He drove south toward his office. I distracted myself by counting traffic signals, praying one of them would turn yellow or red so I could jump out. It was green lights all the way.
When he passed his office, I became dazed and confused. Hold it together, I said to myself. If he was taking me to the woods on his lake property for a beating where no one could hear me scream, I was sure I could outrun him.
Just then he turned into the driveway of a two-story red-brick building and pulled into the parking lot. He turned off the engine. “Get out,” he said with a voice of steel, “I’ll show you what real power is.”
I opened the car door and stepped into the parking lot. I heard his heavy foot hit the pavement. He pulled himself out of the car and slammed the door. “Let’s go,” he ordered.
I followed him into the building.
“Morning, Mr. St. Claire,” beamed a woman as she passed us in the hallway.
“How are you doing, Jason?” said another man who stopped to shake my father’s hand. “Impressive cross last week. I’d hate to have been in that chair.”
A pretty young brunette carrying an armload of file folders inserted herself. “Morning, Mr. St. Claire. Judge Coffee will see you at two. We’ll be expecting you,” she said, winking as she walked away.
“Great to see you, Jason,” said one of the City Councilmen who’d been at our house late one night in some frenzied state. “Is this young Violet?”
“Hello,” I said.
“Helping your dad today?” he asked.
“Actually I’m helping her,” my father said. “She’s working on a political science project for school about social justice. I thought I’d bring her down and show her how things work at the courthouse.”
“Excellent idea!” the councilman said. “You’re certainly a fortunate young lady to have a father so invested in your future. See you this afternoon, Jason,” he said as he walked away.
The elevator opened, and we stepped inside the steel cage alone. My father pushed a button with the letter B on it, and we descended into the basement.
“This way,” said my father in his Navel Commander’s voice. We stepped from the elevator into a long dingy hallway. The stench of industrial cleaners was so strong I almost gagged. At the end of the hall we entered a room with a high counter and glass participation to the ceiling; behind it stood a police officer.
“Morning, Mr. St. Claire, we’re all ready. Is this your daughter?” the police officer behind the glass asked.
“It is,” said my father. “Violet, say hello to Officer Bateman. He’s in charge of processing juvenile delinquents for holding until their hearing.”
“Hello,” I said, my voice quivering just a tad.
“Hello, young Lady, nothing to be afraid of. We’re just going to take you through the process and let you experience detention. There’s nothing like firsthand experience. By the time this day is over, I’m sure you’ll get an A on that paper.”
“Paper?” I asked.
“Your dad tells me you’re writing a paper for your political science class. I got that right Mr. St. Claire?”
“Excellent memory, Officer Bateman,” my father said, sporting a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile.
“We’ll check in on you every hour to make sure you’re ok,” the officer said.
“That won’t be necessary,” said my father. “Violet’s asked for as authentic an experience as possible.”
“Right, Sir. The tank’s empty right now, so I guess she won’t really be in any danger. Now, Violet, the first thing we need to do is take your picture and get your fingerprints.”
Turning to my father he asked, “What shall we charge her with?”
“Why don’t we say assault with a deadly weapon,” my father responded.
“Assault it is,” said Officer Bateman.
And just like that, my father ensured I had a violent juvenile record.