With Good Behavior (6 page)

Joe peered down at the dark-haired, blue-eyed boy, kicking his skinny legs up and down in the black metal stadium chair.

“Logan is not going to stay with us for now,” Joe explained.

“What?” Grant’s voice trembled, and he blinked rapidly.

“He’s going to live with his godfather, your Uncle Angelo.”

“That’s where he went last night?”

“Yes. Your mom tracked him down at Angelo’s house this morning.” Joe sighed. “Logan decided he’d rather live there. But your mom and I want you to live on the base, with us. You’ll be safe on base.”

The crowd roared as the White Sox pitcher struck out the third batter in a row. Grant was silent for several moments before he asked, “Doesn’t Lo like me?”

“Oh, Grant, it’s not your fault,” Joe reassured him. “Your brother loves you. If there’s anyone he doesn’t like, it’s probably me. I was pretty hard on him.”

Joe glanced down lovingly at his younger nephew. Grant seemed awestruck by the sights and sounds of a major league baseball game. “We’ll have to make it without Logan, all right? That means you and I can go to lots of Sox games, just the two of us.”

Grant appeared pensive. “I’m sorry. I shoulda heard Lo leave our room last night.”

“It’s okay. Your mom didn’t hear him either.”

“Is Mom mad at me?” the little boy asked.

“Not at all.” They sat in amiable silence, watching the game, before Joe added sternly, “Just don’t ever let me catch 
you
 smoking, Grant.”

He looked at his uncle with fear, nodding slowly. Joe reached out to hug him but pulled back with surprise when Grant visibly flinched at his approaching arm.

“I just wanted to give you a hug!”

“Oh – oh—okay.” Grant nodded and allowed himself to be drawn into his uncle’s arms. Joe was overcome by sadness as he held Grant, rocking him a bit.

Thirty-year-old Grant still remembered the feel of his uncle’s strong arms that day—a sense of safety he’d never felt before. Far off in the distance he heard the cries of a young boy, echoing in his mind like his own helpless, abandoned whimpers. The fearful sounds became louder, and Grant snapped out of his trance to see the alarmed faces of ship passengers all around him at the railing.

“Somebody get him!” a man yelled.

“Henry!” a woman screamed. Grant followed the sound of abject panic and saw the chardonnay lady wildly waving her arms, staring at the river below. Grant trained his eyes on the water and was horrified to see the boy thrashing in the river, his small head bobbing precipitously, about to go under.

“Man overboard!” Grant roared, and without thinking, he climbed the railing and launched himself into the river.

The icy water sliced through him, but instinct and Navy training took over as he calmly swam toward the boy. The ship engines kicked off, and he inched closer to his rescue target in what felt like dead silence. The boy was sputtering and his eyes flashed with terror each time he was able to kick to the surface.

Almost there,
 Grant told himself as he took swift, sure strokes. His sopping clothing weighed down his arms, and he mentally kicked himself for failing to remove his shoes before he jumped into the water. He was a little rusty in Navy rescue techniques after two years in prison.

Finally he reached the boy, and he extended his strong arm, trying to rein him into a safe embrace.

“It’s okay,” he shouted. “Just relax. I got ya.”

The boy frantically kicked and clawed before finally going limp in Grant’s arms. He still appeared conscious, so Grant guessed he must be in shock. He treaded water with some difficulty, but kept them both afloat until Roger restarted the engines and navigated the ship closer to them. Tommy (who apparently used the commotion to take a break from Grant’s former toilet-cleaning duties) tossed out a life buoy, which Grant retrieved, lifting the donut-shaped raft over the boy’s head and encircling him in the floating device. Grant kicked and pulled them both toward the rope ladder that had been extended over the hull of the ship, and he carefully helped the young boy up before climbing the ladder himself.

Pulling himself over the gunwale, he heard the mother screech at her son, “Why in the hell did you jump off the boat?”

“My Cubs hat flew off my head!” he whined, his body shaking from the cold. “It went into the river, and I wanted it!”

