A Penitent's Petition for Parole

Convicted felon — Sentenced to forty years in a state penitentiary for three counts of second-degree murder.

First hearing board appearance, having served a minimum incarceration of six years. Exemplary conduct. Active in educational prison programs.

Father and brother; Unnamed Victim's Advocate

Grey's twin sister was savaged by four thugs one evening on her way home. He knew them, found three, and exacted the ultimate revenge.

My newest assignment, Alan Grey, sat unshackled yet still under watchful scrutiny in the arena below. A thrice convicted murderer, he stood up as the parole hearing board quickly entered and took their places. I'd watched Alan Grey's father, assisted by his youngest son, slowly amble into the gallery and take their places for the spectacle below. Slipping in behind them, I took a position opposite the front row to observe the proceedings.

The parole panel was quite a threesome: the foreman, an older balding man in a pin-striped suit, had bankrolled the governor's last election. Jessica, the sultry-looking woman with full-pouty lips, sat in the center wearing a chic diaphanous ensemble. A fierce pleasure-seeker, she is the governor's latest 'political consultant for the youth vote' though barely twenty years old. She's always in his photo shoots,even the ones he doesn't know about.And there, in the last leather chair, sat the kiss-ass barrister chomping at the bit for a governor's judicial appointment.

The governor owed all of them for his political rise. Among many others, he owed these three a slice of special recognition as a reward for fostering his political ambitions. Their assignments to a parole-board level were his way of sucking up to them — with hints of further political clout.Well, not sucking up to all three.

'Jessica is the exception. With those lips,'I figured,'she was the one sucking something else, given the governor's age.'

JW had sent me case files on them; though not yet guilty of crimes, each one was a razor's width away from having only one slight misstep to make, then they'd be in someone's legal crosshairs. My eyes wandered over the muscular-built prisoner standing meekly below as I watched the trio take up their positions.

'Who am I, you ask?' Well, I'm that blurry shadow in the corner of your eye, the one you don't want to get to know. No one with a real driver's license, voting record, or birth certificate. No one with a social security number, and certainly no one you want to have my naked eyes on your dossier or to know anything about you — if you are in trouble. My name is Asuka Wilson, and I am a member of a quasi-legal body of individuals collectively called'The Fixers.' We operate as independent contractors within the legal system's boundaries — though, sometimes, that boundary requires a plenipotentiary's powers — without credentials. When necessary, we cross those boundaries to achieve justice when the legal system cannot. JW calls me 'Ms. Fixer.' That should satisfy your curiosity and be all you need to know. Any more than this ... and I'd have to expunge your memory.

Alan Grey stood before the three-panel parole board, his heart pounding. The room was filled with the stale air of bureaucracy, and the faces of the board members revealed their disinterest. A bald, aging banker, a cunning lawyer, and a young woman named Jessica Lush, rumored to have connections to the governor, prepared to scrutinize and battle with Alan Grey as he presented his case.

The bald parole board member began the formal proceedings with a standard question, seeking to establish the reason for Alan Grey's imprisonment. The words were monotonous, likely repeated countless times during past hearings. Grey understood that the purpose of this board was not to retry his case, correct a wrongful conviction, or reduce his sentence. It existed to deny appeals, ensuring the safety of the general public. The statistics were against him, and he knew that even a minor transgression could land him back behind bars for forty years.

Seeking to impress the others, the bald member intoned, "Mr. Grey, you've petitioned to appear before this parole board. As this is your first appearance, I want to clarify that this board's purpose is not to retry your case, not to free you from wrongful incarceration, or lessen your sentence. Is that understood, Mr. Grey?"

"Yes, sir, I understand." Grey's response was soft-spoken and respectful. The board members glanced up, curious to take in the source of such gentleness amidst the harsh and sometimes acrimonious battles they faced with other petitioners.

"Then, let's have it, Mr. Grey, make your opening statement."

