A Penitent's Petition for Parole

How to handle this newfound situation was a bag of mixed emotions as his libido surged in such proximity. Guilty feelings over his past left him feeling like he didn't deserve to be back in the everyday world. After all, he was a convict, a parolee, a murderer at best, even one with second-degree intentions — still, he'd killed men — three to be exact. They got what they deserved. He still harbored those feelings despite his declarations to the parole board. The last thought was buried deep within his psyche, reserved for no one but his family to know. Justice was still not satisfied in the minds of his family or by Alan Grey's belief system. There was one left to bring to justice, even if it had to be vigilante style.

"I ..." he stammered, "Didn't expect to ... I just thought it would be a man I'd report to. Sorry." He tried to wrap his head around that again as he ogled her petite frame. Then it hit him. Recognition lit up his face.

"You were at my parole hearing, in the gallery," he blurted out, putting the woman before him with the face of the lone attendee, other than his family, at the hearing three months ago.

"You have a good eye and memory for details, Mr. Grey," Asuka Wilson said, motioning for Alan to sit at the table. "I'm surprised you remember. Grey, you had, what, a full minute to try and stare me down?" Asuka said evenly as she watched him squirm.

"I ... wasn't trying to stare you down. I saw the parole board looking up at the gallery, saying something about an advocate, and I'd not seen anyone up there but my brother and Dad," Grey answered defensively. He'd stepped off on the wrong foot, he realized. This parole officer face-to-face meeting was off to a bad start.

"I ... was trying to see who the advocate was. It's been so long since I saw a woman's face that I froze ..." Grey's voice halted abruptly.

"That pompous ass was ... mistaken, Grey. I advocate for Justice. It doesn't matter to me which side you stand on in that position." Her blistering tongue scorched the air between them, leaving Grey with little doubt that she was an unbending, formidable bitch. His view of her, now, was a bit different than the one he recalled several months ago as he awaited word on his appeal.

He'd been mesmerized by her appearance, her femininity in the gallery. He'd been caught up in the allure of her Asian-American features, her boldness, as she stared him down. Now less than an arm's length away from her, Alan Grey had dug a deep hole and was in it up to his neck, neck deep in shit. The meaning was evident in his mind that the overtone in his reply was sexual.

'Damnit,'he thought and shut his trap, hoping she'd redirect the conversation toward the parole terms, and hadn't caught his wayward libidinous thoughts. He saw a bemused smirk cross her face as she studied him. It was that same stare from the gallery that unhinged him then and again now. He shifted in his chair, straightening his back.

Asuka Wilson let him writhe for a few moments; it helped to make for a more compliant conversation. "Found a job yet?" she asked, offering him a chance to get off the hook as she opened a desk drawer. She took out a notepad and a pen to jot down his responses, though she didn't need one.

Her mind was sharp, honed by her hyperthymesia memory; she could recall almost every detail she encountered in her life, even from three years of age. Her mom called it a rare gift. Her dad — he called her abilities effing dangerous. At her young age, she selectively set aside whatever got him into trouble as a 'selective-thought memory wipe.'As an adult, she worked in the intelligence community circles; it was a key ingredient to her success—a factor she hadn't even shared with JW, though he probably knew. JW seemed to know everything, even down to the size of shoelaces someone in his case files wore. All records on Alan Grey were green-lighted — a case of rage gone off the rails in revenge for a wrongful death. In JW's mind, that could be forgiven.

On the other hand, the case jacket of Joe Earl Jones was red-lighted. Anyone in JW's red-lighted crosshairs had a right to be worried. JW let the justice system work for the most part. However, perpetrators never had a chance to see the train bearing down on them, as they were erased from their worries — if the bureaucratic system could not handle justice for the victims. JW would assign a 'Fixer' to step in and adjudicate.

"I stopped yesterday at the old market where I used to work. The former owners retired, I found out. No jobs are available ... despite the sign that said help wanted," Grey replied to her question about having a job yet. "I'll check with the unemployment office this afternoon."

Wilson nodded, tapped the paper, and asked bluntly, "What did you do when you got home yesterday?"

Grey wasn't sure what to reply. He had gone home and spoken with his brother at length. She had already asked about the job, and he'd told Wilson he stopped to check on one job opening. Those times were covered. 'The night hours ... did she want those too?' he wondered.

