Abuse of Discretion

by Pamela Samuels Young

  “Ow!”

  I take my left hand off the steering wheel to massage my temple when I hear the gun cock.

  “I told you to keep your hands on the wheel. I’m delivering a message from Dre Thomas,” the man says.

  My spine straightens like a metal pipe.

  “I assume you working for The Shepherd. Well, I work for Dre. You need to stay the hell away from him as well as his niece Brianna. Both of ’em have twenty-four-hour protection. And now that I know your name and address, Mr. Johnny Battle, if anything happens to either one of them, I’m coming for you.”

  “Man, I told you, I don’t know what you talkin’ about. I don’t have a boss and I don’t know nobody name Shepherd.”

  “You keep insulting my intelligence with your bullshit and I’ll bust a cap in your ass right now.”

  I’m trying hard not to move, but my whole body is shuddering like I got Parkinson’s. The gun is pressed so deep into my temple I can feel it scraping bone. If this fool’s finger slips, my brains are gonna spray-paint the inside of Willie’s truck.

  “My name is Apache,” the man continues. “Ask around about me. Anybody who knows me or know of me will tell you I don’t make idle threats. I actually like shooting people.”

  “Man, you got it all wrong. I was—”

  “I know The Shepherd’s kicking back in the federal pen still pimping little girls,” he says, talking over me, “but tell him he’s the one who needs to be watching his back.”

  He lifts the gun from my head. By the time I turn around, he’s disappeared. I never even got a look at him.

  It takes me a full minute to catch my breath. I try to light another cigarette, but I can’t steady my hands.

  I must be slipping. I’ve never let nobody walk up on me like that.

  This Apache dude is even crazier than me. And that’s a problem.

  CHAPTER 15

  Miguel

  I listen to the voicemail message from my boss and high-five the air. I’m about to be called up to the big leagues.

  I’ve only been a juvenile prosecutor for eight months, but it’s not uncommon for the shinning stars—like me—to get promoted to adult court on the fast track. Unlike most of my colleagues, I come in early, stay late, deal with the political crap and never complain when I have to take over a case another deputy D.A. screwed up.

  Walking in long, proud strides, I head for the elevators with a serious pep in my step. I have the thin, taut body of a long-distance runner because I am one, logging more than forty miles a week. I wear boxy black glasses I don’t actually need in a deliberate effort to appear older than my thirty-one years.

  “Have a seat, Martinez,” my boss says when I knock on his open door.

  Deputy-in-Charge Sol Stein is a chubby-faced man with graying hair and a portly build.

  My boss never wastes time on small talk. He doesn’t care about the personal lives of the prosecutors who work for him, so he never engages in chitchat about their families or their plans for the weekend. I appreciate that.

  “We have another sexting case,” Stein says, scratching his balding crown. “And we need to go hard on this one. It’s a wobbler, but file it as a felony, not a misdemeanor.”

  My jaw goes slack as my dream of a promotion dissipates like a puff of smoke. Not another sexting case.

  Of the handful of sexting cases I’ve handled, I only went to the mat once. The victim was so devastated about her naked picture being blasted all over her school and the internet, she swallowed a handful of her mother’s Vicodin and nearly died. I made sure the boy paid the price. He was locked up for two years.

  But that case was the exception. I’ve prosecuted my share of teenage thugs who were as hardcore as any convict at San Quentin, but kids who take nude selfies aren’t criminals and I hate throwing the book at them.

  “And why do we have to go hard?” I ask, still stunned at the unexpected left turn this meeting has taken.

  “This boy made the mistake of getting caught with a naked picture of a girl whose father and mother are close to the mayor.”

  This is not how the system is supposed to work. Rich kids get special treatment, while black and brown kids get shafted.

  “Is the kid in custody?”

  “Yeah. He was arrested at school earlier today.”

  Today? My eyes ricochet off my legal pad. If this kid was just picked up, the police report hasn’t even made it to our office yet. This girl’s parents must be really connected.

  “So is the victim pretty messed up?”

  Stein shrugs. “Nobody mentioned that.”

  “Who’re the parents?”

  Stein pulls a piece of paper from one of the messy piles on his desk. “The father’s Percy Carlyle, a partner at Morgan Lewis. The mother, Simone Carlyle, is a V.P. at AT&T. Their daughter and the boy—Graylin Alexander—were classmates at Marcus Preparatory Academy.”

  Marcus Prep is a well-regarded private school. “White victim?” I ask, assuming she is.

  “Nope. Black. The boy too.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Both fourteen.”

  “Did the boy convince the girl to strip for him?”

  “Don’t know. The police confiscated his phone with the girl’s picture on it. So it’s an open-and-shut case for possession. You’ll need to see how the evidence plays out on distribution. No telling who he sent it to.”

  “Is it a boyfriend-girlfriend thing? Is that why the parents are going nuclear?”

  I had a case last year where some Beverly Hills professionals weren’t thrilled with their daughter’s South Central boyfriend. So, when they found a picture of his penis on her phone, they went for the jugular. But that was before the boy’s parents turned over a ton of X-rated selfies their sweet little daughter sent not just to him, but several other boys.