"I've changed during my time in prison," Alan began, his voice steady. "I've come to understand the consequences of my actions, and I've learned to channel my anger into something more constructive."

The banker glanced at the lawyer, who smirked in response. Alan knew he had to convince them that he was no longer a threat to society and deserved a chance at redemption.

Jessica Lush glanced up, intrigued by the source of such gentleness amidst the often belligerent arguments they faced with others. The board embarked on their duty of questioning, aiming to extract answers that would influence their decision-making process. For most convicts, it was a test of their mettle. For Grey, it was his opportunity to showcase remorse and penitence. An old inmate, known as the resident jailhouse lawyer, had once advised Grey on the art of navigating these hearings.

"Kid," the old man had counseled from across the cell, "you gotta project enough sincerity that they believe you're a remorseful, penitent sinner atoning for your goddamned past retributions. Even if it ain't fucking so!"

At that point, the guards took the old-timer away, laughing at his advice. He had spent thirty-five years behind bars but never succeeded in securing parole; thirty-five years served, and he was getting out. Nevertheless, he had imparted his wisdom to Alan, gifting him well-worn binders of jailhouse law books. Alan delved into those books and the materials his father had sent him, absorbing everything he could about parole.

Behind him, Alan's father and brother leaned forward in their seats. Bill Grey looked so much older than occurs with six years of normal aging. Gray hair had exploded over his temples, and the solemn look weighed on his formerly drawn-back shoulders, now slumped. Bill Grey looked beaten as though he carried the weight of past sins upon them. Carl Grey, in contrast, looked fit, though equally solemn, as the younger brother walked by his father's side while entering. Bill nodded to his son across the divide. Alan's slight nod acknowledged their presence as he turned to face the panel. There wouldn't be an opportunity to speak with his family today. Any conversation was strictly between Alan and the panel members; unless they asked by some remarkable circumstance, he wouldn't hear his loved ones' voices.

"Mr. Grey, why are you in prison?"

The supervisor, appointed by the governor, initiated the proceedings with a question as straightforward as it was significant. Alan Grey stood before them. His muscular build was noticeable beneath the ill-fitting suit tailored for a nineteen-year-old. This physical strength, while admirable, also presented a challenge to the authority of the bald board member, who perceived it as defiance.

Alan's frame had significantly transformed at five-foot-ten during his six years of incarceration. In the confines of his six-by-eight-foot cell, he had dedicated himself to rigorous workouts, sculpting his mesomorph body. Beyond physical fitness, these exercises served as a shield among the inmates, warding off potential predators seeking to exploit the vulnerable. Wolves quickly learned to avoid Grey, intimidated by his robust physique and the three murders etched on his record.

Grey breathed softly, reverting to the circumstances that led to his imprisonment. The memories played through his mind like an old eight-millimeter silent film, the reels rattling from beginning to end.

"Alan, I'm heading over to Mary's!" Abigail's voice echoed through the hallway. "We're going to the movies with her boyfriend, okay? Pick me up at eleven, please, brother?"

Her sweet plea reached Alan as he prepared for work, showering behind the closed bathroom door. He worked the afternoon shift at the grocery store, from two o'clock to ten-thirty on Saturdays. Picking up Abigail from Mary's place had become a routine task. Abigail and Mary Jane, her close friend, frequented each other's homes so often that some mistook them for sisters. It was a mere half-hour drive to swing by Mary's place and ensure Abigail's safe return home. Their father, concerned about Abigail walking alone in the dark for ten blocks, didn't want her out past eleven. As a twin brother, Alan took his duty seriously, protecting his sister and ensuring her well-being. Little did he know that the drive that night would deviate from their usual routine.

After the show, Mary's boyfriend escorted them to Mary's home and hinted at some time alone. Abigail hadn't waited for Alan's arrival after the movie. She read Mary's edgy looks and thought, 'I can take a hint.' Mary J. had whispered to her in the theater thattonight was the night, and there wouldn't be much time before her mother got home from her afternoon shift. Abigail, recognizing she impeded their plans, decided to walk home. Unbeknownst to her, that decision would change everything.