Gray's voice was guarded. "I stayed at my Dad's place overnight, home, watching television. Getting used to the sounds of quiet, restful sleep," Grey's response was light on details.

"Not over on Baker and Broadway, around midnight?" Wilson pointedly asked.

Grey swallowed. Someone had been following him, he surmised. He should have been more patient, as his father had advised. As his dad had said, Joe Earl Jones didn't seem to be going anywhere. But Grey wanted to make sure of that himself. To see the bastard that had been roaming free for six years at his twin sister's expense.

"I didn't do anything. No one said I couldn't travel about after dark. You followed me?" he fumed at her accusation, then worry struck him — wondering how deep in shit he was.

"Grey, your parole restrictions require you to report to me — I decide when, where, and how. Those restrictions don't address your freedom to move about unless you get into trouble," Asuka declared. "You're not about to fuck that up, are you, Grey? Not this soon, right?" she growled like a leopard about to pounce.

Grey recognized that a noose was tightening around his neck. This controlling bitch was screwing with him. He felt it. She wanted something; he could tell it by the electricity in the air as she asked pointed questions — questions she knew the answers to and applied her sword-like sharp tongue to shred his lies.

"No," Grey's deflated answer eased out as softly as his voice did, at times, during the hearing. He had no other possible explanation. Any further attempts at deception, and he suspected he'd be back in the penitentiary by nightfall.

"What did you and your father discuss on your ride home yesterday?" she asked, shifting gears.

Grey thought the drama was over for now. He started to answer. To provide details of getting a job, settling in, and maybe finding a girlfriend. That line of thought ended abruptly as Wilson took out a small recorder and set it on the desk. It was clear, even over the sounds of the radio songs in the truck. Wilson had a tape of his conversation about the surviving thug that brutalized and left his sister for dead that night in the alleyway. It was evident from the recording that Alan Grey still had an ax to grind.

'Illegally obtained,'he considered declaring, taking a defensive posture as if that mattered to her. Did parolees have privacy rights? No one bothered to explain anything about rights before he left the penitentiary. He could see the fire in her eyes as she pinned him down. 'Pretty damned fucking clear bitch; you don't give a damn about my rights.'He fumed but realized he had no recourse. 'Hang me the fuck out to dry,'he thought feeling the constriction in his throat. He imagined this would be his last day of freedom -- without a chance at revenge.

"Yeah, I was over on Broadway," he finally admitted. "I looked up a guy that used to know that gang of thugs. The one who told me about them being at the bar bragging about how Abigail wanted to get ..." Grey's voice trailed off, unable to finish the thought. Abigail was too pure to usethat word to describe what they bragged about — her wanting to get ass-fucked by all four.

"You decked him! That get the information you wanted, Grey?" she fumed at his evasive answers. "You'd better start giving me goddamned straight answers, or I'm seriously going to consider throwing your ass in the slammer again," she hissed.

"No! ... It didn't get me answers. He didn't know where Joe Earl Jones was. He said it wasn't any of his business to know. Like Abigail's life didn't matter to him. I blew up and punched him, just once, and left. Is he okay?" Grey asked, realizing how deep into shit he was at this point. If Larry pressed charges, his life was over.

Asuka studied his worried look before responding, "Your so-called 'friend' isn't pressing charges," she declared. "He's too preoccupied with some back tax issues to make any claims against you." Her tone and voice carried another hidden meaning in the nuances of her words. Grey wasn't sure how she would know his ex-buddy had tax problems or how that kept him from filing charges, but he accepted her word. She seemed to know that as a matter of record.

Grey's fiasco had kept Asuka busy most of the night, putting fire retardant on the flames down at the local precinct. It made her cranky today. Luckily, a call from Washington to the precinct captain came through as Asuka flashed her backstopped-identity Treasury Agent credentials and declared she had an interest in Larry Walker. JW could be very persuasive, and by the time Wilson had a one-to-one, unfriendly conversation with Grey's 'friend,' Larry was also persuaded and didn't see it in his best interest to file a complaint.

