Journey on a Yellow Brick Road

She drew him in at first glance. Not that Lynda Penelope Jensen was trying to. She was sitting in the waiting room of the parole and probation office with other offenders waiting to see their agents for the first time. The receptionist had buzzed him in over his landline: "Agent Scott Brewster, you have a client."

This was during the Bush forty-three administration. He was thirty then and had been working as a PO for close to the past decade. Scott was single, never married and was always on the lookout for some honey to hook up with. Of course, socializing with offenders on one's caseload was a big fat no no.

Lynda had called him shortly before her release from a weeks-long incarceration for drug possession, so he had been expecting her. Except that her file didn't contain a photo and therefore he had no idea what she looked like until he called out her name. And that's when he knew it wouldn't be easy maintaining his professional façade. She was neither drop-dead gorgeous or beautiful. Didn't matter. He thought she was adorable. A petite five-foot-two or thereabouts. Long auburn hair. Blue eyes. Lovely smile. What else could he say? Nothing that would do her justice, at least what it was about the looks of this twenty-two-year-old offender that gave him pause. 'When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie...' You get the picture. That's amore it wasn't. What it was, was: wow! It was something that lies deep in the mysterious ways that human beings are attracted to other human beings. The tricky part was keeping those feelings to himself.

She wore a dress that day Scott met her. Nothing provocative, but it did reveal more leg than he should have seen when she took a seat beside his desk in his small office. She wore no stockings either, another turn-on. Yes, she was very pretty, but she had loads of problems, and she wasn't shy about telling him what they were: fibromyalgia, seizures, drug addiction (though she insisted she was clean from her methamphetamine habit) and emotional issues related to being sexually abused by her stepfather. She was adopted at age one; never knew her birth parents. In her early teens, around the time of the abuse, she drifted into drug use. She got pregnant at age fourteen, had an abortion and dropped out of high school a year later. Other than all that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play? No, Scott didn't say that, but he thought of it. A little dark humor every now and then kept him sane. Few people on his caseload appeared as needy as Lynda Penelope Jensen.

She was unemployed and living in Maryland with another young woman, her ex-jail mate (and also on probation to another agent in the same office), and the woman's boyfriend. "But for how long, I'm not sure," she said, "because we don't always get along. It's Rhonda and Ed's place and they could kick me out anytime. So maybe you can supply me with places to go if that happens."

From the desktop, Scott did a Google search and came up with a list of state-supported places for the homeless. "Thanks, this should be helpful," she said.

Before she left, he asked if she had any skills that might interest a would-be employer. "I can draw and paint," she said. "I once thought about a career in art. But..." She looked down at the floor and shook her head. Then she stood up and said, "Anyway, thanks again for your help."

Days later, Scott received the presentence investigation report. It contained some of what she told him, plus a few other things. A psych evaluation given to her in jail listed her IQ in the high-average range. There were also remarks by presentence investigator Carol Maynard: "Lynda is fairly articulate for someone with only a tenth-grade education...Lynda also appears to be an accomplished manipulator..." No surprise, Scott had got that impression also. No doubt, the girl used her femme fatale looks to get what she wanted. Except, based on her life up to that point, it hadn't taken her very far.

A special condition of her probation included drug testing and NA meetings. In a subsequent phone call, he said, "If you're not clean, get yourself clean within the next two weeks."

Two weeks later, she came in, gave a urine specimen and then, when she took a seat in his office, she said, "I've got something to show you." She reached into her backpack, pulled out a manila folder and slid it across the desk. "Open it."

"Wow! You did this?"

"I did. Did I get it right? I hope you like it."

It was a pen and ink sketch of Scott from his chest up, sitting behind his desk. Any amateur artist could have rendered the dress shirt and tie okay, but Lynda captured his face close enough to where anyone in the office could have identified who it was without Scott telling them. His wide mouth and curly Roman haircut. His strong nose and brown eyes. "Notice also how I sketched your shoulders," she said. "I always went for guys with thick, broad shoulders."

He nodded. "I noticed. Needless to say, I'm impressed."

"Thanks. You lift weights I bet."

"I do."

