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Cuntlicking In Court!

Caught By My SON


Lady Devreux

Chapter One: Bad Brad

I am not always proud of the choices that I make- sometimes I do make mistakes that I later regret- but overall, it is my choices that have led me to the place where I now am in life.

My father was a successful small town attorney and politician, and his father before him was an old-style Democrat that sat in the state senate for nearly thirty years. Even though blue dogs are now as rare as ice in July, the same type of back room horse trading that existed when Truman was a senator still exists in the Show Me State. Missouri may now be as red as it used to be blue, at least when it comes to it’s electoral colors, but simply changing the name or party label of this state’s political machinery does not change how things run here. Democrat or Republican, independent or something else, if you hold office in this state, it is only halfway due to the fact that the voters selected you for the position. Those who get elected soon make friends in high places, whether they are from the ghetto of St. Louis or the dirt streets of the Ozark villages.

It isn’t just who you know, it is how you know them- and what they owe you.

This was the first thing that my grandfather told me, that really stuck in my head, when I was growing up. Although the old man passed away two years after I entered the school system, and I don’t remember much else about him directly, I do remember him telling me this bit of knowledge. That and the way that he was able to spit thick streams of brown tobacco juice through gap in his front teeth- of course, he could have had them fixed, but that would have taken away from the folksy, backwoods image that earned him the trust of the voters.

Image is as important as reality.

This was a bit of advice from my father. Unlike my paw paw, he had went to college- voters now seemed to expect that from their elected leaders- and in private, he spoke with the cold knowledge and wisdom that comes from an education. My father had not wanted me to follow into his footsteps- he had wanted a son- but ovarian cancer had quickly derailed his plans for a male heir. I am an only child, and so by default, the mantle of law and politics had fallen on my shoulders. My mother survived, even if she was unable to produce the child that my father really wanted, and divorce was not an option for those who wished to be retain their political position.

There are essentially two groups of voters that will get you elected to any political position in this state- conservatives and liberals. The liberals control the big cities of Kansas City and St. Louis, and the minority of liberal White politicians who seek to curry favor (and votes) have to portray themselves as a friend of the Blacks. The old method of simply promising to vaguely improve conditions in these two shells of formerly industrial cities is no longer enough- a White liberal politician has to be active in attacking the traditional conservative mentality of Missouri’s White public. If a White liberal is not on the front lines of every single demonstration against racial injustice, both real and simply perceived, then they will soon be replaced by a Black politician.

If you don’t reside in one of those cities, the only way you are going to get anywhere, is that you have to be conservative. No matter how egregious your actual personal behavior is, you have to at least appear to your constituents as a Bible carrying member of the NRA who hates the slightest tax increases. Trumpism has only exaggerated this- now in addition to the traditional mantra of being against big government, thinly veiled racism is also a necessity. You can’t come right and say that you are a racist, of course, so you use code words like “English only” and “urban renewal” as a rallying cry when you are running for office. This state has a legacy of segregation, as all states in the South due, but the current leader has brought back racism in a way that would have made Faubus and Wallace proud.

As a woman, especially as a Republican woman, I am put into an even more tenuous position. I have to appear to be both as tough as a man- or tougher- without appearing to be less feminine. I have to put on make up and a designer evening gown for the various events that being an elected official requires, but I can’t spend too much money on either. Women vote too, and while they are harsher than men when it comes to judging other women based on appearance, the trick is to appear pretty without being too pretty. Women will support a woman that they think is attractive, but they will no more support a beauty queen than they will a plain Jane. They want to support someone that they can see themselves as, not someone that they consider unappealing, or unapproachable. I am fifty two, and while I have managed to remain attractive (with my naturally long, auburn colored hair and hazel eyes), I have refused to do something like get Botox treatments or other surgeries- I am still good looking, though it is clear that I am not a coed anymore, and the physical image I present is one of natural wholesomeness.

I have to support the president, and ignore the fact that he is basically a lecher who can’t control his own sex drive. I have to be a good mother, but I also have to show that I am willing to plug Bambi with a bullet, as quickly as I am willing to adamantly attack a proposed cigarette tax increase. I have to make a display of holding a firm belief in the Christian religion, and win the votes of those who go to church every Sunday, even if in most of those churches I would be expected to sit in the back and keep quiet due to the fact that I am a female.

