Parole Officer Quotes

We have failed to fully appreciate how deeply housing is implicated in the creation of poverty. Not everyone living in a distressed neighborhood is associated with gang members, parole officers, employers, social workers, or pastors. But nearly all of them have a landlord.

Some years ago I had a conversation with a man who thought that writing and editing fantasy books was a rather frivolous job for a grown woman like me. He wasn’t trying to be contentious, but he himself was a probation officer, working with troubled kids from the Indian reservation where he’d been raised. Day in, day out, he dealt in a concrete way with very concrete problems, well aware that his words and deeds could change young lives for good or ill. I argued that certain stories are also capable of changing lives, addressing some of the same problems and issues he confronted in his daily work: problems of poverty, violence, and alienation, issues of culture, race, gender, and class... “Stories aren’t real,” he told me shortly. “They don’t feed a kid left home in an empty house. Or keep an abusive relative at bay. Or prevent an unloved child from finding ‘family’ in the nearest gang.” Sometimes they do, I tried to argue. The right stories, read at the right time, can be as important as shelter or food. They can help us to escape calamity, and heal us in its aftermath. He frowned, dismissing this foolishness, but his wife was more conciliatory. “Write down the names of some books,” she said. “Maybe we’ll read them.” I wrote some titles on a scrap of paper, and the top three were by Charles de lint – for these are precisely the kind of tales that Charles tells better than anyone. The vital, necessary stories. The ones that can change and heal young lives. Stories that use the power of myth to speak truth to the human heart. Charles de Lint creates a magical world that’s not off in a distant Neverland but here and now and accessible, formed by the “magic” of friendship, art, community, and social activism. Although most of his books have not been published specifically for adolescents and young adults, nonetheless young readers find them and embrace them with particular passion. I’ve long lost count of the number of times I’ve heard people from troubled backgrounds say that books by Charles saved them in their youth, and kept them going. Recently I saw that parole officer again, and I asked after his work. “Gets harder every year,” he said. “Or maybe I’m just getting old.” He stopped me as I turned to go. “That writer? That Charles de Lint? My wife got me to read them books…. Sometimes I pass them to the kids.” “Do they like them?” I asked him curiously. “If I can get them to read, they do. I tell them: Stories are important.” And then he looked at me and smiled.

schoolchildren are asked to write essays on what William Blake thought about the Tiger; despite the fact that William Blake was a nutjob whose opinions, in a civilized society, would be of no interest to anybody apart from his parole officer.

Cormick! Anything even remotely resembling trespassing and breaking and entering is going to look bad to a parole officer!' Cormick stopped, then turned and headed back to the car, 'I hate that.' I thought a moment, 'I'm not on parole.' I started for the box... 'Don't touch anything you find,' Cormick said as we passed each other.

We all looked at Shelton, who rolled his eyes. “Like my vote matters now.” Hi patted his back. “If it makes you feel better, your vote’s never mattered.” “Hilarious.” Shelton rubbed his face. “I hope my parole officer finds you as funny.” I sprang up and hurried for the exit, stopping Chance with a hand on his shoulder. “Give me a second alone with Ben. He’s still worked up, probably needs a few minutes to decompress.” Chance’s expression soured, but he held back. Hi fired a shooter my way. “Good idea. We need him mission focused. Rodger dodger.” Shelton covered his face with his hands. “Enough already.

Trina had filed a civil suit against the officer who raped her, and the jury awarded her a judgment of $62,000. The guard appealed, and the Court reversed the verdict because the correctional officer had not been permitted to tell the jury that Trina was in prison for murder. Consequently, Trina never received any financial aid or services from the state to compensate her for being violently raped by one of its “correctional” officers. In 2014, Trina turned fifty-two. She has been in prison for thirty-eight years. She is one of nearly five hundred people in Pennsylvania who have been condemned to mandatory life imprisonment without parole for crimes they were accused of committing when they were between the ages of thirteen and seventeen. It is the largest population of child offenders condemned to die in prison in any single jurisdiction in the world.

Um, h-h-hi,” Sophie stammered, closing the door behind her. Meeting her gaze were crystal eyes like blue shards of glass.

If you fail, after being released from prison with a criminal record—your personal badge of inferiority—to remain drug free, or if you fail to get a job against all the odds, or if you get depressed and miss an appointment with your parole officer (or if you cannot afford the bus fare to take you there), you can be sent right back to prison—where society apparently thinks millions of Americans belong.

