Amelia Kennedy was about to throw the biggest tantrum of her life. She would make Joan Crawford envious with her Mommy Dearest performance. Every person on the plane would clap the moment the jet landed.
“Mrs. Kennedy, I can’t serve you anything else. It’s against the regulations of the airlines to serve intoxicated passengers alcohol,” said the attendant. She backed up a few steps waiting for the outburst from the female and wasn’t disappointed when it came.
Rising from her seat, Amelia stumbled to stand, but she wanted to make a point. Not a valid one, but the only version she knew how to be this drunk. She sat the almost empty glass down on the tray with a loud thud—the look on her face one of utter disgust.
“You fucking cheap whore. Are you fucking my husband too?” Amelia asked.
Her face stark white, the attendant astounded at the way spoken to by someone who claimed to be a celebrity. In the five years she had worked for the airlines, there had been a share of disobedient passengers. None like this one, though. She was drunk off her ass, and if they didn’t stop her, she would cause the plane to seek an early landing.
“Ma’am, time to take your seat before you find yourself in a position you don’t want to be in,” the attendant gave her final warning.
Women like Amelia don’t take well to threats. She knew better when she threw the first punch, but lucky for her, the man in front of her caught it and saved her an assault charge. Well, that would be the case if the man wasn’t an off duty air marshal. The next few hours and days to follow would be the worst she ever experienced.
The male stood, his height towering over Amelia. At 6 ft 6, he was a foot taller than she was and outweighed her by 100 pounds. “Lady, I don’t care if you’re Mother Teresa, sit down and shut the hell up before you arrive at LAX in handcuffs,” he said.
Mistake two was about to happen. The most repulsing act Amelia had ever done would now be spitting on a total stranger. Amelia worked saliva up in her mouth, the middle-aged blonde missed the mark and spot down the front of herself, but that was enough. Amelia stepped over the lines of being funny to being dangerous. Spencer would call this her “trailer trash” side. The one that lacked class and a good upbringing, but Amelia was not born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Her parents both blue-collar workers, they provided the best they could, but nothing like the Kennedy brats. Until meeting Spencer Kennedy, she had resigned herself to working till the day she died and living in poverty like those before her. The only one who got out was her sister Mary. She left home at 16 but suddenly died while taking her vows and becoming a Nun. The loss of her sister was something she would never get over.
“Lady, you’ve done it now,” said the Marshal. Though not hit, the intent was there. If not for her lack of aim, she would have spit all over him.
Amelia, still not satisfied with the shambles she was placing her life in, slapped him across the face with a loud thud. The entire first-class fell silent, knowing that this woman just opened a can of whoop-ass she couldn’t handle. “Son of a bitch. I am going to get my granddaughter, and you won’t stop me,” she screamed.
The cop clenched his jaw, shaking off the slap before reacting. Though not on duty, the law was still the same. You do not assault and officer of the law, or any other citizen and walk away without punishment. Amelia Kennedy was not now or ever would be above the law.
Three hours later, escorted from the plane in handcuffs and sitting in a wheelchair, Amelia screamed the entire way through LAX. TMZ and a multitude of reporters flash pictures and recorded the audio of what would be the talk of the social circles for months to come. Spencer would be alerted before the ink was dry on her fingers, but even as the wife of a supreme court judge, she would have to be booked into custody and sleep it off for a few hours. Being drunk was one thing, but hitting the Air Marshall was even out of his hands.
“What the fuck are you all looking at? Fucking assholes are always looking for a story. Here’s your fucking story. My bitch daughter gave my granddaughter away to strangers,” Amelia screamed.
Onlookers covered their mouths to suppress the shock. Some were taking out their cell phones, going live on social media accounts. If Spencer Kennedy wanted this kept under wraps, no one bothered to tell his wife.
“Sir, you’ll never believe this shit. Your wife just was arrested at LAX,” the secret service announced the moment the Judge answered the call. “She hit a cop and spit on him,” he said.
“Who the fuck let that bitch out of the house?” Spencer growled. “Tell them to keep her for a couple of days. That’s all I’ll need to handle my daughter,” he ordered. Amelia Kennedy was living proof that money couldn’t buy class.