Four years into prison life, I decided to record my thoughts and emotions, more to help me process my past choices than anything else. In the eighth year, I admitted journaling wasn’t filling the hole in my heart. Jesus stepped in and became my mother, father, sister, and friend. A few times a week, I allowed myself the luxury of writing down thoughts and happenings. But never in the light-filled joy I knew this very moment.
I wrote of my experiences since yesterday morning. Enduring resistance and persecution after prison had been on my radar. I’d been counseled about the likelihood and thought I was prepared. Officer Hughes had the hostility gene going for him, and Denton McClure was at the opposite end of the spectrum. But I didn’t trust either man.
I headed into my bedroom and returned my journal to its new home, a narrow drawer in my nightstand. A long walk to clear my mind pushed to the surface of my want list. But Officer Hughes hadn’t returned with the bicycle and leaving made me look like a coward. Which was partially true.
An oncoming vehicle barreled up the drive. Officer Hughes had arrived. At least he wasn’t part of an angry gang. He might be worse if my suspicions were true.
I met him at his cruiser, and he powered down his window.
“I appreciate the loan of your property,” I said.
“Thank my irresponsible sister. I’d rather you walked. Make sure you buy a lock and chain. I get real upset when my property’s abused.” The vertical lines between his brows dug deep. The world must disappoint him on a daily basis. He carried the bicycle onto the porch.
“Would you like to sit and talk?” I hoped his animosity toward me might take a positive spin.
“My favorite place to visit with a killer is behind bars.”
I sighed. The rancid heat of humiliation assaulted me. “From your perspective, I had that coming.”
“Yep.”
“Anyone ever give you a second chance?”
“Never needed it. I’m squeaky-clean.”
“Officer Hughes, I’m not your doormat. So clean your muddy boots somewhere else.”
“I expect to receive respect from the likes of you.”
I refused to respect any bully. “Did you leave the note to run me off?”
He leaned on one leg. So bully typical. “Nope, it would be breaking the law. Did it work?”
“I’m here, and I intend to stay. Does the sheriff have the note or was it destroyed?”
He smirked. “My sister was here when you got it, so she’ll make sure he knows about it. But it’s hard to nail down where a typed note came from.”
“So you’re the guilty one?”
He rolled his eyes like I used to do when my parents objected to my behavior. “By the way, the parole officer is expecting you this afternoon. A no-show means a stain against your record.” He tipped his hat and walked to his cruiser.
9
The rear bicycle tire flattened about three miles from Valleysburg. The air valve stem cap was missing. I suspected an intentional action on Officer Hughes’s part. I walked the bike into town and stopped at a hardware store. After airing up both tires, I bought two stem caps and a chain and lock. The store owner gave permission for me to keep the bike locked there until I finished with errands. The idea of someone stealing it left a sour taste in my mouth. As soon as I had a few dollars extra, I’d flip for my own two-wheeled transportation.
Thirty minutes before the parole office closed, I approached a weathered brick building. A sign above the door read, Established 1932. Inside, an arrow indicated various offices on the second floor, and I climbed the wooden steps. Every creak and groan spoke of age and history. At the top, I inhaled a generation gone by and admired the tall ceilings, arched windows, and age-scarred but polished wooden floors. If I owned the building, I’d re-create the era and update only what was needed for safety and convenience.
Not my purpose this afternoon.
The parole office occupied a secluded spot at the end of the hall. There I met a balding man with thick black-framed glasses rummaging through a file cabinet.
“Mr. James Peterson?”
His glasses slid down his long nose, rather comical, but I knew better than to laugh. “How can I help you?”
I extended my hand. “I’m Shelby Pearce.”
“Ah, yes. Have a seat, Ms. Pearce. Officer Hughes stopped by and indicated you were eager to see me this afternoon.”
I bit my tongue. “Yes, sir. I wanted to make sure I got started on the right foot.”
He sat at his desk and brought his computer to life. “I was looking at your file earlier. Do you have any questions about the terms of your parole?”
“No, sir. Do you have noted my job at Amy-Jo’s Café? I begin on Thursday.”
He nodded and told me he had the verification. I gave him my address, cell phone number, and plans to design jewelry.
“I see you earned a master’s degree in business while incarcerated. The education will serve you well with your jewelry endeavor and reclaiming your life.” He squinted into his computer screen. “A 4.0 average too. Well done.”
“Thank you.” I removed my backpack from my shoulders and reached for my denim bag, a gift from my parents on my sixteenth birthday. Inside were two envelopes. “Here are my release papers and cash payment for the monthly parole fee.”
He examined the contents of each envelope, then counted the money. “If there’s ever a problem in paying the fees, let me know ahead of time. Don’t wait until past the due date.”
After the formalities and scheduling a weekly appointment, he gave me his card. “Parole is a privilege not a right. My goal is to help you succeed. We’ll begin with high supervision for six months, and Pastor Emory will handle the weekly counseling. If all goes well, we’ll drop to moderate level. Do not hesitate to contact me for any reason. How are you doing with your family’s request for no contact?”
“Their stipulation is one of the reasons I’m in Valleysburg.” While he typed, my mind wandered. My family broke contact right after sentencing. My sister and I were raised with the knowledge of unconditional love, but I learned some deeds were unforgivable. How could I fault them?
Mr. Peterson leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over a trim stomach. “What’s your biggest concern right now?”
Honesty . . . “Someone wants me out of town in a bad way.” I told him about last night and earlier today, omitting my intuitiveness. “I have no idea who did it or why. Edie Campbell has helped me tremendously, and now she could be hurt by association. Officer Hughes gave the note to Sheriff Wendall. If he’s in his office when I leave here, I’d like to talk to him.”
“The sheriff’s a good man. He’ll untangle what’s going on.” Mr. Peterson picked up his cell phone and pressed in numbers. “This is Jim. Shelby Pearce is in my office, and she’d like to stop by. Will you be there for another hour or so?” He paused and laid the phone on his desk. “I’m going with you.”
Why was I so paranoid? I hadn’t done anything to warrant a nightmare trip back to prison.
“Is there anything I should know before we talk to the sheriff? A threat from inside or outside prison? I see you’d received severe beatings from fellow inmates.”