It would kill the losers like him; it would kill Mathers but not that scumbag screw who had hired Mathers because the screw had THE KEY. It wasn’t going to kill the governor or the warden – the guard who said the warden was sick had obviously been a fucking liar. It wasn’t going to kill the parole officers, the county sheriffs, or the FBI agents. The flu would not touch those who had THE KEY. It wouldn’t dare.

Grant glanced down at his khaki jacket. Since he’d slipped on the US Navy uniform in Agent Bounter’s office, he’d felt a confident swagger possess him. His spine lengthened, and his shoulders retracted. He should’ve been wearing this every day, not the stupid dress shirt and slacks of a lounge singer.

English teaching at school is, unfortunately, obsessed with what a poet thought, as though that were of any interest to anyone. Rather than being taught about how a poem is phrased, schoolchildren are asked to write essays on what William Blake thought about the Tiger; despite the fact that William Blake was a nutjob whose opinions, in a civilised society, would be of no interest to anybody apart from his parole officer. A poet is not somebody who has great thoughts. That is the menial duty of the philosopher. A poet is somebody who expresses his thoughts, however commonplace they may be, exquisitely. That is the one and only difference between the poet and everybody else. So

In November, Governor Walton was impeached and removed from office, partly for having abused the system of pardons and paroles (and having turned “loose upon the honest citizens of the state a horde of murderers and criminals”) and partly for having received illicit contributions from the oilman E. W. Marland that were used to build a lavish home.

I hate that phrase "the real world." Why is an aircraft factory more real than a university? Is it? In universities I've had in my office ex-cons on parole, young people in tears racked with deep sexual problems, people recently released from mental hospitals, confused, bewildered, frightened, hoping, with more desperation than some of us will ever be unlucky enough to know, that they will remain stable enough to stay in school, and out of hospitals forever. I've seen people so lovelorn that I've sat there praying as only an unreligious man can pray that I don't say something wrong, that I can spare their feelings, that I might even say something that will make their lives easier if only for a few moments. Sad drug addicts too. Not people you usually meet in industrial offices. . . In some ways the university is a far more real world than business.

The extraordinary increase in prison admissions due to parole and probation violations is due almost entirely to the War on Drugs. With respect to parole, in 1980, only 1 percent of all prison admissions were parole violators. Twenty years later, more than one third (35 percent) of prison admissions resulted from parole violations. To put the matter more starkly: About as many people were returned to prison for parole violations in 2000 as were admitted to prison in 1980 for all reasons. Of all parole violators returned to prison in 2000, only one-third were returned for a new conviction; two-thirds were returned for a technical violation such as missing appointments with a parole officer, failing to maintain employment, or failing a drug test. In this system of control, failing to cope well with one's exile status is treated like a crime. If you fail, after being released from prison with a criminal record - your personal badge of inferiority - to remain drug free, or if you fail to get a job against all the odds, or if you get depressed and miss an appointment with your parole officer (or if you cannot afford the bus fare to take you there), you can sent right back to prison - where society apparently thinks millions of Americans belong.

Many of the urban poor have been crippled and broken by a rewriting of laws, especially drug laws, that has permitted courts, probation officers, parole boards, and police to randomly seize poor people of color, especially African American men, without just cause and lock them in cages for years. In many of our most impoverished urban centers— our “internal colonies”, as Malcom X called them— mobilization will be difficult. Many African Americans, especially the urban poor, are in prison, on probation, or living under some kind of legal restraint. Charges can be stacked against them, and they have little hope for redress in the courts, especially as 97 percent of all federal cases and 94 percent of all state cases are resolved by guilty pleas rather than trials. A New York Times editorial recently said that the pressure employed by state and federal prosecutors to make defendants accept guilty pleas, which often include waiving the right to appeal to a higher court, is “closer to coercion” than to bargaining.

