I couldn’t believe it, on the second day, when they put me in that tiny room all by myself. A room with no windows and an ashtray. I looked at my watch. It was 8:20 a.m. I wanted to cry. Cry, because I was bored. Cry, for the poor kid whose file I had to read. Cry, because I didn’t want to sit in that room and read it, and cry, because I felt I should want to sit there and read it. Once I started reading it, I felt like if I met this kid, he wouldn’t have cared whether I wanted to read his file or not. That made me feel better.

He was a juvenile delinquent – there was no doubting that. His name was Ricky D. (Juvenile cases aren’t allowed to use the whole last name - I learned that when I almost got in trouble for using the file number on my time sheet.) Some of his crimes were awfully funny, though.

He and his dad were arrested for burglary. They robbed a pet store. The cops caught them outside with all these tropical fish in plastic baggies. Really. I wondered if they looked for money first. I really hope they looked for money first. What were they going to do with those fish?

My favorite crime was the one where he and his friend burglarized some neighbor lady’s house and one of the things they stole was a tray of cupcakes for a birthday party. The "M" (minor) and his friend ate the cupcakes as they made their getaway, leaving a trail of cupcake papers like some juvenile delinquent Hansel and Gretel. When the lady came home, she just followed the trail across her lawn and down the street. They led right to the house of one of the kids. She found the rest of her cupcakes and her stereo and everything. Right there. I didn’t think the kids were stupid - I just figured they really didn’t give a damn whether or not they got caught. It made me laugh, though.

There were a few copies of these "description sheets" throughout the file. They had categories, like "appearance" and "demeanor" and "facial hair." In some, Ricky D. had "fuzz" for facial hair, and in others, he had a "fu manchu." I especially liked the way some sheets said his face was "round" and others said "long." I wondered which was right. There were even categories that said "acne" or "good-looking." I wondered who got to decide who was good-looking. I imagined two cops arguing over that one: "he’s cute – I’m checking that box!" "No way – I’m telling Sarge on you." I also thought it added insult to injury to arrest someone and then immortalize their acne.

The only other person I could see was the lawyer across the hall. He was in a tiny room like mine, but at least he was getting paid. I watched him get up and leave his office. I could hear his shoes squeak. He came back carrying a little plant – holding it in front of him ceremoniously. He put it on his desk and squeaked away. A few seconds later, he came squeaking back with a styrofoam cup. For a moment, I was excited, thinking there was coffee somewhere, but then I realized he had a cup of water for the plant. I hate styrofoam, anyway. It squeaks (haha, I thought), and everything in it tastes like styrofoam.

I looked at my watch. It was 8:55 a.m. It was going to be a long day.