"Yes sir, I realize I made mistakes. Going for a midnight ride in Mr. Brentwood's Porsche and rolling it over into that field of cabbages, that was clearly a lapse in judgment. And earlier that evening, when I opened the shower door as Grandmother Cabot was taking a shower and smacked her on the ass .."
"Watch your language, young man."
"Yes, your Honor. And then squeezed her .. bosom, well, yes, I was totally out of line there. I see that now."
Judge Mason's wrinkled face was the color of aged beef. Having heard the defendant's statement, he turned to the family that had filed criminal charges: Mr. and Mrs. Brentwood, their daughter Jennifer and son Scott, and Mrs. Brentwood's mother, known to all as Grandmother Cabot. Both the Brentwoods and the young defendant, Tyler Hinton, had agreed to a hearing in which the judge's verdict would be final. "Mrs. Brentwood," said the judge, "as one of the plaintiffs, do you have anything to say?"
Patricia Brentwood glared at Tyler with piercing gray eyes. Now in her late forties, she was a picture of elegance and sophistication, with perfectly coiffed honey blonde hair and a dark Giorgio Armani dress suit. She was the sort of lady you see coming out of Bergdorf Goodman on 5th Avenue, with a retinue of servants carrying her purchases.
"That boy is a menace to society!" she said in an authoritative voice. "He belongs in jail!"
"For domestic mischief, plain and simple!" added Grandmother Cabot. The older lady, her hair turned silver, had that air of grace and dignity that one sees in fine old New England families. "And willful destruction of property!" chimed in Mr. Brentwood. His Italian hand-sewn suit, like the apparel and jewelry that adorned the rest of his family, was the ultimate in style and luxury; appropriate for people of wealth and privilege well beyond what most of us can imagine.
The judge then turned to a middle aged lady wearing great black horn-rimmed glasses. Her ensemble was far less expensive, likely off the rack at J C Penny. "Mrs. Moore, you're in charge of Walton Student Exchange Program. The Brentwood family agreed to accept this young man into their home while he attends Mercy College here. Now tell me, how could you admit someone into your program who behaves so outrageously?"
"We're at a loss, your Honor," the woman replied, shaking her head. "Tyler Hinton has always been an exemplary student. I just don't understand it. He's never before been a disciplinary problem; never less than a quiet, well-behaved young man."
Judge Mason looked down and shuffled the documents on his bench. "That does seem to be the case. The lad comes from an low income family, his mother a bricklayer and his father a pastry cook. Except for this one misdemeanor charge against his older brother, performing cunnilingus in a public place, all in the family have been model citizens."
He looked again at Tyler Hinton, who was wearing a dark suit and red paisley tie. The young man's eyes were deep blue, his wheat-colored hair well trimmed except for a cowlick that stuck up in the back. His was a pure, innocent face, with light freckles thrown in for good measure. More than once he had been compared to Tom Sawyer, with Sawyer coming out the worse for it.
The judge spoke. "Tyler, your disgraceful conduct occurred while you were living here in Scarsdale with the Brentwoods. As we all know, they are one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most respected families in all New York. Now, what could have caused you to act as you did while in such a wholesome family environment?"
The lad took a deep breath, glancing at the Brentwood clan. "Well, I suppose it began with the incident of the doggie biscuit."
"Explain," ordered the judge.
"It happened about a week after I moved into the Brentwood estate. I'd just come back from a meeting of the Future Leaders of America; it was about eleven at night. I heard an odd sound coming from the Brentwoods' master suite, so I went to investigate."
"And what was this sound?"
"It was Mrs. Brentwood. She was going, "arf .. arf .. arf."
"Arf, arf?"
"Yes, your Honor. Like a beagle. Well, maybe more like a golden retriever."
"Hmm. Go on."
"The door was slightly ajar, and I peeked in. She was on her hands and knees in front of Mr. Brentwood. He was holding a doggie biscuit in one hand and saying, 'Come on girl, you know you want it. But you've got to earn it; be a good doggie.'"
