Free Ch. 01

Rick smiled. Damn; it was so good to be free!

***

A WEEK LATER:

Rick looked at the brick building in front of him, taking note of the numbers above the front door. After checking the piece of paper in his hand to make sure he was at the right address, he tried to open the door but found it was locked.

He was about to knock, but then noticed a small intercom with a button. On a handwritten piece of paper that was taped to the box, there was a note that simply said, "Press for Officer Larry Giuliani".

He pushed the button. Nothing happened, so he pressed it again. Just before he was about to press it a third time, and irritated woman's voice said, "Name?"

"Uhh...My name is Derrick Morrison."

After a few seconds, the door buzzed, letting Rick know it was unlocked. Once inside, he found himself in a narrow, dimly lit hallway with a flight of stairs in front of him.

The stairs led to an office space. The first desk that he saw belonged to an older lady whose appearance matched voice on the intercom.

She didn't greet him hello or anything. Her look of disinterest as he approached told a story of a woman who'd been at this job so long that it bored her.

She handed him a clipboard with a questionnaire. "Have a seat over there, fill this out, and Larry will call you in." She pointed to the group of chairs lined up on the wall.

The first page of the questionnaire was basic. It was asking about how his homelife, how he was feeling since his release from prison, if he was having any homicidal or suicidal thoughts, etc. The second page was asking about his plans to look for work, finding out any special skills he had, and what type of work he'd like to find.

Rick completed the questionnaire just as a deep, grating voice bellowed out from an office off to the side, "Send him in Linda!"

The receptionist, a.k.a Linda, looked at Rick. Thankfully, she didn't insult his intelligence by verbally repeating that Officer Giuliani was ready for him, as if he didn't just hear what she heard. Instead, she just nodded her head in the direction he was supposed to go.

The office was small, and not in a quaint way. It was more cramped and cluttered. There were folders of paperwork all over the desk, arranged with very little organization. In one corner, there was a fake plant that added little warmth to the room, while in the other corner was a black file cabinet that had seen better days.

"Morning Officer." Rick said with polite nervousness when the rather large man seated behind the desk looked up from computer screen. The Parole Officer didn't answer verbally. He simply looked at Rick over the top of his thick glasses that sat on the tip of his nose. It seemed like he was assessing Rick, making an on the spot judgement call.

Rick stood there apprehensively, not knowing what to do. Should he take one of the seats in front of the desk, keep standing until he was invited to sit, extend his hand to shake...curtsy? Being on the other side of the tall, barb wire fence for four years is a long time. Life on the inside is ran by a different set of rules than the outside world. Behind the wall, every interaction held potential to cost you. There was a hierarchy amongst inmates that had to be respected, yet one couldn't afford to be intimidated either. There was a fine line between showing respect and becoming someone's bitch. Failing to show respect to a man with clout could have the wrong people trying to send you to medical; however, trying to ass kiss is the fastest way to get passed around the crew like a cheap whore.

Even when dealing with the guards had hidden rules. Complying to their demands too easily could get you labeled a snitch by the other inmates. Bad move. Yet, outright disobedience earns you a middle-of-the-night visit from several guards. There were many prisoners who "took a nasty spill down some stairs" and ended up needing a few days with the doc.

After what seemed like an awkward eternity, Officer Giuliani simply said, "Sit" before shuffling around the many manila folders littering his desk. When he found the one he was looking for, he pushed his glasses up to his face and perused the contents of it.

"It seems you are a very lucky man Mr. Morrison. Very lucky. You were convicted for possession with intent to sell. The judge gave you six years, but you only did four. You were one of the 468 recipients of the governor's attempt to distance himself from the perception that he's profiting from the prison system. He signed pardons for prisoners of non-violent crimes who exhibited good behavior."

"Yes sir." Rick answered, not sure what he was supposed to say.

"Also says that you were a part of Manchester Childs' - or "Manny's" - crew. Is that right?"

"Allegedly." Rick said, being very careful about what he agreed to. "Manny was never convicted of having a crew or running drugs."

