“Damaging Public Property, Defacing a Monument—”
I chuckle at that, and the judge’s horned head snaps back to me, his eyes alight with promises of retribution if I ignore his command to be quiet again.
I got you right where I want you, bull boy, and I haven’t even had to drop any T-bombs yet.
The prosecutor looks back at the file in his hands. “And lastly, Fraud.”
Judge O’Vine gives a terse nod and then looks back to me. He takes me in more thoroughly, and his eyes fill with confused interest. He turns to the prosecutor. “Did the jail get new uniforms?” he asks while studying my bright purple scrub outfit.
Wow, talk about unobservant. I’ve been standing here for almost four minutes and he’s just now noticing my sweet threads?
“Not that I know of,” the prosecutor answers.
The chains clink as I raise my hand and wait to be called on. The judge eyes me for a beat before dropping his chin. I take that as a sign to go ahead and explain. “I’m a cockatrice, right? I’m sure you know how much my species loves color. But check this, it turns out that I have this super awesome ability to change the color of things that have extended contact with my body,” I tell him, running my chained hands down my bright purple uniform.
He just looks at me.
“I can do clothes, shoes, underwear, my hair and my feathers, my nails...pretty much anything if it touches me for long enough. I once made out with a boy in eleventh grade for so long that I turned his skin green, which was awesome because it’s, like, one of my favorite colors.”
I lift my hand and put it to the side of my mouth like I’m about to tell the judge a secret. “Downside, though? He wasn’t a great kisser. I kept thinking if I kiss him the way I wanted to be kissed, he’d catch on, hence the long make out session, but he didn’t get the hint. He kept doing this fish out of water thing with his tongue, and that just doesn’t work for kissing. Well, not unless he’s kissing someone’s cli—”
“Enough!” Judge O’Vine shouts, cutting me off. He shoots me a disapproving look and then shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it of something.
I try not to roll my eyes. What a prude. He’s probably a flaily tongue kisser too.
I look down at myself while the judge takes a second to collect his thoughts. I like my purple jail scrubs. I picked the color just for today. It compliments my shamrock green eyes and the pink undertones in my otherwise peachy-bisque pallor. My citrus hair is luscious, layered, and on-point, while my long lashes and nails are black, because in my opinion, that’s always the best color combo for lashes and nails. It adds just the right amount of drama and badass to really get you through anything. Color is very important. Get the wrong combo, and it can totally ruin your day.
A throat clears somewhere in the room, and I pull my thoughts away from my outfit and colors.
“What do you have to say for yourself in regards to your crimes?” Judge O’Vine asks me, like some disappointed father who expected more from me.
If he only knew who my mother was and what she and my father were all about, he’d know I’m too far gone to be affected by that attempt.
The lawyer looks at me from the corner of his eye as I open my mouth to answer. “In my defense, Your Honor, the ice cream truck was left unsupervised, and it was hot. I was just helping out by driving it to the park. I would’ve been happy to pay for the ice cream I gave away, but no one gave me a chance,” I explain. “Next thing I knew, the police were tearing into the parking lot, and it’s only natural to want to get away from that. If anything, it’s their fault that I evaded. They spurred my fight or flight response.”
“Is that so?” the judge drawls.
“Yes. And I object to the Reckless Driving charge. The ice cream truck couldn’t even go over forty. The cops are the ones who ran me into the side of the bridge. So if anyone should be charged with damaging things, it should be them.”
My lawyer sighs and rubs his fingers over his brow as his hairline begins to get a bit dewy with sweat.
“It’s true,” I insist. “After that, jumping off the side of the bridge was the only way to get out of the wrecked truck. I didn’t know there was a sign posted saying not to jump off the bridge. And if I hadn’t stripped out of my wet clothes, I probably would have caught pneumonia.”
Honestly, all of this should be self-explanatory.
“Sidenote, telling a woman that her naked body is indecent is rude,” I add, holding up a finger at the prosecutor. “And I kissed the cop, I didn’t assault him. He’s the one who slipped me the tongue. If he hadn’t distracted me with that move, I would’ve remembered the glitter bomb and warned him,” I explain, sure to insert a shit ton of irritation in my tone and exasperation in my features. From everything I researched, a sure fire way to piss off a judge is to defend bad behavior and blame other people for your actions.
Of course, I had bigger plans put in motion for how to get imprisoned, but when my matriarch announced that my mating had been moved up by several months, desperate times called for desperate measures. The ice cream truck really was just sitting there like a fucking gift from the ether. It was just asking to be put to good use, and I’m an opportunist.
The bullish judge stares at me like he’s waiting for me to say more. Hmm, how to end this...
“Oh yeah, and you’re a shit-for-balls, ass hat wearing prude, who probably can’t kiss for shit!” I say.
My lawyer winces.
“Fuck all the fucks, and cover them in cunt gravy. Cash me outside, cuz I ain’t even sorry. Go blow your horn, you overgrown useless minotaur. How do you like them apples?” I spout off evenly, like I’m reading from the dictionary instead of trying to piss off the judge and extend my sentence as much as I can by being as foul and offensive as possible.
Judge O’Vine just shakes his head instead of becoming the level of irate I was hoping for.
Well, that’s disappointing.
“Sinclair Denali, it’s clear to me that you have some serious emotional and mental issues that need attention. I hereby sentence you to one year in Nightmare Penitentiary, followed by two years of probation where you will get the mental health support you are in desperate need of.”
I stare at the minotaur motherfucker, completely shocked. One year? How the fuck am I only getting one year? Did he not hear the list of shit I did? I literally set off a glitter bomb in a human police officer’s face before tackling his mouth with my tongue. And that was after I stole a damn ice cream truck and threw all the merchandise out of the window at unsuspecting children while blaring “Chain Hang Low” by Jibbs over the speakers.
I need more time than that, dammit! I fucking earned it fair and square!
Fear flashes through me, and I feel my lungs caving in, like they want me to hyperventilate. I can’t be imprisoned for only a year; I need at least a solid five. I need long enough to get away, to be forgotten, and to become useless to the fucked up plans everyone has for me.
One year only manages to put a tiny little kink in other people’s bullshit, and the probation afterward will make it hard as fuck to run. They tag shifters on parole, and the chip is a major pain in the ass to get removed. I’m not even sure if I have the contacts to get something like that done before my matriarch and Alpha Bowen would swoop in and forever ruin my life.