After school, I’m walking out of class when my phone buzzes in my purse. It’s Peter. I’m out on parole. Meet me at my car! I race to the parking lot, where Peter is in his car waiting for me with the heat on. Grinning at me, he says, “Aren’t you going to kiss your man? I just got released from prison.” “Peter! This isn’t a joke. Are you suspended?” He smirks. “Nah. I sweet-talked my way out of it. Principal Lochlan loves me. Still, I could’ve been. If it had been anybody else…” Oh, Peter. “Please don’t brag to me right now.” “When I came out of Lochlan’s office, there were a bunch of sophomore girls waiting for me to give me a standing O. They were like, ‘Kavinsky, you’re so romantic.’” He hoots, and I give him a look. He pulls me to his side. “Hey, they know I’m taken. There’s only one girl I want to see in an Amish bikini.” I laugh; I can’t help it. Peter loves attention, and I hate to be another girl who gives it to him, but he makes it really hard sometimes. Besides, it was kind of romantic. He plants a kiss on my cheek, nuzzles against my face. “Didn’t I tell you I would take care of it, Covey?” “You did,” I admit, patting his hair. “So did I do a good job?” “You did.” That’s all it takes for him to be happy, me telling him that he did a good job. He’s smiley all the way home.

The crime was discovered when Trina became pregnant. As is often the case, the correctional officer was fired but not criminally prosecuted. Trina remained imprisoned and gave birth to a son. Like hundreds of women who give birth while in prison, Trina was completely unprepared for the stress of childbirth. She delivered her baby while handcuffed to a bed. It wasn’t until 2008 that most states abandoned the practice of shackling or handcuffing incarcerated women during delivery. Trina’s baby boy was taken away from her and placed in foster care. After this series of events—the fire, the imprisonment, the rape, the traumatic birth, and then the seizure of her son—Trina’s mental health deteriorated further. Over the years, she became less functional and more mentally disabled. Her body began to spasm and quiver uncontrollably, until she required a cane and then a wheelchair. By the time she had turned thirty, prison doctors diagnosed her with multiple sclerosis, intellectual disability, and mental illness related to trauma. Trina had filed a civil suit against the officer who raped her, and the jury awarded her a judgment of $62,000. The guard appealed, and the Court reversed the verdict because the correctional officer had not been permitted to tell the jury that Trina was in prison for murder. Consequently, Trina never received any financial aid or services from the state to compensate her for being violently raped by one of its “correctional” officers. In 2014, Trina turned fifty-two. She has been in prison for thirty-eight years. She is one of nearly five hundred people in Pennsylvania who have been condemned to mandatory life imprisonment without parole for crimes they were accused of committing when they were between the ages of thirteen and seventeen. It is the largest population of child offenders condemned to die in prison in any single jurisdiction in the world.

About as many people were returned to prison for parole violations in 2000 as were admitted to prison in 1980 for all reasons.94 Of all parole violators returned to prison in 2000, only one-third were returned for a new conviction; two-thirds were returned for a technical violation such as missing appointments with a parole officer, failing to maintain employment, or failing a drug test.95 In this system of control, failing to cope well with one’s exile status is treated like a crime.

To Cassie Black the parole office was more depressing than prison had been. When she was at High Desert, she was in stasis, like a character in those sci-​fi movies where the journey back to earth is so long that the travelers are put into a hibernation-​type sleep. That was how Cassie saw it. She was breathing but not living, waiting and surviving on hope that the end of her time would come sooner rather than later. That hope for the future and the warmth of her constant dream of freedom got her past all the depression. But the parole office was that future. It was the harsh reality of getting out.

Thanks to inaccurate reports of the number of men paroled in the two surrenders, he concluded that Lee and Johnston had yielded less than 40,000. “Is there not something remarkable in these numbers?” he asked. “Is there not something that both the Yankees and our own people have strangely overlooked? Where is Lee’s real army? Where is Johnston’s army? Not surrendered, by at least eighty thousand good men as ever shouldered a musket.” Rationalizing that the two generals had surrendered only some state militia and a lot of officers to fool the Yankees, he concluded that there must be up to 100,000 unparoled Confederate soldiers somewhere in the East and that they “will yet be heard from in this war.

Four years later, voter registration workers in the South encountered scores of people with criminal records who were reluctant to register to vote, even if they were technically eligible, because they were scared to have any contact with governmental authorities. Many on welfare were worried that any little thing they did to bring attention to themselves might put their food stamps at risk. Others had been told by parole and probation officers that they could not vote, and although it was not true, they believed it, and the news spread like wildfire.

