With Good Behavior

With Good Behavior

a novel by

Jennifer Lane

OMNIFIC PUBLISHING

DALLAS

J
erry Stone sighed wearily as he reviewed the list of parolees on his schedule. Tossing the printout onto his metal desk, he leaned back in his squeaky chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

It was Wednesday, and the Department of Corrections always stuck it to him on Wednesdays. Two newbies in a row, right off the bat. Two inmates freshly released, about to give him the old song and dance about how they would never return to prison, they were now on the straight and narrow, they were 
rehabilitated.
 What a joke. If they weren’t cons by the time they entered the Illinois corrections system, they surely were cons by the time they left. They should call it 
reconvictation.

A knock brought him out of his reverie, and the fifty-four-year-old parole officer gruffly called out, “Enter!”

The door creaked open, and his first parolee of the day tentatively entered the office. Jerry arched his eyebrows. She was not the typical bottom-dweller inmate, reeking of unwashed clothes, hostility, and despair. She was tall and thin, with strawberry-blond hair, and she carried herself with an almost regal air as she floated into his office. He bet they had eaten her up at Downer’s Grove Women’s Penitentiary.

She swallowed hard, accentuating a defined jaw line. “Mr. Stone?”

“Yeah, who are you?”

“Sophie Taylor, sir.”

“Back number?”

She announced the digits robotically. She had used them daily for the last year. “72634.”

“Take a seat,” he gestured toward the metal chair facing his desk as he opened her file. There must be one hell of an intriguing back story leading this gorgeous chick into criminal activity, and his curiosity got the best of him.

Sophie dutifully folded her lean body into the chair and looked around her, taking in the dirty cornflower-blue walls, the steel desk piled with uneven, wobbly stacks of papers, and the moldy white blinds covering the only window in the grungy office.

She was to report here weekly for an entire year, and the décor of this government office was uncomfortably similar to that of the administrator’s office at Downer’s Grove Women’s Prison. She crossed her legs and hugged her shabby handbag in her lap, studying the parole officer’s salt-and-pepper hair and stern face as he read her paperwork.

After a few moments, Jerry looked up from the file with surprise. “You were a psychologist?”

She managed a tight smile. “Yes, sir.”

“Should I call you Dr. Taylor, then?”

Hearing her former title caused a squeezing sensation in Sophie’s chest, and she looked down, embarrassed. It had been over a year since anyone addressed her that way. She thought back to her last therapy client to use those words, 
Dr. Taylor
. His smooth, deep voice reverberated in her mind. She had been enthralled by his rich, slowly enunciated baritone as it caressed and possessed her name with loving care. Well, with what she thought was loving care, but turned out to be something else entirely.

Jerry noticed her blush as she lifted her head and responded, “No, I’m not a psychologist anymore. The Illinois Board of Psychology revoked my license once I entered prison.”

“I see.” He continued to scan her file. “I’m not finding any reports in here from your sessions with a prison psychologist.”

Sophie cleared her throat nervously. “That’s because I never met with one.”

He raised his bushy gray eyebrows again. “You didn’t attend therapy in prison? I thought with your prior vocation you’d be all over that.”

“I, uh, I didn’t want to be anywhere 
near
 a psychologist after what happened. Frankly, I don’t think I believe in therapy anymore.”

Jerry sat back in his chair, studying her carefully. “You went to prison because of a massive lapse of judgment, right, Ms. Taylor?”

She nodded.

“And now after one year in prison, you’re trying to get your life back, right?” When she nodded automatically, he ordered, “And don’t just tell me what I want to hear, young lady.”

“No, sir. I really do want to start my life over. I have to.”

“So if you were still a psychologist, and you knew of a woman in these circumstances—needing to figure out what led to a huge mistake in order to prevent it from happening again, reeling from a year in prison despite a perfectly clean record before that mistake, hoping to move forward—in your professional opinion, would you say this woman made a good candidate for therapy?”

Sophie realized where he was going and tried to head him off at the pass. “There are lots of ways to get one’s life back on track,” she said. “Therapy doesn’t always lead to rehabilitation. Not everyone believes in therapy.”

“You spent, what, six or seven years after college training to become a psychologist? And now you don’t believe in it?”

Sophie crossed her arms and pursed her lips, remaining silent.

“Because 
I
 think you’re a perfect candidate for therapy. And I’m making that a condition of your parole: weekly counseling.”

“Court-ordered counseling doesn’t work!” Sophie’s chestnut-brown eyes flared with anger.

Jerry felt the tension in the room rising. “What are you afraid of?”

