Chapter 1 - Eighty-four

Chapter One
Busted on the Beach

“Well, D.D., you’ve fixed yourself good this time.”

Did I say that, or just think it?

“Yeah, this is one major mess.” Now I really spoke. “Not only are you stuck in the most God-forsaken juvenile detention center in the state of Florida …. Not only is it surrounded by mangroves and swamps on three sides and the security fence at Kennedy Space Center on the fourth …. Not only is there no way to escape … BUT, YOU – you’re gonna try your best anyway. If you stay, eventually they will find, out and then you’ll get sent back … home.”

And what kind of situation was I in? Wading past gators and moccasins? Getting electrocuted by NASA? Bloodhounds baying on my trail?

Oh, I was much smarter than that. No, I was scrunched down in the backseat footwell of Mr. Frump’s 1982 Grand Marquis, my right hip contorted and numb, my chest mashed against the transmission hump, some kind of a dank canvas tarp and a sleeping bag flapped over my head. Sure, I knew it was hot in Florida, but two hours in a locked car on an 80-degree April day – whoa. Sweat trailed down, pooling nicely at the hip of my lovely, orange detention center jumpsuit.

I blamed this whole thing on Mr. Frump - Dan Pike, Assistant Detention Center Counselor, Volusia County, Florida. His fault – totally his fault.

Alright, the truth – this whole thing started when I ran away. But right now Frump is the focus of my pissy mood.

We met at my first appearance in Juvenile Court yesterday (two days ago).

Ya know, I’d been doin’ fine – for nine months. Had my ID and Social Security, was workin’ the concert and race circuits – Florida to Virginia and back; sold t-shirts one week, hawked programs the next – from the 500 in February to Spring Break in Daytona. We heard that there was going to be some kind of black college event coming up soon.

I kept myself outta trouble, too. Learned fast. Don’t go down any alleys that smell like stale beer and week-old ash trays. Don’t trust any woman with more than one hair color. Don’t talk to any man with more hair sticking out of his shirt than on his head; and never get close to a guy who wears white crew socks with his sandals. Never go into any place where three or more guys are together. Be “home” before dark and walk on the opposite side of the street from strip joints, tattoo parlors or bars with captain’s chairs on the sidewalk.

I learned youth hostels - only a couple of nights spent out in the open. I was lucky – so far.

I was doin’ fine. This weekend, the first of April, hitchhiked up and back to the cool Doo Dah parade in New Smyrna. Sold T’s at the Air Show, Sunday; actually shook hands with Bob Hoover.
So that night back in town, night me and a local girl and two local guys decided to sleep on the beach Sunday night.

The rabble of seagulls and the day’s first light woke us up to two deputies, arms folded, looking at our emptied Styrofoam cooler of empty Miller Lites. They were nice enough, but cuffed us and took us off to jail.

Because we were juvies, the four of us were loaded up next morning, driven to City Island, walked in and lined up for our arraignment. The court room was wood panels all around and paddle fans above. I half expected to see Atticus Finch walk in.

Two guards led and trailed the four of us in. A third carried in our individual possession bags. I knew – I hoped - mine contained my two t-shirts, two complete extra changes of underwear, three jeans, four shorts, demin chemise and matching jacket, purse and ID’s and $556 in cash - still a nice nut from program sales at the 500 a month ago.

A cluster of Mommy and Daddy-types mumbled at each other in the back row – my beach-buddies’ families, I bet. The hulking bailiff glared from beneath the American flag, his massive hands tucked under the opposite elbows.

A preoccupied, dark-haired, 30-ish man slouched in the front row, gazing at his feet – his suit-coat and slacks had not seen a dry cleaner in months, his hair in the back suffered from a nasty pillow-mash-twirl – just a total frump all around.

The skinniest male human I’d ever seen sat at the prosecutor’s table – I was transfixed by his boniness.

“Hear-ye, hear-ye, hear-ye: The Honorable Judge Blanton Bronson presiding.” Snow-white hair, gallows-arm shoulders, he carried himself ramrod straight. Bad news already.

Rap-rap-rap. “Be seated …. Ladies and gentlemen” meaning us, “This is a first appearance before the bench. Its purpose is to determine how your case will be handled. This is not the guilty/not guilty phase, but simply to assure you of your rights and also assure the community of its security.” I knew he’d said this maybe thousands of times, but he sounded like he really meant it – like a grandfather would. “Do you have any questions?” We all shook our heads.