"Pull another stunt like that, Grey, and you will never get a chance to even the score," Asuka Wilson groused. "You're an amateur in a world plagued by criminals. Work with me, Grey ... and I'll see you get justice. Do it your way, and you will end up getting the needle, and then where will justice be for your family?" she spoke sharply, scolding him.

She let the words sink in as Grey slumped in the chair. The conversation stirred his brain fog around. 'Did I hear right?'he thought. 'She offered to help me, to help get justice for Abigail. And save my ass, as well.'

'What kind of parole officer is this — offering a helping hand?'Grey asked himself. 'She bitch-slaps me with one hand and offers solace with the other.'

"What kind of justice are you talking about?" he asked, curious about her proposition.

"How about the kind of justice that Fate delivers, Grey? You believe in Fate?" Asuka Wilson's fixer voice strained to keep an even tone. He nodded his head in acquiescence. He'd give Fate a try, even Justice, a chance if someone would step up and make a case for Abigail's botched investigation. The fourth thug was never pursued as a suspect — released, as all the publicity and public outcry was over the deaths of the other three at the hands of a revengeful, grieving brother. Alan Grey had collided with Justice over Abby's death and lost the battle before it could work through the system. Grey had time in prison to realize that and fume about how badly he'd messed up. Abigail deserved justice — perhaps 'The Fixer' had a way of achieving that.

"You watch movies as a kid, Grey?" Wilson asked in the lull.

"Sure," he replied quizzically, shifting in his seat with a shrug. 'Where's this going?' he wondered.

"Karate Kid, Bruce Lee, Kung Fu, shit like that?" Asuka repeated a second time.

Grey wasn't sure where this was leading. He hesitated, thinking back all those years before answering, "Yeah. Karate Kid stuff, why?"

"Grey, I will be your Ms. Miyagi, and you will be my Karate Kid. See this place?" she added, sweeping her hands for his eyes to follow what she pointed out, "It needs tons of work. Tomorrow, you move your ass out of your dad's place and into here — on the second-floor level. Sleep, eat, and work in this ramshackle house until it's livable. Don't leave this place for any reason unless I tell you to."

"Meanwhile, you keep your nose out of Joe Earl Jones' ass; stay the fuck away from him. I'll work on a plan for Fate to intervene. Tomorrow, I'll have all the tools and materials you need to start. You worked with your dad's carpentry business, right?" she stated rhetorically.

"Yes," he answered, wondering how she knew about that.

Grey felt trapped and yet, somehow, relieved at the same time. Moments ago, he was sure he was headed back to prison, and now, he was getting a second chance.

'What the hell?'he thought. 'What was this Ms. Miyagi's angle?'

Threatening to return him to prison, Asuka had struck a deal with Alan. He would stay in the run-down house under her watchful eye, using his handyman skills to restore it. Cut off from the outside world; he would focus on redemption and justice. Asuka knew the effect of isolating a person without access to the outside world. They turned inward, becoming introspective, and were more prone to work out their troubles.

Restless, Grey tossed and turned in his new surroundings that first night. Vivid dreams flooded his mind. All revolved around his parole officer sleeping alone on the first level: the alluring Asuka Wilson, those succulent-looking unbound mounds, and her wide-apertured mons. REM sleep had his hands active in stoking his emotional and sexual needs late into the night. His mind was busily palming those soft and succulent breasts in his sleep. Alan's lips and tongue craved to suck and slurp those turgid nipples as her body writhed against him. Still groggy from lack of sleep, Grey's internal alarm rousted him at seven o'clock. Yet, remnants of those REM flashes of lush breasts floated in his mind as he stood at the toilet, trying to quiet the pulsing, rigid pole in his hands. Three minutes of 'fast and furious' strokes helped. Then he went downstairs.

"Late," she informed him as he came downstairs and found her eating. She was dressed and ready for her morning practice.

"Eat, clean up; a truck will be at the front gate in an hour. Sign for it and move it into the garage out back. Your first lesson: study the state driving license manual on the table and get your driving license this Friday. Meanwhile, Karate Kid, it will be time to learn 'paint the fence — both sides.'"

With that morning greeting, Grey was left scratching his head, wondering what just happened, as she strolled out to the garden for her morning ritual exercises. His eyes were fixed on that almost open-breast view. The smoldering images of last night's dreams nearly had his hands reaching out to stop her, to palpate those mounds, squeeze those nipples, and finger that wide aperture below. But he thought better of it as his eyes caught sight of the handle of that wicked-looking sword crossing her back; it iced that lurid thought.

