by Julie Cannon
“Why not?”
“Because the more you have it, the more you want it.”
Leigh rolled her eyes, shook her head, and playfully kicked Jill under the table. “Fine. I’ll get laid.”
Chapter Eleven
Peyton pulled into the strip mall and parked in the only space available. Busy day at the parole office, she thought, putting her truck in park and gathering her paperwork. One of the conditions of Peyton’s early release was that she had to check in with her parole officer twice a week for the first six months, then weekly thereafter.
Manny Conway was a fifty-nine-year-old overworked, overweight, twenty-eight-year veteran of the Department of Corrections Parole Enforcement Division. According to Conway, he didn’t take bullshit from anyone, and he could see right through it as well. He made it clear that he thought Peyton got a sweet deal with her early release, and he planned to keep a very close eye on her.
Conway expected his parolees to abide by the rules, one of which was that he had the right to inspect their place of residence as well as their place of business any time of the day or night. In the first three weeks, he’d shown up at her house nine times and at Copperwind eight. Each time Peyton invited him in, having nothing to hide from the man who controlled if, and when, she returned to Nelson to finish her entire sentence.
Unlike many other criminals who had been released, she had a family who loved her, would look out for her, and give her a place to live and a job. The reason she was in Nelson in the first place, and the likelihood that she would repeat her crime, no longer existed.
Peyton hated how the news media always referred to Chandler as the alleged suspect. He’d done it, no doubt about it. The two detectives arresting her, Ruth Smallsreed and Joanne Hiller, broke protocol and told her that the video he had stupidly made very clearly showed his face as well as Lizzy’s. That, and the fact that Lizzy had picked him out in a lineup and had described a unique birthmark on Chandler was enough evidence for Peyton that alleged was no longer applicable.
She had to slam the door of her truck; otherwise it wouldn’t close properly. It was, after all, thirty-four years old and a similar make and model to the one she had painstakingly restored before Nelson. She’d told her father to sell it to pay for her mounting legal fees, and as much as it broke her heart, she’d never looked back. That would only cause pain.
She pulled open the door going into the office, the handle hot due to its western exposure. She welcomed the blast of cool air as she stepped inside.
“Hello, Peyton,” Roseanne, the fifty-something-year-old clerk at the registration desk, said. “On time, as usual.” Roseanne made a note on her pad while Peyton signed in on a spiral-bound book on the counter. “I wish all of our clients were as punctual as you.” Roseanne’s voice was muffled, having to pass through a two-inch bullet-proof window.
“Good afternoon, Roseanne. How are you?”
“I’m good.”
It had taken Roseanne a while to warm up to her. Peyton was sure the woman had seen a load of bullshit from the people coming in the door and didn’t believe anything they said. Peyton had made it a point to be on time, if not early, for every appointment, her paperwork completed neatly and legibly, and always the best dressed in the waiting area.
“How is Jerry doing?” Peyton asked, referring to Roseanne’s son, a freshman at the University of Florida.
“His grades started to tank, and I had to have a come-to-Jesus with the boy. I think he’s back on the right track.”
“And I’m sure he’ll stay there,” Peyton added, sliding her papers in the slot under the window. Roseanne had stopped checking them for completeness after her fourth appointment. Now she simply stamped them as Peyton sat down in one of the black vinyl chairs in the waiting area.
She’d brought a book to read, not only because she was early but because Conway always ran behind. It was just a petty power thing. A large, light-skinned man beside Peyton coughed several times, his girth overfilling the arms of the chair and rubbing against Peyton’s hip when he moved. He covered his mouth with his hands, then wiped them on the thighs of his pants. Peyton didn’t touch anything in this room or anywhere in the building, for that matter, for just this reason. Not only did she have to worry about catching a cough or a cold, like everyone else, but tuberculosis and a variety of other communicable diseases were probably growing on every surface. Every time she got back to her truck she squirted enough hand sanitizer on her hands to kill the bubonic plague. When she returned home she scrubbed them in her bathroom sink, using the strongest antibacterial soap she could get her hands on.
She’d become a bit OCD about germs while in Nelson, and with as much spittle, blood, and other bodily fluids everywhere, she had every right. However, in Nelson she could do very little about it except wash her hands with the overpriced soap she bought in the commissary.
Some of the guards would fuck with her when they came into her cell for inspection or just to be assholes. They’d cough when they picked up her books and thumbed through the pages. They’d sneeze when they inspected her pillow for contraband and carry out a variety of other equally disgusting actions they used to get under her skin. None of them worked, as Peyton was determined to get out of Nelson as soon as she could, and that meant no issues with the guards.
The prisoners had a certain hierarchy. The bottom of the food chain consisted of those that hurt kids, the top reserved for those who killed the people who hurt the kids. Obviously, Peyton had been at the top of that food chain, which garnered her some level of respect from her fellow inmates and downright hatred from others. Actual money rarely meant anything. Drugs, sex, and power were the currency in every prison in America, and Nelson was no exception.
