Entitled

It was 3 a.m. and Clair had been waiting in the processing room since midnight. A call home went directly to voice mail, all other attempts were thwarted when the booking sergeant confiscated her cell phone.

She should’t even be there. Shoplifting was such a plebeian offense. It was more a harmless prank than an actual crime. If only her Assistant DA father had picked up, he could’ve gotten the charges dismissed like all the others, and she’d be back at the club instead of stuck in trailer trash hell.

In her designer clothes and carefully coiffed hair, Clair’s shoes probably cost more than the other detainees’ entire wardrobes combined. She sat as far away from the crowd as possible.

Her case finally called, Clair appeared before an obviously exasperated night court judge. Reading the police report of her misdemeanor, the judge pushed his glasses up, rubbing his eyes before addressing her.

“Young lady I am distressed over your lack of contrition and acceptance of responsibility,” his fingers steepled, his elbows resting on the case report. Looking down from the bench, “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Seriously?” Clair struck a pose. “It’s not like I murdered anyone. It was a lame scarf, I would never actually wear it. Ewww… It was all just a goof.”

Throwing his hands up in defeat, the judge leaned back in his chair. “If I could, I’d give you jail time, all I can do is order community service. One hundred hours at the Jefferson Street Homeless Center. And, you will pay full restitution to the victim.”

“Are you joking me?! Me? In such a vulgar place, with all those disgusting people? Do you even know who I am?” Her voice rising several octaves, hands on her hips, Clair tried to project an air of entitlement.

“I know exactly who you are, I simply do not care. Next case!” Bringing his gavel down, the judge dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

Trifecta, a weekly one-word prompt, challenges writers to use that word in its third definition form, using no less than 33 words or no more than 333. The week’s prompt is: Vulgar [adj. \ˈvəl-gər\] 3: a: of or relating to the common people : plebeian; b: generally current : public; c: of the usual, typical, or ordinary kind