He turned toward the lawyer, cleared his throat and called, “Assistant District Attorney Mixus?”

I thought, “He’s gonna squeak.”

Mixus stood, his rumpled white shirt never straightening.

“His voice will crack”

His hands went to his rimless glasses; his propeller bow-tie torqued a quarter-turn clock-wise.

“Here it comes.”

He pursed his lips and opened them with a tremor, “Your HOOONNNK-ner.”

Three octaves, I swear.

And I was as helpless as he was, “PPPPFFFFTT.” My hand was too late to my mouth.

Judge’s eyes were blue, I discovered – gun-metal blue. He looked clean through me.

Mixus gathered himself and waded in, “Your Honor the charges are loitering, possession. Loitering HHHHAND possession of, of-alcohol-by-minors.” He raced through the words to avoid another honker.

With only the slightest twinkle in his eye, Judge Bronson checked my demeanor. He got my reddest face ever and not a breath or muscle-twitch. I followed the grain of the table-top wood clear to the far end of the table.
“Defendants Rousch, Givens and Edwards have local ties – all live with their parents. Miss Caldwell, however, is from out of state and was in possession of an identification that has not been matched at this time.” I began to breathe – had to.

I felt the bulls-eye paint going on.

Judge Bronson again eyed me, “Miss Caldwell, please stand.”

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“Miss Caldwell, do you understand what ADA Mixus is saying?”

“Well, Your Honor, yes, but not exactly.”

Young Lady, what IS your name?”

All the times I’d practiced it, here was the one that counted, “Alyshia Marie Caldwell.”

“And where do you live?”

“25467 East Ridge Road, Greenville, North Carolina.” Not too fast, but definitely not stumbling over any of it.

A quick glance to Mixus got the Judge a nod.

“Your birth date?”

“October 30, 1965” That ’65 was so vital, but I left it real low-key.

Mixus grunted to confirm.

And your Social Security number?”

Everyone does their Social fast. “527-89-4454,” quickly,

Glance and nod.

“Miss Caldwell, Mr. Mixus is essentially saying that other than the documents on your possession at the time of your arrest, you do not exist.”

No the time for a complete breakdown, “But, but, but … how can that be? I AM me.” Just a little quiver on the last part. And I heard shifting and rustling from the guy in the front row. Something had finally interested him.

“Be that as it may, I am afraid we must approach your charges differently. For all we know, you are a sixteen-year-old run-away.”

I anticipated a landmine like this from a veteran like the Judge.

As even-toned and firm as I could be without forcing it, “Your Honor, I am Alyshia Caldwell; from Greenville, North Carolina; I’m eighteen; I am away from home on my own; I’m working to earn money to go to community college next fall. Other than that, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Young Lady, without corroboration, that is not enough. If you would care to give us, um, another name, address, or social security number ….”

“Your Honor, I’m sorry: there is nothing else; I am who I am.”

He only shook his head a little, “Very well, I will have only one option. Until you can verify your age and identity, you will be detained at the Oak Hill Juvenile Detention Center. Considering the strong possibility that you are still a minor, the Court has no other choice. Mr. Pike?”

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“Please transport Jane Doe number 27, A.K.A. Alyshia Marie Caldwell to the Oak Hill Center.”

The guard at my side turned me in Pike’s direction.

Pike was holding his chin with his hands when I turned around. Before I could size him up, his eyes bugged. He looked me in the eye, scanned my face, moved down to my chest, and up and down twice more. His body froze in place. He just kept staring at my chest.

He righted himself and made eye contact once more and muttered, “Oh, it just can’t be.” I think I was the only one to hear it.

In a voice matching his, I whispered, “Damn straight, it can’t.” I’d seen the look before and knew his kind usually folded to force.

The Judge unwittingly broke the tension, “Very well,. Miss Rousch, Mister Givens and Mister Edwards, you are released to your parents; you will be notified of your trial date. We stand adjourned.” Rap, rap, rap.

The guard with my possessions accompanied Frump and me out to a van with the County logo and Oak Hill on the side. After the guard tossed my bag in the back of the van and mumbled a good-bye, Pike began to lead me by the elbow up into the van.

Again whispering, I spoke slowly and distinctly, “Fair warning. I don’t think you should ever touch me. Ever again. In any way.”

I figured he’d fluster on me, but he slowly eased his hand off my elbow and said “I assure you I will be a gentleman.”