Caught Up

by Amir Abrams

  I know it hurts him as well.

  And I have no one to blame but myself.

  For being so stupid!

  “Kennedy, you have to tell them whose guns and drugs they were in that bookbag,” Daddy insisted last night when he’d come to see me.

  I turned my gaze from his, casting my eyes down to my feet. “I can’t,” I whispered.

  “What do you mean, you can’t? Why not?”

  “Daddy, I can’t be a snitch. I just can’t. Nobody wants to be known as a rat.”

  Yeah, snitches get stitches...

  He raised his brows. “So you’re more concerned about what the streets are going to think of you for doing what you need to in order to save your own butt?”

  “Daddy, I have to be loyal.”

  He gives me an incredulous look. “To whom? The streets? A bunch of reckless street thugs? What about the loyalty to your family? To the ones who have always been there for you, huh? You mean to tell me you’re willing to throw your whole life away protecting some thug?”

  “Daddy, he’s not a bad person.”

  “Then who is he? He sure isn’t all that good, either. Any boy encouraging you to disrespect your mother, break curfew, and run away is nothing but bad news in my book. I want to know who he is so I can have a few words with him.”

  I blinked back tears. “Daddy, please. I can’t tell you who he is.”

  “He’s a coward, that’s who he is,” Daddy snarled, narrowing his eyes. “A punk. A worthless piece of—” He catches himself, shaking his head. “Your brothers all want to come home and handle him out in the woods like real men do. But they all have too much to lose. We all do. And so do you. What has gotten into you, Kennedy, huh? This girl you’ve become isn’t the daughter your mother and I raised you to be.”

  I shifted in my seat, lowering my head. He was right. This isn’t who I am. Or who they raised me to be. I wasn’t surprised at his irritation, though. But seeing the hurt in his eyes killed me. I know that it’s been building up inside of him, this anger. And I’m sure he wanted to yell, scream, and threaten me as well. And under different circumstances, he probably would, even though he’s never raised his voice at me before.

  Daddy shook his head, confused. “What has gotten into you, Kennedy?”

  “I love him, Daddy.”

  He frowned. “Sweetheart, what you think you feel for that scum of the earth may feel like love to you. But trust me. Anyone who is willing to let you take the fall for him isn’t worth loving.”

  Daddy’s words stung. He was right. And even though I know everything he said was true, there’s still a part of me that doesn’t want to believe it.

  I swipe tears away as I dial Malik’s number. One of the afternoon social workers is nice enough to allow me to use the office phone. And I am thankful.

  Malik answers on the fourth ring. “Yo.” His voice booms through the phone. “Watz gucci, yo?”

  “Malik. It’s me. Kennedy.”

  “Oh, a’ight,” he says nonchalantly. “Watz good? You a’ight?”

  I glance over at the social worker sitting at her desk, writing in charts. I lower my voice. “No, I’m not all right. I’m scared, Malik.”

  “Oh, word? Don’t be.”

  “How can you say that? That’s easier said than done. You’re not the one sitting here being charged with stuff that isn’t yours. Why can’t you write the judge a letter and tell them that it’s yours?”

  “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Hol’ up . . . you talkin’ mad reckless right now. I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ’bout, yo.”

  “Whaaat?!” I snap. “Are you freakin’ kidding me?”

  He sighs heavily. “Nah. I ain’t ’bout to go down for some ish dat ain’t mine. Dat’s all you, yo.”

  “What do you mean it isn’t yours? It was in your truck where you told me to go get it!”

  “Nah, you buggin’. You wanna be ’bout dat life, then you need’a woman-up ’n’ eat dat, yo.”

  “Malik, I’ve given up everything for you.”

  He lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Ha! Yeah, right. Don’t hit me wit’ dat ish, yo. You wanted to be all fast ’n’ grown for yaself. I ain’t have jack to do wit’ dat. You gave up ya life ’cause dat’s what you wanted to do. Now deal wit’ it.”

  My heart sinks.

  No, there’s no way I heard him right. There has to be a bad connection. Or I am hearing things.

  “W-what did you just say?” I ask, trying to make sure I heard him correctly. I hold my breath. Wait.

  He repeats himself. “I said you gotta wear dat, babe.”

  I can’t lie. My heart literally drops to my lap and explodes into a thousand pieces. This time I know I’ve heard him correctly, but I still want to believe, hold on to the possibility that somehow there’s a mistake.

  There is none.

  And I am floored!

  “How can you do this to me?!” I scream. The social worker taps her desk, giving me a look to lower my voice. “I’m sorry,” I say, covering the receiver, then lowering my voice. “Malik, I’m in here because of you.”

  “What? Hol’ up, yo. You in that joint ’cause of yaself.”

  “No! I’m in here because you gave me your gun and told me to go back to your truck, get the bookbag in the backseat, then put the gun inside. You told me to—”

  “Get da fuqq outta here, yo. You buggin’, for real for real. Ain’t nobody put a gun to ya head to tell ya to do what you did.”

  Tears flood my eyes. “Ohmygod! How can you do this to me?!”

  “Nah, love. Like I said, you did it to yaself. Next time know how ta move.”

  I stare at the phone, flabbergasted.

  “Malik, please . . . don’t do this to me, please... I thought you loved me!”

  “Look. I’ma holla atchu later. You on some ole other ish right now.”

  And before I can open my mouth to get a word in, Daddy’s words come back to haunt me just as the line goes dead.

  “Anyone who is willing to let you take the fall for him isn’t worth loving . . .”

  A few seconds later, I am being dragged out of the social worker’s office back to my cell, kicking and screaming hysterically. It takes three COs to get me back into my cell. They place me on the bed, facedown. Tell me to stay still, but I am too busy crying to listen to anything they have to say.

  I am distraught.

  The COs are finally able to retreat from my room, slamming the steel door shut. I hop up from my bed, pacing the small space like a wounded animal. I squeal. Yelp. Howl.

  “I can’t believe that mofo! That . . . that . . . lowlife! I should have never let myself get involved with him! Aaaaaaah! Let me out of here!” I scream, banging on the door. I am caged in, like, like some savage. I start pounding and kicking the door. But it is no use. No matter how hard I kick and bang on the door, the door isn’t budging. It isn’t going to open. All it’s doing is hurting my hand.

  “Simms, knock it off!” a CO shouts.

  I keep banging and screaming.

  “I said stop making all that noise or I’m going to drop your levels and place you on IP.”

  “I don’t care about room restriction,” I cry out. “Leave me alone! I don’t have any reason to stay on honors level! I want to go hoooooooome! Pleeeeeaaaase, let me out of h-h-heeeeere . . .”

  I know I said I wanted a little taste of the wild side, a little slice of the hood pie. But I was so wrong. I take it all back. I don’t want any of it. I want my life back.

  I fall out on my little thin bed on its metal frame and cry and scream into my pillow until my throat burns and my eyes swell shut.

  44

  Three 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. Exc
ept 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.

  I should have never gotten involved with Malik! I wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for him.

  No, I wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for me!

  I’m such a fool!

  “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.”

  Snitches get stiches . . .

  “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.”

  “You gave up ya life ’cause dat’s what you wanted to do. Now deal wit’ it.”

  “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.”

  45

  “The 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 wer
e 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.

  “. . . Get out now before it’s too late. All my brotha’s gonna do is dog you out, sex you out, then toss you out like a used tampon. Just watch.”

  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?”