Chapter 2

© Copyright 2006 by Roy E. Proctor

“Okay parents and friends. We’ve had to initiate a shakedown of all visitors. Men, you come with me. Ladies, you go with this female guard.

“A shake down in a juvenile detention center?” Jim questioned. “Really now, I wasn’t aware that this is a maximum security prison but a-”

“Look, man,” the guard snapped. “All I am ordered to do this. So if you will empty your pockets in this container, we’ll get this show on the road.”

“Now look here. I am -”

“Yes sir, I know who you are. But I’m following orders of the Criminal Justice system. Empty your pockets into this container, please.”

If looks could have killed, that guard would have been dead before uttering the first word. Nonetheless, Jim emptied his pockets, billfold, keys, everything. It was humiliating to surrender his authority.

“Thank you sir. Now if you will put your hands on that wall and spread your feet, I’ll carry out the rest of my orders.”

Jim had never been so angry. Just one more touch of that guards hands and he would have slugged him senseless. How degrading it was. A shakedown?

“Okay, sir, you’re clear. Now if you will follow me, I’ll show you to a private meeting room.” Suddenly the guard stopped and faced Jim. “Sir,” he said with utmost respect. “I also have my orders to provide you a private room. Everyone else is herded into that large open room. I ... hope it helps.”

“Thank you. Yes it does help. I’m ... not quite used to visits of this exact nature and -”

“Oh, I think you’ll do all right.”

Jim had heard that heavy “clank” made by the iron door many times in the past. The stale colors of lifeless concrete seemed even more remorseful now. As a young lawyer, he visited many juveniles to whom he imputed justice. But this was different. The juvenile was his own sixteen-year-old son, the one he cherished enough to give him his complete name.

“My boy, in those demeaning generic clothes,” Jim grieved to himself. “How can it be?” he wondered upon seeing Jimmy. Oh well, at least he was thankful for not having to talk to his son through those bars one sees on TV shows. Yet, he wished this visit were just a fictional contrivance of crime USA. Much to his grief, however, this was bitter reality.

Jim didn’t realize it before now that this juvenile detention center certainly was not a youth “hang out.” Instead, the designers seemed to make it as drab as possible. The walls of the room were painted with the flattest gloss off white one could imagine. He sat at a plain unpainted wooden table with no covering. The abhorring lack of decor reminded him of a statement made by an acquaintance of his who was in charge of such centers. “We like to make these derelicts of decent society suffer when they come in here.”

Jim sat with his son at a plain table for what seemed like an eternity of painful silence. The lack of mutual eye contact only added to their feelings of being disconnected from each other. Yes, the designer of this place was successful. They were suffering, at least from what Jim could discern.

“Chip has taken to your room,” Jim blurted.

“Oh,” came the detached response.

“Remember when we got that mangy mutt?” Jim asked. His hand almost touched his beloved son but he pulled back after getting no overt response.

The only reply Jim got was a short and detached, “Yah.”

“That little ball of fur ... uh -”

“Your fifteen minutes is up.” The guard’s callused announcement wiped away even that small hope of Jim connecting with his son.

“Fifteen minutes and all he said was -” Jim’s thoughts and feelings froze in time as the guard took his boy by the hand and led him away ... somewhere.

* * *

The drive back to Jim’s office was a miracle in itself. His mind was in such a blur that his attention was anywhere but on the road. Yet, the car seemed to negotiate itself through the traffic. The reality of his recent encounter faded in and out as he tried to deny it ever happened. How could he live with the fact that his “prize” was in jail, with little chance of beating the rap against him?

“Jim,” his secretary cajoled. Suddenly, he was aware of her standing at the head of his desk. Shanon Sparks had been his personal secretary for five years now. The best one could ever find. She knew just what action to take and what to say in all situations.

“Jim, I’m sure you remember asking me to find the best defense lawyer for your son?”

“Oh, yes, come to think of it, I did.”

“Well, she is in my office. Would you like to see her now, or shall I make an appointment?”

“Her?”

“Why, yes. Your sources tell me that she is a tremendous defense lawyer.” “And,” she added with a smirk on her face. “This most humble lady will see your excellency any time you please.”

“In that case, oh dutiful secretary, send her in.”

Jim was not prepared for the person who entered his office. “Hello Mr. Watkins. I am Rose Ann Sharone, your son’s defense attorney.”

“Oh,” was all Jim could say. Rose Ann’s words shot through every inch of his body. Her warmth settled his anxious heart in peculiar ways. The very presence of this quietly confident woman proclaimed that everything would be okay and that there was hope.

“You are from Anderson, Kennedy and Holms? I thought their staff was all ... uh. Do have a seat ... here in this comfortable chair.”

“Men? Well, yes, I’ve been with them for a year now. We prayed about my first assignment and, they said you would understand my being here.”

“Oh, sure,” came Jim Sr.’s delayed response. “This woman has real class, from within,” he thought to himself.

“I will be talking to everyone in your son’s life, Mr. Watkins and you, of course, are a major player.”

“I suppose that these interviews will be in depth?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Watkins. You, of all people must surely know that a lawyer leaves no stone unturned.”

“Okay, we need to set up a time when we can talk. So, how about dinner tonight?”

“Mr. Watkins. Dinner? Why, I never expected ... what makes you think I might be available for dinner?”

“You introduced yourself as Rose Ann Sharone and there is no ring on your finger. Or is all of that just circumstantial evidence? Besides, this is a professional appointment isn’t it?”

“Well since you cannot legally use those two pieces of evidence, I’ll just say I am not a Mrs., so you can regard me as Ms. Sharone. And, might I ask about your availability if this doesn’t turn out to be a purely professional meeting?”

“I’ve been a widower for a number of years. Personal call now, counselor. Do you think it we would compromise professional standards if Mr. Watkins and Ms. Sharone were to have dinner tonight?”

“Oh, I guess as long as it is Mr. Watkins and Ms. Sharone.




HEY! and don't forget to e-mail Roy E. Proctor if you have a comment! He would really like to hear from you.





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