Cry Me A River by Ernest Hill

Author:Ernest Hill [Hill, Ernest]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2003-09-20T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter

23

The parole office was located in Franklin Parish some five miles from Tyrone’s mother’s house. When he arrived, his parole officer was sitting behind her desk, staring at an open folder. Before he entered the office, he took a deep breath, and from his partially concealed vantage point, just beyond the open door, he stole a nervous glance at her. She appeared to be a tall, burly woman, he guessed, somewhere between one hundred seventy and one hundred eighty pounds. She wasn’t old, probably between forty and forty-five. The hue of her skin was dark, her hair was short, and her hard, plain face was such that one immediately got the impression that she was neither friendly nor nice. He cupped the palm of his hand in front of his mouth and blew. On the way, he had sucked a lemon, but he wasn’t sure that it had worked. He lowered his hand. Yes, the scent of liquor lingered. It was faint, but still there. Oh, for a stick of gum or a breath mint. Alcohol was a parole violation. One whiff, and it was back to prison. Well, he would not stand close to her. He would try to avoid her without being too conspicuous. He closed his eyes, exhaled, then stepped from behind the door.

“Ms. Dixon,” he called her name softly, politely.

“You Tyrone L. Stokes?” She looked up at him with eyes of contempt.

“Yes, ma’ am,” he said. “I am.”

He looked at the empty chair before her desk. He wanted to sit, but she had not asked him to. So, for what seemed an eternity, he stood awkwardly before her desk, wondering whether he should sit or whether he should stand. When no instruction came, he sat timidly on the chair and folded his arms across his lap. Yes, this was uncomfortable. More uncomfortable than it had to be.

“Were you issued a Conditions of Parole pamphlet upon your release?” she snapped. She was no longer looking at him. Her contemptuous eyes were glued to the papers.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He made his voice soft, subservient, submissive.

“Can you read?” She looked up and glared at him, cold and intimidating. He glanced at her, then dropped his gaze again.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said in a small, timid voice. “I can.”

There was a long, awkward moment, and he could feel her piercing eyes staring at him for what seemed an eternity. He wanted to move, squirm, but paralyzing fear held him still.

“Did you read it?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with averted eyes.

She paused and leaned back in her chair, and he knew it was to let him know that she was in complete control of his destiny. She knew it, and she wanted to ensure that he knew it. He glanced at her, then quickly looked away.

“Do you have a problem with comprehension?”

“No, ma’am,” he said.

“So you did understand that you were to report to your parole officer within twenty-four hours of your release?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“But you chose not to.”

The question was a trap.

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