Despite the difficulty of holding so many hats at the same time, I have managed to do so. I have now been an elected district attorney for the last decade, and at fifty two, I am deciding what the future holds for me. The traditional path, of course, calls for becoming a judge- but I want more than that. I would like to at least win back the seat that my grandfather used to hold, something that my father never did accomplish. Yes, I am tough on crime, with a nearly perfect conviction rate (something that appeals to the public), but I am still trying to prove to myself that I am worthy of my father’s heritage (even though he has been dead now for two years).

My husband, who I married right out of law school, is a businessman. If the position of being an elected Republican woman is difficult enough, Jim does not have it any easier as my husband. He has to accompany me to every single event, and he has to support me, but he can’t appear to be the weak second half. Men don’t like a woman who is too strong, and a woman with a husband that appears to be a non-entity- such as in the family from Alaska- is not going to engender male support. Jim has not only handled the uncomfortable duties of his role, he has actively supported me in all of my ambitions- while building up a decent sized dealership in the mean time. When people hint as his own potential involvement in the political arena, he simply smiles and says that he is more interested in selling cars.

I have three children- two girls, the oldest is now twenty eight, and the second one is twenty six- both of whom are married to good men. Neither one of my daughters has ever shown any interest in following in the footsteps of my family, or that of their father’s business oriented clan. They seem to be content with being mothers and wives, and that is perfectly fine. I don’t expect them to follow the path I have chosen, which I most likely would not have done if my parents had given birth to a brother of mine. It is a difficult path for a woman to tread, even if this is the twenty-first century.

My youngest- my only son, Brad- thus should be the heir presumptive. He should be the one to both take over the car lot when the time comes (and become the fourth in that line), and he also, if he wanted, could easily use my network to launch any political bids in the future. I know that with my connections, his father’s business contacts, and the pedigree he has, my son could easily go all the way to the governor’s mansion if he ever wanted. Of course, in order to do so, he has to pay his dues like we all did. His dad worked in the dealership for less than minimum wage for years before even becoming a salesman, and I had to wait tables while attending law school.

Nobody likes the rich kid who had everything handed to them- just look at Jeb.

We don’t spoil our children, and never have- both for the possible public fall out, and for the simple fact that giving them everything they want would ruin them as people. Yes, we are not going to expect Brad to get anything less than his sisters have from us- if he wanted, we would pay for him to go to any college that he chose. A good education is essential to a good future, and even someone who comes into money from their parents will quickly waste it without an idea of how to handle it.

Brad not only has no interest in either the car business, law, or politics- he seemingly has no interest in anything that doesn’t involve fights.

My son likes to fight, and always has.

It began as early as when he started school. Despite my own pull and influence, after his seventeenth fistfight, I had no choice but to accept the fact that the best private school was no longer willing to accept him as a student. The switch to a parochial school likewise did not solve anything. He threw a Bible at a teacher, and was asked to leave and never come back. Fortunately for me, as I was running the first time for a position, the principal did not disclose my son’s attitude with the public. A small donation, of course, to the new library was the appropriate thank you.

My husband and I tried everything we could think of- taking away his privileges, making him do “punishment work” (such as detailing cars at the dealership), and even corporal punishment. Nothing worked at that age, and as he grew older, it only seemed to get worse.

It isn’t that my son is psychotic, or anything like that- he isn’t some kid that is going to explode one day for no reason, and he isn’t a bully that takes out his aggression on those weaker than him. No, it is that the only way he seems to know how to handle insults is with his fists. By the time he had worn out his welcome at all of the private schools around us, and he went to public school, my son was already known as the type of guy that you didn’t want to get angry. Calm, he was fine, but once he did lose his temper, it was lost- and once he didn’t like you, there was no going back.

I don’t know where he got this trait from- his father is as calm as I am, a necessity for anyone whose career depends on dealing with the public- but Brad has it.

When my son went to public school, at first, he seemed happier than he was around the smaller world of private school. Of course, as we were soon to find out, this was because he had made some new friends.

Now, I am not judge mental- there are all types of people in this world- but different groups have different values. Even though the closest my son came to poverty was when we drive down to Branson for our annual family vacation, my son seemed to adopt the ways of the “street”. Where we live is a wealthier area, and the minority students who live in ou area are not likely to be from the “hood” either- but Brad fell into a group of mostly Black kids that rejected the values their own parents worked so hard to bring them. Whether he and his new friends were able to walk at night in Ferguson was beside the point- they were considered the “bad” kids in the high school, and they exaggerated this by listening to loud rap music, sagging their pants, and generally getting into trouble.

Chapter Two: Colleague's Courtesy

You have a call from an inmate at the Lewis County jail,” the cheery recorded voice said into my ear, “Do you want to accept the charges?”