His mother snatched the towel offered by a staff member. Wrapping her trembling son in the fluffy fabric, she placed her face within inches of his. “You ever try something like that again and I will 
kill
 you!”

Roger arrived on the scene, studying the soaking-wet white shirt clinging to his employee’s chest. His eyes trailed down to the water dripping off Grant’s black pants onto the deck below.

“You kept your shoes on, you idiot.”

“Sorry.” Grant grimaced, shaking water out of his ear.

Roger leaned in closer and whispered, “You just saved my ass, Madsen. Well done.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Looks like you’re more valuable up here on deck. You’ll never have to clean toilets again.” Roger nodded, then turned on his heel and headed back to the bridge to guide the ship to the docks.

Grant grinned as Tommy handed him a towel. Maybe the man overboard had just swum closer to shore.

W
as she having a heart attack?

Sophie had trouble getting air as she paused outside Officer Stone’s door. Her throat constricted with fear, and the dull pain in her chest sent waves of alarm coursing through her body. Had her mother felt this way prior to her heart attack? Would Sophie soon be seeing her mother again? She grasped the blurry frame of the metal door in front of her, maintaining a white-knuckled death grip as black spots danced before her eyes.

Wait a minute. Tightness in her chest? Racing heart? Fear of dying? This was no heart attack. This was an attack of another kind: a 
panic
 attack.

She’d come close to experiencing this heart-pounding panic in prison several times, but now she knew what a full-blown attack felt like. She suddenly felt complete empathy for her past panic disorder clients, who had tried to describe how terrified they felt, sensing impending death as their bodies broke down before their very eyes. Now she felt for herself their subsequent embarrassment upon realizing their bodies were quite fine. They had simply conjured up the physical symptoms in their minds.

What was the intervention for a panic attack? Oh, right—deep breaths. Sophie forced herself to inhale slow, strong gulps of oxygen, trying to reverse the quick and shallow breathing of her state of panic. Feeling her shoulders sag as she began to relax, she tried to clear her mind. 
It’s okay. It’s only panic. Nobody has ever died from panic. Just breathe and talk yourself through it.

She had no more time. She had to face her PO. She wasn’t ready, but she had to do it.

Sophie forced her trembling hand upward and knocked on the door. Regrettably, she heard Officer Stone’s immediate response, hollering for her to come in. Fighting the urge to flee, she swallowed hard and entered the shabby room.

“What’s wrong?” Jerry asked as soon as she walked in.

She gave a tight smile and sat down gracefully, tucking one long leg behind the other.

Observing her trembling in the chair, Jerry repeated, “I asked what’s wrong with you, Taylor. Spill it.”

Sophie couldn’t look him in the eye and instead kept her gaze glued to her hands. She finally mumbled, “I don’t have a job.”

“What? I couldn’t hear you.”

She lifted her gaze and locked her eyes on his, a trace of defiance mixed with her hopelessness. “I haven’t found a job.”

Jerry’s jaw jutted out and his face hardened. “This is our third meeting,” he growled. “I told you to get a job in two weeks or you would return to prison.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

A palpable tension hung in the air. Suddenly Jerry popped up. The scraping of his chair against the cracked linoleum startled her even more than his menacing approach.

“Stand up, Taylor.”

Her heart resumed its frantic thumping as she rose, stuffing her large handbag onto the chair behind her. He was right beside her now, the shiny handcuffs that swung against his belt reflecting the fluorescent lighting of the office. She felt the PO’s thick hand grasp her lean bicep, and he roughly guided her to the wall.

“Spread ‘em,” he ordered, and she immediately placed her hands up and out against the wall, moving her legs apart as much as her beige skirt would allow. She tried to appear calm and composed, but her continued trembling revealed her fright. At least this time she knew what to expect, unlike the first surprise arrest in her therapy office. Sophie Taylor was returning to prison.

Jerry frisked her in a methodical and business-like manner, his stone face hiding his disappointment. He had thought this one might actually make it. But he had to follow through on the consequence for her parole violation. It was his job. He had no choice.

