Grant bit his lip. “No job yet, sir. But I’ll get one. I promise.”
The officer and parolee looked at each other awkwardly after that comment, both knowing a con’s promise was worth exactly zilch.
“You were twenty-eight when you began your sentence two years ago,” Jerry calculated. “What was your former occupation?”
Grant exhaled in frustration. More questions he’d rather not answer. More questions eliciting his shameful past. “I was in the Navy, sir.”
Bingo. Jerry smiled inwardly, pleased that his intuition about Madsen was correct. “You were in the Navy when you were arrested?”
“Yes, sir … but I’m not anymore.” Grant averted his eyes. “They discharged me when I was convicted of a felony.”
Jerry kept staring at the parolee, wondering how the hell this young man had made such a mess of his life. Grant glanced at the peeling paint on the walls, the window, the grimy linoleum floor—anything to avoid meeting the disappointed gaze of yet another authority figure. Despite his best intentions, all Grant did was let down his superiors. He felt the familiar pangs of guilt when he thought about the man he had disappointed most: Joe, his mother’s brother, who had become a father to him and who now wanted nothing to do with him.
“Your life is kind of fucked up, Madsen,” Jerry observed wryly.
Grant half-chuckled. “Kind of, sir.” He supposed he should feel offended by the comment, but actually the parole officer was right on. Grant was one fat disappointment to all those around him. And Officer Stone didn’t even know anything about his family. How would the grizzled PO describe his life if he knew how destructive his family truly was? A hopeless failure?
Grant certainly felt hopeless much of the time, and his intense curiosity about the woman he had seen before this appointment surprised him. Any intense feeling surprised him at this point. Despite his conversation with Officer Stone, he felt a little lightness when thinking about her sultry eyes and shiny hair. A woman had not had an effect on him like that in quite some time.
When Jerry began speaking, Grant snapped his gaze back to his PO. “Let me explain how things will work, Madsen. We’re going to meet weekly, same time, same place. You screw up just this much,” he held his thumb and forefinger centimeters apart, “and your ass is going back to prison. Make your appointments, get a place to live, and get a job ASAP. Are we clear, sailor?”
“Aye, sir.”
Jerry considered the abrupt changes in Madsen’s life, including the Navy discharge, the violence, and the psychosis. Then he made an executive decision. “Our last order of business today is a drug test. When we’re done here, you are to report to Room 212 down the hall and pee in a cup.”
Watching Grant nod, Jerry added, “Should I expect a positive drug test? It would be better to tell me now.”
“No, sir. I don’t take drugs.”
“Good. Keep it that way and you’ll serve the last ten months of your sentence outside the walls of Gurnee. Our time’s just about up. Do you have any questions?”
Eager to get out of there, Grant replied, “No, sir.”
“See you at nine-fifteen next week, and don’t be late, Madsen.”
“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 regr
oup.
* * *
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.”
Sophie fidgeted with her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I’ll try to find a job soon.”
Kirsten looked startled and immediately began apologizing. “Oh, no, Sophie. I’m not trying to pressure you to give me money for the rent. I …” She stumbled over her words. “Listen to me, going on and on about myself, complaining about the lousy pay of being a therapist …” She was about to complete her sentence with, when you’re not even allowed to be a therapist anymore, but thought better of it. Instead, she tried to redirect the conversation. “Um, how was your day? How was your meeting with your parole officer?”
Still wringing her hands, Sophie replied, “It was awful. I hated it … I just want to be done with all of this, and I have a whole year of parole left. He told me I had to get a job in the next two weeks or I’m going back inside.”
“That sounds scary. Did you put in some applications today?”
Sophie nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah, at the hospital.”
After waiting expectantly a few moments, Kirsten prodded, “And? Where else?”
“That’s it. Just the hospital.”
“Sophie! You have to apply to more places than one if you want to find a job.”
“I know, but … but what’s the point? They’re not going to hire a felon, anyway.”
Kirsten waited a few moments before quietly offering, “If you don’t find anything, you could always call your dad. He’s loaded—maybe you could work for him.”
Sophie snapped her gaze upward. “No, I cannot! I don’t want anything to do with his construction business, and he doesn’t want anything to do with me, especially after what happened, um, what happened,” she gulped, her next words barely above a whisper, “… what happened to my mom.”
Kirsten’s eyes widened. “That is ludicrous! Your dad can’t possibly blame you for your mother’s death!”
“He can, and he does. You saw him. You saw how he was at the funeral. He wouldn’t even look me in the eye.”
Sophie could not prevent her consciousness from flooding with the memory of her mother’s grave on a cold, rainy day last December. Icy winds and pelting raindrops had buffeted the group surrounding the gravesite of Laura Taylor. Sophie’s mother had succumbed quickly following a heart attack, and despite the inclement weather, the gravesite had been packed with her father’s work colleagues. After one brief, accusatory glance toward his daughter, Will Taylor had avoided all eye contact.
