seven

Wesley

Officer Sanchez entered the common area and asked the detainees that were assigned specifically to him to form a large circle with the chairs. We were about to have a group discussion about the reasons why we were being detained and what changes we were going to make once we got out.

“I wanted to take some time to talk about what you can do to change your life so that you don’t end up back here or in a maximum-security prison. Yesterday during visitation I noticed that Wesley here—” Officer Sanchez nodded his head in my direction “—was being very disrespectful to his mother. He was so disrespectful that when she left she was in tears. Wesley, why were you being so insolent to your mom? And second, does anyone in the group feel that it is ever appropriate to be rude to your parents?”

“You all just don’t understand the things my mom has put me through,” I said as my stomach began doing flips. I didn’t think that I’d have to defend my ill feelings toward my mother.

“Well, tell us.” Officer Sanchez encouraged me to open up to the group, but I wasn’t about to spill my guts to a bunch of guys I didn’t know. I’d look like a complete punk if I did that.

“Let’s just say she doesn’t do the things that a mother is supposed to do,” I answered, and wanted the conversation regarding me and my mother to end.

“Hey, man, that’s your mom,” said Santiago, a short Latino guy with thick black eyebrows whom I’d spoken to only briefly during lunch break. At the time of our greeting we only said hello and asked each other what we were in for. I learned that he was here for vandalism. However, he certainly didn’t know me well enough to be offering up advice about my situation. “I know that I don’t know you all that good but it’s your mom, man. You’re going to need her before she needs you. In my opinion, you need to settle whatever beef you have with her.”

“You don’t have a clue,” I answered him, feeling as if he was sticking his nose in my private business. “That woman has done things and said things that no mother should do or say.”

“Like what?” asked Officer Sanchez.

“Forget it, man. Move on to someone else. I don’t want to talk about my problems right now.”

“But it’s your problems that got you here, cowboy.” Santiago kept running his mouth and I didn’t like it. “Don’t you think that having a bad relationship with your mom has led to you being here?”

That did it. I felt rage starting to flow through my veins.

“What about your mom? What’s your relationship with your mother like?” I snapped at him. I locked my gaze upon him so that there was no mistaking my anger.

“Man.” Santiago dropped his eyes and focused on the floor before him. It wasn’t the reaction that I was anticipating. “I wish I could have a relationship with my mom. She’s gone. She left me with my elderly grandmother when I was two years old to try to make it big as a singer in Las Vegas. She left Chicago with a suitcase, a bus ticket and a big dream. She ended up on the streets, selling herself. Eventually, her lifestyle took her life. So I’m talking to you from the perspective of someone who would’ve loved to have one more day with my mother, regardless of how much I disagreed with her.”

I leaned back in my seat because I didn’t know how to respond to that. All I knew was how I felt. My mom bruised my heart in such a way that I vowed to never allow her to get close to me again, and when I made that commitment, I shut my emotions toward her off. Right now I just didn’t see any way to change my animosity toward her.

“You have your court hearing tomorrow,” said Officer Sanchez, speaking to me. “When you go before the judge, what are you going to say in your defense?”

“I’m going to tell her that I don’t want to live in my mother’s house anymore and that I want to go and live with my dad. Life is so much better with my dad. We get along very well and I just think everything will be much better than what it is now,” I said.

Officer Sanchez looked directly at me, searching my eyes for sincerity.

“Okay, perhaps living with your dad will be much better for you. Do you respect your father?” he asked.

“Yeah, I respect him.”

“Do you argue and yell at your dad?”

“No, he isn’t going to put up with me shouting at him. I just don’t have a reason to be angry with him,” I said.

“That’s good,” Officer Sanchez said. He was satisfied with the answers I’d given him. Officer Sanchez shifted his attention to Deon and began speaking about the fight he’d gotten into and how he could have prevented the brawl.

A few hours later I found myself hanging out with Santiago and a few of the new detainees. Deon had already gone before the judge and I’d received word that the judge released him to the custody of his parents. I heard that he got off with twenty hours of community service. The news of his release sparked conversation between Santiago and me. “Who is the judge in your case, man?” asked Santiago.

“I got Judge Hill,” I answered briefly, wondering when and where I’d run into Deon again. I was thinking that he could’ve at least come back to say goodbye, but then I realized that he probably couldn’t.

“Aw, man. She’s tough. I’ve gone in front of her before. She doesn’t play around. I know when she sees me again, she’s going to throw the book at me.”

