasize her point. "So to help calm my nerves I had a little something to drink."

  A very stern and dissatisfied expression washed over Judge Hill's face. She looked at her watch. "Ma'am, do you realize that it's only 10:30 a.m. and you're already intoxicated?"

  "I'm not intoxicated," my mom snapped back at the judge. There was no way she was about to admit that she'd had one too many.

  "Ma'am, have you ever given alcohol to your son?" asked Judge Hill.

  "Who, Wesley?" My mother asked the question as if she'd never heard of me. "You know, it's better if he does that kind of thing at home with me where it's safe." My mom looked to the judge for approval of her rationale, but she didn't get it. "Look, I'd rather that he be in the house with me drinking than being out in the streets. At least I'd be able to monitor him." My mom began raising hell because she wasn't getting the response she wanted from Judge Hill. "Sure, I've let him have a glass of wine around the holidays and other special occasions." My mom finally admitted that she had introduced me to alcohol.