The hot tub girl was the one before the one with the legs, and after the one with the boobs," Dan snorted, weaving slightly on his feet. "And I think he had a couple of models in between from the modeling agency start-up that he was considering adding to his portfolio." "I told you we should have invested in that one," Marco said, making no effort to keep his voice down. "He was swimming in tits and ass." He looked over at Daisy. "Pardon my French." Daisy gave him a cold smile. "Quel salaud!" Liam didn't speak French, but from the look on Daisy's face he suspected what she'd said wasn't polite. "So who is she really?" Dan gave him a nudge, keeping his voice low. "I mean, come on, man. You and her?" "I'm his parole officer." Daisy grabbed Liam's arm and tugged him in the opposite direction. "He's on an escorted day pass. Move aside because I have to have him back in his cell by eleven P.M." Dan's eyes widened. "No shit? What did he do?" "He swam in the wrong hot tub." Daisy fixed Dan with a glare. "Next time, check their ID.

and found me suitable for parole. Almost immediately, the San Diego DA wrote the governor’s office appealing the finding of suitability. The DA argued that I still posed a significant risk to public safety. The victim’s family were also strongly opposed to my being released. It was eighteen months later before we had a second hearing.

In this system of control, failing to cope well with one’s exile status is treated like a crime. If you fail, after being released from prison with a criminal record—your personal badge of inferiority—to remain drug free, or if you fail to get a job against all the odds, or if you get depressed and miss an appointment with your parole officer (or if you cannot afford the bus fare to take you there), you can be sent right back to prison—where society apparently thinks millions of Americans belong.

I can’t offer you much, Har. I come complete with a parole officer and a record, but fuck, I promise to always put you first and do my best to make you the happiest woman on the planet.

Someone who’s been behind bars already knows that crime doesn’t pay. They’ve lost everything and appreciate the simple joy of having a job. They’ve dealt with prison politics, so office politics present no challenge. They understand power structures. Each is on probation or parole, so they follow all the rules. They’re used to getting up early and working hard for no pay, so they appreciate minimum wage. But most important, every one of them has something to prove. That they are valuable, worthy, and so much more than a criminal record.

said Reel, shooting Robie a quick glance that he did not notice. “Maybe that was their plan. But Luke could never do that while he was with the skinheads. They wouldn’t have allowed it. And I doubt Luke would have wanted Holly anywhere near those people. They are bad news.” Robie said, “Maybe that’s why they came for him. Because he told them he was leaving the group so he could start a new life with Holly.” Reel said, “That actually makes sense. Too bad we don’t know where either one is so we can ask them. The police let Luke go and he’s disappeared.” “Did Holly have any other visitors?” asked Robie. “Her sister, Valerie, on a regular basis. A couple of young women she knew. Her parole officer also visited regularly, of course. But Luke came more often than anyone else. Now, let me see if there were any others. We keep records of all of them.” She turned to her computer and clicked some keys. “Yes, there was another person.” She glanced at the name on the screen. “Roger Walton.” Both Reel and Robie tensed. “When did he come by?” asked Reel. Fishbaugh clicked some more keys. “He came by only once.” “When was that?” “Five days ago.” “So, shortly before he disappeared. Did you talk to him?” “Briefly. He seemed to know

Fewer and fewer families can afford a roof over their head. This is among the most urgent and pressing issues facing America today, and acknowledging the breadth and depth of the problem changes the way we look at poverty. For decades, we’ve focused mainly on jobs, public assistance, parenting, and mass incarceration. No one can deny the importance of these issues, but something fundamental is missing. We have failed to fully appreciate how deeply housing is implicated in the creation of poverty. Not everyone living in a distressed neighborhood is associated with gang members, parole officers, employers, social workers, or pastors. But nearly all of them have a landlord.

The number of those under some jurisdiction of the “carceral state” today approaches nearly 7.5 million if we consider those “doing time” in an outer prison of regimented life, under supervision of the court system, exposed to unannounced visits from parole and probation officers, mandatory urine tests, home detention, or the invisible tether of electronic bracelets. Again, recall, just since the late 1970s, the prison population has grown seven-fold,[12] constituting what the National Criminal Justice Commission in 1996 was already describing as “the largest and most frenetic correctional build-up of any country in the history of the world.