Devouring a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, Grey hastened to follow his new taskmaster's instructions. True to her word, in an hour, a chime rang out. Grey could see a video display in the kitchen of the front door and a delivery guy there. The whole house seemed wired with those damn cameras. In the background, he could make out a panel van. Hastily, he sprang up and followed her directions. The van was a rolling repair truck with ladders, painting, and woodworking tools. Everything a remodeler needed to do home repairs. He signed for the truck, and the keys landed in his hands as the delivery driver entered a second vehicle, and the two occupants drove away. He moved the tools inside the house, locking the van in the garage.

The first week Grey worked alone, scrapping and sanding woodwork, resetting doors to plumb, and removing popcorn ceiling from the upper floors, preparing each for a recoating of drywall skim coat and new paint. Wilson had become invisible, out at dawn and back again late, sometimes after three o'clock in the mornings. She was hold-up in her first-floor bedroom when she wasn't checking his work. He bent to task diligently, aiming to show her he was trustworthy. She hadn't even admonished him about staying out of her things or messing with that prized, clearly antique sword cradled on the credenza behind her desk.

Grey spent his days alone in semi-confinement. He sat in silence, reviewing the driving regs at noon meals. The laws and rules for driving mainly stayed the same. He remembered most of it and was comfortable with the rest when he did a second pass through the booklet. He had prepped the two large bedrooms, upper hallway, and storage rooms on the second floor for repainting. Friday, he headed for the garden to inform Wilson — she was nowhere to be found. Grey shrugged at the eeriness of being alone in an empty house. The prison had always been a cacophony of noises, yells, and curses. Nothing moved, farted, or belched as he took in the large house's daily silence. By Friday, the week of silence had helped soothe some of his prison jitters.

Friday morning, he started painting. Around noon, he could smell food wafting from the first floor and followed the aroma downstairs. Asuka Wilson had disappeared earlier and had returned, he surmised. He turned the corner into the kitchen expecting to find her eating and cattily announcing his 'late, again' status. Instead, he found a whole different scenario. Stunned, he stood there, unable to speak.

Her words came tumbling out first, "Alan! I ..." she stammered, nearly spilling her coffee.

Grey's surprised response spilled out, "Mary Jane ... what are you doing here?"

"I — got a call for a temporary job — to cook for a shut-in. The caller gave me a keycode to let myself in and start lunch. She said not to disturb anyone and that the shut-in would eventually come downstairs," she replied.

"Alan, I thought you were in prison ... it was just six years ago?"

Mary Jane Blythe was as stunned to see Grey as he was to see her. Older in appearance, she'd filled out some, but still, she had those same smoldering eyes and plump, lush lips that begged to be kissed. She was no longer lanky, but neither was she, someone he would kick out of his bed for eating crackers, as his dad used to say. Not a model look, but she had a sculptured body that stirred a guy's snake if he stared too long.

"I got paroled last Friday," he answered in reply to her question.

"Alan, I'm so sorry about Abigail. I feel I was partly to blame for what happened. She left that night instead of waiting for you ... my horny ex-boyfriend wanted to ... fuck, and, well, Abby knew that, so she set out early, thinking you would pick her up on the way home. I screwed that up, Alan. I'm sorry!" Mary J. blurted out.

Alan absorbed that hastily delivered a bit of information. In six years, he hadn't known why Abigail set out on her own that night. Now, he had another piece of information missing from his 300-piece jigsaw puzzle. She'd left Mary's home to give her and her boyfriend time ... time to experience something that four drunk thugs brutally took away from Abigail that godless rain-drenched night some six years ago.

Alan's legs began to buckle; he sat down. His hands were shaking, his mind numb, wordless; he just stared at Mary Jane Blythe. As much as Grey wanted to, he couldn't project any of his anger toward her for what had taken place. Mary J. was not a willing participant. Grey, unwilling to transfer that hate toward her, folded quietly. Despite what he had done to three of them, some essences of goodness remained in his current nature. Some of the old easy-going Alan Grey remained in the back recesses of his mind.