The overwhelming grief of losing her mother, the disdainful brush-off by her father, and the sheets of rain pouring over her as tears trailed down her face had seemed too much to bear in that moment. But the fact that she’d been handcuffed, dressed in her thin prison uniform while shivering in the wind, had only made it worse.
Fellow prisoners told her she was lucky the DOC had allowed her to attend her mother’s funeral. She certainly had not felt lucky. She would never forget the shame of that day.
Kirsten’s blue eyes filled with concern as she watched her friend withdraw into a cocoon of despair. Seeing Sophie handcuffed like a common criminal, flanked by two police officers as if she were some danger to society, had been one of the most bizarre experiences of Kirsten’s life. At the reception after the funeral, there had been whispers that Laura’s heart attack was brought on by the stress of watching her only child go to prison. This had horrified Kirsten.
Clearing her throat nervously, Kirsten attempted a smile. “Hey, roomie, I’ll make you a deal. For every job you apply for, I promise to spend one hour on my dissertation.”
Sophie glanced up, grateful for Kirsten’s transparent attempt to cheer her up. She took a deep breath and felt a slight dissipation of her crushing guilt. “Two hours,” she countered, a small grin spreading across her face.
“One job application for two hours of dissertation time? Hmm …” Kirsten stroked her chin, considering the negotiation. “You drive a tough bargain. Okay, it’s a deal.”
They reached forward to shake hands, smirking.
Eyeing her friend’s lean frame, Kirsten asked, “Did you eat any breakfast today?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Sorry, I just worry about you. You’re so skinny now.”
“The prison diet works wonders. Nobody wants to eat that swill.”
“Well, now that you’re residing chez Kirsten, there’s no excuse not to eat. C’mon, let’s make some lunch.”
Kirsten hopped up and headed into the small kitchen with Sophie following. They began cooking some noodles and making a salad. In the midst of chopping tomatoes, Kirsten glanced at her roommate.
“So, your parole officer’s a guy. Is he cute?”
Sophie scoffed, “He’s like sixty years old, Kir!”
Laughing, she wiped her hands on a towel and set a couple of plates on the table. “Okay, okay. We do need to find you a man, though. You’ve had a long drought since him.”
With a far-off look, Sophie drifted back to the deep-blue eyes that had once stared into her own, eyes that had been at one moment wounded and vulnerable, then suddenly suspicious and angry. She’d thought those eyes communicated love and devotion, but in reality they’d simply been playing her.
Expecting the familiar ache of betrayal, Sophie was surprised to find this recurring vision abruptly interrupted by a new image instead. Flashes of clear, innocent eyes flooded her brain, their color a lighter, warmer blue. These eyes had stolen her breath and left her wanting more. These were the eyes she’d seen outside Officer Stone’s door.
She felt a steadying hand on her wrist, bringing her back to the present. “Sophie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bring him up like that.”
Sophie gazed at her apologetic roommate and swallowed guiltily. Kirsten would be thoroughly disappointed to learn Sophie was already obsessing over yet another criminal. The two men actually looked somewhat alike, now that she thought about it. Maybe she really did need help!
“So, listen to this. My damn PO is forcing me to attend therapy as a condition of my
parole.”
Kirsten quietly continued lunch preparations, refusing to empathize with the indignant anger in Sophie’s voice. What had happened to Sophie was every psychologist’s nightmare, and it scared Kirsten immensely. She desperately wanted her friend to move on and heal.
“And why is therapy such a bad idea?”
“It’s not … it’s …” Sophie sighed in frustration. “I know I need to talk about it. I just don’t want to, you know?”
“Absolutely.” Kirsten often felt that way about her dissertation.
“Officer Stone gave me a list of therapists. Will you maybe, um, help me find a good one?”
Kirsten smiled encouragingly. “Of course. If you want, I can ask my supervisor what she thinks of the people on the list. She knows a lot of therapists in Chicago.”
“Okay.” Sophie joined Kirsten at the little round table in the nook next to the kitchen. She began twirling pasta on her fork.
Ready or not, Sophie was going to start building her life back, trying to make sense of the mess it had become. If yes, please explain. With the help of a supportive friend and hopefully a good psychologist, she was going to explain how she’d gotten here.
And as those beguiling turquoise eyes flashed through her mind once again, she hoped maybe she could explain why she was immediately attracted to another criminal.
Or maybe the explanation was that the man was fucking hot.
4. Solitary
Joe Madsen thought he’d heard a sob, and when he realized his shoulder was damp from accumulated tears, he knew for sure the strong man he held in his arms was crying. He also knew Grant would be embarrassed as hell to be weeping in public.
Gently he pulled out of the hug, looking away while Grant stared at the sidewalk outside the courthouse and furtively wiped his cheeks. His nephew nervously kicked at the concrete with the toe of his shoe, reminding Joe of when eight-year-old Grant and his mother had come to live with him. It was a full minute before Grant slowly looked up, meeting the worried gaze of his uncle.
With Good Behavior [Conduct Series #1] Page 2
