Bad Company

"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.'"

Mr. Andrew Brentwood, his eyes cold, his cheeks warm with embarrassment and anger, spoke up. "It wasn't a doggie biscuit, your Honor. It was a biscotti!"

Judge Mason gave him a stern glance. "Don't interrupt, sir." He then returned to Tyler. "Go on."

"Did I mention that Mrs. Brentwood was completely naked? Anyway, each time she lunged for the biscuit, Mr. Brentwood would pull it away and say, 'Oh, bad dog!' And then smack her on her bottom with this long wooden paddle he was holding."

The judge shook his head but said nothing. Tyler continued his narrative. "I was kinda fun to watch. I mean, Mr. Brentwood made his wife roll over, he rubbed her belly, and then led her for a walk around the bedroom, of course paddling her whenever she lagged behind."

"He led her?"

"Yes sir. Mrs. Brentwood was wearing a patent leather collar with a leash attached." Tyler paused, then added, "After that, Mr. Brentwood patted her on the head and said, 'Good dog! Now fetch, girl! Go fetch!'"

"And what exactly did she fetch?"

"Well, she unzipped Mr. Brentwood's pants, and then ... "

"That's enough, young man!" exclaimed the judge. Turning to the plaintiffs, he spoke again. "What have you to say about this?"

Mr. Brentwood glowered at Tyler, giving him a look that had been known to reduce his servants to a quivering mass of jello. "Even if it happened, your Honor, this little creep had no right to spy on us. You see, I put in long hours as CEO of Brentwood Enterprises, a world-wide conglomerate. And Patricia, as you know, is president of the New York Kennel Club. Don't we deserve a little time to, well ... relax and unwind?"

"You do have a point, sir," replied the judge. Looking again at Tyler, he said, "Merely watching your host and hostess having a, shall we say, evening romp is no excuse for your scandalous behavior, young man. Now, do you have any more to add?"

Glancing around, Tyler said, "There was also the incident of the kitty cat."

"Cat, did you say?"

"Yes sir. Grandmother Cabot has a young Himalayan cat. Its name is Puss 'n Boots."

"And the incident?"

"One night I was translating some Latin in the main study, and Grandmother Cabot came to join me. She had the cat with her, which she likes to call Little Puss. She was sitting next to me on the sofa, grooming the cat, and kept saying to it, 'Oh, you're a sweet little puss; yes you are.' After a while she looked at me and said, 'Tyler, would you like to pet my sweet little puss?'"

"Meaning the cat."

"That's what I thought, your Honor. But when she hiked up her skirt and slid her panties down around her ankles, I wasn't so sure any more. And then she ... "

"Wait!" cried Judge Mason. "I think I see where this is going." He paused, took a deep breath, and went on, "Tyler, please tell me that's all you have to say in your defense. What more could there be?"

"The chiffon peignoir."

With a shudder, Judge Mason removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, glancing once or twice past the fine oak and mahogany décor of the Westchester County Courthouse. Beyond the windows lay the town Commons, lush and peaceful. Finally turning to the group assembled before him, he said, "I know I'll regret it, but duty compels me to inquire. Go on, young man."

"Jennifer's brother Scott, who plays linebacker at Harvard, tried to make me wear a pink chiffon peignoir. It was imitation silk, with lace trim."

"Why on earth would he do that?"

"To match the one he was wearing."

"I knew it," sighed the judge. "So, did you?"

"I tried it on, and it wasn't so bad. They said I looked cute in it. But I was worried that it wouldn't end there."

"What do you mean?"

The lad shrugged. "Well, Scott believes in the old traditions, like dressing for dinner. He'd come to the table wearing the peignoir and makeup; even eye shadow and lipstick that I thought was really too dark for his complexion. His wig was all spikey, auburn in color, which looked okay, and so did the lace thong panties. But I was afraid he'd want me to dress like that too, but then get jealous if I looked prettier than him. You know how some people are."

The judge turned to Scott Brentwood, the epitome of manly good looks with his muscular build, wavy hair, and tailor-made suit. "Sir," asked the judge, "is this true?"

"No, of course not!" replied the young man with some heat. "I'd never wear imitation silk. It was pure Thai silk, your Honor."

Judge Mason placed one hand on his throbbing temple and was quiet for a moment; then, he spoke. "So, Tyler, what are you saying? That you were led to misbehave because of all the .. shenanigans going on in the Brentwood household?"

"Yes, your Honor. Partly that, but also because I was upset at how they mistreated poor Jennifer." He glanced at the young woman. She was as dewy-eyed, as innocent in appearance as Tyler. The girl was also quite lovely, with raven hair and green eyes, the pink glow of youth still on her cheeks.

"And how did they mistreat her?"

"Why, they'd spank her for the least little thing. Pouring soup over her father's head, or running around in her underwear when the Ladies Auxiliary came for tea. I mean, sure, she's like any college girl, high spirited and full of fun. But my gosh, everyone spanked her. Her parents, Grandmother Cabot, even Wilson the butler."

Shaking his head, the young man went on, "Seemed like every room in that house had a place where they kept a ping-pong paddle, or leather strap, or even canes. Hardly a night went by when Jennifer wasn't bent over someone's knee, getting a good hard paddling."

The young man smiled at the memory. "But they never broke her spirit, your Honor. It was almost like the more they spanked her, the more mischievous and bratty she became." Turning and giving the brave girl a smile, he went on, "And I'll say this for her. Jennifer never hesitated to take her punishment. Whenever Mr. or Mrs. Brentwood brought out a paddle, she'd pull up her skirt and bend over their knees faster than you can say 'naughty girl!'"

There was silence now in the courtroom. Judge Mason said nothing, drumming his fingers on the bench. Finally Tyler spoke again. "So, your Honor, on the night in question, there was Scott in his peignoir, and Mr. Brentwood looking for the doggie leash, and Mrs. Brentwood spanking her daughter with a leather strap, and Jennifer saying, Oh, oh, oohh yess. Well, a guy can only take so much."

"The thing is, Mrs. Moore told me I should try to fit in with the host family. To let them set an example of how a young man should behave. So that's why I surprised Grandmother Cabot in her shower. And when she chased me down the stairs with only a towel around her waist, I grabbed Mr. Brentwood's keys off the foyer table and took off in his Porsche. You see, I wanted to show them I could act like a Brentwood too."

A dour look came to the judge's face. "Yes, Tyler, I do see. However, the court rejects your plea of not guilty by reason of temporary insanity. I find for the plaintiffs, the Brentwoods. Tyler Hinton, you are hereby sentenced to ten days in jail, as well as court costs and the cost of repairing the Porsche."

The young man slumped in dismay as Mr. and Mrs. Brentwood exchanged smiles. "He's being punished?" cried Jennifer. "Well, I should be punished too!"

"Not now!" her mother hissed. "Wait until we get home!" Tyler made one last appeal. "Your Honor, it isn't fair. I'm really not this way. I just fell into bad company, that's all. The wrong crowd. It was them," he said, gesturing to the Brentwoods. "Can't you see that? I don't understand."

Judge Mason motioned for Tyler to approach the bench, which he did. Gazing deep into his eyes, the judge spoke words of wisdom in a low voice.

"Son, let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me."