With thirty years in the DOC under his belt, Jerry had become a sharply accurate observer of human intention. He could sort through all kinds of bullshit to discern the truth. But this one made him nervous: a woman with a doctorate, a shrink nonetheless. She could fool and manipulate. She could play people like cards if she so desired. Jerry hated to be played.
Returning to his chair behind his desk, he stared at her for a moment, then advised, “Doing whatever I tell you to do—that is precisely the attitude you need to stay out of prison.”
“Yes, sir. I—I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot with you, Mr. Stone. I know you must have all kinds of cons giving you a hard time, and I don’t want to be one of them.”
“I’m glad to hear that, but we’ll see if your word means anything.” He reached into his filing cabinet and handed a typed sheet to Sophie. “Here’s a list of therapists who work with the correctional system. You are to schedule an appointment with one of them before we meet again. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” She nodded, glancing at the list of names and exhaling when she did not recognize any colleagues.
While she folded the paper and placed it in her handbag, Jerry continued. “I expect you to report here every Wednesday at nine a.m. If you miss one meeting, you will return to prison. There will be random drug tests, and if you fail even one, you will return to prison. I expect you to secure employment in the next two weeks. If you do not find a job, you will return to prison. Are the terms of your parole clear, Ms. Taylor?”
She gulped, thinking this parole thing didn’t sound all that much better than prison. “Yes, sir.”
He clicked a pen and prepared to write notes in her file. “Where are you living?”
“With a friend.”
“I need an address.”
“Um, 900 North Lake Shore Drive, Unit 10.”
Recognizing the downtown Chicago address, he asked, “Zip code?”
“It’s 60611.”
“What is your friend’s name?”
“Kirsten Holland.”
“What does Ms. Holland do for a living?”
“She’s a therapist.” When he continued staring at her expectantly, Sophie added, “We went to grad school together.”
“But she’s not a psychologist?”
“Um, no, she’s ABD, um, All But Dissertation? She hasn’t finished her degree, so she can’t call herself a psychologist yet.”
“Does Ms. Holland have any criminal background?”
Sophie chuckled. Kirsten was as straight-laced as they came. “No, sir. She offered to have me live with her as long as I kick her butt to get her dissertation done.”
Jerry stifled a smile. This had to be the first time he’d discussed doctorates and dissertations with a parolee. “Very well. Do you have any questions for me, Ms. Taylor?”
Sophie thought for a moment, wondering if her question would be all right to ask. “How long have you been a parole officer?”
“Thirty years,” he responded, shaking his head slowly. “And I think that’s the first time I’ve been asked a personal question like that.”
“Sorry.” She winced. “I don’t mean to pry. I just wondered, Mr. Stone, in those thirty years … what percentage of people violated their parole and had to return to prison?”
He looked up to his right. “I’d say, ballpark, about sixty percent.”
“Wow.”
“It’s serious business, Ms. Taylor. We’re not messing around here.”
“I get that. Well, I want you to know that I will definitely be in that other forty percent. I’m not going back to prison.”
“I hope that’s the case.” There was something about the twenty-nine-year-old woman that made him like her immediately. A keen warmth and intelligence shone through, despite the circumstances of their meeting. He stuffed down those fond feelings quickly, however, knowing never to trust the convicts walking through his door.
Jerry glanced at his watch. “It’s time for my next appointment,” he said brusquely. “See you next Wednesday at nine, Ms. Taylor.”
“Thank you, Officer Stone.” She rose from her chair, extending her arm. He grasped her slender hand in his and they shook their goodbyes.
Exiting his office, Sophie exhaled deeply, feeling the stress of her first parole meeting dissolve. That relief was short-lived, however, once she opened the door and found herself eye to eye with a man whose black, buzzed hair and golden-brown skin highlighted eyes that held crystal-blue, bottomless depths. The next parolee on the docket? His nose was slightly crooked and his lips were full. His penetrating gaze bore a hole in her. She stood frozen, staring for several moments before regaining her bearings and muttering, “Excuse me.”
She ducked out the door and strode down the hallway, daring to glance behind her to see the man watching her leave. A faint smile crossed his lips, and her cheeks burned.
Scurrying away from the building, the stranger’s intriguing eyes seared into her memory, Sophie decided maybe being on parole wasn’t all that bad. At the moment, parole definitely seemed better than women’s prison.
2. Dishonorable Disappointment
Grant Madsen stood outside the closed door of the parole office, gaping at the departing figure of the stunning woman. Who was she? Her long legs, accentuated by tapered black jeans and high-heeled boots, carried her quickly away from him. Her luxurious blond hair swayed across her shoulders with each click of her heels down the tiled hallway.
Fighting the urge to follow her, he was rewarded for his restraint when she stole a coy glance behind her. Their eyes locked once again, and he felt his lips curl into a grin before she immediately flitted away, seemingly embarrassed by their unexpected encounter. Would he ever see her again?
Before Grant could even knock, the door abruptly swung open, and with cat-like reflexes he avoided the metal slab careening toward his body. He looked up to see a frowning older man giving him the once-over.
“Are you here for a nine-fifteen with Officer Stone?” the man questioned in a gravelly voice.
“That’s me,” he confirmed.
Wondering what was so interesting in the hallway, Jerry ordered, “Well, get in here then, and don’t keep me waiting.”
Grant stood a little taller upon receiving the admonishment and nodded, adding “Yes, sir” before following the slightly shorter man into his office.
They sat on their respective sides of the desk, and the parole officer pulled out a file. For the second time that day, Jerry was struck by the atypical attractiveness of the parolee sitting across from him. “Name and number.”
“Madsen, Grant, 92115.”
“Mr. Madsen, I’m Parole Officer Stone. It says here you were just released from Gurnee State Penitentiary yesterday?”
“That is correct, sir.”
Jerry noticed how the parolee stared directly forward when responding, his body aligned rigidly on the uncomfortable metal chair. Although his navy-blue oxford shirt and khaki pants did not look expensive, they were neatly pressed and perfectly fitted over his lean frame. Jerry knew a military man when he saw one.
“What were you in for?”
Grant sighed internally. He hated these questions. “Aggravated robbery, sir.”
“And that got you sentenced to three years?” Jerry asked, glancing down at the file.