Well, I know you don’t want to talk about it anymore, but I signed you up for that computer match thingy.” Why is it that so many people over the age of sixty refer to everything on the Internet as some sort of “computer thing”? Helen was trying to contain her laughter. “Laura, do you mean Match.com?” My father was groaning audibly now. “Yes, that’s it. Charles helped me put up her profile.” “Oh my god, Mother. Are you kidding me?” Helen jumped out of her seat and started running toward the computer in my dad’s home office, which was right off the dining room. “Get out of there, Helen,” my dad yelled, but she ignored him. I chased after her, but she stuck her arm out, blocking me from the monitor. “No, I have to see it!” she shouted. “Stop it, girls,” my mother chided. “Move, bitch.” We were very mature for our age. “This is the best day of my life. Your mommy made a Match profile for you!” “Actually, Chuck made it,” my mother yelled from across the hall. Oh shit. Helen typed my name in quickly. My prom picture from nine years ago popped up on the screen. My brother had cropped Steve Dilbeck out of the photo the best he could, but you could still see Steve’s arms wrapped around my purple chiffon–clad waist. “You’re joking. You’re fucking joking.” “Language, Charlotte!” my dad yelled. “Mom,” I cried, “he used my prom photo! What is wrong with him?” I still had braces at eighteen. I had to wear them for seven years because my orthodontist said I had the worst teeth he had ever seen. You know how sharks have rows of teeth? Yeah, that was me. I blame my mother and the extended breastfeeding for that one, too. My brother, Chuck the Fuck, used to tease me, saying it was leftovers of the dead Siamese twin I had absorbed in utero. My brother’s an ass, so it’s pretty awesome that he set up this handy dating profile for me. In case you hadn’t noticed, our names are Charlotte and Charles. Just more parental torture. Would it be dramatic to call that child abuse? Underneath my prom photo, I read the profile details while Helen laughed so hard she couldn’t breath. My name is Charlotte and I am an average twenty-seven year-old. If you looked up the word mediocre in the dictionary you would see a picture of me—more recent than this nine-year-old photo, of course, because at least back then I hadn’t inked my face like an imbecile. Did I forget to mention that I have a tiny star tattooed under my left eye? Yes, I’d been drunk at the time. It was a momentary lapse of judgment. It would actually be cute if it was a little bigger, but it’s so small that most people think it’s a piece of food or a freckle. I cover it up with makeup. I like junk food and watching reality TV. My best friend and I like to drink Champagne because it makes us feel sophisticated, then we like to have a farting contest afterward. I’ve had twelve boyfriends in the last five years so I’m looking for a lifer. It’s not a coincidence that I used the same term as the one for prisoners ineligible for parole. “Chuck the Fuck,” Helen squeaked through giggles. I turned and glared at her. “He still doesn’t know that you watched him jerk off like a pedophile when he was fourteen.” “He’s only three years younger than us.” “Four. And I will tell him. I’ll unleash Chuck the Fuck on you if you don’t quit.” My breasts are small and my butt is big and I have a moderately hairy upper lip. I also don’t floss, clean my retainer, or use mouthwash with any regularity. “God, my brother is so obsessed with oral hygiene!” “That’s what stood out to you? He said you have a mustache.” Helen grinned. “Girls, get out of there and come clear the table,” my dad yelled. “What do you think the password is?” “Try ‘Fatbutt,’ ” I said. “Yep, that worked. Okay, I’ll change your profile while you clear the table.

Three days before his scheduled departure, he rose in the morning with the conviction that he must speak with Fraser, somehow. Not in the stiff manner of an interview between paroled prisoner and officer of the Crown—simply a few words, as man to man. If he could have that, he could go back to London with an easy heart, knowing that sometime, somewhere, there was the possibility that they might be friends again, even if that time and place could not be here and now.

When Robinson and Davis take over at orientation, they bark at the new recruits to stand up, then issue their first command: “Smile.” Students will learn a lot of things in Strive, but the first lesson is how to smile. The first few days are devoted to it. The new class members are always confused, and then they start to smile—except for about 20 percent of the room, who stand stone-faced. Robinson calls out those who don’t smile, pulls them up to the front of the room, and says, “This is my smile crew.” He tells the rest of the room to cheer until they can get these men and women, mostly men, to finally crack a smile. The claps and hoots and whistles rise in a crescendo heard throughout the building. Meanwhile, Davis and Robinson walk up and down the line, yelling, “Smile,” and pantomiming it, using their fingers to pull the corners of their own mouths back. The reluctant recruits roll their eyes. Some get tense, their faces get stuck in passive displays of aggression, as Robinson goes up and down the line and mocks: “Is it painful? Is there a medical condition? Smile!” He and Davis continue their full-on assault of well-wishing and joking and silliness until one by one, the students fold. A smile is the Strive game face, they explain. “I’m not asking you to smile on North Monroe Street at two in the morning,” Davis says. “I’m asking you to smile in here.” It’s usually the youngest men who bow out at this stage—the 19- and 20-year-olds who are too cool to tolerate the corniness, the guys who’ve been strongly encouraged to try Strive by some parole officer or social worker attempting to keep them from spending their twenties in prison. It’s the older guys who are eager to cooperate. They’re hungry.