"My ex-boyfriend did, too. He still does. Behind bars."

Oh... He rolled his eyes. "You've got talent, I must say." He put the sketch down and continued. "You had mentioned something about a career in art. In my line of work, we have artists that sketch defendants during courtroom trials and also sketch suspects as described by witnesses. Something to consider."

She drew a look of amused skepticism and shrugged. "I wouldn't know how to get started. Plus, I've got a record. I doubt that they'd hire someone like me, a druggie who never finished high school. I've been on an up the down staircase since I was born, agent Brewster."

A little pep talk might be in order, he thought. "Lynda, I've seen people turn their lives around. Don't let your past define you. I still say that a career in forensic art is worth looking into. I'd also recommend GED classes to work toward a high school equivalency degree." Again, she shrugged. "Not interested?"

"I don't know, we'll see. Meanwhile, I heard you guys make home visits. Should I expect you soon?" She batted her pretty eyes, then crossed her slender but shapely legs and tugged her dress up a couple inches. He looked for just a few seconds but she noticed (they always notice) and grinned.

He was on to her flirty game. Even so, she was so damn cute, he struggled not to get ensnared. "Expect me but I can't say when," he said. "We do home visits at random."

Days later, she called to say that she'd found part-time employment cashiering at a nearby video store. That was a plus, along with her urine specimen, which returned clean. Scott decided it was time for a home visit. He made one at Saint Regis at Old Court, the garden style apartment complex she shared with Rhonda, her ex-jail mate and Rhonda's boyfriend Ed. Saint Regis, built in the early nineteen-seventies, used to be a desirable place for families just starting out; singles also. However, the last few years had seen a decline, along with the surrounding area. By the turn of the millennium, you were more likely to find people like Lynda and Rhonda than educated, goal-minded people on their way up in the world.

More often than not, offenders weren't home during these visits. Either that, or they refused to answer the door. Agents did home visits to verify residence, and that could be done by someone else who lived there. Seeing the offender wasn't necessary. But this was a bonus because not only was Lynda home, she answered the door, barefoot, wearing a robe and holding a basket full of laundry. He couldn't help but notice that the ends of her robe were far enough apart for him to catch a peak of boob. "Well, I guess you live here," he said.

He was about to hightail it out of there when she said, "I'm just doing some housework. You're welcome to come in if you'd like. I'd like to talk about a few things anyway." She paused, then added, with a chuckle, "I've got nothing to hide." She then dropped her clothes basket, grabbed the ends of her robe and pulled them fully together. "Well, nothing but my titties." She looked at him and giggled.

Scott knew he should have said thanks but no thanks to her invite and gone on his merry way. Instead, he walked in and stood in the living room while Lynda dumped her load of laundry in the washer. Why did he venture forth? To test boundaries, he reasoned. Both hers and his.

Scott was sure she was going to change into something less revealing. But no, robe still on, she came back into the living room and invited him to have a seat on one of the two stuffed chairs, clearly second-hand like the rest of the furniture and the rug that looked like it hadn't been replaced for years. Facing him in the other chair, she crossed her legs, affording him a view far enough to see that she wasn't wearing panties "Sorry," she giggled, and then flapped a side of her garment to cover most of it.

"So, what's on your mind?" he asked, thinking she looked absolutely adorable the way her long and full auburn hair framed her face. And there was her cute, concave-shaped nose, high cheek bones and a sunny smile that belied her depressing life. Get the picture? Scott resisted the temptation to whip out his cell camera to take one.

She said she'd been thinking about his suggestion about a career as an artist for law enforcement. "Maybe you can look into it for me? And if you could look into GED classes for me also, that would be great. Remember, I'm from Oregon, so I'm not familiar with what's available or where to go. No car either, so I'm dependent on Rhonda or Ed or the bus. Oh, and is medical marijuana legal here? It is in Oregon. It helps my fibromyalgia."

Yes, she was one needy offender. Scott told her that Maryland was considering making marijuana legal for medical purposes, but it hadn't yet become law. She frowned and said, "That's disappointing. There's now talk that Oregon will soon make weed legal for recreational use also."