Unclasping the handcuffs from his belt, he drew one wrist from above her head down to the small of her back, feeling the tremor of fear in her body. Encircling this wrist, then the other, with a cold steel manacle, he joined the two in a shameful binding. Unlike the large, burly men he typically had the pleasure of cuffing, Sophie’s thin, delicate arms fit neatly behind her. She had dipped her head, and he wondered if she was crying.

“Have a seat,” he commanded.

Sophie kept her head down, and they both sat on their respective sides of the desk. Jerry glanced at the panic button on the wall near his desk, for use if a parolee physically threatened him. It had been a few months since he’d pressed it, as the metal detectors at the courthouse entrance had greatly reduced attacks on parole officers. He still had a scar on his belly from a knife wound he sustained twelve years ago, though, and he could not allow himself to become complacent.

Suspiciously eyeing the docile woman across from him, he decided to use a less emergent means of communicating that he had a prisoner ready for transfer. He picked up the phone.

“Yeah, I’ve got a prisoner that needs to go back to Downer’s Grove,” he told whoever was on the other end of the line. Through a surreal fog, Sophie listened to him bark, “Well, don’t make us wait too long. My next con is due in ten minutes.”

He hung up the phone and gave her a stern glance. “Forty percent, Taylor.”

She looked up at him with surprisingly dry eyes. Dry, hollow eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You told me you weren’t returning to prison. You seemed determined to be in the forty percent who don’t violate their parole. And I believed you.”

“I’m sorry.” She sensed his disappointment, and it made her feel even sicker. Kirsten was going to kill her. Sophie had not told her this was a possibility when she left for work this morning. She hadn’t wanted to worry her, and there was nothing Kir could do anyway.

“What the hell were you thinking showing up today without a job? Did you think I would look the other way? Did you think you would just walk out of here?”

“No, sir.” She felt his expectant gaze upon her, but what was the use of explaining? It wasn’t like he cared. It was hopeless.

“I asked you a question,” he prompted. “We have a few minutes before the officers arrive, and I want to find out how I was so wrong about you.”

Reluctantly she began to speak. “Nothing was panning out, but I—I was waiting to hear from a hospital yesterday. I thought for sure I was going to get the job. They promised they would call. And then suddenly it was five, and they hadn’t called, and human resources was closed. Yet another rejection. I didn’t know what to do.” Her expression turned sheepish. “I considered not showing up for our appointment.”

He shook his head. “That would only have delayed the inevitable, Taylor. I would have been a hell of a lot more pissed off at you if you didn’t show up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I told you to apply for more jobs! Demeaning jobs, stupid jobs, scum of the earth jobs … anything to keep you out of prison.”

“I did!” she insisted. “At least some jobs—I can’t work for minimum wage because I have student loans to pay off, but I did apply for some! And they all told me I was overqualified.”

“You’re telling me that in this massive city, there was not one job you could find?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bullshit.” She glared at him, and he added, “I think you 
want
 to go back to prison.”

“No, I don’t!” she shouted, then looked around, embarrassed by her display of anger. In a softer voice, she continued, “I don’t want to go back. I just couldn’t …”

“You couldn’t what?”

She sighed. “I couldn’t crawl back to my father and beg for a job.”

“You could’ve gotten a job with your father this whole time? Why the hell didn’t you?”

“Let’s just say I don’t want to work in construction.”

Jerry sat thinking for a moment. “
That’s
 your father? Taylor? As in Taylor Construction?”

She smirked. “The very one. Will Taylor. Owner of the largest construction company in Chicago—in all of Illinois, probably.”

“Are you sure you have a PhD? Because you might be the dumbest parolee ever to cross my doorstep! You’re returning to prison instead of working for your father?”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “You don’t know my father.”

She couldn’t hold in the tears in any longer. Why was Officer Stone arguing with her? She had acted unethically and unlawfully. She had selfishly brought on the death of her own mother. She was a horrible person. She should go back to prison. It was where bad people belonged. Where she belonged.

Tears slid down her cheeks, and frustratingly, she could not brush them away with her hands cuffed behind her back. Jerry averted his eyes, unable to watch her looking so broken.