  “Don’t have any other facts,” Stein says. “The rest is your job. A lot of the naked selfies these kids are sharing end up in the hands of predators, who find the pictures online, then target the kids. If we make a public example of this boy, maybe he’ll get the help he needs. And when other parents hear about the case, maybe they’ll wake up and start monitoring what their kids are doing online.”

  What a load of crap. This is about politics and payola. The girl’s angry parents called the mayor, the mayor called the D.A., and the D.A. called Stein.

  “I need you to handle the girl’s parents with kid gloves. Would be nice if you could pay them a visit tomorrow. Show them a little TLC. Let them know the D.A.’s office is taking the case seriously and so is the mayor.”

  That kills my hiking plans for Saturday.

  As I stand up, a rancid feeling swirls like a tornado in the pit of my stomach. I hate these cases, but they just keep coming. The juvenile court purports to rehabilitate, not punish its young wards. But no kid who spends a year at the California Youth Authority ends up better for it. I’m almost at the door when I decide to say what’s on my mind.

  “It’s crazy for us to bring these kids up on pornography charges. If I’d had a camera phone when I was fourteen, I would’ve been taking pictures of my girlfriend’s boobs too.”

  Stein chuckles. “I didn’t write the laws. Until the state legislature does something about it, it’s our job to prosecute these brats.”

  My shoulders slump from the weight of this travesty. Stein apparently notices.

  “I thought you’d be more excited about this case. Maybe you’re looking at it all wrong.”

  “Am I?” I wait for him to blow more smoke up my ass.

  “You’re first in line for the next transfer to adult court. Getting the Carlyles the justice they deserve for their daughter could cause that transfer to happen sooner rather than later.”

  He winks, rocks back in his chair and continues. “The mayor will be following th
is case since the Carlyles are friends. Putting this kid away could be a feather in your cap.”

  My boss is blatantly bribing me. My blank expression gives him no hint of whether I’m willing to play ball. This must make Stein nervous because he does a one-eighty.

  “Now, I want to be clear,” he says, steepling his fat fingers, “you’re still first up for the next transfer, regardless of how this case turns out.”

  Yeah, right. You’re just covering your ass.

  I want out of juvenile court, but not if it means locking up some kid who doesn’t deserve it.

  CHAPTER 16

  Angela

  When Jenny and Gus start following a staff member into the facility, I fall in step behind them, but the security guard stops me.

  “Only parents and attorneys. You his mother?”

  “No. His attorney.”

  A hint of a frown glazes Jenny’s lips.

  “Can I see your bar card and driver’s license?” the guard asks.

  He glances at them, then hands me something to sign.

  Dre steps in line behind us. “I’m his uncle,” he says. Though not by blood, Dre does fill that role.

  The guard grimaces. “Don’t matter. Parents and attorneys. That’s it.”

  The guy takes us from the waiting area down a wide hallway. Gus is looking the place up and down, from the beige walls to the gray linoleum floor tiles. I sense he’s feeling the same relief I am. Except for the locked doors, the place has the feel of a school, not a jail or a prison. We walk past a wall with motivational words stenciled in English and Spanish. Respecto. Respect. Orgullo. Pride. Sobresalga. Excel.

  We’re taken to a small oblong room inside the Boys Receiving Unit. It looks more like a storage closet than an office. A minute later, the door opens and Graylin flies into his father’s arms.

  “Dad, please get me out of here! They’re lying on me. I’m innocent!”

  “I know, Little Man, I know.” Gus pulls him close. “Don’t worry. We’re gonna get you outta here. I promise.”

  Graylin’s a beefy kid with a round, innocent face. I’m always teasing him about his cute dimples, which are not on display right now.

  “Can I go home with you? Please, Dad. I don’t wanna stay here!”

  Jenny and I stand with our backs to the door while Gus and Graylin remain locked in an embrace.

  “We only have a few minutes,” Jenny says. “I’d like to go over a few things with Graylin.” She offers her hand to him. “My name is Jenny Ungerman. I’m your attorney. Your dad hired me to represent you.”

  Graylin squints as if he just realized we were in the room. “How come Ms. Angela can’t be my attorney?”

  “Jenny’s an expert in juvenile cases,” I explain. “But I’ll be helping out as well.”

  Jenny’s tightly pursed lips tell me she’s not thrilled about what I just said. My words are as much of a shock to me as they are to her. I hadn’t planned on participating in Graylin’s defense until the words spilled out of my mouth.

  “You’re not going to be able to go home tonight,” Jenny explains. “The judge won’t decide whether you can go home until Tuesday.”

  Graylin whips his head in his father’s direction. “I have to stay here all the way to Tuesday?” His voice crumples. “How come I can’t go home with you? Can’t you bail me out?”

  Gus pulls him close again. “I know this is hard, but I need you to man up. Just do what Ms. Jenny says and everything’s going to be okay.”

  “It’s very important that you don’t talk to anyone about your case,” Jenny says firmly. “That includes other kids you meet in here. Absolutely no one, except me.”

  And me, I want to add.

  “Not even my dad?”