She was in Maryland in the first place because that's where she and her girlfriend were pulled over for speeding. The girlfriend was behind the wheel, but the cop found marijuana and meth in the car. Arrests followed. Her jail-mate (not the girlfriend she was arrested with), a Marylander, offered Lynda a place to stay upon their release, and she accepted as a way of making a new start.

Meanwhile, Scott declined her offer for something to drink. "Nothing alcoholic, just a Coke or something," she said with a laugh.

"No, gotta get back to work," he said, knowing that agents weren't supposed to take anything from an offender, however small.

Days later, she called him, this time from an area hospital. "I was on the bus and just collapsed," she revealed. "Was unconscious for I don't know how long. Came to in the ambulance. It was one of my seizures where I just black out. It's happened before. Good thing I qualify for Medicaid. The docs want to keep me here for observation and tests to determine what meds they should prescribe." She paused. Then: "Scott, I know you're a busy man, but can you come to see me? I'm kind of lonely in here. Rhonda came once to bring me clothes and some books, but she seemed annoyed, like I was putting her out or something."

"We'll see," he told her.

Going there wouldn't have been totally out of line. In fact, the agency would consider it a "community contact," something that was encouraged, so long as the contact was job-related, for a specific purpose. Here, there was no specific purpose other than keeping her company, something one does when visiting friends and relatives. Scott could feel her drawing him in, either by design or accident, he wasn't sure. An 'accomplished manipulator,' Carol Maynard wrote in her investigation. It wasn't lost on him that she had gone from calling him Agent Brewster to Scott. And he had no plans on correcting her.

That evening after work, he found himself getting a visitor's pass in the lobby and then taking the elevator up to her floor. "Come in," she said after he knocked on the door to her private room. She was reclining in bed, perusing an art book that featured iconic works of abstract expressionism. She flashed him a huge smile. "Scott! Ohmygod, thanks so much for coming. I didn't think you would." Then she began to tear up.

He stepped over to her and said, "Lynda, either you're faking it or you're the first offender who was ever glad to see me. Most people on parole or probation try to avoid us when they can."

She wiped her eyes. "No, I'm not faking anything. I haven't had that many people care about me. The fact that you're here when you don't have to be, shows you do."

She was right, he did care, but he didn't want to make a big deal out of it. Yes, he found her irresistibly cute and sexy, but he also wanted to see her succeed in life, wanted her to get off the drugs, further her education and maybe pursue a career in art. He also wanted to lean over that hospital bed and kiss her. He laughed inside, picturing how Bob Lawson, his supervisor, a company man all the way, would react if he did and Bob somehow found out.

She showed him her book. "I wish I was as good as the artists who painted these pictures," she said. "Mark Rothko, Willem de Kooning, Clyfford Still. People like that. Must be nice to have that much talent." She drew a look of wistful longing.

"You've got plenty of talent, Lynda," he said. "Anyway, I didn't know you were interested in abstract expressionism."

"I've done some of it, and I think I can get better," she said. "But making a living from it is damn near impossible unless you're a Jackson Pollack. I guess being a forensic artist is more practical."

They chatted a while longer before it was time to leave. She said she'd call upon her release. When she reached out for a hug, he didn't hesitate in giving her one. One comforting hug wouldn't get him in trouble. It's when they decoupled that things got a bit tense. Their eyes connected, along with other things, internal and magical in the mysterious way those things tend to be. Moments passed, moments when Scott knew he should go.

Then she said, "Only kiss me if you want to. And, not to speak for you, agent Brewster, but you look like you want to."

"You want me to?" A dumb question, because he could read her as well as she could read him.

"Whataya think? You know I do. I also know that probation agents aren't supposed to do things like that."

"Right. Look, I better go," he said. "Hope you feel better." He ignored the disappointment in her eyes and quickly left the room, made it halfway down the hall and stopped. 'Keep on going,' his inner rational voice said. 'She's a manipulator and you're playing right into her hands. She could blackmail you. Trouble comes to all those who seek it.' He didn't seek it. Far from it. He just felt compelled to take care of her, to soothe her pain. Not to mention other things. She was so damn cute. One little kiss wouldn't hurt, would it? Well, yeah, it could. That again, maybe not. Then again... Hey, what the fuck?

