by James Ponti
“Rich girl, you gonna help me out?”
There were only three other girls in the cell, but it took Sara a moment to realize this one was talking to her. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it.
“I’m not rich.”
They were sitting on blue wooden benches facing each other, about four feet apart. The older, much larger girl leaned closer.
“I saw your lawyer,” she said. “Shiny suit. Expensive shoes. You’ve gotta have money to have a lawyer like that. Maybe he can help me out too. Or maybe I can look after you. Keep you safe once we get to juvie. It won’t cost your family much.”
“Leave her alone.”
The warning came from an unlikely source, a girl named Emily who’d shared a cell with Sara the night before. Her perfectly manicured nails gave the impression that she knew her way around the salon much better than she did a jail cell. She’d told Sara that she’d been arrested for shoplifting and her mother was making her spend the night behind bars to teach her a lesson.
“No one was talking to you, princess,” the first girl said.
“Well, if Sara needs anyone to look after her, I’ll do it,” Emily replied. “So thanks, but no thanks.”
The first girl stood and towered over them, her attention now fully focused on Emily. “How do you plan on protecting anybody?”
“Really, guys,” Sara said, trying to calm the situation. “It’s all a misunderstanding. I don’t have any money. And I don’t need any protection.”
Emily ignored her and got up in the other girl’s face. “I’ll just use these,” she said, flashing her thumbs.
“What? You gonna text someone for help on that phone you shoplifted?”
“No,” Emily replied flatly. “I’m going to do this.” With lightning speed, she jabbed her thumbs deep into the sides of the larger girl’s rib cage, making her gasp for air and stagger backward. Sara stared in amazement as Emily reached over and carefully guided the other girl back to the bench, making sure she didn’t fall.
“It’ll hurt for a while, maybe bruise a bit, but there’s no real damage,” Emily said in a half-whisper. “I can’t promise I’ll go as easy on you next time, so you might want to think twice before you threaten anyone else.”
Sara sat there amazed and was still trying to make sense of it all when a guard came to the door.
“Martinez, Sara,” he announced.
She was too distracted to respond.
“Martinez, Sara,” he repeated.
“That’s me.”
“Time for court,” he said, unlocking the cell door.
Sara looked back at Emily, who said, “Good luck in there.”
“Thanks,” she replied as she got up and started to leave. She nodded toward the girl who was still catching her breath. “Thanks for that, too.”
Emily smiled. “It’s what cell sisters do, right?”
Sara followed the guard into the courtroom. Her mind was still distracted by what had happened between the two girls as she sat at the defendant’s table next to Mother.
“You all right?” he asked when he saw her expression.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“Good, because I need your full attention,” he said. “And I need you to remember the part about trusting me.”
She didn’t know what to make of him, but there wasn’t any time to figure it out. The bailiff stood and announced the judge’s entrance.
“All rise for the Honorable Lyman J. Pancake. Court is now in session.”
Mother smirked. “Pancake? Maybe I should’ve gone with Honeybuns after all. We would’ve been like a breakfast buffet.”
Sara didn’t laugh. She wasn’t in a joking mood.
Neither was the Honorable Lyman J. Pancake.
He might’ve had a funny name, but the rest of him appeared completely humorless. Perhaps a lifetime of listening to flapjack jokes had worn away his good nature. His expression could best be described as puckered, as if he’d just drunk lemonade without enough sugar. What little hair he had left formed a semicircle of white bristle that started above his ears and met somewhere in the back. After some formalities he asked, “How does the defendant plead?”
Mother looked up from his briefcase long enough to announce, “Guilty, Your Honor.”
Sara knew she was guilty but thought there’d be some negotiations before they admitted it. From what she’d seen on television, guilty people usually started off claiming to be innocent.
The judge turned to the prosecuting attorney and asked, “Is there a plea arrangement, Ms. Adams?”
The prosecutor was tall and lean with short blond hair. Her youthful face hinted that she’d only been out of law school for a few years, and her huge smile indicated she was delighted, if perhaps a bit surprised, to hear the guilty plea.
“No, Your Honor,” she replied. “I had preliminary discussions with Ms. Martinez’s original attorney, but no agreement was reached.”
“She looks really happy,” Sara whispered nervously. “I don’t think you were supposed to plead guilty.”
“Is that true, Mr. Anderson?” asked the judge.
Rather than respond, Mother kept shuffling through his papers. It took Sara a moment to realize that it was because he didn’t recognize his phony name.
“Is that true, Mr. Anderson?” the judge repeated, this time a bit louder.
Sara nudged him. “You’re Mr. Anderson.”
“Oops,” he whispered to her. “Told you it was forgettable.” He turned his attention to the judge and asked, “Is what true, Your Honor?”
“That you have not reached a plea arrangement with the prosecution?”
“It’s my understanding that opposing counsel has offered a sentence of two and a half years in juvenile detention,” Mother said.
“That may have been discussed as one of several possibilities,” the prosecutor replied with a Cheshire cat grin. “But like I said, there was no official agreement. And now that there’s an admission of guilt in open court, I’m not inclined to let her off so easy.”
