Caught Up (25 page)

T
hree days after my phone conversation with Malik, and then my emotional meltdown, I am finally out of my room—I mean, cell. It doesn't mean much, however. Being out. I'm still here. I still feel caged in. Still feel trapped. Still feel stuck. Still feel like everything around me is moving in slow motion. But it's not. Everything is moving fast. Except for this case. Except for me getting out of this hell that I've somehow gotten myself into.

One of the social workers had the audacity to tell me that I needed to try to adapt. To stop fighting what I can't change. To accept that this, being here—locked up—is my reality... for today.

And yesterday.

And tomorrow.

And the day after that.

Well, guess what? I will never adapt to this way of being. I can't, won't, accept being in this place. Ever. I don't belong here. I belong home.

“The prosecutor wants to offer you a plea agreement,” my attorney says, interrupting my thoughts as he looks up from his legal-size notepad. He's finally decided to come to the detention center and show his face. “To discuss my case,” he said when I walked into one of the spare offices used as a conference room. Whatever! Three whole days before my court date! Really?

It's Friday. I have court on Monday. My life depends on him getting me out of here. And this is the best he can do? I give him a confused look. “A plea agreement for what? I haven't done anything. Why can't they give me bail so I can go home?”

“Kennedy,” he says, calmly, “there's no bail for juveniles in the state of New Jersey.”

I huff, folding my arms across my chest. “Figures. Then why won't they release me on my own recognizance? Can't they do that?”

He gives me a sad look. “Kennedy, there's no easy way to say this. The ballistics report came back. There's a body on one of the guns . . .”

My eyes pop open. I cover my mouth.
Ohgodohgodohgod. . . I think I'm going to be sick!
I blink several times. Try to steady my rapidly beating heart. I can't believe what I've heard. A body?

“W-what do you mean, there's a body?” He tells me that one of the guns was used to commit a murder. That the prosecutor now wants to proceed with a hearing to waive me up as an adult, which means I could be facing trial as an adult and sentenced to at least fifteen years if I'm found guilty and convicted.

I can't believe what I am hearing. This has to be a bad dream I'm having. I know if I can just open my eyes everything will be back to normal. I blink back tears, then blink again. The tears start falling and I wipe them away with my hand as quickly as they fall.

“Can they really do that?”

He nods.

I don't know anything about a body, or a murder. I sob, begging and pleading for him to help me get out of this mess. “I didn't shoot or kill anyone. I swear I didn't. You have to believe me. I can't spend my life in prison! I don't want be waived up! Please! You have to help me get out of this!”

“Kennedy, the only person who can help you get out of this now is you. The prosecutor wants a name, and you can more than likely walk out of here with two years probation; if that.”

“If you even think about snitchin' on my cousin's man, I'ma bust ya eye sockets out . . .”

I shudder in my seat.

“I-I-I can't.” I start wailing all over again. “I didn't do anything!” He reaches into his briefcase and hands me some tissue, then gives me a few moments to pull myself together. Without looking at him, I ask, “Can't we take it to trial? I know the jury will believe me.”

“Kennedy. I need you to look at me.” I look up. He shakes his head. “There's no jury in juvenile court. If we take this to trial, all testimony is brought before the judge who will then decide your fate. And believe me. If you're found guilty, Judge Anderson is going to make an example out of you. She'll sentence you to the maximum.”

I swallow.

“But I didn't do anything,” I plead.

“In the court's eyes, you did.”

“This is BS! I thought I was innocent until proven guilty?”

He sighs. “That is true. However, you were in possession of the backpack containing two guns and drugs, that's already been established.”

“But they weren't mine,” I cry out. “Why won't you believe me?”

“It's not a matter of whether or not I believe you. At this point, it'll be all up to the judge.”

That lady hates me! I knew she was out to get me the minute she laid eyes on me!

I can't think straight. I am too numb to think.

I need to talk to Malik again.

“You gonna have'ta chalk it up to da game, baby . . .”

“Kennedy, I can't tell you what to do. I can only advise you. And as your lawyer, I'm telling you it's time you start trying to save yourself. So unless you want to be considered a suspect in a murder investigation, I suggest you think long and hard on what your next move is going to be.”

