A Penitent's Petition for Parole

"Yes, it is noted," the lawyer-type chimed in. "Just seems to be excessive use of force." Glancing over his reading glasses, he looked to the other two to see if his remark met their approval. He could read the body posture of the financier. But he couldn't read the play toy's body language — except for her curves — which read, 'hands-off me ass-hole.' 'At least two of us are on the same page,' he thought.

"Mr. Grey," Jessica Lush slipped into the conversation again as she rose to address him, "Given that you acknowledged you had a fair trial, the sentence was appropriate, then why are you petitioning this panel for parole at this time?" She sprang the next question, a good one, Grey thought.' 'How do you answer that after you've been led down to the pillory, acknowledged you were rightly put there, and justify asking to leave prison, basically on the promise of future good behavior?'

"Ma'am, before Abigail's attack and her death," Grey spoke with as much sincerity as he could muster, "we were attending junior college classes in preparation for service in the Peace Corps. My sister wanted to help by taking classes in medical care to help people live better lives and put that to use in the Corps. I eventually enrolled there to defray the costs of attending a university for a degree. I worked full-time at a local grocery to help assist my parents' costs for our classes. Our dream was to be the first to attend college in our family. I want to honor my sister's commitment and help out with the medical dream she desires. Once provisions of parole are completed, I could restart that ambition. In a cell for forty years, no one reaps the benefit of that incarceration."

Alan Grey had recounted the night his sister, Abigail, was brutally attacked by four thugs in the decaying part of town. The rage consumed him when he discovered that what happened to her had been overwhelming. Alan tracked down the three thugs who had escaped and killed them in vengeance. He confessed to his actions, admitting that he had derailed the investigation and prevented justice from being served through legal means.

Abigail's death had shattered their family. Alan, his younger brother, and their father struggled to cope with the loss. They were a close-knit family, barely surviving on their father's meager income as a handyman. Alan's dream of becoming a Peace Corps volunteer with a medical background, alongside Sarah, had been shattered.

"But I've come to realize that my original goal was not about revenge," Alan continued, his voice unwavering. "It was about justice for my sister and the life stolen from her. The legal system failed her, and I couldn't bear to see her assailants go unpunished."

The lawyer leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "And what makes you think you deserve parole?"

Alan took a deep breath, summoning the strength to speak his truth.

"I've spent six years reflecting on my actions. I've grown, learned to control my anger, and sought a different path. I want to make amends for what I did and rebuild my life, not just for myself, but for the memory of my sister."

The room fell silent as the three-panel members exchanged glances. The banker scratched his chin thoughtfully, and Jessica Lush seemed lost in her thoughts. Finally, the lawyer cleared his throat.

"Your case is intriguing, Mr. Grey," he said, his tone begrudgingly admiring. "We'll review your petition and make a recommendation to the governor. Meanwhile, the victims' rights group present will be notified of such rendering and have a chance to appeal. All in all, the governor's decision could take between four weeks to four months in time. During such time, you will be remanded into the state prison system to continue serving your sentence. Needless to say, Mr. Grey, anything that goes on during that time will impact and possibly cause your appeal to be rendered null."

Alan Grey's soft-spoken voice seemed to melt a little ice between the three-panel parole board members. He saw a glimpse of that, he thought, as they turned to look at one another for a moment. However, he couldn't be sure what would transpire in that room after being escorted to the changing room and back into a prison uniform again. The panel had a responsibility to the governor. Any recommendation for release had to have a low blow-back effect on his next election, an almost certain chance of success, and impact each of their political statuses if a recommendation blew up in their faces.

Contrary to popular polarized beliefs, the recidivism rate for murderers is low; just two percent of those released commit such heinous crimes again. Still, there was that two percent margin of error. The older a felon, the less likely that criminal act will repeat itself. Grey was twenty-seven years old, seemingly penitent, and mildly spoken. Killing three people, in a rage, for someone with his background seemed a fringe occurrence. All were factors to be weighed, evaluated, and used to arrive at a recommendation to the governor. Although, at twenty-seven, and the shape he was in ... well, the potential for trouble was obviously there.