Sara slumped in her chair. Things were going from bad to worse in a hurry.
“That’s fine,” said Mother. “Because we find that offer unsatisfactory.”
“I guarantee you won’t get a better one,” she said.
“I don’t want a better one,” he replied. “I want one that’s worse.”
Now Sara was really confused.
“I’m sorry, what?” asked the judge.
“Thirty months just isn’t enough,” Mother replied. “My client compromised highly secure computer files. And, although it’s not listed among the charges, she also hacked into the financial records of a multinational bank.”
“Hey,” protested Sara. “What about attorney-client privilege?”
“That would only apply if I was actually an attorney,” he whispered. He turned back to the judge and continued, “Your Honor, this behavior is serious and calls for more than two and a half years. Personally, I think she should remain in custody until she turns eighteen.”
“What are you doing?” Sara pleaded under her breath. “That’s six years.”
“One moment, Your Honor,” he said, raising a finger. “I need to confer with my client.”
Mother leaned over so that he was right next to Sara’s ear. “As crazy as this sounds, this is the part where I need you to trust me.”
“But you’re arguing for a harsher penalty than they offered,” she said. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It will when I’m done,” he replied. “Just give me ninety seconds.” He unclasped his watch and held it up for her. “Then you can decide.”
For the first time she noticed the back of his left hand was covered with burn scars. They continued up past his wrist and disappeared beneath his sleeve. Somehow, she’d overlooked them earlier.
“A fire,” he said, reading her reaction. “I’ll tell you about it when we get out of here. But now I’m asking for a minute and a h
alf of trust.”
Oddly, the scars were what swayed her. They hinted that there was more to him than fast talk and a nice suit. He’d suffered through something, which meant he was tough. Maybe even as tough as her.
She took the watch and examined it. “Looks pretty cheap for someone who’s supposed to be a high-priced attorney.”
“I keep meaning to get a posh one,” he said. “Maybe we can take care of that once we’re done here.”
Finally, she nodded her assent. “Okay … but at ninety-one seconds I start telling the judge about fake passports.”
“Attagirl.”
“Your Honor, if I may?” interjected the prosecutor. “We can quickly draft an agreement placing Ms. Martinez in a supervised group home until her eighteenth birthday.”
“Also unsatisfactory,” said Mother.
“Aren’t you the one who just said she should remain in custody until she becomes an adult?” she asked.
“Yes, but not at a place like that,” said Mother. “All she’ll do there is learn how to be a better criminal. I have an alternative in mind.”
Sara watched the second hand intently. He was down to a minute and seven seconds.
“Where?” asked the judge.
“Crunchem Hall,” replied Mother.
“Crunchem Hall?” Pancake asked, trying to place the name.
“It’s a specialized facility that houses a handful of juvenile offenders,” he replied. “She’ll get one-on-one attention, counseling, and a first-rate education.”
“Are we placing her in detention or sending her to summer camp?” asked the prosecutor. “The taxpayers aren’t footing the bill for that.”
“All the fees will be paid by a private foundation,” Mother said, waving a sheet of paper from his briefcase. “I have the documentation right here. Sara Martinez will no longer cost the taxpayers a penny.”
Sara didn’t know what to think when she saw the “documentation.” It was a takeout menu from a nearby deli. According to the watch, he was down to twenty-six seconds.
“It sounds too good to be true,” said the judge. “Which undoubtedly means it is. We don’t reward criminal behavior with luxury accommodations. Ms. Martinez broke the law, and she will be going into a supervised group home when we’re done here.”
Ten seconds.
“You might want to rethink that,” said Mother. “She either goes to Crunchem Hall or we change our plea to ‘not guilty’ and move on to a trial that I can guarantee both of you will regret.”
“Why is that?” asked the judge.
Mother paused.
His time was up, and he looked at Sara. She was torn. She didn’t know where this was going, but it seemed to being going … somewhere. He had a fake name, no legal training, and his key piece of evidence was a list of twenty-seven different sandwiches. He also told lies with alarming ease. Yet, despite all of this, he seemed totally pleased with how events were unfolding. She handed him back the watch, and he smiled.
“This is about to get fun,” he whispered to her confidently.
Mother turned to the judge. “If we go to trial, the first thing I’ll do is insist you remove yourself from the case.”
“On what grounds?” he protested.
“On the grounds that you’re prejudiced against my client because when she hacked the juvenile justice portal, she came across personal e-mails of yours that are embarrassing in nature.”
Sara had no idea what he was talking about. She hadn’t gotten near any e-mails.
“The e-mail server wasn’t compromised,” insisted the judge.
“Then how do I have a copy of this note you sent two weeks ago?” Mother said, and began to read from a piece of paper. “ ‘Yesterday I had dinner with the mayor, and let me tell you that man is an absolute—’ ”
The judge slammed his gavel repeatedly to keep Mother from reading any further.
