Ace Jones: Mad Fat Adventures in Therapy by Stephanie McAfee

1
    â€œAll rise!”
    I stand up, knees shaking and nerves shot to hell. The Honorable Benjamin Wren comes in and takes his place behind the giant wooden desk or podium or bench or whatever it’s called. Without looking up, he instructs us all to be seated. I sit down on top of my purse and, in trying to discreetly pull it out from under my rump, I drop my file folder and watch in horror as my Very Important and Embarrassing Papers fan out on the floor. The Honorable Benjamin Wren calls someone’s name. Thank God it’s not mine. I scramble to get the papers back together. Arrest report, statement of probable cause, court-appointment information sheet. Judge Wren calls another name and then another. Everyone who’s been called so far has an attorney.
Great
.
    I glance at the jury box where three men are seated. They’re all wearing orange. One has his hands cuffed behind him and a fancy array of neck tattoos.
Wonderful
.
    â€œGraciela Jones,” the judge says. When I stand up, I feel like I might pass out. Heart thumping and cheeks burning, I put one foot in front of the other until I’m standing at the double-wide podium where I saw everyone before me go.
    â€œDo you have counsel, Ms. Jones?”
    â€œNo, sir.” My mind spins visions of the worst, horrid thoughts of what my life will be like behind bars. I can’t stop thinking about
The
Shawshank Redemption
. Ninety days. That’s what one of my Very Important and Embarrassing Papers indicated was the maximum penalty should I be found guilty of my alleged crimes against civilization.
    â€œYou’re representing yourself?” The Honorable Benjamin Wren raises an eyebrow at me. Someone could weave an afghan rug with the hair above his eyeballs.
    â€œI guess I am, your honor.” I knew better than to punch that lady in face. I knew better than that. Walmart has video cameras everywhere, which means there’s no way I’m getting out of this. I’m going to jail. I’ll have to join one of those gangs for protection.
    â€œYou
guess
you are representing yourself?” His tone is not friendly. I nod. I’m going to jail. I know I am. “Hmmph,” he says. I hear sniggering and glance over to see the fellows in orange laughing at me. At
me!
They have B UGTUSSLE C OUNTY DOC stamped across their shirts, but they are laughing at me. I catch the eye of the fellow with the neck tattoos and give him my dirtiest dirty look. He winks at me and I want to vomit. I look back at the judge, who is shuffling papers. He scans the courtroom, no doubt looking for my accuser. I want to turn around and scan the crowd, but I’m afraid to move. I didn’t see her before court was called into session. I got here an hour early this morning hoping that when she showed up, I could hide behind something, get her attention, and then smack my fist against the palm of my hand and point to her. That was my only plan today. Run the bitch off. That was it. Well, that and picking up a forty ounce bottle of cheap beer on the way over. I wanted a Corona, but a girl scraping change from the glove box, cup holder, and ashtray has only so many options.
    â€œPatricia Desmond,” the judge says. He’s looking around. The bailiff is looking around. The court reporter is looking around. Even the guys in the jury box are craning their necks.
Assholes
.
    I should’ve just followed Patricia Desmond to her house and socked her in the nose there, but from the looks of her, she probably has a meth lab in her garage that’s guarded by rabid pit bulls who would’ve surely eaten me alive. Maybe it’s better that I punched her at Walmart, where it’s safe. I got a round of applause when security escorted me out of the store, and some other folks booed the police who arrested me just before I got to my car, which told me that my fellow shoppers were as tired of listening to that old hag run her mouth as I was. You