Just make sure you’re not withholding information, Sandeman. Your parole officer might find it annoying.” He gave me a shot to the shoulder that knocked me back a foot. “Somebody yanks my parole officer’s chain, and somebody might find out why they call me the Sandman. Maybe you want to think about that.” Not anytime soon.

These great troubles, although affecting the rich along with the poor, did not affect rich and poor alike. The rich, when pillaged, had more to fall back on. “Ladies” were rarely raped. When loyalists were exiled at the end of the war, the well-to-do went to England or island plantations, the others to cold and often barren regions in Canada. Commissioned officers, when taken prisoner, were generally placed on parole and allowed to continue with everyday life, while privates languished in the hulls of prison ships. Few rich people and many poor people suffered from diseases related to the unsanitary conditions of camp or prison life.

file to my right is Brian Gant’s. I open the package, remove the thick sheaf of papers, and begin to read them carefully. Gaines was born in 1966. He was first convicted of aggravated rape at the age of nineteen. He served ten years and was paroled in February of 1995, just two months before Brian Gant’s mother-in-law was murdered. I find the section that contains Gaines’s parole records. They show that in February of 1995, he moved in with a woman named Clara Stoots. As I look at Clara Stoots’s address, an alarm bell goes off inside my head. I grab Brian Gant’s file and quickly locate a copy of the original police report of the murder. I’m looking for the mother-in-law’s address. When I find it, I begin to slowly shake my head. “No,” I say out loud. “No.” Clara Stoots’s address in April of 1995 was 136 Old Oak Road, Jonesborough, Tennessee. Shirley LaGuardia, Brian Gant’s mother-in-law, lived at 134 Old Oak Road, Jonesborough, Tennessee. At the time of her murder, Earl Gaines was living right next door. I dig back through Gaines’s file, curious about one thing. At the bottom of the stack are several booking photos of Gaines. I fold my arms on the desk in front of me, drop my head onto them, and start slamming my fist onto the desk in anger and frustration. As little Natalie first told the police—Gaines looked very much like Uncle Brian. Chapter Fifty-Nine Anita White walks unannounced into my office an hour and a half later wearing a smart, navy blue pant suit but looking a bit frazzled. She sits down across the desk from me without saying a word. I’ve called her a couple times since our conversation at the restaurant the morning they arrested Tommy Miller, but she hasn’t answered and hasn’t returned the calls. I wonder whether she’s looking for another apology from me. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” I say. “I’ve been out of the country.” “Vacation?” “I took a few personal days, but I worked the entire time I was gone.” “Really? On what?” “It started with the forensic analysis of Judge Green’s computer. Our analyst found out that someone had hacked into the judge’s computer not long before he was killed. He investigated, like all good TBI agents do, and found that the computer the hacker used was located in another country.” “And what country was that?” “Canada.” The look on her face is almost, but not quite, smug. There’s a gleam in her eye that tells me she knows something that I don’t. I can tell she’s dying to spit it out, but first she wants to enjoy her little game. “Canada’s a big country,” I say. “Yes, and Vancouver’s a big city.” The thought germinates in my mind and begins to grow quickly. Vancouver. Canada. Judge Green. Computer hacker. What do they have in common? It dawns on me suddenly, but I’m afraid to be too optimistic. What has she learned? How far has she taken it? “Talk to me,” I say. “When I saw the Vancouver address, I remembered the case against the pedophile that Judge Green threw out on a technicality. So I got online and looked it up. David Dillinger was the witness that the judge held in contempt that day. So I started doing my job. I checked with airlines at the Tri-Cities airport and found out that David Dillinger flew back here three days before Judge Green was murdered.