“You’ve been in here before?” I asked, sort of surprised.

“Yeah, I’m kind of a repeat offender. I saw Judge Hill about five months ago on a trespassing case. This home construction company was building a new subdivision near my home. Some friends and I waited until after the construction workers left for the evening and jumped the fence. We ignored the giant No Trespassing sign and wandered around to check out the new homes. Some nosey neighbor saw us jump the fence and called the cops. When the police arrived, my friends and I scattered, but I was the only one they caught. I was arrested and they booked me on trespassing charges.”

“She’s really not going to be happy about seeing you brought in this time on vandalism charges.”

“I know. Judge Hill is going to scream at me, I just know it. She gave me three months’ worth of community service for trespassing and she’ll probably triple my sentence for vandalism.” Santiago paused in thought. “I had to get up every Saturday morning and go down to the homeless shelter and work like a slave. I’m being real with you. If she doesn’t sentence you to community service, she’ll fine your parents, or worse, she will leave you locked up, especially if she thinks for a second that you haven’t learned your lesson.”

I didn’t say anything because I was at a loss for words. I also didn’t feel good about going before a tough-as-nails judge. I suddenly wasn’t so sure if she’d see my side of the story or at least be willing to listen to what I had to say.

“So, what do you suggest I do when I see her?” I asked. I wanted to get a better sense of what to expect.

“Hey, man, just don’t be disrespectful and tell your side of the story. Maybe she’ll understand,” said Santiago.

About a half hour later Officer Sanchez and several other security staff members came toward me, carrying handcuffs and shackles for my ankles. I was still sitting at the table with Santiago, playing a card game.

“Okay, amigo, I need you to turn around and kneel down on the floor with your hands behind your back.”

I took a deep breath and did as Officer Sanchez said. He placed my ankles and hands in the shackles. Officer Sanchez helped me stand on my feet and then escorted me out of the common area and over to the court building.

“Your parents have already arrived,” he told me as we walked down a long corridor.

I didn’t say anything because my emotions were swelling like a water barrel about to overflow. I was trying to contain them as best I could, but it wasn’t easy. We stopped in front of a wooden door that said Courtroom Nine, Judge Nancy Hill. I swallowed hard as Officer Sanchez opened the door. I stepped inside and awaited further instructions.

“I’m going to take off the handcuffs. You are to have a seat over there next to the attorney your father has gotten to represent you.” Officer Sanchez pointed to a bald-headed African-American man who wore glasses similar to those that fictional character Harry Potter wears. I said okay and did as I was told. As I moved deeper into the courtroom I saw my dad and acknowledged him by nodding my head in his direction. My mom was sitting as far away from him as possible. We made eye contact but did not exchange greetings through body language.

“Hi, I’m Rick Waters,” the attorney said as he shook my hand. “I’ve been talking your case over with your father, who has filled me in on some of the problems you’ve been going through with your mother. I want to ask you a few questions before the judge enters the courtroom.”

“Okay,” I said. Mr. Waters asked me a series of questions about my relationship with my mother and my father. His tone was serious as he inquired about where I’d gotten alcohol from and how long I had been drinking. He also asked me how I was introduced to alcohol and how often I drank. I answered his questions openly and honestly. Just as we were finishing up, the judge entered the courtroom. Everyone had to rise to his or her feet when she entered and then sat back down after she did.

“Okay, I’ve read over the circumstances involving this case and I want to start by asking a few questions of Ms. Carter,” said Judge Hill. “Ms. Carter, would you please have a seat up here next to me on the bench?”

I watched as my mom took a seat next to the judge. I could tell that she wasn’t comfortable.

“Ms. Carter, can you explain to me what happened and why you reported your car stolen?”

“Yes.” My mom paused for a second as she cleared her throat. “I was taking a nap and when I woke up to run an errand, I noticed that my car was gone. I didn’t know what happened to it. I figured that it must have been stolen because my neighbor’s car was stolen a few days earlier.”

I held my head down in disgust. I could tell that not only was my mother telling a lie, but also by her speech patterns, she’d been drinking.

“Ma’am, do you allow your son, Wesley, to drive your vehicle?” asked Judge Hill.

My mother repositioned herself in her seat. Her body language was giving her away. Now it was not only clear to me that she’d been drinking, but Judge Hill was also suspicious. “You know, I let him drive sometimes. Around the neighborhood or to the— What do you call it?” My mom began snapping her fingers because she couldn’t recall the word she was trying to say. “Oh, dammit, what’s the damn word I’m searching for? You know the word.” She looked at the judge for an answer.