Grey, having stood for the summation, turned to study the gallery. He'd heard the wordsvictims' rights group. The gallery was empty except for his dad and brother when he sat down. He glanced, now, to see who might have entered that gallery. A diminutive Amerasian sat across from his dad. Her dark-almond eyes focused on Alan as he stared at her. Her piercing look was studied, unwavering, as she seemed to be memorizing every parted hair and cleft chin mark on his face. It was that inscrutable Asian stare that caused his gaze to break. He looked toward his father and brother as they were escorted out.

Grey returned to his cell from the hearing room and back into a prison uniform. The hearing room and adjacent hallway exuded an eerie calm, starkly contrasting the chaos of the nearby cell blocks. Grey found it challenging to reconcile this peaceful environment with the harsh reality of his current situation. Despite his attempts to escape into his thoughts, he couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped in a surreal concrete world.

Lying in his singular cell, Grey thought about the hearing. He thought about what was said, wasn't said, and wondered if he had impacted their decision by using what the old-timer had taught him during their time in cells across from one another. His mind also turned to the 'victims' rights member,' that diminutive Amerasian woman with long, waist-length hair that had locked eyes with him. She didn't blink or look away. Despite her size, she was commanding; her self-assuredness conveyed that as she stared him down.

'Who is she?'he thought. In the dark, his hands wandered to his waistband, recalling the details of her slim body, that long flowing hair, those alluring eyes, and those curves. Libidinous thoughts of what lay beneath that form-fitting dress permeated his sexual images of the advocate. Those thoughts fueled his imagination and brought someone new and different into his fantasy that night, and many nights to follow. The vision of the Amerasian helped stiffen Grey's cock that night as he got off while masturbating, thinking of having her before he fell asleep.

Three months after the hearing, Grey had gone from positivity about the panel's objectivity to developing a forlorn resignation. He felt he might be like the old-timer and leave the prison at sixty-nine years of age after serving forty years for three murders — justified or not. He would be too damn old to care about what needed to be done by then, but it would still weigh upon him like a millstone around his neck, weighing him down as he was tossed overboard onto the streets of uncertainty at that age.

Gray's mood soured. The old man across from his cell had warned him of that possibility. "Ya gonna get pissed 'cause you ain't heard shit. Ya, libel to do somethin' fuckn' stupid like I did. Get yerself fucked over 'cause of it ... and fuck up ya parole. Don't be an asshole, kid; keep ya goddamned cool and hold ya tempa! I got a feel'n ya gonna get yourself out of here. Don't fuck ya self-up, kid." The old man's words were written on notebook paper and taped to the wall of his cell ... a 'don't fuck yourself kid' message Grey had penned right after a moment of rage when another inmate tried to rile him over the parole hearings delayed outcome.

In the afternoon, Grey was startled by someone calling, "Grey, get up!"

The guard bellowed through the bars of his cell. Alan's eyes sprang open. Raising on one elbow, he stared out at the guard. Carnahan was his usual blustery self. "The warden wants to see you. Get your ass up and over here! You know the drill."

Alan Grey felt, as did everyone, getting an order like this one; he was puzzled. No one got called on the carpet for something good in the joint. It was for the exact opposite. Grey didn't know anything he'd done that was out of place. But here, it could be for looking at someone for too long. He rocked up onto the bed and set two feet down, and slid into his uniform slippers. He slid his hand through the slot and felt the shackles clamp down on his wrists. No one ever took a chance on a prisoner's hands being unrestrained, especially with a murder conviction or three convictions, in his case. Grey was paraded down the hallway to the warden's office, under watchful cellmates' eyes as he passed them. Snitch was on their minds.

"Grey," Warden Chalmers addressed him as the guard stood by, "You musta' said something the parole board liked three months ago. The governor signed your parole papers. You're getting transferred to the out-processing wing tomorrow. Keep your nose clean, and you'll leave by noon Friday. You get some class time there for the next three days — orientation and such. Carnahan will get you back to your cell. Gather your stuff; you'll eat in the new wing tonight."

