“Yes, sir.” Grant unfolded his lean body, stood, and gracefully exited the office.
He went to the room where urine screens were conducted and endured the arduous process of registering, completing scads of paperwork. Then a parole officer observed as he performed his business at the urinal.
Although he’d tolerated far more demeaning experiences at Gurnee, he was still bothered by the invasive drug test. He’d hoped the humiliation of another man watching him take a piss was a thing of the past. Apparently, the DOC still wanted control over his mind, body, and soul.
Grant descended the courthouse stairs, squinting into the bright sun of the late-May morning in Chicago. He had absolutely no idea what to do next. Suddenly a man in a khaki U.S. Navy uniform caught his eye, and he looked to his left, doing a double take.
It was him. Uncle Joe! Grant inhaled sharply. Joe gazed at him expectantly, his hands pressed into the pockets of his uniform. Paralyzed, Grant wondered what his uncle might do. Hug him? Hit him? Yell?
“Come here, Grant,” Joe demanded sternly.
Always obedient, Grant took tentative steps toward his uncle, whose graying blond hair stood in sharp contrast to his nephew’s dark features. Once Grant was close enough, Joe enveloped him a rough hug.
“I’ve been looking all over Chicago for you,” Joe said, squeezing his nephew tightly.
Grant felt tears spring to his eyes—tears of regret, tears of relief. An audible sob almost escaped his lips, and he held onto his uncle with a sense of desperation. He was with his Uncle Joe again after more than two years. He was home.
3. “If Yes, Please Explain”
Glancing around nervously, Sophie tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear and refocused her attention on the clipboard in her lap. She had completed most of the job application in her neat handwriting, but one section remained blank. Clearing her throat, she returned to the dreaded unanswered question, her pen hovering inches above the paper:
Have you been convicted of or pleaded “No Contest” to a felony within the last five years?
She sighed while tapping her pen against the clipboard, barely aware of the announcements pouring from the intercom over her head. Judging by the smooth female voice directing doctors to various operating rooms, Human Resources was located on a surgical floor at Northwestern Memorial Hospital.
Because Sophie had completed her pre-doctoral psychology internship in a Veterans Administration hospital, she figured she would start her job search in the familiar environment of a hospital setting. She obviously could no longer apply for psychologist positions, but she was hopeful about securing a post as a patient care assistant, orderly, receptionist—no job seemed beneath her at the moment.
The mocking words of the question danced before her eyes. Should she be truthful? If she admitted her felony conviction, she would likely forfeit any chances of securing a job. If she lied, she didn’t know how she could live with herself.
Sophie was an honest person, although in prison she’d learned how to be secretive and dishonest by necessity. She also realized the hospital might find out the truth anyway. Her father had kept her arrest and conviction on the down-low, but if potential employers were to dig deep enough, they could certainly find the public records of her ignominious crime.
With a resolute frown, she hastily scribbled Yes.
The subsequent question then stared her in the face:
If yes, please explain:
Explain? Explain how she crossed every boundary to fall in love with a psychotherapy client? Explain how she let him and his influence seep further and further into her life, only to find out he was a Mafia thug who had used her for his own purposes? Explain how she’d ruined her career and her dignity in the process? How the intense shame of her actions had destroyed her family?
Exhaling in frustration, she scrawled:
Convicted of accessory to armed robbery and possession of illegal weapons. Sentenced to two years of prison.
It still felt surreal to write those words, though it had been more than a year since she’d heard the court’s judgment against her. No matter how she tried to deny it or hide behind her illustrious academic career, her well-bred family, her good intentions, the truth was she was a felon. She felt trapped in a nightmare created by one client. Listening to herself rationalize and deflect, she felt a flash of anger. Stop externalizing blame. This nightmare was her own creation.
Sophie scooped up her handbag in one hand and held the clipboard in the other. “You can kiss this job goodbye,” she muttered.
As she left the hospital, she felt despondency overtake her. She’d planned to apply for several jobs before returning to Kirsten’s apartment, but after just the first application, she barely had the energy to keep trudging down Huron Street. Perhaps it was time to regroup.
*
Upon entering the small one-bedroom apartment, Sophie heard the tapping of a computer keyboard before she saw her roommate. Stealing a look into the bedroom, she noticed Kirsten sporting a bright smile while typing away happily. The twenty-eight-year-old woman’s sleek brown hair was fastened in a ponytail, and her blue eyes danced with amusement.
“Looks like you’re making great progress, Kir,” Sophie observed, stepping into the room and collapsing on the bed.
Kirsten looked up, her smile fading quickly. “Oh, hey, Sophie. I didn’t hear you come in.” She tilted the laptop away from Sophie’s line of vision.
“Kirsten …” Sophie’s voice rose. “Are you chatting online again? You’re supposed to be working on your dissertation!”
“I know,” she replied. “But I just got home from work, and I had a crappy day, so the last thing I want to do is write my crappy dissertation.”
Sophie could definitely relate to having a bad day. She kicked off her boots and scooted up to rest her back against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. “What happened at work?”
Kirsten held up her finger and explained, “Just give me a sec to tell everyone goodbye, okay? Then I’ll fill you in.”
Sophie shook her head slowly, amazed at how addicted her roommate had become to the internet forum for her favorite TV show. While Kirsten typed a message, Sophie waited patiently to hear about the trials of her job as a counselor at a substance abuse treatment center.
Closing her laptop, Kirsten turned to Sophie. “My day sucked because I had three no-shows in a row this morning. I decided to give up and come home.”
Sophie nodded. There was nothing more frustrating than clients failing to show up for their appointments. “Is your supervisor going to be upset?”
“I’m more worried about the lost income. I only make like thirty-five percent of each session fee since I’m not licensed yet, and when I get no-shows I have no idea how I’ll make rent.”