The increase in prison admissions due to parole and probation violations is astounding. With respect to parole, in 1980, only 1 percent of all prison admissions were parole violators. Twenty years later, more than one-third (35 percent) of prison admissions resulted from parole violations.93 To put the matter more starkly: About as many people were returned to prison for parole violations in 2000 as were admitted to prison in 1980 for all reasons.94 Of all parole violators returned to prison in 2000, only one-third were returned for a new conviction; two-thirds were returned for a technical violation such as missing appointments with a parole officer, failing to maintain employment, or failing a drug test.

It’s okay,” I say, the same way I told the parole officer. The same way the boy told me he had a gun. It’s a lie we tell to make ourselves feel better.

One alcoholic parole officer. One month to go. One last client. What could possibly go wrong?

   David sat down in the only unoccupied chair in the room.                  The kid scooted his chair a few inches in the direction of the door.  David frowned at his new attorney.  “You think I did everything they’re saying about me.”                 “Ah… ah… no… “the kid said, sweat popping out on his brow.  “Let’s get started.”  David made a sudden move, his hands shooting out across the table.  The lawyer jumped back, his chair scrapping against the concrete floor.  His face paled, his hand trembled, his finger above the orange button on the radio.                  “Great, just what I needed, an attorney who believes I’m guilty.”                  “Mr… er… Reverend Padgett, I’m trying to help you.”                 “Am I your first client?”  The boy cleared his throat.                  “I assure you, Reverend Padgett, I will defend you to the best of my ability.”                 “You just passed the bar, didn’t you?”                  “Ah, yes, but I did so on my first try.  Some don’t pass until their second or third try.”                                                   “Wonderful, well we have something in common; this is the first time I’ve been on trial for my life.”                  “I have some good news for you,” Barlow said, picking up a piece of paper he handed it to David.                  “What’s this?” David said, his eyes scanning the sheet.                  “It’s a plea agreement.  I persuaded the prosecutor to only sentence you to 50 years; you will be eligible for parole in 25.”                 “You want me to plead guilty to something I didn’t do and spend the next 25 to 50 years in prison?”                 “If we go to trial, the prosecutor is going to ask for the death penalty.”                 “Have you even looked at the evidence?                 “I’m sorry, as you know I was just assigned the case this morning.”                 “Get out!”                 “Excuse me?”                 “Press your talk button on the radio and tell them you want to leave.”                  “But we haven’t discussed...”                 “If you persist I will fire you as my attorney, how will that look on your record?”     “Okay, okay, Reverend Padgett,” confused, Barlow pressed the orange button, “I’m ready to go now.”  Somewhere an alarm sounded. Suddenly there was a rumbling of running feet coming down the hall.      “You pushed the wrong button,” David shouted.  With hands trembling, he reached for the radio.  “Here let me have it.”     Keys jingled in the lock. Five officers rushed in, pulling David from the chair.  They threw him face down on the floor, he cried out in pain as one of the officers put his knee in the middle of his back.  Another grabbed David’s hands, snapping the handcuffs on his wrists.

Not everyone living in a distressed neighborhood is associated with gang members, parole officers, employers, social workers, or pastors. But nearly all of them have a landlord.

She grabs my arm and lifts it toward her face, studying my tattoo, running her fingers over it. “It’s not scratch and sniff, sweetheart.” “What is it?” I lean close to her and whisper, “It’s a tattoo.” She scoffs. “I know that. But what does it mean?” “I got that one when my grandmother died. I was sixteen.” She points at another one. “And this one.” “When I was emancipated by the state. It turned out no foster families wanted a sixteen-year-old with a bad attitude.” “You didn’t have any other family?” “No.” “What’s this one?” She points to the side of my neck, and her finger tickles the sensitive skin. I suddenly wish she would press her lips there. “When I got out of jail and got into college.” I rub my nose, suddenly feeling really uncomfortable. “How did you turn it all around?” A smile tugs at my lips. “I had this really great parole officer who took me under his wing. He made it all work out. I owe him a lot.” I’ll never pay him back everything I owe. “He’s the one who put me on the path I’m on.” “What path is that?” She watches me closely and I have all of her attention. And I love that feeling. This girl is intoxicating in the best sort of way. “Law. I want to help boys like me. I want to give boys who have nothing and no one on their sides a second chance. Or a third chance. Or any chance.