Alan would catch up with her, she figured, as she stepped out into the darkness and trudged homeward. Abby smiled as she strolled that dark path, thinking of Mary J. and her boyfriend. Thinking of Mary's lacy panties probably lying on the floor, her dress would be pulled up around her waist, and Larry's bare butt bobbing up and down like a sewing machine as they lay on the couch — them 'getting it on.' Oh, the story Mary J. would tell her tomorrow about her first time. Off-guard in her surroundings, Abigail smiled, thinking about that spicy tale as she turned a dark corner in the dimly lit, abandoned, building-laden area she had to traverse. That night, fate intervened. Suddenly, her world turned dark and violent.

Alan's sister's laughter and the anticipation of a lusty story never came to fruition. Abigail's life hung in the balance for six agonizing weeks as she lay in a coma. The vibrant spirit that once defined her had faded when she finally woke up. The attack had stolen her innocence, leaving a haunting emptiness in her eyes. The girl who once embraced life with joy and kindness now lived in a realm of shadows. Her spirit was no longer the same sweet, smiling one that sang and danced about in her dad's kitchen.

Her prior outlook on life had been one of honeysuckles and roses, kindness and innocence, and hugs and kisses. Before, such things had made her naïve world go round. No longer, though, after her attack, her face had become sallow and haunted-looking. It was a blank look, staring at nothing, and no one's recognition lit that once-smiling face again. How she lived previously and now had a void between those worlds and ended abruptly in the short aftermath that followed.

Standing before the parole board, Alan took a deep breath; his memory of that late night faded.

Refocusing on the balding man's question, Alan answered. "Sir, I'm in prison for taking the law into my own hands. I confronted three men for what they did to my sister instead of letting the justice system handle them. It got out of control, and I took ... ended their lives."

Alan replied guardedly, knowing he couldn't emphasize self-defense over the altercation. After all, he had gone after them — with malice aforethought. He delivered the required answer as dispassionately as he could. Still, six years later, flashes of that battle rage within at recalling how his sister's battered and beaten body struggled to live. Even now, his fists clench as he tries to calm himself down with a slow deep breathing technique.

The memory of that night fueled Alan's determination to seek justice for his sister. The desire for retribution burned within him, driving him to take matters into his own hands and deliver the punishment those responsible deserved.

"Got out of control, Mr. Grey?" the administrator's raised tone sounded doubtful. "The trial records state that those three men had their faces pulverized with a crowbar beyond recognition. That's well beyond things getting out of control, Mr. Grey. Well beyond that — the judge in your case called it aggressive, uncontrolled maniacal rage." He sifted through crime scene photos of the three men before sliding them down the table.

Alan tensed at his declaration. He'd said this parole review wasn't supposed to be a retrial, yet he brought it up. The judge's remarks did not align with a medical opinion regarding his competency. No psychological exam was admitted to the trial records, so a medical term in the sentencing stage was one of his grounds for a new trial. That appeal was brushed aside. He had lost that one and a subsequent retrial on technical grounds.

Four thugs had seized and forced Abigail into an alley in that deserted zone. Abby's screams went unheard amidst their laughter; they stripped, used, and beat her senseless, leaving her naked in a pile of filth in that alley for nine hours, confident that she was dead.

Standing before the parole board, Alan Grey carried the weight of his sister's tragedy on his shoulders as he recounted the events leading him down the incarceration path. The memories were a constant reminder of the irreversible consequences of his actions and fueled his determination to seek redemption, even in the shadowy realms beyond the legal system.

"Sir, Abigail was attacked by four men, gang-banged, beaten to a pulp, and left in an alley to die. She was in a coma for six weeks. Once she came home from the hospital ... she took her own life — walked into an oncoming city bus. Did you also include those pictures?" he asked, trying to contain his ire.