Yes,” I said, rolling my eyes.

Great, this is just what I needed today.

I was in the office this Saturday afternoon, wrapping up the details of a plea bargain I was going to offer to a career thief who had been caught breaking into vehicles in the Wal Mart parking lot. He had been in and out of jail since he was twenty, and at fifty, I felt that it was time he cool his heels in the penitentiary for five years. Apparently six months here and there was not enough to break him of his habit of stealing- maybe eighteen months in prison, or more, would do the trick. Some people would bitch about it, of course- he had never actually hurt anyone, despite his long record- but it was time to put the foot of the state down on his neck.

And besides, there was an election coming up next year- and old man Corrigan was retiring.

Dr. Corrigan, a septuagenarian veterinarian who had been in the state assembly for two decades, was finally retiring. He was a never Trumper, and despite the fact the president would never set foot in our small corner of the political world, the coat tails of the president (and his worshipers) were enough to threaten the career of anyone who did not slavishly worship His Orangeness. Personally, I saw Trumpism as long lived a movement as the tea party- in two or six years, it would end as soon as he left the White House- but in the mean time, I knew that it was a force to be dealt with. I publicly supported the president when asked, but I did so from arm’s length.

Enough to use his supporters to get me into office, but not enough to lose office when the mainstream reaction in the party came.

The old trick of Republican politics- you have to be extreme enough, but not so extreme that you lose the election in a safe district.

Hi,” Brad said, “I, um, am in Lewis County. They want $2500 for bail.”

Twenty five hundred- what the hell was my son being charged with?

Bail bondsmen normally ask for ten percent of the amount up front. So that meant that his bail was set at a whopping $25,000, which was a standard amount for someone who was being charged with a felony. My son may like getting into fights, but the three prior times he had been arrested, the most his bail had been was $500.

So what are you charged with, Brad?” I said icily.

Never admit guilt on the phone- everything you say on a jail phone is recorded, and even though it was illegal, the state would use these conversations as evidence.

Two counts of simple assault,” Brad answered me.

Simple assault is a misdemeanor- this still seemed like an excessive amount for his bond!

That seems a little bit much, Brad,” I said- I knew that my son was lying to me, “If you want me to help you, then you need to be honest with me.”

Well, um, I also have an attempted bribery charge,” Brad said, “Honest, I didn’t try and pay off the cop- but-”

Don’t say anymore,” I said- no matter how angry I was, I was not going to forget the fact that Brad is my son, “I will be there in an hour and a half. Get off the phone, and keep your mouth shut, understand?”

Yes, mom,” Brad said, his tone surprisingly obedient- of course, this was because he was in trouble, and he needed my help.

A friend in need is a friend indeed- and when Brad is in need, well.

One more question,” I asked, “Who is the district attorney in the case?”

The district attorney?” Brad asked, seemingly confused.

Yes,” I said, “When they charged you, there was supposed to be a DA present- do you recall their name?”

Um, some Black lady,” Brad said, “Mahala Brown.”

Okay,” I said- I heard the click of the recording equipment in the background, “Now, get off the phone. I will be there in a couple of hours. In the mean time, don’t run your mouth to anyone- not even your homeboys!”

The single reason that most people end up getting caught is because of their co-defendants, or other family and friends. If criminals simply did their deeds alone, and never told anyone, half of the people that were in prison would not be there.

My son hung up the phone, and I thought about what I should do about this situation.

This was not the first time my son had been arrested, but it was the first time he had been arrested outside of our county.

Before he was eighteen, things could be handled a lot more simply. An appearance in family court, some community service or probation- with my assistance, the prosecutor who handled juvenile cases had always taken it easy on Brad. He was not some random hillbilly or ghetto kid that had wandered in to town, after all- he was my son- and it wasn’t like he had ever been charged with anything particularly serious.

His last arrest had netted him a week in jail- he was now an adult, and there had to be something more in the way of consequences. I was in favor of this. Maybe being around real criminals for a few days would convince Brad that this was not the future he wanted for himself. I had expected him to get out of jail and at least pretend to get his act together. Instead, he had been released with a new tattoo, and a freshly chipped tooth. On the ride home, he had told me how he had beat the hell out of a state inmate who was back in county on a bench warrant.

And now he is outside of my immediate reach.

I couldn’t just talk to Fred or Jack, the other two prosecutors in the county, and pull a favor- I was going to have to contact this Ms. Brown, someone who I knew nothing about.

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