“Maybe you’re right,” she muttered darkly. “Maybe I do want to go back to prison. We both know I can’t make it on the outside.” She exhaled derisively. “I can’t even find a job. I’m a fucking felon.”

Jerry was taken aback. Still puzzled by the woman across from him, he gently asked, “What is so bad about your father that you would choose to go back inside instead of work for him?”

Sophie sniffed. “He hates me.” 
Sniff.
 “He blames me for my mother’s death. She died six months ago, when I was inside.” 
Sniff.
 “She died because of the stress caused by her only child going to prison.”

His chest ached upon hearing her explanation. He couldn’t bear the death of yet another mother, not when his own mother was hanging onto life by the thinnest of threads. As Sophie continued to sniffle helplessly, Jerry plucked a tissue out of the box and walked around his desk, kneeling next to Sophie and raising the tissue to her face.

“Go ahead, blow your nose.”

Her eyes registered surprise, and she felt simultaneously touched and mortified by his paternal gesture. Not knowing what else to do, she gave a dainty blow into the tissue, and he wiped her nose for her. “Well, I couldn’t have you getting snot all over my officers,” he gruffly explained, rising and tossing the tissue in the garbage.

Jerry folded his arms across his chest and sat on the edge of his desk. His tone softened. “How did your mom die?”

“Heart attack.” Sophie looked down. “I almost had a heart attack myself coming to your office today. I knew I was going back to prison.”

He gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry about your mom.”

His unexpected kindness, minutes after handcuffing her, started her tears anew. “Thanks.” She took a few breaths before asking, “How is your mom doing?”

“Not good.”

There was silence between them. “It gets easier,” she offered. Neither of them believed her words.

“Maybe you should try to make peace with your dad, Taylor. I bet he misses you.”

“He doesn’t,” she corrected. “He’s never approved of me, my whole life.” Sophie took a shuddering breath. “Jeez, I’m crying more than a psychotherapy client.” She flashed a wan smile. “You’re a pretty good psychologist, you know? You’ve got me telling you my family history, bawling like a baby. Your tissue technique could use a little work, though. It would be easier for your clients to wipe their own noses if their hands weren’t cuffed behind their backs.”

With a twinkle in his eyes, he said, “Well, I sure don’t want to wipe any more snot off of you, so you better stop the waterworks.”

“Sorry, I’ll try.”

Jerry could not believe what he heard himself say. “Maybe I’ll let you wipe your own nose. Maybe I’ll un-cuff you. 
If 
you go get a job 
today
 from your father.”

Sophie gasped. “But I can’t—”

“Taylor, don’t be an idiot! Tell him if you don’t get a job, you return to prison. I’m sure he won’t refuse you. No matter what’s happened in the past, no father could send his daughter back to prison.”

“You – you—you’ll give me another chance?”

“Against my better judgment, yes. But if I don’t get verification that you are employed by five o’clock today, I’m putting a warrant out for your arrest.”

She gulped. Getting released from the damn handcuffs did sound pretty good. After considering her less-than-stellar options for several moments, she finally gave in. “Okay.”

“Stand up.” He extracted a set of keys from his pocket and expertly unlocked the cuffs. Once she felt the cool metal leave her skin, she sobbed with relief, weeping into her hands.

* * *

“Jesus, Taylor, you’re crying harder now that I’ve let you go?” He shook his head disdainfully. “Women.”

Nervously jiggling his leg in a seat outside Jerry’s office, Grant’s eyes widened as two uniformed police officers brushed past him and entered the office. What was happening? Was that woman going back to prison? No, it couldn’t be! He hadn’t even had a chance to talk to her.

Grant heard raised voices in the office. Then the voices quieted, and the officers bustled out the door.

“Can you believe that shit?” one hissed to the other as they strode past him.

“As if we’ve got nothing better to do!”

Grant rose, wondering what the hell was going on as he watched the departing officers dash down the hallway. He turned back to the PO’s office, and suddenly she was there. She had just come out the door, and she was crying.