The room was tombstone quiet. If one listened closely, the sounds of Alan's deep breathing and the gasp of the single female panelist could be heard in its silence as the pictures slid down the table.

"We are, Mr. Grey," answered the swarthy-dressed Jessica Lush, who could have been Abigail's age then. She cleared her throat, then licked her lips. Grey could only think of her voice as addressing him in lusty mounting tones, an overture to be played slowly, to be savored. Alan Grey hadn't heard a woman's voice in so long that it nearly derailed his senses. Overcoming her emotional recoil from the images, the governor's plaything asked, "My question for you, Mr. Grey, is why did you not let the legal system take its course? What led you to commit this heinous crime?"

Alan Grey found his voice then answered hesitantly, "Ma'am, my family has always believed in following the law. We were doing that as the case proceeded to court. But, with Abigail's death, the prosecutor's whole case seemed to fall apart. She was no longer around to testify, and there were no other witnesses to her savage attack."

"I got a phone call from a friend saying the four were at a local bar bragging about it. About how she wanted it so bad ... I lost it at that point and went to find them. I didn't think about their deaths, just evening the score for her. They came at me, and I grabbed a crowbar from the back of one of their trucks. It was over before I had time to think. One ran as the other three attacked me.

"When it was over, I sat on the curb and waited for the police. I own that action and poor decision." Grey's soft voice came almost as a whisper.

He'd practiced that line several times, going over the possible scenarios the jailhouse lawyer's advice had suggested late at night. Grey hoped it came out right today.

The three-panel members studied Alan Grey's demeanor and measured his sincerity. His tone and respectfulness seemed genuine; the ownership of his crime was the projection of a true penitent.

Then the third member spoke. By his tone, he seemed like a state bar member. "Mr. Grey, you've been asked and answered why you are in prison and the second question of what led up to your actions. It's clear from your answers and your plea for a fair trial that you can distinguish right from wrong. So, I ask you now, do you think the sentence you received was fair?"

"Kid," the old-timer across from his cell had said, "if they git around to ask'n iff'n ya got a fair sentence, don't go getting uppity at the question. It's ah two-edged sword question, son. The sonofabitch is out to get ya riled up, and then yer fucked, kid! Don't get smart-assed or all argumentative about the sentence ya got."

The old-timer was right. That question got asked just like he figured, and Alan took that in stride, knowing that if he answered in the negative, the board would toss him back in the cell — as some convict incapable of accepting his lot in life. 'Don't do the crime if you can't do the time,'was scrawled in the old man's notebooks. Grey had read that, though too late in life's lessons for him. He'd acted out of vengefulness and wasn't thinking about the fallout. Too damned late for that kind of thought. Vengeance had fueled Grey's rage the night he turned their faces to red and gray mush.

"Yes, sir. Twelve folks listened to my situation and state of mind when I reacted to their defaming my sister's name. I can't fault them for that or the sentence time. But I've had time to reflect on what I did in the six years since. I know now that I should have handled that differently. Six years of confinement, educational studies in anger management, and reflection on my actions have made me realize that. I appear before you as a true penitent, appealing for your understanding. I am very remorseful for my actions that day and have since learned to control my anger. I've demonstrated that by being fully cooperative, respectful, and compliant with prison protocols. My prison record speaks to that."

"Compliant and respectful?" the lead panelist huffed, "You broke a man's arm according to your records."

"That ... was only to get him to drop the shiv he tried to shove in a guard's back. That should be in the report, is it not?" Alan asked, trying his best to maintain his temper.

The chairman was trying to needle him into an aggressive rebuttal. Alan barely had that contained. He wasn't expecting this kind of interrogation. Nothing in the older prisoner's notes alluded to this kind of behavior. He'd only said, "Keep your goddamn guard up, and ya wits aware, sonny. Throw a temper tantrum, and yer ass is grass with 'em go'n at ya like a damned-fuckn lawnmower!"'Guess what he meant by that statement,'Grey thought.