Officer Giuliani looked up from the folder with a skeptical look. "Right. He wasn't convicted because you refused to take a deal and give the DA what he wanted. He wanted Mr. Childs; not you. You were a guppy who could have done as little as 18 months if you just played ball and gave him the big mouth bass. Instead you leave your wife and your kid behind to serve his time.

Rick was not taking the bait. Looking Officer Giuliani right in the eyes, he responded, "With all due respect sir, that's insulting. I served MY time for MY mistakes. I'm no one's bitch, especially not Manny's. The choices I made were mine, and mine alone. Now, I'm just looking forward to putting my past behind me and moving into the future with my wife and daughter."

Officer Giuliani let out grunt and shook his head as he leaned back in his chair. It creaked under his weight. He folded his hands by interlacing his thick fingers as he rested them on his round belly.

A part of him admired Rick taking ownership of his past. It was a good sign. After doing this job for this long, the officer had a good sense of which parolees would make it on the outside, and which ones would end up right back.

Still, he couldn't understand the insipid loyalty that people from urban areas had to the criminal element; the very element responsible for the death and degradation of the neighborhoods that they lived in. No one wanted to be the one aiding law enforcement in abolishing it. On one side of their mouths, they'll protest with picket signs while chanting, "Stop the violence", but right after that they'll be reciting rap lyrics that glorify murder, drug use, and rape. Then they'll treat the cops like they're the bad guys.

Imagine how much better these neighborhoods would be if the good people in them banded together and REALLY tried to stop the crime in them? How many young men would be saved if the drug and gang lifestyle was universally reviled as the plague that it is instead of glorified?

But that was a conversation for another day. The current one was headed in circles if he continued it, so he switched gears.

"We'll leave it at that, Mr. Morrison. Tell me, how's your week been?"

The change in pace was welcome, so Rick eagerly answered. "It's been great, sir. Like you said, I'm a lucky man. Being home with my wife and daughter feels like I'm dreaming."

Officer Giuliani nodded, then asked, "How's your living situation? I understand that you and your family are residing with your mother-in-law. A, uh..." He searched the paperwork until he found the name and continued with, "...A Miss Martha James. Is that a peaceful arrangement? You and her get along?"

Rick hesitated on this answer. He didn't want to raise any doubts regarding his parole. One of the provisions of his parole was to have stable housing.

"We're cordial." He finally said.

Rick's pause spoke volumes to the Parole Officer, as did his non-committed answer. Once again, he nodded. "Okay, fair enough. You wouldn't be the first ex-felon staying at someone's house that didn't fully want him there. You want to keep things smooth? Don't bring trouble to her doorstep. Be invisible in the ways that count, but present in the ways that help. Do dishes, help cook, take out trash; but most important, find a job. People who do these things always have peace at home during their parole."

"Noted, sir."

Officer Giuliani was beginning to like Rick. Switching gears yet again, he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small cup with a lid on it. He placed it at the end of his desk, right in front of Rick.

"You will give a urine sample every visit for the first six months. After that, I will do surprise drug tests at my discretion. I'll also be making planned and unplanned visits to your residence to check on you."

"Yes sir." Rick said grabbing the cup.

"Good. Now, the important stuff. There are a few things that will make me boot your ass back prison. Failing my drug test is one of them. Another is if I catch you hanging out with your old crew. Manny is bad news, kid. Stay clear of him."

Rick had to fight to keep a poker face. Manny was one of his best friends. He was the only one there for him when his dad died. Throughout the entire time that he was locked up, his books stayed filled with money because Manny made sure to faithfully deposit it.

"Staying clear" of Manny was like staying clear of a brother. Still, Rick nodded and once again said, "Yes sir."

"No drugs, no guns, no illegal activity OF ANY KIND. You keep your nose clean and find a job, you will have a nice future ahead of you. Got it?" When he saw nonverbal acknowledgement from Rick, he pointed to the cup and said, "Now, you look like a man who needs to take a leak."

Officer Giuliani used an over the counter drug test. When the results came out negative, he talked with Rick a little more about finding work. There were programs to assist ex-cons in finding employment. The work wasn't glamorous, and it only paid minimum wage, but it was better than nothing.

