Alexandria of Africa (4 page)

“Really?”

“Really,” the bailiff said.

“Which is pretty generous,” Mr. Collins added. “I know if it were me and my face I’d want them to throw the book at you.”

“You’re not supposed to say things like that! You’re my lawyer!” I protested.

“I’m here to represent your best interests, and I’m beginning to agree with the judge that your interests might ultimately be best served by a stint in detention.”

“You think I should go to detention?” I gasped.

“The jury is still out on that one. Regardless, are you going to come to this meeting or not?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Think all you want. But what you should be thinking about is that the rest of us are all going home tonight,” he said.

I felt as if somebody had thrown a glass of cold water in my face. “Okay, I’m coming.”

The bailiff opened the door again. I stepped out and took a deep breath. Somehow the air on this side of the bars seemed better.

Mr. Collins led, I followed, and the bailiff walked behind me. We passed down a long corridor lined on both sides with cells. There were loud conversations, people laughing, crying, swearing, and yelling. I dared to glance at one cell as we passed. It was filled with people. I couldn’t imagine there were that many female criminals in the entire world. At least they’d given me a private cell.

We entered an elevator and the doors closed on the noise. The ride ended and we exited into a quiet carpeted, wood-panelled corridor. It was as though we’d taken an elevator ride from hell to a hotel. A very nice hotel.

Mr. Collins opened a door and gestured for me to enter. I stepped through and—

“Alexandria!” my mother screamed. She rushed over and threw her arms around me. I buried my face into her shoulder. My father wrapped his arms around both of us.

“Could everybody please take a seat,” Mr. Collins said.

I released my grip and my father guided me into one of the chairs lined up around a big wooden conference table. He and my mother took seats on either side of me. Mr. Collins and that other man in a suit from the courtroom took seats on the other side.

“Let’s get down to business,” Mr. Collins said. “Some of us need to be getting home.” He gave me a look as though he was quite amused with his little joke. “Ms. Hyatt, this gentleman is Mr. Livingston, and he is the district attorney in this case. The judge has given him the power to negotiate on his behalf.”

“Judge Roberts has gone home,” Mr. Livingston said. “He wasn’t feeling well.”

“I want this whole thing investigated!” my father thundered. “That man, that judge had no right to say the things he said or—”

“You’ll be saying nothing bad against the judge!” the bailiff yelled. “He’s one of the finest men I’ve ever had the honour to serve under!”

Mr. Livingston raised his hands. “It’s all right, Harry.” He turned back to us. “Judge Roberts is one of the finest jurists I have ever been involved with. I think we can all agree that perhaps the medication he is taking to control the pain may have affected his behaviour somewhat today.”

“And on those grounds, do we not have the right to appeal his sentence?” my father asked.

“You do.”

“Mr. Collins, I want you to launch an appeal immediately, and I want Mr. Kruger to put the entire weight of the firm behind that appeal!”

My father would show them they couldn’t push either of us around.

“You might want to reconsider an appeal,” Mr. Collins said.

“Why in heaven’s name wouldn’t we appeal? Are you suggesting that we simply allow our little girl to remain in jail?”

“Appealing the case might result in your daughter spending a much longer period of time in detention,” Mr. Collins said.

“I don’t understand,” my father said.

“Let me explain,” Mr. Livingston said. “You can appeal the sentence. That appeal could take a month—”

“Or longer,” Mr. Collins said.

“Or longer,” he agreed. “And pending that appeal, your daughter will remain in detention.”

“That’s outrageous!” my father said.

“But legally correct,” Mr. Livingston replied.

“There must be something that can be done,” my father said to Mr. Collins.

“Nothing,” Mr. Livingston replied. “Your daughter will be held in custody pending the other charges she is now potentially facing. Those charges include resisting arrest and assault on a court officer.”

“The courts really, really don’t like it when you assault their own,” Mr. Collins said. “She’ll be in jail until the appeal happens.”

“And it is pretty well guaranteed that she will be convicted of both of those new charges. Add those to her
existing criminal record, and I would say that a period of detention of around one year could be expected.”