He did a U-turn, walked down the hall and then stepped back into her room. She didn't ask why he had returned, nor did he tell her. It became blatantly obvious when he leaned over the bed, wrapped his arms around her and gave her that 'one little kiss.' Except it wasn't so little. It lasted close to a full minute. And when they parted, Lynda said, "Oh, my, Scott, that was wonderful. I didn't expect that."

"Neither did I," he said. "Now, I really gotta go."

He stepped out of the hospital into the warm, late May night, awash in mixed feelings, glad he did that, yet anxious at the same time. She felt good and smelled good and she kissed him back like she meant it. Had they been alone in some other place, he might have really gotten in deep. It wasn't too late to come to his senses, to get real and treat her as he would anybody else on his caseload. He had stepped over the line, perhaps far enough to where his job would be in jeopardy if she tried to blackmail him. At the very least, he'd be reprimanded, written up. Fired? Maybe so.

Two days later, he was going to call the hospital to check on her. Except he didn't have to because she reported without an appointment, coming in with Rhonda who came to see her own agent. Scott wasn't sure what to say when he called her in to his office. Clearly, the dynamic between them had morphed into something agency trainers had preached against at the academy. When he asked how she felt, she took a bottle of Aptiom from her backpack to show him. "The doctor said that this should keep my seizures in check," she said.

He examined the bottle before giving it back to her. Then he said, "Look, Lynda, about the other night. You should know that I don't normally go around hitting on my female probationers. What happened was a first."

"I didn't think you did." She drew a look of concern. "Are you sorry it happened?"

He had his hands folded on the desk, searching for the right words. His feelings were mixed but he didn't want her to know just how mixed. "No, it's what we both wanted. Not appropriate, but then so are lots of things that people do."

She nodded. "Tell me about it. I'm a perfect example. Dropping out of school. Using drugs. Getting pregnant at fourteen. Getting involved with the wrong people. Which, of course, makes ME the wrong people."

She had just articulated why Lynda Jensen should be the last girl with whom he'd ever want to get involved, caseload or no caseload. "At least you're able to admit your past mistakes. That's the first step in changing your life for the better." He laughed inside, fully aware that what he let happen at the hospital might have been a whopper of a mistake.

"So I've heard at those NA meetings I'm going to," she said, referring to what he said about admitting to past mistakes, admitting that you have a problem. "It makes sense, I guess. Which reminds me." She pulled out a sheet of paper stamped with dates of NA meetings that she had attended. "I knew you wanted to see these."

"Yep, thanks," he said. "You're on the right path. Which reminds me also." He proceeded to give her information about GED classes and careers in forensic art. "A college degree in art helps but it isn't absolutely necessary. You do need to show a portfolio of your work. It's your main resume for that kind of career. But I'd start with the GED classes. At least get that."

"Thanks, I'll look into it," she said. "But meanwhile, I wouldn't mind some more of what we did last night. And not in a hospital." She pursed her lips in that sensuous way women did, then swished her tongue from one side to the other. Then, drawing a coy, seductive grin, she said, "Maybe you can make another home visit?"

Suddenly feeling queasy, he pulled on his tie, tried to laugh it off. "Lynda, I've already verified where you live. But I guess home verification is hardly what you have in mind, is it?"

She grinned devilishly. "Well, I've heard that mixing a little pleasure with business can be a good thing."

"Yeah, I guess it can be under different circumstances. Look, you're a very pretty girl, Lynda, and smart enough to know that what you're talking about could get me in a whole mess of trouble. So, I'll have to ask, is that your game plan?"

She shook her head, uncrossed her legs and stood up, obviously miffed. "My game plan? I don't have a game plan. I just loved the way you kissed me last night. Not to mention that I think you're a great guy, good-looking and all that, and I'm touched by the way you believe in me and are trying to help me improve my life. Yes, I know that you could get in a whole mess of trouble but only, I suppose, if your supervisor found out, and the only way he would is if YOU told him. Because it won't be me." She stormed out and took a seat in the waiting room on one of the long benches. She couldn't leave without Rhonda, who was still in her agent's office.