And I don’t even give a fuck about fingerprints till I’m holding it and thinking how that’s probably bad and how I probably shouldn’t have but it’s also too late. So I got to do what I got to do. And then I’m thinking how even that doesn’t matter so much as what it’s worth.
What I can sell it for. If I clean it up. If I don’t say where it’s been. Or how I got it.
I’m thinking on that when I try to run. Try to make one leg go in front of the other fast.
Because it’s just a gun I found. And anybody’d pay something for that.
Anybody.
Parole Agent Phillip Petrillo
December 7, 1993 • 07:18
2
When I park and turn the car off, Rush Limbaugh’s tape cuts out. The first stop on my shift is Augustine Clark, a new case I got saddled with because Martinez (supposedly a hard-charger) is away on maternity leave, and she isn’t married or even with the baby’s father anymore, which is just complete nonsense. Frankly, any feminazi is welcome to explain how Martinez deserves to get paid as much as me when I have to do twice the work to make up for her being gone for months when I get no extra time off. Sure, she’s got two years’ seniority on me, but do I get overtime working her cases, at least? Nope. Budget restrictions mean I’m expected to handle four of her parolees in addition to what I’ve already got in terms of caseload. This is what happens in America now. White men pick up after everybody else. We fix things, quietly, while the lazy complain and get handouts. I’m sick and tired of it.
I open my door and get out. I thumb through Clark’s Parole Field File with my head on a swivel, checking my immediate vicinity for threats (the parking lot of the Islands Motel on Long Beach Boulevard in Lynwood, but nothing is stirring just yet, too early), as I familiarize myself with the man: CDC# is R19237, height is five-foot-seven, weight is one hundred and thirty, born 1953, street address is the same as this one but most definitely not the halfway house Martinez recommended (which she should’ve caught, frankly), place of employment listed on his Initial Interview Form is Working on it (no shit, he actually wrote that), listed monthly income is worryingly low even with for 15 years in the Navy and disability written beneath it, description and license of vehicle is Not applyable, and I can only assume he misspelled it. His rap sheet is: possession of a controlled substance ’87 (six months served), possession ’88, possession ’90, burglary ’90 (two years), and possession ’92, which resulted in his latest stretch, from which he was released five months early, likely for overcrowding, but they’re calling it good behavior on paper, what a joke. None of these scumbags do real time anymore.
I flip the paperwork back down and close the Field File. When I get out of the car, I open the trunk and drop the manila folder on top of my field book binder before slamming the trunk and locking it. I finish my coffee and leave the disposable cup sitting on the trunk when I don’t see a nearby trash can, because I’m no animal.
* * *
I knock hard, because this scumbag on the other side needs to know it’s time to get checked by a pro.
When the door opens, a smell comes out first. Rank staleness is how I’ll describe it in the write-up, likely an accumulation from re-wearing clothes without washing and food waste. These are not good signs for sobriety or doing parole the right way. Already I’m liking his chances for recidivating.
This feeling is compounded when I see Clark behind the door, bowing his balding head. He’s unshaven, hasn’t had a haircut in weeks. It’s a Tuesday, and he’s not ready to go out and look for work (obviously), which calls into question what he was up to last night.
I say, “What’s your CDC number?”
“R-one-nine-two-three-seven.” He says it hoarsely. “You can call me Augie.”
“Augie, I’m Agent Petrillo from the South Central Parole Unit. You can call me Agent Petrillo. Don’t confuse the fact of me being friendly with being your friend. I’m here to do a homecall. I’m handling Agent Martinez’s cases now. I see you didn’t report to the parole office last week as instructed. Why not?”
“I-I was sick,” he says.
“Failing to report is a serious violation. That alone is enough to issue a PAL warrant. That could mean a year in custody. And with your criminal history, that would be straight time.”
He’s been on parole three times. He knows PAL is short for parolee-at-large. I don’t need to explain it.
I look around the room: piles of clothes in each corner, empty Gatorade bottles around the television, food wrappers everywhere. It’s a rathole.
I say, “This isn’t the halfway house my partner recommended to you. Is it, Clark?”
When he doesn’t respond immediately, I step into the room, extract a penlight from my pocket, and shine it in his eyes.
He jumps back, hits the wall by the bathroom door, and essentially sticks to it. He’s got his palms over his eyes when he says, “C’mon, man!”
“What’s going to happen if you test?”
He’s been using. No doubt in my mind. Still, I always have to ask first. Give them a chance to be honest. It’s only fair.
“I-I don’t know, Agent Petrillo.”
“You’re lying, Clark.”
“It’s Augie. Just Augie. Please?”
His pupils are constricted. I’m near the light switch, so I flick it off, and I flash Augie in the face with my penlight.
“I’ll be noting for the purposes of my report that your pupils appear nonresponsive to direct light, and I have reason to believe you have been using a controlled substance and violating your terms. I need to search the premises.”
“C’mon, Agent Petrillo, man!”
He’s busted. He knows it. It’s just a matter of how long it takes me to find what’s worth finding. For my own safety, I pick a wooden chair for him that’s out of reach of the dresser and the bed, and far enough from the door that I can fuck him up if he tries to run.
“Sit,” I say.
He does, so I glove up. I consider cuffing him, but decide not to. I survey his immediate surroundings for a weapon: a knife, anything. There’s nothing. I keep one eye on him as I toss the bed. I check inside the pillows, between mattress and box spring, and every drawer of the nightstand. Nothing. I do the big dresser. I pull it out. I go behind the television. I do the closet. Nothing. In the bathroom, I find his kit: a rig-needle, a bent spoon with some residue, some dirty cotton that looks like he tore it off a Q-tip, and his tie-off.
This alone is enough to cancel his vacation from prison. He’s looking at a year flat. No good time. No work credits. And he does the whole 365.
“You’re fucked, Augie,” I say. “You’re going back for a bullet.”
“I-I know,” he says.
I’m not done, though. I kick at the carpet. The far corner comes up and I pull. Underneath is the glue and white bits of carpet base, but nothing else. I flop the carpet back, but something’s not right with how it goes down. It’s not entirely flat. I kick at it again, but it doesn’t sit, and what’s more, the baseboard moves, so I kick that too, and it jiggles.