"Suppose you'd like to inform someone?" the warden asked as an afterthought.

"My dad, sir," Alan answered, almost choking on the words as his throat constricted at the news.

"Carnahan," the Warden barked, "Get him to a phone, then back to his cell to clear it out."

Looking up again at Grey, he said, "That's all, Grey. Hope to hell I don't see you again."

He nodded as Alan's head bobbed slightly in acknowledgment. There were no 'thank you' words by Alan. It was over. Grey was numbed by the impact of freedom just three days away. He would be on the other side of the prison walls. Still, it was parole and what came with that, but it was still freedom beyond the confines of a six-by-eight-foot cell for hours.

In six years, the warden had seen Grey precisely three times: after the shiv incident when he saved the guard's life, the day before the parole hearing, and today would be his last contact.

"Hello?" Bill Grey answered his cell phone, his voice guarded, having recognized the accompanying ID. It was the state prison caller identification number. Such calls were rare and never came while he was at work. They always rang in the five-minute monthly calls allotted when he got to speak with Alan.

"Dad," Alan Grey choked on the words as they crawled up his throat and into the receiver, "I'm getting out ... Yes, three days ... I can't wait too, Dad. See you soon.

Friday, by noon, Grey had dressed in his dated, tight-fitting black suit, which he had worn six years ago to trial as a lanky nineteen-year-old. In his pocket, he had two hundred dollars — on a credit card — his gate money. Alan walked out the front gate and into the welcoming arms of his dad. It was a long hug. Grey, six years older, saw the watery trace of a tear running down his father's eyes when they broke. Alan's eyes were dry, still cold, and controlled from the years of putting up a wall to avoid a show of emotions. He barely contained those emotions, not letting them out on display. His emotional armor was still strong enough to shield him. Being cold and aloof helped keep the other inmates weary of what he might do if they pissed him off.

It wasn't until an hour into the long ride home that Alan realized this wasn't a dream. He was out, unchained, and able to move without restriction, except for reporting to a parole officer. He had been told he would report the day after he arrived home. Instructions would be given to him by his parole officer, Wilson. For now, he breathed deeply as he took in the sounds of the wind and the country western music from the truck radio. 'Freedom Never Felt So Free'seemed aimed at his ears as the song broke out while Alan was deep in thought, watching the row of trees flowing behind them.

"Please, pull over, Dad," Alan requested.

The elder Grey pulled over to the side of the road for a moment.

"Son, what now? What do you want to do?" Bill Grey asked his eldest son as they sat on that solitary roadside. He had that worried tone in his voice. Alan Grey felt it differently; he felt the feeling of freedom seep into his bones in that quiet wind blowing down the road.

"Settle in, Dad. Find a job and a place to stay. Get a routine like the out-processing services advised," Alan answered his question, staring at the distant world around him. It was so different from the gray cinder-block cells and barbed-wire fencing. Ruefully he added, "Find a woman as pure as Abigail," he chuckled, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Alan, you've got a place ... stay at home as long as you like, son," Bill suggested, "and as for a woman, well, after six years, you need to find one. But certainly not one as pure as the driven snow like your sister. You want one more like the fifty-dollar girls standing on the corner around midnight," his dad joked. Finally, both men smiled, the ice had broken, and the reality of freedom began to set in. They climbed back into the old pickup and resumed the trip ... homeward.

"It may not be long, Dad, just long enough to ..." Alan Grey started to say, as his voice hardened.

"Son, take time to get used to being out again. You have all the time in the world ... He's not going anywhere," Bill replied, interrupting Alan as his hands tightly gripped the wheel. He could still read his son's inflections, even after six years.

"You know where he is then?" Alan asked, gritting the words in his clenched jaws as he turned to look at his dad. He read the wrinkled brow look and didn't need his dad's taciturn answer as he stared down the roadway. The look alone told him without his dad even speaking a word. His father knew. Alan felt a welling up of rage, knowing he was closer to bringing closure to Abigail's death. He had that caged-up surge of anger frothing for six years as he thought of ways to add pain to the one that got away.

