I was not the first defendant at court. In fact, we had to wait almost an hour to go in. The judge, Judge Babcock, was a woman with short salt-and-pepper hair. She looked like she had last smiled on her first birthday. Her thin lips were so tightly pressed together as she read the report on me, it looked like she had a zipper where her mouth should have been. When she finally lifted her eyes and looked my way, I felt like she was burning two holes in my face.
“Your client is pleading guilty?” she asked our public defender, a very plain-looking, light-haired man named Carson Meriweather, whose suit hung on his body the way it would hang on a clothes rack. It was as if he was all head with a skeleton beneath.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Do you understand what this means, Miss Taylor?”
“I guess,” I said.
“You guess? Either you understa
nd that you are pleading guilty to shoplifting or you are not. This is not some game. Which is it?”
“Guilty,” I said before my throat closed.
“Unfortunately, too many young people have reached your age with a warped sense of right and wrong. There was a time when morality was taught in the home, but,” she said with a sigh, “it’s becoming more and more the responsibility of the court.”
She turned to Mother darling.
“Mrs. Taylor, how have you dealt with this situation in your own home?”
“I… we just moved here recently, Your Honor.”
“Yes? So?” she asked when Mother darling apparently thought that was some sort of an answer.
“I told her she wasn’t to leave the apartment complex. She was grounded.”
“I see. Did you take the time to explain to her how people are working to make a living, how the employees of this department store depend on the department store succeeding, and how robbing and stealing hurts everyone, that if we didn’t stop it, someone could rob her as well and we would have anarchy? Well?”
“I did, Your Honor. I’ve been asking her to behave herself for some time.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve even had her see a therapist back in Ohio when we lived there.”
“I see. And how long do you intend to remain in Nashville, Mrs. Taylor?”
“Oh, I’m here for good, Your Honor. I’m a singer and…”
“Then you had better be sure your daughter understands our laws and what we expect of our citizens,” she snapped.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Judge Babcock sat up and tapped her pen on the documents before her. It was a long, nerve-wracking pause. She really looked like she was debating whether or not to send me to the gallows.
“My best instincts tell me I shouldn’t do this. I should deal with you as severely as the law permits, but I am going to place you on two years’ probation and return you to the custody of your mother in the hope that this experience has made an indelible impression on you. Understand, so you won’t have to guess, that should you be brought in here for any other offense, I will not hesitate to send you directly to a juvenile detention center, unless,” she said, leaning over her desk, “your new crime is so heinous as to have you tried as an adult. In such a case, you would not be sent to a juvenile center. A juvenile center would be like a nursery school compared to where you would be sent. Am I making myself clear, Miss Taylor? You don’t look like you’re listening.”
“I’m listening,” I said, a little too petulantly. I knew that the moment I uttered the words, and then I held my breath.
She glared hard at me for a long moment before she turned to Mother darling.
“You have a serious parental responsibility here, Mrs. Taylor. I hope you are impressed with this fact and you will devote more time and energy to your daughter’s upbringing and behavior.”
Mother darling nodded. She looked like she was going to burst out in tears any moment. I wanted to poke her with my elbow and make sure she didn’t embarrass us both. She bit down on her lower lip and nodded again.
“Very well. The matter is resolved for now,” Judge Babcock said.
The public defender, who had done little more than instruct me to plead guilty and be polite to the judge, smiled at us and indicated we could leave.