My whole stomach did a flip and I felt as though I was going to be sick.

“But there is another alternative,” Mr. Livingston said.

“I’m listening,” my father said.

We were all listening. Maybe harder than I’d ever listened to anything in my whole life.

“You agree not to launch an appeal or question, in any way, today’s proceedings. In exchange, no further criminal charges will be laid against your daughter and she will not be sentenced to detention as a result of the charges that brought her before the courts today. You can take your daughter home.”

“I can go home?”

“You can go home, but there is a catch. You must agree to be part of a diversion program.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Diversion programs are designed for people who are not habitual criminals. The idea is to divert them away from criminal behaviours and to keep them out of the criminal justice system. They offer a constructive alternative to detention.”

“So, I wouldn’t have to go back into a place like that cell, right?”

“No cell, no detention centre, no new charges filed, and in fact your criminal record for the shoplifting would be erased.”

“And what would my daughter be doing instead?” my father asked.

I didn’t care what I was going to be doing. Anything had to be better.

“She would be placed under the care of an organization
called Child Save. It’s a charity that works to improve the lives of children. What she would be doing would depend on the mission she was assigned to.”

“I know this organization, and I’ve spoken to people who have gone on their trips,” Mr. Collins said.

“Trips?” I asked.

“Yes, this is an international organization that does work in countries around the world. Is that a problem?” Mr. Collins asked.

“No, I love to travel!”

“It’s a problem for me!” my mother protested. “You can’t expect me to simply allow my baby to be sent to some place on the other side of the planet without her mother!” She grabbed my hand.

“Your ‘baby’ is almost sixteen, Mrs. Hyatt, and perhaps it’s time she had an opportunity to stand on her own two feet,” Mr. Livingston said. “But if you insist, she can certainly stay right here, close to home, in a safe, secure detention centre.”

I pulled my hand away from my mother’s. “I’m not afraid of travelling.”

“I think it would be a good opportunity for your daughter,” Mr. Collins said. “And, quite frankly, I see that she is in desperate need of something.”

“What are you implying?” my father asked.

“This is not an implication as much as a fact. Your daughter is a spoiled, egocentric brat.”

“How dare you say that about Alexandria! “my mother objected.

“You’re on pretty thin ice,” my father threatened. “Do you like your job, Mr. Collins?”

“Today, not particularly,” he said, shaking his head.

“Do you think Mr. Kruger will be pleased with you
when he hears you’ve insulted the daughter of one of his biggest clients?”

“Probably not, but I assume he’d be even more upset to discover that you have threatened the son of his only sister. Mr. Kruger is my uncle.”

“Your uncle?”

“My Uncle Stan. And one of the things my uncle admires most about me is my honesty. And that’s what I’m giving you. Honesty. This isn’t just about the easy way out, Mr. Hyatt. It’s about the right way out.”

“There are also a few other considerations,” Mr. Livingston said. “The diversion program is expensive. You would be responsible for airfare and the cost of lodging.”

“Cost is no object when it comes to my daughter,” my father said.

“Second, she might have to leave on very short notice, perhaps only a few days.”

“Again, not an issue.”

“Third, your daughter will be expected to follow the direction of the Child Save staff. If she fails to do so, she will be forfeiting the agreement.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“You will end up right back here in court, and then you
will
go to detention,” Mr. Collins said. “Except this time you will have no way out. You will go to detention and you can expect to spend a year there.”

“And I will do my utmost to make sure the sentence is at least that long,” Mr. Livingston said.

“You can’t threaten us,” my father said.

“That wasn’t a threat. I believe people need to be given fair warning of the consequences of their actions. That will be the consequence of your daughter failing to hold up her end of the deal.”

“It still sounds like a threat,” my father muttered.

“Think of it as more of a promise. And you have,” Mr. Livingston said, looking at his watch, “one minute to make your decision.”

“One minute! That’s ridiculous!”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, and he broke into a smile. “It’s Friday, almost four-thirty. Why don’t you take the weekend to think it over?”

