Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison by T. Parsell (ready to read books TXT) 📕

were, you'd probably get probation." He held the report up. "You were expecting a free ride, it says."

"That's not what I said, Judge." I turned to my attorney for help, which wasn't coming. I'd met him only two minutes before the sentencing hearing began. I'd have had better luck with the other lawyer, from the Public Defender's Office, but he was tied up in another court. This lawyer just stared at me with an embarrassed grin.

"Did you make that statement?" The judge asked.

"No. Well, sort of ... It's not exactly what I said."

"Well, I'm sort of disturbed by your calculative savvy," he said. "Counselors?" He motioned the two lawyers to the side of his bench.

That fat fuck of a probation officer! He must've misrepresented what I'd said to him, right before he started rubbing his knee along the inside of my thigh. But how could I say that? He was the adult and I was a kid-a criminal with no credibility.

I turned to the back of the courtroom. My dad and Sharon sat in the last row. Sharon seemed to be frowning at the judge while my dad glanced up and nodded at me.

I shrugged and raised my hands in the air.

The lawyers came back to the front of the bench, and the judge asked if I had anything to say before he passed final sentence.

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing would come out. I wanted to explain what I'd said to that probation officer, and what happened right afterward, but it seemed hopeless. I wanted to say what a horrible mistake I'd made, that it started as a joke, a stupid opening line to the pretty girl inside, and that it wasn't until she handed me the money and smiled that I grabbed it and ran. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was and how I'd give anything to go back to the Photo Mat and undo that impulsive moment. Or explain to the judge, how some people were strong enough for prison, while others-like me-were not. But all that came out was, "No, Your Honor."

The courtroom was still in the silence that followed. Only then did I realize my whole life was in the hands of that judge and how powerless I was to say or do anything.

"Very well," he said. "Having accepted your plea of Guilty to Armed Robbery, and having reviewed all the circumstances in this case, including assessment of the Pre-sentence Investigation documents as prepared by the Department of Probation, this court will follow the recommendation of the Probation Department and remand you to the State Department of Corrections for a term of not less than four and a half years and no more than fifteen years to be served in the state penitentiary." He smacked his gavel and handed my file to the clerk.

My attorney whispered something about violent crimes and capital offenses and judges having latitude in sentencing, but I didn't hear him.

"Wait a minute!" I screamed. "What happened to the two and half years?"

"Bailiff," the judge called out. He looked down over his glasses at the two sheriff deputies who quickly handcuffed me.

"I'll come see you in lock-up," my good-for-nothing lawyer said. "There was nothing I could do. Armed robbery carries up to a life sentence, and the Probation Department ..."

I cut him off. "Can I see my parents?" It was all too much to absorb. I just wanted to talk to my parents.

"Your Honor?" the lawyer asked. "May the defendant speak to his parents?"

"That's up to the deputies," he said. "Next case!"

When we stepped from the courtroom, the sheriff deputies gave me a few minutes with Dad and Sharon. I stood in the corridor, my hands cuffed in front of me, while the two deputies waited nearby.

"How're you doing?" Sharon asked. Her voice was kind, and there were tears in her eyes. "You look awful."

"I'm all right," I lied.

"What the hell was that all about?" Sharon asked. "I thought you were supposed to get two and half years?"

"That's what I thought." I was too embarrassed to tell her what happened with the probation officer, and she probably wouldn't have believed me either.

"Where's that other attorney? The one who told you to plead guilty?"

"He couldn't make it. So the public defender sent this one." My handcuffs clinked as I motioned toward the courtroom.

"That's a crock of shit," she said.

Up the hallway, outside the heavy doors that led to the courtroom, was a high-backed wooden bench. A man in a suit talked softly to a family waiting to go inside.

"How're you?" I asked Dad. As usual he was starring off into space.

"Huh?" His blue eyes were clear but glistening with tears. "I need a cigarette," he said.

"I'm gonna go down and wait on that lawyer," Sharon said. She walked toward the people sitting on the bench.

It was the first time I'd noticed how short they both were. Though Dad was slightly taller than Sharon, neither of them came up past my chin.

"So what does this mean?" he asked.

"It means I have four and half years."

"Jesus Christ!" He almost shouted.

The deputies glanced up from across the hall.

"With good time, IT be out in three."

"Jesus Chrr-rist." He repeated, giving Christ an extra syllable.

He seemed more upset than I was, and I felt like I needed to comfort him.

"I'll get through it, Dad."

He kept looking at me, but the glaze returned to his eyes-that far off look that told me he'd disappeared into himself again. I was sorry I'd hurt him.

I didn't have to worry about Sharon. For all my complaints about her growing up, she was as tough and mean as any of those judges. She paced the courtroom doors, waiting to see that attorney. I remembered the third grade nun, that took a belt to her son, and then Sharon went up and took her own belt off and used it on the benevolent sister. She had that same look in her eye, now, and she did back then.

"She don't