Page 13 of Trace of Doubt
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’dre-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 goalis 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?
