Juvie (22 page)

Mom shook her head.

“Come on,” Carla said, touching my arm. “He’s just running a little late.”

A bald, heavyset deputy sat on a stool next to a body scanner just inside the Juvenile and Domestic Relations building. “Anything metal, put in the tray,” he said, sliding a small bin across the counter at us. “No cell phones allowed. If you’re carrying your cell phone, take it back out and leave it in your car.”

Mom and Carla waited while I ran back outside to get rid of our phones. I tried Kevin one more time. His voice mail was full; I couldn’t even leave a message.

Mr. Ferrell, my lawyer, had a couple of other clients inside and kept scurrying from one to the other, popping in and out of a small room off to the side of the courtroom doors. We were still waiting in the foyer two hours after my case was scheduled to be heard. Mom read a book, or pretended to. She seemed to be stuck on one page. Carla closed her eyes and sat like that until I thought she’d fallen asleep. I elbowed her. “What?” she said. “I was practicing meditation.”

“Since when do you meditate?” I asked.

She closed her eyes again. “I don’t know. I read about it somewhere. You should try it.”

I actually did for a while — tried deepening my breath, clearing my mind, all that meditation stuff. It didn’t work. I looked up nervously every time someone came through the scanner and into the foyer, still hoping it was Kevin.

Mr. Ferrell finally ushered me and Mom and Carla into the consultation room. He seemed flustered. He loosened his badly tied tie and unbuttoned the top button on his dress shirt. I saw sweat stains when he took off his coat.

“OK,” he said. “There’s been a complication. No big deal. Just a complication. Judge Scott is still out sick, so there’s a substitute judge. His name is Judge Cannon, and he’s from King George County. He’s reviewing the agreement we worked out for community service. That’s all. But everything else is the same. We’ll go in; we’ll sit at the table up front.” He indicated himself and me. “Mrs. Windas,” he said to Mom, “you and your other daughter here, y’all will sit with the other observers. There won’t be any witnesses called. This is all pro forma. Everything’s already worked out. Sadie pleads guilty; Judge Cannon says a few words — kind of a lecture is what it is, about being sure Sadie takes advantage of this opportunity, this second chance, et cetera. Then he’ll pronounce the sentence. Then we go out to see the clerk of the court and sign some papers. We’ll have to wait some more for that. And then Sadie can go on to school and finish up her day. You all can. Any questions?”

Yeah
, I wanted to say.
I have a question. Where’s Kevin? He said he’d be here. He promised me. And why are you so nervous if you’re sure everything’s still going to be OK?

I shook my head instead. “No. I’m good.”

He smiled and squeezed my arm. Then he shook hands with Mom. The way he checked out Carla, I thought he might try to get her number. Except for her red eyes, she actually looked nice. She’d taken out her nose ring and most of her earrings, fixed her hair, and put on a short black skirt and a nice blouse.

The kid whose case was before mine had on a Big Johnson T-shirt. Mom and I couldn’t get over it. He must have just shaved his head that morning because there was a streak of dried blood just behind his left ear. His parents — I assumed they were his parents — were dressed up, though: gray pantsuit on her; brown coat and tie for him. When the bailiff called them into the courtroom, they zombied across the waiting area and disappeared through the double doors, looking more bored than worried.

I figured the more kids who went in before the judge looking like him, the better it would be for someone like me, who dressed up. Carla started bunching up her skirt, nervously pinching at the fabric until I stopped her. I didn’t want anything wrinkled. I wanted us to be perfect. I even asked Mom in a whisper to straighten Mr. Ferrell’s tie for him, but she wouldn’t do it.

The Big Johnson kid’s parents came back out of the courtroom half an hour later — without him. Their faces were drained and blank. I wanted to grab them and ask what happened.
What is it like in there?
The bailiff called my name just then —“Windas?”— and we followed him inside.