A man across the room was having a conversation with himself, the woman beside him wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Her leg was bouncing up and down rhythmically. She’d probably tried to clean herself up so she could pass the mandatory drug test, but if her parole officer was as astute as Conway, it wouldn’t matter.
One by one her fellow parolees disappeared behind the combination-locked, scuffed brown door until finally her name was called. She followed a man down a hallway of offices, each with clear glass as walls. She hadn’t been told, but she’d figured out that the décor was not for aesthetics but to enable the other parole officers to keep an eye on any trouble that might be brewing with their peers. She stopped at the entrance to Conway’s office. She never entered until he told her to.
“Have a seat, Broader,” Conway said, tossing a yellow folder across his desk. His overworked chair groaned in protest. “What have you been up to?” he asked, not looking at her folder the other man handed him.
“Working. We’re starting to pick up at the club, and I’m keeping busy.”
“What are you doing?”
Conway was an ass, pure and simple. He had made it clear early on that he’d been on the side that held up the signs that advocated throwing away the key when Peyton was locked up. Peyton kept her patience as he repeated the same question he asked every time she sat across from him. In addition to his obvious conflict of interest in her case, he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.
“I work six days a week, maybe seven, if they need me. I caddie or fill in if another golfer is needed, work in the pro shop. A little bit of everything.”
Conway opened the green folder in front of him, the one with her full name written in bold, black letters across the top.
“Let’s see now,” he said, moving a few pieces of paper around like it was the first time he’d ever seen them. He gave a cursory glance at the papers inside, having to know what he’d see. Peyton sat across from him. She had brought copies of her pay stubs, rent receipts, utility bills, all showing she was gainfully employed and had a place to live.
“You work at your brother’s golf course. The fancy one up north.”
“Yes, I do. Copperwind,” Peyton said, just as she had every other time he’d
asked.
“You pay your rent on time, or so says the same brother that gave you a job,” Conway said with disdain.
Peyton had never been able to figure out why Conway was so antagonistic toward her. Sure, she was released early, but so was everybody else in the over-packed, smelly waiting room down the hall.
“Yes. I rent the room over his garage.”
“How convenient.”
“I’m lucky to have a supportive family, a good job, and a stable roof over my head. They want me to put my time at Nelson behind me and be successful.”
“I’ll determine if your time at Nelson is behind you, not them.” He practically snarled. “Do you have a girlfriend?” he asked with a sneer.
“No.”
“Why not? Nobody want to sleep with a murderer? They probably have every reason to be afraid you’ll shoot them in the head in the afterglow.”
“Mr. Conway, the reason I was in Nelson will never happen again. I’m not a habitual criminal, a drug addict, or a thief.”
“But you are a murderer.”
Peyton inhaled and let her breath out slowly, keeping in mind what Jill had told her the other night. “I killed Norman Chandler because he kidnapped and raped my sister.”
“Allegedly.” Conway quickly corrected her. “He hadn’t even gone to trial, let alone been convicted.”
“As I said, the reason I was in Nelson will never happen again. I don’t date because I’m focusing on my job and getting my life back.” And it’s none of your fucking business, she thought.
Conway looked at her with hard, untrusting eyes. “Yes, Broader, you do have it better than ninety-nine percent of my clients. But don’t think that will get you any special treatment. No sireee. Not from me.”
This was the same speech she heard from him every time she came in. It was old and tiring and simply bullshit.
“No. I don’t think that. I never have, and you’ve proved that as well.” Peyton couldn’t help adding a little jab. Conway wasn’t sharp enough to pick it up.
“Well, I don’t believe you, Broader.” He closed the folder and looked at the information printed on the front and made a short note. “You have five more months,” he said, referring to the time left on her parole, after which she would be released from its terms and conditions.
“Yes, I do.” Peyton knew to the day when she would no longer be under the controlling thumb of this man.
Conway glared at her for a long time. Peyton had gotten pretty good at reading people, but she couldn’t read him. Conway wanted her to squirm, people who craved power usually did, but she’d done nothing wrong, had nothing to be guilty about. She sat there quietly.
Finally, he said, “Get out of here. Be sure to make your appointment with Roseanne on the way out.” He put her folder on the stack on the corner of his desk and pulled another from the pile on his right.
“Thank you. Have a good day.”
Ten minutes later, Peyton was back in her truck and driving down the highway, her next appointment written on the business-card-size paper in her wallet.
Her mind wandered as she maneuvered the stop-and-go heavy traffic on the interstate. It had gotten easier to switch from parolee to citizen each subsequent time she left Conway’s office. The reference to the time remaining on her parole made her think about her first parole hearing.
It was five years into her sentence, and Peyton was nervous. She’d researched the proceedings and politely tolerated the unsolicited advice from several of the women who had gone through them. She didn’t listen to them because—duh—they were still inside. One woman told her to confess her sins, beg for forgiveness, say she’d found Jesus and would forever live a life in his name. Peyton had already confessed, would never beg for forgiveness, and had never lost Jesus. Another told her to lie and say whatever they were looking to hear. Peyton couldn’t do that either. She’d known exactly what she was doing at the time and had consciously decided to do it. She refused to minimize that fact just to get out early.