  “Not even your dad. If you tell somebody something about your case, even your dad, they could be forced to testify about what you told them in court. Even if you tell it to them in secret. So it’s very important that you don’t say anything to anybody about what happened. Do you understand?”

  Graylin nods weakly. “I understand. The police put snitches in your jail cell to try to make you incriminate yourself.”

  “That’s right,” Jenny says.

  “And I want you to understand that you’re my client, not your dad. Even though your dad may be paying me, you make the decisions about your case, not anyone else. Do you have any questions?”

  Graylin pauses like he expects his dad to object.

  “Um, aren’t you going to ask me what happened so I can show you I’m innocent?”

  “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon to meet with you. You can explain everything to me then.”

  “Can my dad come to our meeting?”

  “Your father can visit you tomorrow,” Jenny says, “but for our first meeting, I only want to meet with you. Your dad can attend our future meetings as long as it’s okay with you.”

  Gus scratches his jaw and inhales.

  “Five more minutes,” says a voice from outside the door.

  Graylin grabs his father and presses his head against his chest.

  “We’ll let you two have these last few minutes alone,” Jenny says.

  I follow her into the hallway.

  “Your comment about helping out with Graylin’s defense threw me for a loop,” Jenny says the instant the door is closed. “I didn’t realize this would be a two-member defense team.”

  “I didn’t either until I said it. But I think I’d like to be involved in Graylin’s defense.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll just have to see.”

  We’ll just have to see? My friends forgot to mention that this chick is a prima donna.

  “Yes,” I reply. “We will.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Dre

  On the ride home from juvenile hall, Gus doesn’t say one word. I want to console him, but I don’t know how. So I keep my mouth shut.

  When I pull up in front of his apartment building on Hillcrest in Inglewood, Gus doesn’t open the car door. He just sits there staring through the window.

  “They almost shot me,” he says quietly.

  “What? Who almost shot you?”

  He describes what went down in the principal’s office. “And the crazy part is, I was so pissed off I almost dared that cop to do it. Then I heard Graylin crying and begging me to step back.” His voice cracks. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but my son is the one thing I’ve done right. I was determined to make sure he never saw the inside of a jail, much less a prison. And now he’s mixed up in some craziness that already seems way out of my control.”

  I reach over and squeeze his shoulder. “Graylin’s gonna be fine.”

  My words sound so worthless I wish I could take them back. I know what Gus is feeling because I felt the same helplessness when Brianna got kidnapped. Words do nothing for you at a time like this.

  After he climbs out, I head back to my place to pick up some clothes, then drive to Angela’s apartment in Ladera Heights. She opens the door to let me in dressed in shorts and a tank top. I follow her into the kitchen where she’s fixing a bowl of bran cereal.

  “Want some?”

  Angela knows I hate bran cereal but refuses to buy the high-calorie, sugary stuff I like.

  “I’ll pass.” I pull out a chair and take a seat at the kitchen table.

  We’re both dog-tired. There’s tension in the air and it has nothing to do with our mutual concern for Graylin. This is like bracing for an earthquake you know is about to strike any second.

  She turns her back to me and pours milk into her bowl. My eyes gravitate to her muscular thighs. An excitement stirs in me that brings to mind an activity that could significantly lower my stress level. But the attitude on Angela’s face signals that sex won’t be on the menu tonight. I know she can’t hold out much l
onger.

  One thousand one, one thousand two…

  “I need to know what’s going on, Dre.” She turns around to face me, her butt pressed against the cabinet. I wish her ass was pressed up against me. “Why’d you change your mind about moving in together?”

  “I haven’t changed my mind.”

  “Then why won’t you go look at the house I found?”

  I mull over whether it makes sense to come clean. It takes me two seconds to decide that it doesn’t. Angela’s about to be tied up defending Graylin and doesn’t need the additional stress of worrying about me too.

  I massage the back of my neck. “Like I said, I need a little time to handle a few things.”

  She takes a spoonful of cereal, finishes chewing, then asks, “What few things?”

  We’ve had this conversation already and I don’t want to have it again.

  “I can’t say right now.”

  Angela slams down the bowl on the counter, splashing milk everywhere. “I don’t understand you and maybe I never will! Do you know how it makes me feel when you refuse to confide in me?”

  “I just need you to trust me.”

  “Here we go again. How am I ever going to be comfortable with—” She stops herself mid-sentence.

  “My criminal past?” I say, finishing the sentence for her. “It’s going to take time. I’m going to prove to you that all of that is behind me. I don’t deal drugs anymore, Angela. I need you to trust me.”

  “Does this have anything to do with The Shepherd?”

  I pause for a beat. “No.”

  “Does it have anything to do with any kind of criminal activity?”

  I hate it when she jams me up like I’m on the witness stand. Before I can answer, she cuts me off.

  “Fine. Never mind. Your silence just answered my question.”

  She wipes down the countertop, dumps the rest of her cereal into the garbage disposal, and marches out of the kitchen.

  I want to follow her, but I don’t. Our relationship has been on a rocky path from the start. We’ve ridden out one storm after another and now this thing with The Shepherd is threatening to sink us once and for all. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s ever going to be a time when we can just concentrate on each other and sail off into the sunset.