“No, I don’t know the word.” Judge Hill appeared to be irritated with my mother. “And I ask that you refrain from cursing in my courtroom.”

“The place where the kids go and buy clothes.” Mom raised her voice to Judge Hill. “The mall.” The word finally came to her.

“Ma’am, are you under the influence of any prescription medication or perhaps a narcotic?”

“I’m no damn drug addict,” my mom snapped at Judge Hill.

“Ma’am, one more outburst like that and I will fine you,” Judge Hill barked back at my mother. “Now answer my question. Are you under the influence of anything?”

“Okay.” My mom began trying to explain herself. “I was just a little bit nervous.” She squeezed her thumb and index finger closely together to emphasize her point. “So to help calm my nerves I had a little something to drink.”

A very stern and dissatisfied expression washed over Judge Hill’s face. She looked at her watch. “Ma’am, do you realize that it’s only 10:30 a.m. and you’re already intoxicated?”

“I’m not intoxicated,” my mom snapped back at the judge. There was no way she was about to admit that she’d had one too many.

“Ma’am, have you ever given alcohol to your son?” asked Judge Hill.

“Who, Wesley?” My mother asked the question as if she’d never heard of me. “You know, it’s better if he does that kind of thing at home with me where it’s safe.” My mom looked to the judge for approval of her rationale, but she didn’t get it. “Look, I’d rather that he be in the house with me drinking than being out in the streets. At least I’d be able to monitor him.” My mom began raising hell because she wasn’t getting the response she wanted from Judge Hill. “Sure, I’ve let him have a glass of wine around the holidays and other special occasions.” My mom finally admitted that she had introduced me to alcohol.

“Do you realize that in this state that is considered to be child endangerment?” asked Judge Hill.

“Come on, it’s just a sip of wine from time to time. It’s nothing serious.” My mom downplayed the significance of her error in judgment.

“I have no further questions,” said Judge Hill as she began jotting down some notes. “Mr. Waters, do you have any questions?”

“Yes, Your Honor, I do,” said Mr. Waters. “First, I’d like to state that the problems between Wesley and his mother go back several years. Now, Ms. Carter, would you like for Wesley to go home with you today?”

“Yes, Wesley needs to be at home with me. His dad is too irresponsible to take good care of him like I do.”

“Do you feel that providing a minor with alcohol is a good standard of parental care?”

“Look, it’s not as if I gave my son a bottle of Jack Daniel’s after school and said ‘drink up.’ It was just a few sips of wine every now and again.”

“Ms. Carter, do you keep alcohol in your home?”

“Of course I do. Everyone does,” my mom answered.

“Ms. Carter, are you aware that when Wesley was picked up by the police, he had a blood-alcohol level that was above the legal driving limit?”

“Yes, I know about that.”

“Where do you think Wesley got the alcohol from?”

“I don’t know, out in the streets somewhere. He probably got it from one of his older friends. Now, that’s who you should be after. The one who gave him the hard stuff.” My mother wanted to get the focus off of her.

“Ms. Carter, is it fair to say that your protection of Wesley from drinking outside of the home has failed and that, in fact, you have been encouraging your son to drink with you other than on special occasions?”

“No, that’s not true!” my mom howled out. “Listen, mister! Don’t you go trying to twist my words around! I’m a good mother and I love my son. He’s all I’ve got. I can’t be with him everywhere. If he gets alcohol out there in the streets, that’s not my fault! You need to go out and find the criminals who got him intoxicated. If I knew who did it, I’d go and make a citizen’s arrest myself!”

“Your Honor, I have no further questions,” said Mr. Waters.

“Okay, I want to hear from Wesley,” said Judge Hill. “Please approach the bench.”

I stood up from my seat and approached the bench near Judge Hill. I was nervous but happy because I was finally going to get a chance to tell my side of the story.

“Wesley.” Judge Hill looked at me.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered.

“Who would you like to be released to today?” she asked.

“If I had a choice, I’d really like to go and live with my dad.”

“Why is that?” she asked.

“Because.” I paused to select the right words. I had wanted to be fearless with my criticism of my mother, but when I looked at her I began to feel sorry for her. “I mean—my dad and I get along well and me and my mom don’t. We haven’t gotten along in a very long time. My life was great until I turned thirteen.” I sniffled. “Aw, man.” I felt myself tearing up as I was about to speak the truth and bare my soul to Judge Hill. “As far as I know, the reason my parents got a divorce is because my mom accused him of physically abusing me. And that just wasn’t true. When she divorced him, she forced me to sit down and have a drink with her to celebrate their separation. She was happy about it, but I was miserable. My heart was so torn up over the divorce.”