"It might not take long at all, Dad," Alan breathed deeply and let it out between clenched teeth.

Alan Grey pressed the doorbell. It chimed. Somewhere a soft feminine voice called out, as the door clicked open, "Come in. I'm out in the garden; come through the sliding glass door in the living room."

Grey looked around for the source of that voice as he replied, "I'm not someone you know, lady. I'm here to report to Wilson. So tell him I'm here, and ... I'll wait outside."

He added the latter as an afterthought. Grey wasn't about to make a mistake — like scaring the shit out of a woman on his first day out of prison. Even if she said to come in — he knew that would be misinterpreted when she screamed at seeing a stranger inside. He had things to do, and returning to prison so early wasn't one of them.

"I know who you are, Mr. Alan Grey. I can see you through the video camera. Just open the damned door, find your way to the garden, and ... don't make me come and get you."

The voice was no longer serene; it was commanding. Grey turned the unlocked doorknob, entered, and found his way down the hall into the living room. It had a panoramic view of a central, neglected courtyard needing a great deal of thoughtful gardener's care.

Looking through the sliding glass door, he watched as the sword-wielding woman sprang cat-like through an array of lit candles. Grey supposed she saw them as a hoard of imaginary warriors. She spun and slashed her sword, deftly making her way between the candles. Then wheeling about, she repeated another series of moves that had Grey thinking he'd wait before he surprised her by opening the sliding glass door.

'No sense getting my head cut off,'he thought.

The final moves had her long, flowing hair spinning around her neck. With a flourish, she effortlessly swung the Nihonto Katana-styled sword over her shoulder into a scabbard behind her back. Turning back to survey her handiwork — her victory over those flames she killed left a smug look as she turned toward the glass door.

'Damn straight-up samurai shit, graceful, and obviously years of practiced moves with it,'Grey mused. 'No wonder she wasn't afraid to growl out orders to come inside.'

Though small in stature, she had the equivalent of his prison posture and demeanor to back it up. Each candle's flame had been extinguished in a singular fluid motion; just the wicks sliced off — not a waste of any part of the candle to be seen — precise surgical skills.

'Damned fucking, impressive, lady. Was that to impress me?'he wondered. 'If so, you just did that! You're a damned-fucking impressive woman — both with the samurai moves and a body and a face that could make a man's heart stop ... and long to smell the roses.'

She stepped forward and stopped at the glass door. Grey watched her pause. Six years in prison, yet Grey had remembered his manners. He recognized her expectant pause and slid the glass door open for her as if she were his sister. He stepped back. She entered the living room, grabbed a blouse, and tossed it on as though Grey wasn't there. Swiftly she moved to a desk in the corner, anticipating that Grey would follow.

"I'm to check in with Mr. Wilson and report my status," he stammered, turning to watch her sway past him as she swung the sword over her head and into its cradle above a credenza behind her. Raising her hand, she abruptly stopped him from speaking further.

She intoned with words like a hammer pounding on steel, "Not Mr. Wilson ... Mr. Grey."

"I'm Asuka Wilson, your parole officer," she clarified that for him; sitting down, she studied his reaction. His face was easy to read; it had that non-comprehending furrowed-brow look.

"Grey, you've been incarcerated too long to realize not everything revolves around men — as if it was a man-in-charge world," her silky voice dropped the harsh words out like meat through a grinder. She read his new reaction — anger. It was like many men with whom she had dealt. All quickly learned she wasn't someone to lie down and spread her legs to get what she wanted ... although that wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility, either. She liked the cut of his jib, and if it had been under different circumstances ...

Grey's eyes widened. He was speechless for a moment. The idea of a woman monitoring his parole was foreign to his thinking. Men had ruled over his life for the last six years — it never occurred to Alan that an authority figure would be other than a man. As he adjusted to his newfound freedoms, a beautiful woman was a new twist in his world. His mind still operated on the emotional thoughts of a nineteen-year-old last, shy contact with girls. Grey was still at a loss regarding how to approach women or this one verbally lashing him.