The courtroom was tiny. There were four rows of benches that looked like church pews. Mom and Carla slid into one of those. Mr. Ferrell and I continued past them to the defendant’s table in front, below a raised platform with a massive desk and an elevated witness stand. On TV shows, they’re always saying, “You may approach the bench.” I’d always had this little-kid idea that there would be an actual bench up there somewhere, but there wasn’t. A court stenographer sat at a smaller desk next to the judge’s. Another lawyer — I assumed he was the prosecutor — had stacks of law books and folders and yellow legal pads spread out on a table next to ours. Mr. Ferrell pointed me to a chair, then stepped over to speak to the other lawyer. They talked about football.

The judge was in his chambers, so we all waited. It was noon; he was probably eating lunch while he reviewed the plea agreement. My stomach growled, which surprised me, since I wasn’t the least bit hungry. I glanced back to check on Mom, and she managed to smile, though it looked more like she was grimacing. Carla gave me the thumbs-up, but she was crying again and I was already wishing she hadn’t come. A few people who had nothing to do with my case sat in pews in the back. None of them were Kevin. The door cracked open and my heart leaped, but it was just the bailiff.

I stared at my hands. They were dried and cracked, and I could have really used some lotion. I knew Mom would have some, but she was too far away for me to ask.

The judge finally came in, and the bailiff said, “All rise.” He called court into session, also just like on TV, and then read my name and case number off a clipboard. The judge adjusted his robe, and then we all sat. He banged his gavel. The courtroom was as quiet as death.

He cleared his throat. “Sadie Windas?”

My lawyer stood and motioned for me to stand, too.

“Yes, sir. Your Honor.”

Judge Cannon looked down the slope of his nose at me for a long minute. He had a squarish head, a throw rug of black-and-gray hair, and long, low rectangles of gray mustache.

“You’re pleading guilty,” he said, “to distribution of a controlled substance?”

I nodded. Mr. Ferrell whispered that I needed to say it out loud.

“Yes, sir. That’s correct.”

Judge Cannon kept staring. He hadn’t blinked once. “There is an agreement here,” he said, holding a thin sheaf of papers between his thumb and forefinger. “In consideration of your guilty plea, and your academic record, and your part-time job, and your participation in high-school sports. The agreement calls for a suspended sentence of six months, two hundred hours of community service, drug-counseling class, and random drug testing. Do you understand these conditions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you violate any of the terms of this plea agreement, you do understand that you will serve the entire six-month sentence in juvenile detention?”

“Yes, sir.” My legs were trembling. I wished I could sit. But at least it was almost over.

“Fine,” Judge Cannon said. “We’ll just need one more thing from you and then we’ll proceed to sentencing.”

My lawyer dropped his folder on the defendant’s table. “Your Honor? I’m sorry? What?”

The prosecutor echoed him: “Your Honor?”

Judge Cannon didn’t bother to look at either of them. “I said we’ll just need one more thing. We’ll need the names of the suppliers. Miss Windas will have to give the court that information. Otherwise I will not approve the plea agreement.”

“But Your Honor,” Mr. Ferrell stammered, “she’s already told the detectives she doesn’t know their names. They were men she met at a party. She made an admittedly foolish decision to drive them to a rendezvous with drug buyers. She compounded that one bad decision when she agreed to wait in the car with the drugs for the buyers. But that was the extent of her involvement.”

Judge Cannon scoffed. “That story is not plausible.”

“Judge?” the prosecutor interjected. “If I may?”

Judge Cannon said no, he may not. Then he shifted his gaze back to me. “Miss Windas, you have one opportunity to make things right, and this is that opportunity. You will give up the names, or you will spend the next six months in juvenile detention. It’s that simple.”

I couldn’t speak. My heart raced. I opened and closed my hands. I turned to look at Mom and Carla again, but Judge Cannon stopped me.

“You will face the bench, Miss Windas,” he snapped. “And you will provide the names. Now.”

I waited for Carla to stand up and confess. I waited for Mom to set the judge straight on a few things. I waited for this surreal moment to end. I waited for magic, a miracle, deus ex machina.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my throat so dry that it seemed unlikely that the judge even heard me. But he did, and it made him even angrier.