“My advice, Kennedy. Give 'em a name. And take the deal.”

I swallow. “I c-can't.”

He stares at me, then slowly shakes his head. “Whoever it is you are trying to protect, I hope they're worth your freedom.”

Right at that moment, the CO sticks his head into the tiny conference room and tells us our time's up. I didn't want it to be over. I still had more questions, like what will happen to Malik if I tell on him? What will happen to me if they can't charge him with anything? If I give the prosecutor his name, will I have to do any jail time or will I really just get probation?

All of these questions float around in my head as my attorney gathers his things and heads out the door. The CO walks me out of the room. As I am being escorted back to the dayroom, all I keep hearing in my head is,
“Anyone who is willing to let you take the fall for him isn't worth loving.”

“T
he subscriber you are trying to reach has a phone number that is no longer in service . . .”

I blink.

“Oh, no. This can't be right,” I mutter to myself, hanging up and dialing the number again, this time pressing each number slowly. Again, I get the same recorded message.

I feel my heart sinking fast. I dial the number again. Same thing.

“The subscriber you are trying to reach has a phone number that is no longer in service . . .”

I choke back a scream, clutching my chest. I try Sasha's number. She answers the phone on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Sasha. It's me. Kennedy.”

“Oh, hey,” she says, not sounding too happy to hear from me. “What can I do for you?”

I am taken aback by her tone.

I swallow. “I'm trying to get in touch with Malik. But there's something wrong with his number. I have court Monday and it's really important I speak with him.”

She grunts. “Good luck wit' dat.”

I steady my breathing. “Huh? What do you mean?”

She pops gum in my ear. “Girl, look. I hate to be da one to serve you ya papers, but it's like dis: Malik ain't checkin' for you, boo. And neither am I. He said you too soft. I tol' him from da rip you was baby soft like cotton, but he ain't wanna listen. But now he see it for himself.”

Tears rim my eyes. “Is that what he told you?”

“Uh, duh . . . who else you think said it? All he really wanted to do is hit dat, anyway. And you was so hard up for some of dat hood D dat you let him, too, didn't you?” She starts laughing. “You a sucka, Special K. So you gonna need to make dis ya last call to me. Got it?”

“Ohmygod! I don't believe you're saying all this to me! I thought we were friends.”

She laughs. “Girl, miss me wit' dat. You thought wrong. We ain't never been friends. You were just somethin' to do, boo. You just some li'l spoiled rich girl who wanted so desperately to be down for da hood so I was tryna break you in; dat's all. I tol' Malik when he asked me 'bout you dat you were a wanna-be down chick. You was a bet, boo.”

“A bet?” I say more to myself in disbelief than to her. I swallow to keep my voice from sounding shaky. It takes me a moment to open my mouth and get the question out. But as painful as it might be, I have to know what she's talking about. “W-what kind of bet?”

She hesitates for a moment, then says, “Dat he could turn you out.”

My stomach tightens involuntarily. I feel myself getting sick.

Hot tears splash out of my eyes.

My stomach twists and churns.

And then... I vomit.

All over the social worker's desk. All over the floor. Thick puke shoots out of my mouth like an erupting volcano, angry and violent.

My only thought is,
how could I have been so stupid?

 

It's Monday morning. I've waited three whole torturous days; two hundred and fifty-nine thousand and two hundred seconds, four thousand and three hundred and twenty minutes, for this day to finally come.

I would be lying if I said I'm not a nervous mess to see Judge Anderson again.

After my phone call to Sasha last Friday, I felt like I'd been stabbed a thousand times over. I spent my entire weekend in my cell, balled up in a corner, rocking and staring off into space. I think I am losing my mind.

Really.

I feel so empty.

Drained.

All I have been doing is crying. And praying. That's all I can do. And, honestly, the only thing that saved me from trying to hurt myself is that I finally got to talk to my mom when I called the house last night.

She picked up. And as soon as I heard her voice, I broke down in tears, begging for her forgiveness. “Mommy, I'm so s-s-s-sorry f-f-f-f-for e-e-veryt-t-thing I said to you. I s-s-should have never disrespected you. I'm s-s-s-sooo sorry. I wanna come home. I never meant to say all those mean, nasty things to you. I-I was wrong f-f-f-for lying to you and sneaking out of the house. I know y-y-you hate me, Mom! I hate me! I've been such a fool! D-did y-y-you get my letter?”