“Why don’t I just put that one down for a second?” Mother said as he laid it on the defense table. “There are also e-mails from various attorneys, such as this one,” he said as he began to read from another. “ ‘How can you take a man seriously when his name is Judge Pancake? Where’d he go to law school? Hash Brown University?’ ”
“Objection!” the prosecutor exclaimed as soon as she recognized it as an e-mail she’d written to a friend.
“He should object, not you,” said Mother. “It’s his name you’re making fun of.”
“Your Honor, he’s trying to blackmail us.”
Mother laughed. “No, that’s not blackmail. But this next one’s pretty close.” He picked up another paper and started to read. “ ‘About the legal conference last week in Atlantic City, please don’t tell my wife any of …’ ”
“Order in the court!” the judge bellowed, pounding his gavel. “Order in the court!”
Sara looked up at Mother, and he shot her a wink.
He turned back to the judge. “There are dozens of such e-mails, and I will make sure that every one is read aloud and placed into the public record, which I can only imagine will be embarrassing for both of you. Or …” He stopped speaking for a moment to give the judge a chance to consider his options.
“Tell me more about Crunchem Hall,” said the judge. “Who’s in charge there?”
“Trunchbull,” said Mother. “Very tough.”
“Right, Warden Trunchbull,” the judge said. “Tough … but fair, if I remember correctly. Tell me more.”
* * *
Four hours later Sara Maria Martinez was released from custody into the care of a man claiming to be Gerald Anderson, attorney-at-law. He signed a few papers, and they exited the courthouse through a revolving door into a sunny Brooklyn afternoon.
Sara took a deep breath of fresh air and asked, “So do you want to explain what happened in there?”
“We won,” said Mother. “Bit of a drubbing, if I’m being honest.”
“I’m not so sure we can call that a victory,” she replied. “You got me sentenced to six years in custody.”
“True, but they’re to be served at a fictional facility, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.”
Sara gave him a look. “What are you talking about?”
“Crunchem Hall is the school in Matilda,” he explained. “Miss Trunchbull is the evil headmistress. They only exist in a children’s book.” He paused for a moment and added, “Unless you count the movie and the musical, both of which I quite enjoyed.”
“Are you insane?”
“I only had ninety seconds, and I needed to come up with something,” he said. “The trick was using names that were vaguely recognizable. That way they were more likely to think it was real.”
“But what if they remembered the book?”
“The prosecutor seemed too young to have kids, and the judge is old enough that it’s been decades since he read any bedtime stories, so I thought we were probably safe.”
“Again with the ‘probably.’ ”
“Life is filled with ‘probablies,’ Sara. You’re going to have to get comfortable with them.”
“If it’s a fictional place, then why did you insist on me being sentenced until I was eighteen?”
“Because you’re no longer the concern of the juvenile courts,” he said. “You’ve been sent away until you’re an adult. No one’s going to come looking for you. No social worker’s going to follow up and knock on your door. You’ve fallen through the cracks of the American judicial system.” He smiled proudly. “So cheers for that.”
“You’re saying I’m free?”
“In every way.”
“Then what happens now?”
“Now, it gets interesting,” he said. “You’ve got some massive decisions to make. But first I’d like you to come for a ride.” He motioned toward a limousine waiting nearby. “I want to show you something.”
“In a limo?”
“I figured you came here handcuffed in the back of a panda car; the least we can do is leave in style.�
�
“Panda car?”
“A police car,” he explained. “It’s black and white, like a panda.”
As she followed him, she asked, “So what made you think of Matilda?”
“It was written by Roald Dahl,” he said. “He’s my favorite author.”
“You must really like kids’ books.”
“I do, but that’s not why he’s my favorite,” said Mother. “He’s my favorite because in addition to being a writer, he was a spy.” Mother stopped, turned back to face her, and said, “Just like me.”
Sara laughed.
“I’m not joking,” he said. “I’m an agent with the British Secret Intelligence Service, also known as MI6. That’s why I have the passports. That’s how I have copies of their e-mails. I command an elite team that is only sent out on high-priority missions.”
“And one of those high-priority missions was keeping me out of juvenile detention?” she replied suspiciously.
“This wasn’t a mission so much as it was a recruitment. An emergency one, at that.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re about to go into the field for a critical operation,” he said. “And we just discovered that we need one more person on our team. We thought we’d come over and see if that person might be you.”
“We?” asked Sara.
Mother opened the rear door of the limo, and Sara saw a familiar face looking back at her from inside.
“Emily?” she said, recognizing her “cell sister.”
“Actually, the name’s Sydney,” she replied with an Australian accent. “Glad he was able to bust you out.”
3. Brooklyn
RATHER THAN A PRISONER TRANSPORT bus, Sara left the courthouse in a limousine with two people who claimed to be spies. Surprisingly, she had no doubt that that’s exactly what they were. She just wasn’t sure how she fit into their plans.
“Let me get this straight,” she said as they took Atlantic Avenue deeper into Brooklyn. “You two are a team?”
“Part of one,” answered Sydney.
