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“This is a fucking joke,” I mumble, just loud enough for my arsehole of a lawyer to hear.
“Can it, Chen. Sit up, take note and don’t say a damn thing,” my lawyer hisses at me.
Sitting here now in the magistrates’ court with my lawyer, who I’m pretty sure is ready to hang me so he can get back home to his two point five kids and perfect middle class wife, I wait for the verdict.
A clock ticks loudly, the sound of a pen tapping against the table and the constant low hum of my blood pulsing in my ears makes it impossible to concentrate.
“Sit up, Alicia, payattention,” my lawyer snaps, repeating the demand under his breath once more.
I huff, feigning boredom and make a point at staring at a spot just beyond the ancient judge as he waffles on about my ‘crimes’ and my poor choices in life like his shit don’t stink.Dickhead.
Well he, like all the other adults I’ve ever come across in life, can go fuck themselves. I was doing the shopkeeper a favour by brightening his ugly back wall with my graffiti art. I’m pretty sure he gets way more customers now because of it anyway. He should bethankingme. Instead, here I am waiting on this fat balding twat of a judge to make a decision about my life, just like all the other bastards I’ve had to endure these past sixteen years. I wish I was turning eighteen this year instead of next, maybe then I could claw back some of the control I crave. As it is, I’ve got to wait another fifteen months until that happens. I’m just another kid who’s the property of the state right now.
“Breaking and entering, criminal damage, graffitiing, possession of marijuana, anti-social behaviour. The list goes on and on, Alicia…” the judge drones on. His words mingle with the memory of all the other disappointed tirades I’ve had to listen to over the years from social workers, teachers, lawyers and the endless list of control freaks that seem to want to plague my life with rules and fucking restrictions.
It's not like I need reminding of my petty crimes. I know what I’ve done and frankly, I’d do it again given half the chance. I didn’t hurt anyone. I didn’t even break into the store really, given Mr Patel stupidly left the back entrance open. And yeah, so I smoked some weed. What teenager doesn’t these days? I’m betting this arsehole next to me drinks himself into a coma most nights on some thousand pound bottle of brandy to blot out some shit or other that he wants to forget. So, what’s the difference? I smoke a little weed, big deal. At least I don’t shoot up to get a kick.
“You’re on a dangerous path, young lady, one that will lead to a life of crime and imprisonment if you continue on as you are. Do you want that for yourself?” the judge asks me, his bushy eyebrows like great big caterpillars kissing as he frowns. Talk about condescending. I shrug and look away to avoid further eye-contact, making a non-committal sound.
“Youwantthis life for yourself?” he accuses, trying to get a reaction.
Folding my arms across my chest, I shift in my seat, refusing to engage.
Yep, that’s exactly what I want, arsehole. In fact, being a criminal was the first job of choice on my list of things I wanted to be when I grew up. Actually, being a princess was top of that stupid list my mother had made me write. All because of her crazy stories and my need to please her. I’d have done anything to stop her from picking up a needle and shooting up.
“There’s nothing you’d like to say?” he persists.
“No.” I manage to bite out.
Both he and my lawyer make a distasteful noise at my lack of understanding or care. Their opinion of me is plain for all to see. I’m just another one of those kids who’s a drain on the system. Drug-addict mother, absent father, benefit generation, uneducated, lazy, foolhardy. I’m the shit on their shoe. I’m worthless.Yeah, I get it.
“This is your last chance,” the judge says, and I’m not sure whether he’s now referring to my opportunity to speak or my proverbial last chance in life.
My lawyer, Fitzpatrick or something equally as fucking posh, nudges me in the side. “Alicia, now’s the time to get your point across. Don’t mess this up.”
I turn to face him, sucking on my lip ring and giving him my best‘I don’t give a fuck’stare. I clear my throat, finally making eye-contact with the judge.
“Fuck you,” I murmur.
Fitzpatrick stiffens. I can feel the annoyance and judgement rolling off him, battering against me as I resolutely ignore his incredulous look. Once he gets over the shock, I’m betting he’s going to love telling his perfect family about the messed-up kid who gave the judge a big fat“fuck you.”I know what he thinks when he looks at me; I’m the warning to his children. I’m the horror story of a life gone tits-up. You smoke weed, you’ll end up like her. You wear those clothes, you’re asking to be treated a certain way. You live on a council estate; you’re bound to grow up a junky or a fucking criminal. I see it in his eyes, in the eyes of all the adults who make a snap judgement about the person I am based on the way I look.
Fuckwads.
“That’s all you have to say?” the judge responds.
But instead of slapping my arse with another punishment, he just sighs heavily as though he’s just as jaded with the world as I am. I watch as he clasps his hands together and regards me for a long time before speaking.
“Your crime holds a minimum sentence of eighteen months in juvenile prison, but both your social worker and lawyer have petitioned for a lesser sentence. For some reason they seem to think you’re salvageable. Despite your appearance and lack of any remorse for your actions, I’m going to believe them.”
I snort, folding my arms across my chest ignoring the pounding beat of my heart and the anger bubbling inside, the hurricane of rage I was born with is never very far away. I know for a fact my lawyer doesn’t give a crap about me, and my social worker? Ha! Don’t make me laugh. That bitch will be glad to see the back of me. I’m pretty sure she’d rather see me locked up, my case file neatly filed away in some cabinet in her office never to be looked at again.
“You come to my court dressed like that,” he says wrinkling his nose at my ripped jeans, Doc Martens and see through mesh top.
“At least I wore a bra,” I snarl under my breath, glancing at Fitzpatrick whose jaw tightens in anger.
“You’ve not even bothered to make an effort to present yourself in a suitable manor…” the judge continues, his words lost behind a growing haze of rage that I can’t seem to dampen right now.