I sobbed and cried and carried on so bad that the CO threatened to terminate my call if I didn't calm down. They are so frickin' heartless!

“Kennedy,” my mom said calmly. “Yes. I got it. And I chose not to write you back. Why? Because I will not become pen pals with my now delinquent daughter who chose to be disrespectful and to run the streets doing God knows what.”

I sniffle.

“You are my child. I could never hate you. I love you. But I am deeply hurt by your choices. And I'm saddened by the outcome. But you will have to stand by your choices. It's your life. Not mine. It hurts me knowing that my only daughter is locked up like some criminal. But I have to remember that you are the one who put yourself there. Not me. Not your father.
You
. I am always going to love you because I carried you in my womb and brought you into this world. But I will never, ever, entertain this mess you've gotten yourself into. Your father will be there for you. But I will not. All I've done is prayed on it. And I stand by my words.”

Her words cut me deep. But she was right. I did this to myself. I allowed myself to get caught up in something I wasn't ready for. And now I have to suffer the consequences.

“I-I-I-I have court tomorrow. Will you be there, please?”

She blows a breath into the phone. “I don't know.”

Two COs escort me in through the side door of the courtroom. I spot my dad. And mom. My heart leaps. She actually came. But her body language makes it very clear: “I don't want to be here.” I quickly cast my eyes downward to avoid her angry, hurt glare.

Still... I am happy she's here.

I am on pins and needles as I take my seat. Every so often I glance over my shoulder at my parents. Dad looks weary. Like he hasn't slept in weeks. Mom sits stone-still. Her expression is cold and hard. But her eyes are swollen and red. She's been crying.

I did this to them.

“All rise!” the officer calls out.

As soon as the judge sweeps in, her robe swishing in back of her, she takes the bench. Glances around the courtroom then says, “I have a full calendar so let's get right down to business, shall we?” She looks over at my attorney. “Counselor for the defendant, are you ready to proceed?”

He adjusts his navy blue tie and stands. “Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge shoots a scathing look over at me. “Miss Simms, do you understand the severity of your charges?”

I nod. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“And you understand the purpose of today's court proceedings?”

“Yes.”

“Then why has the prosecutor informed me that you are not willing to cooperate with a plea agreement?” She peers over the rim of her glasses. “Counselor, have you not advised your client of the state's desire for a waiver hearing to adult court?”

“Yes, Your Honor. My client's been advised.”

I hear my mom in back of me, sobbing. I turn to look at her.

“Young lady, turn back around. Face forward. Don't worry about what's going on in back of you. What you need to be focused on is what's happening right in front of you.”

The voices of Malik and Mercedes and Jordan and my dad and my attorney start playing over and over in my head.

“. . . unless you want to be considered a suspect in a murder investigation, I suggest you think long and hard on what your next move is going to be.”

“. . . I hate to be da one to serve you ya papers, but it's like dis: Malik ain't checkin' for you, boo.”

“Understand this, young lady, your stupidity is what's going to get you a prison sentence with double digits behind it, do you understand what I am saying to you? Your atrocious disregard for the law. And your ridiculous loyalty to some low-life is . . .”

“You young girls are so desperate and starved for the wrong kind of attention. Here you have two parents who love you and provide you with the best of everything and that isn't good enough. You silly girls will soon learn the hard way that the streets don't give a hoot about you. And those boys hanging on the block instead of in the classroom with their pants hanging down off their butts are nothing but trouble. Whoever you are protecting has done nothing but use you . . .”

“And you're so blinded by what you think is love that you're willing to throw your whole life away for
nothing
. Girls like you come a dime a dozen. And just like he's manipulated you, he'll manipulate the next girl. The only difference is, he's out there. And you're the one willing to do prison time for him . . .”

I swallow.

I can't get waived up as an adult! I can't do some long prison term. I'm not built for that. Mercedes and Sasha were right. I'm not about that life. I never was.

I just want to go home.

I lean over and whisper in my lawyer's ear. “I'll take the plea. His name is Malik. Malik Evans.”