When the visit was ending, the parole officer walked Rick outside. It seemed like a nice gesture, but in reality, he was trying to catch a smoke break. He did, however, hand Rick his card.

"This is my number. Office hours are from 8 to 5." He flipped the card over, and on the back was a hand-written telephone number. Looking Rick directly in the eyes, he said, "And this is my cell. I don't give this number to every parolee. I only give it to the ones I feel will try to stay clean. You seem like a good kid. If you get into any situation that you need help out of, or you need someone to talk to; use it. If I don't answer, leave a message."

Rick took the card, examining the handwritten number. This was really the first gesture that showed Officer Giuliani gave a shit.

"Thank you, sir."

Taking out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, he removed one. Before putting it in his mouth to light, he said, "And if you ever want to do the right thing about Manchester Childs, call me for that too. I know the detective who's been working his case. I can promise you that he'd be happy to hear from you. Probably get you whatever you wanted. WITPRO, a nice comfy place somewhere for you and your family...who knows?"

"I'll keep that in mind." He said, even though both knew he was lying.

With that Rick walked towards the bus stop, leaving Officer Giuliani to smoke his cigarette.

***

Rick was feeling encouraged upon leaving his meeting with his parole officer. On the bus ride back to his mother-in-law's house, he read over the paperwork about the programs that would help him find a job. Bringing money in (legal money) would go a long way to changing Martha's opinion on him. For some reason, he cared what she thought of him. He knew she never really liked him. She didn't exactly make that a secret. Before he got locked up, he didn't give a shit what she thought of him. Traci loved him, and that was all that mattered.

But now, everything was different. The world was different. He was very different. Plus, he had a little girl to think about.

When he was inside, he shared a cell with the man who would become like a big brother to him. Craig was an older guy who was doing life for double homicide. He'd been inside since he was 25 years old. He had three kids, one of which who visited him. The other two didn't want anything to do with him.

Craig talked a lot about regret. He had plenty of it. Every day, he woke up with it, showered with it, and ate with it. It was his omni-present partner.

Craig once said something that stuck with Rick. He said that said that sons grow up to be their fathers, while daughters grow up to marry their fathers. If daddy hit mommy, chances are the cycle will be repeated in the next generation. Sins of the father haunt the children long after he's dead and gone.

That's what life is about; what a man leaves behind. Forget the money, the jewelry, and the women. Great men do great things, but legends leave behind legacies.

It's all about the ones left with memories when the casket is lowered into the ground. What kind of husband did he want for Anya? Did he want her to marry a drug dealer who was addicted to easy money? What about a man who couldn't hold a regular job or provide for his family?

No. Hell no.

Rick was determined to win Martha's respect. In his eyes, she was his mirror. Traci would love him no matter what he did. Even if he was dead wrong, she would ride with him to the very end. But Martha had no bonds with him; no loyalty. If he earned her respect, then he will in turn be a man worth his daughter's respect.

He was going to show her that he was a different man if it killed him, even if it meant staying clear of his brother.

As he walked from the bus stop to his mother-in-law's house, he noticed a sleek, glossy-black, BMW 8 series convertible parked on the curb in front of his mother's house. Even the rims matched color of the paintjob. It was easily 100K on four wheels.

When he opened the front door to his home, who did he happen to find sitting on his mother-in-law's sofa? Leaned back into the cushion with his ankle on his knee and his arm was stretched out over the back of the couch was Manny. If one didn't know any better, they would assume that he lived here. This picture even had Anya was playing comfortably in the middle of the floor, as if there weren't a strange man seated not even 5 feet from her.

"There he is; the man, the myth, the legend!" Manny said as a broad smile spread across his face. "And damn you got big! Traci said you beefed up, but I wasn't expecting all this. You look like you've been juicing up in there."

Rick heard the voice of his parole officer. The advice that he was given not even an hour ago echoed loudly in his ears. He wanted to do the right thing for him and his family, yet he couldn't just rudely tell Manny to leave and never come back. Could he?

"What's up, Manny?" Rick said with hesitation.

Manny didn't seem to notice the indecision in his friend's eyes. He stood, walked over to Rick and gave him a hearty embrace.