“Would you be sorry if you hadn’t been caught, Miss Windas? Are you at all sorry that the two men you refuse to name are still out there selling drugs, jeopardizing futures, ruining lives?”

“Yes, sir,” I rasped. “I
am
sorry —”

He cut me off. “No, Miss Windas. I don’t think that you are. But I’m going to do you a favor. I’m going to give you ample time to contemplate your actions and to discover at least a modicum of genuine remorse. You don’t need to worry about that. Congratulations. You won the sweepstakes. I will give you the weekend to put your affairs in order. You will surrender to the juvenile detention facility in Stafford on Monday. You will serve a sentence of no less than six months, after which you will be on probation, perform your community service, and pay all costs to this court of this proceeding and of your supervision.”

He scribbled something on the sheaf of papers, then glared at me once more. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Miss Windas.”

He looked past me to where Carla and Mom were sitting. “Your family should also be ashamed.”

He slammed his gavel again and told me I was dismissed.

On Thanksgiving they give us processed-turkey sandwiches and cranberry juice for dinner. Nobody talks much, and we’re all pretty quiet on the phones that night. Lulu’s already asleep by the time I get to call, which makes me sad, and annoyed that Carla and Mom didn’t keep her up to at least say hi. I don’t talk to them for very long.

That general quiet on the unit, once it takes hold, doesn’t let up — through the weekend and into the following week. Everybody seems to be on edge. Maybe it’s missing our families over the holiday. Maybe, for some, it’s not having a family to miss.

Chantrelle goes to court that next Thursday.

We’re all in the common area outside our cells watching afternoon TV when she comes back. It’s one of those shows where people are reunited with long-lost family members. The Jelly Sisters are actually tearing up. Bad Gina snorts, and New Nikki giggles; Weeze tries to shush them. I edge my chair as far away as I can.

We all kind of pretend not to notice Chantrelle at first. Nobody likes people seeing them in shackles.

Once the guards let her loose, Chantrelle grabs a chair near mine, drags it ten feet away, slams it down, and throws herself into it. Good Gina carries a chair over next to her.

“I ain’t going,” Chantrelle says, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Good Gina whispers something back to her.

“I don’t give a shit,” Chantrelle says back. “I ain’t going. They can kiss my black ass. I ain’t going to no juvie prison in no Roanoke Rapids or Applemattox or anywhere.”

Good Gina keeps whispering. Officer Killduff, who has been writing something in the daily log, fixes his steely gaze on Chantrelle but doesn’t say anything.

She stands up and paces. “I told them it wasn’t me. I told them it was another Chantrelle. I told them I didn’t do it. I
told
them.”

Good Gina follows her, laying her hand on her friend’s arm. But Chantrelle is too agitated and shrugs her off. “I ain’t going, and I want to see somebody try to make me.”

Officer Killduff stands up at the guard table, still staring hard at Chantrelle.

She glares back him. “What you looking at, anyway?” she demands.

Good Gina grabs Chantrelle’s arm again.

“She’s just upset,” Good Gina says. “She’ll be all right. She doesn’t mean anything.”

Officer Killduff keeps his gaze fixed hard on Chantrelle.

Chantrelle shrugs off Good Gina’s hand. “Hell, I don’t,” she says. “I mean every word I say. I ain’t going to no juvie prison. Y’all can all go to hell.”

Officer Emroch, who’s on duty today instead of C. Miller, returns from wherever she’s been and walks over to the guard desk. Officer Killduff speaks to her quietly, then lifts his walkie-talkie. It squawks, and he mutters something. Then he stands.

Both officers step toward Chantrelle. Officer Killduff points at her chair. “Time to take a seat, Chantelle. You know you’re not allowed to raise your voice or curse on this unit. You know that.”

Chantrelle stands her ground. “It’s Chan
trelle
,” she snarls. “It ain’t Chan
telle
. It’s Chan
trelle
. How many times I got to tell you that?”