“I’m—I’m not 
afraid
,” she lied. Therapy was about reliving the past, uncovering hidden motivations, discussing family. She was not about to delve into those painful memories. She searched for an excuse. “How am I supposed to afford therapy? I don’t have a job yet.”

“The DOC will pay for it,” he assured her.

He had thwarted her every objection. “What if I refuse?”

Jerry had heard enough stalling. “Do you 
want
 to return to prison?” he thundered.

Sophie closed her eyes. “No, sir.”

Jerry rose from his chair, incensed, and marched around the desk. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re out of prison, with good behavior, but you have an entire year left of your sentence. I could throw your ass back inside so easily your head would spin.”

Her eyes widened as he towered over her, and she glanced at the handcuffs dangling from his belt. One wrong move and they would be coldly clasped around her delicate wrists once again.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stone.” She watched his anger begin to dissipate. “I don’t want to go back. I—I’ll do whatever you say.”

He peered at her, wondering how genuinely contrite she felt and how willing she was to do whatever it took to stay out of prison. 
Newbies.
 He hated his first session with parolees, having to sniff out their true intentions after knowing them for mere minutes. He hated the little cat-and-mouse game: the lies, the deception, the empty promises.

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.

G
rant 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.

“Yes, sir.”

Jerry’s forehead wrinkled, and he began thinking out loud while reading the report. “Hmm, you served twenty-six months of that … if you followed the rules you would have gotten out sooner … I don’t see—ah,” he nodded, turning the page. “You got sixty days in solitary on your first day inside.”

He glanced up to find Madsen’s clear blue eyes darkening with an unreadable emotion. Grant’s chest tightened as his parole officer inquired, “Why were you thrown in solitary?”

An image flashed through Grant’s mind: cold, black eyes staring at him, forcing him to submit to their will; eyes Grant had known for years … intense, intelligent, frightening charcoal eyes. He swallowed, trying to shake off the past.

“I was sent to solitary for assaulting another prisoner. The warden wasn’t too pleased with me getting in a fight on my first day.”

“I would think not,” Jerry replied, resuming his reading.

Grant closed his eyes, dreading what might come next. 
Please, please, don’t be in the report. Please.

“Huh, it says here you didn’t stay in the hole for the entire sixty days.”

Shit.
 
It was there.
 Grant opened his eyes to find the officer staring at him, and then he continued to read.

“You, uh, had a breakdown of some sort, and had to be transferred to the psych ward after three days in solitary.” He watched a blush form on Madsen’s neck and creep upward, blooming across his cheeks. Grant found himself gazing down at his hands.

Jerry observed him twisting his hands nervously in his lap. They were an artist’s hands, with long, elegant fingers, not a convict’s hands. They were not the hands of a man who assaulted a fellow prisoner. They were not the hands of a man who attempted to burglarize a club, waving around a stolen gun in the process.

Jerry sighed. He could tell Madsen was intensely uncomfortable, but he had to know what he was dealing with. “What happened in solitary?”

Continuing to look down, Grant waited a few moments before responding, “I had a psychotic break, I guess. That’s what they told me anyway. They put me in the psych ward and made me take medication, and I had to stay there until my sixty days were up.”

“Are you still taking the meds?”

Grant looked up sharply. “No, sir. I was fine once I got out of solitary.”

Studying the man across from him, Jerry had to admit he didn’t 
seem
 crazy. But he would have to pay extra attention to this one, as violence and mental illness were not a palatable combination.

Perhaps Madsen could benefit from the psychological services of the woman who had just left his office, Jerry thought. He smirked, thinking of a million reasons 
that
 would be a bad idea—particularly because Taylor no longer had a license, and it was never a good idea for cons to commingle.

Sometimes Jerry and his fellow parole officers joked about starting their own dating service, matching up the hapless cons who crossed their doorsteps. When they were in particularly contemptuous moods, they would brainstorm potential names for the company. Instead of 
Perfect Match
, Jerry suggested 
Perfect CONnection
. Al came up with a substitute for 
It’s Just Lunch
, offering 
It’s Just Cuffs
 as an alternative. And Sheila perverted to .

Jerry cleared his throat and tried to get back on task. “I need an address for you, Mr. Madsen.”

“I don’t have one yet,” Grant admitted.

“Don’t you have any family?”

Grant grimaced. 
Not the type of family I want to see. 
“No, sir. I stayed at the 
Y
 last night using a voucher from Gurnee, but I’m going to look for something today.”

“And I suppose it would be presumptuous of me to assume you already have a job?”

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.