Tolkachev was five minutes late to his meeting with the CIA case officer on the night of January 18, 1985. The streets were piled with snow, temperatures plunged to fifteen degrees below zero, and he had trouble finding a place to park. When he arrived, they exchanged verbal paroles, a few pleasantries, and walked back to Tolkachev’s car to stay warm and talk. Tolkachev

I was still on parole, which meant that I had to report to my parole officer monthly, was subject to home checks, and was constantly being monitored.

Corporate investors, who have poured billions into the business of mass incarceration, expect long-term returns. And they will get them. It is their lobbyists who write the draconian laws that demand absurdly long sentences, deny paroles, determine immigrant detention laws, and impose minimum-sentence and Three-Strikes laws, which mandate life sentences after three felony convictions. Corrections Corporation of America (CCA), the largest owner of for-profit prisons and immigration detention facilities in the country, earned $1.7 billion in revenues and collected $300 million in profits in 2013.50 CCA holds an average of 81,384 inmates in its facilities on any one day.51 Aramark Holdings Corp., a Philadelphia-based company that contracts through Aramark Correctional Services, provides food for six hundred correctional institutions across the United States.52 Goldman Sachs and other investors acquired it in 2007 for $8.3 billion.53 The three top for-profit prison corporations spent an estimated $45 million over a recent ten-year period for lobbying to keep the prison business flush.54 The resource center In the Public Interest documented in its report “Criminal: How Lockup Quotas and ‘Low-Crime Taxes’ Guarantee Profits for Private Prison Corporations” that private prison companies often sign state contracts that guarantee prison occupancy rates of 90 percent.55 If states fail to meet the quota they have to pay the corporations for the empty beds. CCA in 2011 gave $710,300 in political contributions to candidates for federal or state office, political parties, and so-called 527 groups (PACs and super PACs), the American Civil Liberties Union reported.56 The corporation also spent $1.07 million lobbying federal officials plus undisclosed sums to lobby state officials.57 The GEO Group, one of the nation’s largest for-profit prison management companies, donated $250,000 to Donald Trump in 2017.58 The United States, from 1970 to 2005, increased its prison population by about 700 percent, the ACLU reported.59 Private prisons account for nearly all newly built prisons.60 And nearly half of all immigrants detained by the federal government are shipped to for-profit prisons, according to Detention Watch Network.61

There is not a man in the army, officer or private that does not have from a Battalion to a Brigade of Body lice on him,” wrote one Reb in 1863; and others dubbed the pests with such military names as “graybacks,” “Zouaves,” “tigers,” and “Bragg’s body-guard.” Killing lice was referred to as fighting under the black flag; throwing away an infested shirt was called giving the vermin a parole; and evading them by turning a garment wrong side out became “the execution of a flank movement.” One sardonic Reb when about to go to bed was seen to assume a prayerful pose and to recite: Now I lay me down to sleep, While gray-backs o’er my body creep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord their jaws to break.

with any parolees who’d once served time with Shana Day, the parole officer had a candidate: Christi Willey, released last

Ministers and church ladies, social workers and politicians, teachers and neighbors, police and parole officers throughout the black community would tell you that what you were doing was right, that what these young black boys and girls needed was a stern hand. Do not spare the rod. What began as survival carried forward in the name of culture.

I’m not kidnapping anyone.”  Emily shook her head vehemently.  “I have a bad history with abductions.  My parole officer said that I should stay out of the kidnapping business until I realize that people need oxygen to live.

With respect to parole, in 1980, only 1 percent of all prison admissions were parole violators. Twenty years later, more than one third (35 percent) of prison admissions resulted from parole violations. To put the matter more starkly: About as many people were returned to prison for parole violations in 2000 as were admitted to prison in 1980 for all reasons. Of all parole violators returned to prison in 2000, only one-third were returned for a new conviction; two-thirds were returned for a technical violation such as missing appointments with a parole officer, failing to maintain employment, or failing a drug test.

The special education department chair thanked the parole and security officers. All of the men from the sheriff's department were wearing casual uniforms, and they looked nice in khaki pants and olive polo shirts. “They're considered tough guys,” the department chair said, “but we see beyond that. We see them in action: giving smiles, pats on the back, and high fives. They're respectful, honest, and really care about kids.” The table of officers received a hearty round of applause.