I stopped talking so that I could wipe the tears away from my eyes. “Man, this is harder than I thought it would be.” I swallowed hard and took a few deep breaths to calm my nerves and manage the adrenaline that was flowing through me. “The first time I got drunk was that day with my mom. Once I recovered from being sick and managing my hangover, I made a vow to myself to try and get them back together so that we could be a happy family again. But that all changed when her boyfriend moved into the house just one week after my parents’ divorce. That hurt me so badly that I just didn’t know what to do.” I stopped talking because my words were imprisoned in my chest.

“Wesley, why are you telling these lies on me?” my mother blurted out from the rear of the courtroom. I looked into her eyes and saw nothing but defiance in them. At that moment, I sucked up my emotions, got angry and barked back at her.

“What I’m saying is not a lie! It’s the truth and you know it! You ruined everything! You ruined a great home and a great life all for some jerk that was cheating on you. My dad is a good man and you treated him like scum. You made it seem as if everything was his fault. But it wasn’t his fault at all! You wanted a divorce from my dad so that you could be with some jerk. You’re a big liar and you’re a drunk, Mom!”

Judge Hill slammed down her gavel.

“Okay, that’s enough,” she said, and I calmed myself down. There was a long moment of silence. I noticed that Judge Hill was scribbling down something on a notepad.

“Wesley, has your dad ever abused you?” asked Judge Hill.

“No, ma’am, never,” I answered.

“Okay, I have no further questions of you. I’d like to hear from your dad now. Mr. Morris, would you please have a seat up here on the bench next to me?” Judge Hill pointed to the seat beside her. My dad got up from his seat and did as Judge Hill asked.

“Mr. Morris, do you live in Illinois?” asked Judge Hill.

“Yes,” answered my dad. “I live about eight miles away from Wesley.”

“Mr. Morris, what do you do for living?”

“Right now I work as a claims adjuster for an insurance company.”

“And how long have you had that job?” she asked.

“I’ve been an adjuster now for about six years,” answered my dad.

“Do you have room for your son?” asked Judge Hill.

“Yes, I do. I’ve always had room for him and he knows that he can come and stay with me anytime.”

“Would you like to have primary custody of your son?” asked Judge Hill.

“Yes, I would,” answered my dad.

“Is there anything additional you’d like to tell the court?”

“I’d just like to say that I know that Wesley has been struggling with a lot of things and that I know he hasn’t had any peace since the divorce. I have really made an effort to be a part of his life, but at times his mom has alienated me from him and has done a lot of things to keep us apart. If Wesley were to come home with me, we’d work out whatever problems he’s having. There will be ground rules that he’ll have to follow in order to keep him out of trouble, but honestly, Wesley isn’t a bad kid. He’s just a kid in a crisis situation.”

“Do you have any questions of Mr. Morris, Mr. Waters?” Judge Hill looked at the attorney my dad hired.

“Mr. Morris, are you behind on your child-support payments?”

“No. I’m actually three months ahead,” answered my dad.

“I have no further questions, Your Honor,” said Mr. Waters.

“Okay, you may step down and go back to your seat,” Judge Hill instructed my dad. Once he sat down, Judge Hill began to speak.

“Okay, let’s cut to the chase here. Today this court is going to reduce the charge of auto theft down to joyriding. This court is also going to find probable cause that Wesley needs crisis intervention to address his addiction to alcohol. I am mandating that he get treatment at the Mayville Rehab Facility. This court is also going to order that this child be released from the custody of this facility into the custody of his father.” Judge Hill slammed down her gavel, indicating that her decision was final.

I leaned back in my seat and exhaled a big sigh of relief. That was intense, I thought as I closed my eyes for a brief moment. When I opened them back up, Officer Sanchez was standing next to me.

“Come with me,” he said. I followed Officer Sanchez past Judge Hill.

“Wait a minute,” I said, stopping. “I just want to say thank you. I am so glad you listened to me.”

“You make sure that you do right by your father, stay sober and don’t let me see you in here again or else.” Judge Hill glanced at me for a brief moment before opening up the file folder to her next case. I walked out of the courtroom feeling a sense of relief.