“That certainly sounds more reasonable.”

“I’m glad you think so. And while you’re home thinking this through, your daughter will be transferred to the detention facility. Bailiff, please remove her again to the holding cell.”

“We’ll take it!” I yelled. “I’ll go to that program!”

Mr. Livingston nodded his head. “Do we all agree?”

“I believe that we are being blackmailed,” my father said.

“Blackmail is a criminal offence. We are simply negotiating … playing hardball … I’m sure you’ve done that a few times in your business dealings. So, Mr. Hyatt, do we have a deal or don’t we?”

My father didn’t answer. I couldn’t tell if he was thinking or had already made up his mind to put up a fight, because he hated to be pressured and he hated to lose. But the only person here who was really going to lose was me. He had to say yes, he had to agree. Slowly he nodded his head.

“We have a deal.”

My phone burst into song once more. It had hardly stopped all day. The price of being popular. Sprout, my little Pomeranian pup, was perched on my lap. I scooped her up in my arms and walked over to pick up the phone from the dresser.

“Talk to me,” I said as I answered it.

“Alexandria, is it true?”

It was Olivia. She was somebody I
knew
, as opposed to somebody I really
liked
. She was just so pretentious. She thought she was just
so
special. She was seriously annoying.

“Tell me what you’ve heard and I’ll tell you if it’s true.”

“Don’t be so coy. Africa, you’re going to Africa.”

“I am. For three weeks.”

“Unbelievable. Only you could be charged with something and end up getting a vacation out of it. You are untouchable.”

I didn’t answer. Instead I checked out the small
bruise on my arm where the doctor had given me the immunizations. Yellow fever, typhoid, meningitis, hepatitis, and rabies. “Untouchable” wasn’t quite the word I’d have used.

“I was so upset when you got arrested … again.”

I’d heard she was delighted and told people I was finally going to get what I deserved. She was so two-faced. What
she
deserved was to have a golf club taken to her new little car.

“Wouldn’t want to make a habit of getting arrested,” she teased.

Better than her habit of being dropped by boyfriend after boyfriend. The only way she could hold on to a boyfriend was by tying one up and locking him in her closet.

“So, when do you leave?”

“Tomorrow. Well, at least I’m flying to Paris tomorrow.”

“Paris,” she gasped.

“Yes, a very exciting city. Have you ever been?”

“No,” she said.

I already knew that she’d never been to Paris. I just wanted to make a point.

“This will be my third time. You should go some day … you know … in the future.” I paused for dramatic effect. I plopped down on the edge of my bed and Sprout snuggled into my arm.

“I imagine you’ll do some shopping,” Olivia said.

“I’ll do a little, but not much. My mother already took me out yesterday and practically wore out her credit cards. She bought me almost everything new that I might need.” Guilt was a powerful tool, and my mother was really feeling guilty about the whole thing.

“That sounds amazing,” Olivia said, but her voice lacked enthusiasm. I guess what she was saying was that it
would have been amazing if it had been her. I knew she had to be almost green already, but I had more.

“Could you be a darling and make sure you keep the evening of the twenty-fourth open? My parents are throwing me a little thing to celebrate my return
and
my birthday. Nothing too big, just a hundred or so people. I wanted it smaller but I just couldn’t without offending somebody. You know how it is to be popular.”

At least more popular than she was. Her sixteenth had been two months ago and she’d only had fifty people show up.

“I’ll have to get back to you on that. It’s awfully short notice and I’ll have to check my schedule,” she said. “But really, darling, I’ll try to at least drop in, you know, make an appearance.”

That little snob was trying to make it look as if she was doing me a favour by coming to my party! I’d show her.

“I saw you with your new car,” I said. She’d gotten it from her parents as her Sweet Sixteen present. “It’s such a cute little thing … a Mustang, right?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I don’t know much about cars, it’s just that our maid drives the
exact
same one.” I had to fight not to laugh. “Even the same colour. Matter of fact, the first time you drove by I waved because I thought it was Carmella, and then it turned out to be you. What a surprise!”