As he did, his high-priced cologne wafted around Rick's nose. His expensive sneakers, designer clothes, and hundred-dollar haircut told a story of how well business was going for him.

Traci emerged from the kitchen. She walked over to Rick, grabbed him by the shirt, and laid a smoking hot kiss on him.

"Hey baby!" She said huskily when she finally came up for air. "How was your first meeting with your parole officer?"

"It was cool. He gave me a bunch of paperwork about finding a job. Made me take a piss test. Talked about staying out of trouble." Then, addressing the elephant in a half-joking manner, he looked at Manny and added, "He told me to stay away from you."

Manny chuckled. "Really? He said that? How does he even know me?"

With a shrug, Rick said, "He's a cop, and you're...you."

"Touché."

Manny's eyes then went to Traci. It was quick flash, but something passed them; something that made all of Rick's hairs stand on end.

First, it was the way Manny looked at her. His eyes gave her a once over, followed by a slight smirk. Knowing Manny like he did, Rick recognized that look. It was one he'd seen Manny give many times to many women. It was the way his eyes flashed with familiarity; like he knew something about her. Maybe it was the memory of seeing her naked; or knowing exactly how freaky she was that made him lick his lips as his eyes roamed over her. All Rick knew was that look was usually accompanied by some freaky story about he and the woman did. The two of them used to laugh for hours about it.

But there was nothing funny right now.

Traci quickly cut eye contact, disengaged from Rick's arms, and walked back into the kitchen.

Maybe it was due to his insecurity about being away from his wife for so long, perhaps it was ability to read people. Whatever it was, Rick was hyperaware of things that would have probably gone unnoticed otherwise. He caught a vibe; a vibe that hit him hard.

He didn't want to think it; couldn't fathom it. But there it was, right there in his face. It was undeniable.

Manny had fucked his wife.

Rick tapped Manny on the shoulder, ripping his attention away from his wife. With a hard look, he nodded his head towards the front door and said, "Let's walk."

The two of them went outside and walked down the street. As they did so, Manny's voice droned in and out.

"Look Rick, I came by to personally thank you. You could have served me up, but you didn't. You kept it real, and kept your mouth shut. I respect that."

Rick avoided talking. He wanted to wait until they were out of the line of sight of the house. When they cleared a good distance, Rick stopped walking.

Manny realized that Rick was no longer walking beside him, so he also stopped. When he turned around, he found a tight-lipped frown looking at him.

"Is that the only reason you came over?" Rick finally asked with an edge in his voice.

"What?"

Rick closed the open space between them, giving his "friend" a menacing look. "I come home to find you sitting on my couch with my wife in the kitchen and my daughter playing on the floor. My mother-in-law is conveniently at work; leaving you all alone with her. Something you wanna tell me?"

Manny just laughed it off, like Rick was being ridiculous. "Bruh, you seriously tripping right now."

No denial; no wondering what the hell Rick was talking about. Interesting.

"Am I?" Rick asked, taking another intimidating step forward until he and Manny were mere inches apart. "I've known you a long time, Manny. I want you to stand here, look me in my eyes, and tell me that you haven't fucked Traci."

The smile left Manny's face slowly. The cool and collected sparkle in his eyes disappeared. What remained was a flash of something...dangerous.

"You've been away a while, Rick. I get it. But things have changed since you've been gone. The only reason I haven't pulled this out yet..." Rick looked down at Manny's hand, which was slowly lifting his shirt to show the butt of a gun sticking out from the waistband of his jeans. "...is because you're like a brother to me. So, I'm gonna give you that one for free. Other people who have stepped to me like you just did didn't get this little speech. Now, I suggest you take a couple steps back and lower that base in your voice."

As angry as he was, Rick's logical brain kicked in. Yes, he and Manny were friends. That's how he knew what Manny was capable of. He was one of the only people who knew Manny's body count. More than likely, it's grown since he stopped counting 4 years ago.

Could he get to Manny before he pulled it? Maybe. But even if he successfully got the gun from him and gave him the ass-kicking he owed him, the altercation would probably get him sent back to prison. He couldn't risk that.