“Ms. Broader, would you please tell us the nature of your conviction?” the man sitting in the middle of the two women and four men asked.
“Voluntary manslaughter.” Peyton’s voice was surprisingly calm, a complete opposite of her nerves.
“You plead guilty to killing Norman Chandler. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Chandler allegedly molested your sister. Is that correct?” the man asked, thumbing through the folder in front of him.
Peyton didn’t believe for a minute that everyone at the table in front of her didn’t know the details of her case. At least she hoped the system that determined parolees was effective.
“No sir,” Peyton said respectfully. Every head looked up from their paperwork. “Chandler kidnapped her, held her for three days, raped her, beat her unconscious, and broke her jaw, three ribs, and her left arm. She was nine.” Molested was too benign to describe what had happened to Lizzy. She saw the women wince and one of the men look away.
“And you shot him?”
“Yes sir, I did.” No point in being anything other than direct.
“You took it upon yourself to be judge, jury, and executioner?”
“Yes.”
“And you decided to take justice into your own hands?” one of the other men asked, the question repetitive.
“My sister was afraid he would come back for her. She had nightmares and was afraid to be alone or leave the house.”
“So you killed him?”
“Yes.” Only one of the parole members could look her in the eyes. “If it could give her peace of mind, it was worth it.” That had been her justification then, and it hadn’t changed.
“If you had the chance to do it all over again, would you?” one of the women asked.
Peyton didn’t hesitate. “Yes, ma’am. I would.” She knew that wasn’t the answer they were looking for and that she’d just blown her chance to be released early. She didn’t care. It was the truth.
Chapter Twelve
“Will you be around after the tournament?”
Peyton had checked in several attractive women for the LGBT tournament, but this one couldn’t keep her eyes to herself. She was wearing fashionable, very expensive golf attire that, in Peyton’s opinion, was one size too small. This woman, however, was obviously very aware of how it accentuated her attractive curves.
“I work here, so yes, I will. Enjoy your day.” Peyton had gotten very good at deflecting unwanted attention and managed to do the same with this one without pissing her off.
“Peyton?”
She looked up from the list of registered attendees. “Hilde. How are you?”
“Even better now that I know you’re here,” she said, winking at Peyton.
“I work here, Hilde, and this is an important day. Everyone’s working.”
Hilde leaned over, placing both palms on the table, her face close to Peyton’s. If Peyton wanted to, she could look down the front of Hilde’s top, and Peyton was sure that was the woman’s intent.
“Who do I have to pay to get you in my foursome?” she asked in what she probably thought was a seductive whisper.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Peyton was growing tired of everyone hitting on her as if she was one of the prizes. She shuffled her papers, looking for Hilde’s name.
“Is Leigh here?”
Peyton had looked at the registration board several times a day for Leigh’s name, and finally, yesterday, it was the last one on the list.
“Not yet.” Peyton had been waiting for Leigh to show up since she sat down behind the table an hour ago. She’d kept the line moving, one eye on the next person in anticipation of seeing Leigh. She put an X next to Hilde’s name and handed her a participant packet, then signaled for the next person in line to step up.
“Good luck.”
Finally, Leigh was standing in front of her, a teasing smile on her face.
“Leigh Marshall, checking in.”
>
“Ms. Marshall, welcome to Copperwind.” Peyton played along. She exaggerated marking Leigh’s name off the list, then handed her the nylon pouch with the Copperwind logo on the front. Inside was her tournament shirt and several other golf-related goodies. “You’re all present and accounted for. This is your participant packet. Inside is your pairing information and some information about the rest of the day. You tee off on the eighth hole for our shotgun start.” In a shotgun start, each foursome begins on a different hole. Leigh and her group would begin on the eighth hole and finish their eighteen holes on the seventh. Leigh and Jill were paired with two men from the LGBT Youth Center. Hilde and her foursome were on the sixth. At the end of the eighteen holes, the pairing with the lowest score won the tournament, and the individual with the lowest score won the individual trophy.
“Thank you,” Leigh said, peering into her goodie bag. “Are you playing today?”
“Unfortunately, no. It’s all hands on deck today, so I’ll be doing just about anything Marcus needs me to.”
Peyton didn’t want Leigh to leave. She’d waited for her to arrive, and within three or four minutes, it was over. She wanted to talk with her but didn’t know what about, and the dozen or so people in the line behind Leigh prohibited any further conversation.
“Have a good tournament,” Peyton said just before Leigh headed for the locker room.
* * *
Peyton wasn’t able to catch up with Leigh and her group until the twelfth hole. She watched her for several moments before Leigh saw her, smiled, and waved her over.
“How are we doing?” she asked, indicating her and Jill.
“No coaching from the staff allowed,” Peyton said lightly. It was the tournament rule, but she wasn’t heavy-handed in telling Leigh so. “My lips are sealed.” Peyton mimicked zipping a zipper on her lips, and Leigh’s eyes lingered on them so long, Jill jabbed her in the side.
“Earth to Leigh.”
