After a few minutes of silence, the officer raised his eyebrows at the page in front of him and peeked at Jacob over his glasses.
“Well, that’s quite the rap sheet you’ve got there, Mister…,” he paused, flipping back to the first page of the file to recall his name, “Perry.” He closed the file and tossed it on the desk, leaning back in his chair and taking another swig of his coffee. “How’d you manage to land yourself here?” he asked with obvious distrust in his voice.
“Um,” Jacob began, clearing his throat and sitting tall. “Well, I did some time at Bellevue. Eight years,” he continued, the officer nodding along as he casually flipped through the file again, corroborating the events. “And, uh, I guess they thought I was responding well to therapy and medication, so my doctor recommended I be released early on parole.”
“Hm,” he muttered with a scowl that said he disagreed with that recommendation. “Still taking that medication?”
“Yes, sir,” Jacob nodded.
“And still doing that therapy?”
“Yes,” he answered. “I just had my first meeting with my new therapist today, and it went really well.”
“Hm,” he grumbled again. He closed the file again and tossed up his hands. “Well, alright, then,” he said with a shrug, unconvinced. He gulped down the last of his coffee, then frowned at the empty mug. He rose from his squeaky chair with a grunt. “Let’s go over expectations, shall we?” he asked, refilling his cup from the pot on the table in the corner of the room.
“Sure,” Jacob agreed.
The man gave him a look as he turned around, sipping his fresh cup.
“I mean, yes, sir,” he corrected himself.
He returned to his seat. “We’re scheduled for weekly meetings, Saturdays at 11 o’clock,” he began, perusing a handwritten list beside Jacob’s file. “I expect you to be on time. If, for any reason, you have a problem with being on time, I expect a phone call. But you won’t have a problem being on time, will you, Mr. Perry?” he smiled for the first time, revealing a threatening set of coffee-stained teeth.
Jacob had to stop himself from cringing at the unpleasant sight. “Uh, no, sir,” he answered.
“Good,” he replied, his smile falling as he turned back to his list. “No drugs. No alcohol. And you’ll have weekly tests to keep you accountable, so best to not waste our time with fabrications.”
He looked up again, and Jacob nodded solemnly.
The officer leaned back again, his chair wailing under his hefty weight. “And, of course, failure to attend these meetings, your weekly therapy sessions, take your prescribed medications, or adhere to any of these rules will result in a write-up, which, given the extremity of your crimes,” he raised his eyebrows for emphasis, gesturing to the file in front of him, “could easily land you in prison.” He paused, meeting Jacob’s gaze with icy intensity. “Not back to the hospital, you understand. Real prison.”
Jacob took in a discreet breath.
“Understood?” he asked.
Jacob clamped his jaw tightly shut, fighting back the frustration that was building beneath the surface of his cool exterior. “Yes, sir.”
The officer smiled his wide, unappealing grin again. “Great! Any questions for me before I send you on your way?”
“That’s it?” Jacob asked, taken aback by the abrupt ending to the short meeting.
“I’m a busy man, Mr. Perry,” he replied with a heavy sigh, tossing Jacob’s file on top of a hefty stack to the right of him and pulling another from the top of the pile on the left.
Jacob remained seated as the man thumbed through his new file, awaiting a more formal goodbye.
After a moment, the man peeked up at him. “Don’t forget to take that drug test on your way out,” he said, turning back to his file, and Jacob realized that was as good of a farewell as he was going to get.
He hesitated on his way out the door, turning back to give some sort of thank-you or final greeting, but the officer didn’t look up from his paperwork. With a frustrated sigh, Jacob closed the door behind him and made his way back to the lobby.
“Oh! Just a second,” the receptionist held up a finger to him when he approached the desk. She tucked her phone between her ear and her shoulder as she frantically dug through a low drawer, pulling out a small plastic cup. “I’m sorry, sir, could I put you on a brief hold?” she asked into the phone. Jacob could hear the loud, irritated response from where he stood, and the young woman flinched at its volume. “Okay… um…,” she hesitated with her finger over a button on the phone base as the shouting on the other line continued. “I’m sorry,” she quickly muttered, pressing the button and setting down the receiver.
She held her hands out above it for a moment, as if expecting it to jump back at her. With a deep breath, she collected herself and turned her attention to Jacob with a weary, politely fake smile. “Sorry about that,” she began, shaking her head and handing over the cup. “That’s the third time this week that I’ve forgotten that.”
The blush of her cheeks nearly matched the frizzy, orange braid falling over her shoulder, and Jacob pitied her position. “Oh, no, that’s fine,” he replied as he accepted the cup. “You’re doing a great job,” he reassured her with an encouraging grin.
Her plastic smile faded and she let out a sigh. “Thanks,” she blushed again. She pulled out a bin from under her desk and held it out to him. “Empty your pockets, please.”
He did as he was told.
“The bathroom’s over there,” she pointed toward the left side of the lobby. “You can leave your sample here when you’re done.”
“Thank you,” he said. She gave him a nod and took another deep breath, putting her phony grin back on as she picked up the phone again.
“So sorry for that wait, sir,” she chimed in a cheerful voice. “What can I do for you?”
Jacob followed the instructions on the sample cup, using the black marker on the small table in the bathroom to write his name and birth date on the provided lines before depositing his sample. The poor girl behind the front desk was frantically tapping away at her keyboard and making apologies to the booming voice on the other end of the line when Jacob returned from the bathroom, so he simply set his sample on the desk, grabbed his wallet and keys from the bin, and ducked out of the office quietly.
He checked the clock on the lobby wall on his way out, surprised by the early hour. He had given himself nearly an hour more than he needed to get back to his bus stop, and he hoped there would be an earlier route so he wouldn’t have to wait around in the frigid weather. He got lucky when he arrived at the bus stop and found one pulling up beside him.
Settling into a seat near the back, he spent the majority of the ride back to campus reflecting on how uncomfortable his first parole meeting had been. He had been told by his doctor and other patients at the hospital who had experience with parole that your P.O. is supposed to act as your guide as you transition back into the land of the free. He heard so many stories, ranging from funny to profoundly heartwarming, about the important relationship between the officers and their parolees, and he had almost been looking forward to that relationship more than meeting his new therapist.