Back to my Drunk Driver Parolee Story, Part Deaux.
M was a young man when he went to prison. Unfortunately, he had started drinking before he had started driving. So when he started driving, he was already a drunk. I don't remember how old he was when he killed someone while driving drunk, but I remember he was around 25.
Maybe it was because he was so young, maybe it was because the person he killed was his age, maybe it was because both his parents were alcoholics, but whatever the reason, M was different from the other parolees I've told you about. He always tried to give me the credit for turning him around, but I will tell you right now, he walked into my office a REPENITANT man.
From the "git-go" he admitted he was drunk, but that being drunk was his fault and no excuse for getting behind the wheel of a car that night. He regretted his offense and said he would regret it until the day he died. He stayed sober the entire time he was on my caseload.
He had been arrestted at the scene of the wreck. He never took another drink after that. He had to go through detox in the hospital after he was arrested, but he never drank again. He made his 90 meetings in 90 days while he was awaiting sentencing. He didn't ask for a trial. He didn't even want to ask for a plea bargain, but his attorney was rather insistent, according to him.
When I told him I wanted him to do another 90 in 90, that I considered it standard for all parolees who had an Involuntary Manslaughter {nowdays it's called Intoxication Manslaughter} conviction, he didn't balk, or complain, he just said, "Yes, Ma'am, I understand." And he did it.
During the next several years, even after I left the Parole Office, I'd see him and later him and his wife and then them and their daughter around town now and again. He'd always come over and speak to me. He'd start off by thnaking me for my help, and then he'd tell me how good his BUSINESS was doing, and what trips he and his family had taken, and how well his daughter was doing in school. And then he'd try to thank me, again. My response was always the same, "M, you did it yourself. All I did was encourage you and offer you a little support now and then." "Well, Miss H, it made a difference, Thanks."
Of the hundreds of parolees I handled over the years, he's the ONLY one I feel good about.
Showing posts with label Parolee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parolee. Show all posts
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
DWI/DUI Stories
The SNSS wrote a blog over the weekend that inspired me to shre these experiences from my Parole Officer days.
Although I had more DWI/DUI/Involuntary Manslaughter Parolees on my caseload than the three I'm going to write about today, these three are the ones who stand out in my memory.
Trucker lived in the next county West of my Home county. He drove a tandem rig hauling rocks to road construction projects. One of the problems Trucker had was that he took "white crosses", little white tablets, scored with two marks that quartered the tablet, hence the nickname. The tabs allowed him to drive for long periods of time with no sleep and make more money. The downside of that was that he became a very aggressive driver.
He's speeding down a 2 lane US Highway, with improved shoulders. He approaches a small passenger car, going the speed limit. Since there is oncoming traffic, he can't pull around her to pass. She is unwilling to pull over on the shoulder to allow him to pass her in the main traffic lane.
As he tells it, he'd been 'speeding' on the 'white crosses' for a 'couple of days' and 'when that bitch' refused to pull over onto the shoulder of the road, HE RAN OVER HER!!!
What amazed me was his total lack of remorse. This woman was in the hospital for months, with major internal injuries and multiple broken bones. It is only by the grace of a Merciful and Loving God that she survived that crash! She will never walk without a cane again. And he doesn't even feel a whit, not an iota of guilt!
He sat there in our first meeting, the day after he got out of prison, and told me the wreck was HER fault. "If she'd just moved over and let me pass I wouldn't have hit her." Having read the offense report, and the accident report, I confronted his denial. "You didn't 'hit' her car, you ran over and crushed her car , with her in the car." He admitted that was true. So I continued, "Do you realise that, if the hospital had not been within a mile of the crash site, she would have died? And you would have been charged with Involuntary Manslaughter?" He answered, "Yeah, my lawyer explained how lucky I got."
I stopped him. I was outraged. I may not have been able to change his attitude about his crime, but I could by Goddess change the way he addressed ME. "Let's get something straight right now. You don't say 'yeah' or 'nah' to me. You will address me, and answer my questions with 'yes,ma'am' or 'no,ma'am'. Is that crystal clear?" "Yes, Ma'am"
"Now. That woman was in the hospital for four months, then she was in a rehab hospital hospital for another six months. She will have to use a cane to help her walk for the rest of her life. But you are sitting there telling me that the wreck was her fault?" "Yep, ur,uh, Yes,Ma'am. And my insurance premiums went through the roof! You wouldn't believe how high they are!"
"Well, Mr. Trucker, if it was up to me, you wouldn't be allowed to drive anything bigger than a Tonka truck, so you better just sit there and count your blessings. Now, you will take a UA EVERY week. Here's the address. You miss one test, or have one dirty UA, and I will violate you so quick your head won't have time to stop spinnin' before you're back in a cell! You understand me?"
"Yes, Ma'am. But who's gonna pay me for the time I miss from work to go take that UA?"
I just looked at him for several seconds. I wish I'd worn glasses, so I could have looked at him over the top of the frames. Finally I said, "Don't push your luck, Mr. Trucker, or we'll make it 2x/week."
Old Drunk lived in my Home County. When I got his Criminal History I couldn't believe it. It was six pages long. It went back 30 some years, and was nothing but drunk in public, public intoxication, Driving drunk, Driving while Intoxicated and finally when he came onto my caseload, Involuntary Manslaughter.
Old Drunk admitted the wreck was his fault, but he didn't feel any guilt. He thought the fact that he killed three young people in another car was excused because he was drunk at the time. In his words, "Everybody's driven when they've had a drink or two. Why I bet you've even driven after having a drink, Ms. Parole Officer." My standard reply when a parolee tried to bring my behavior into question went something like this, "Whether I have or not, isn't the question, Old Drunk. We're here to talk about what you did on such and such a date. And what you did was get in a car, so drunk that you caused three young people, with a lot to live for, three young people who had NOT been drinking, and who were driving the speed limit, on their side of the road, and you crossed over the center line, because you were so drunk you couldn't tell where you were on the road. You crashed into their car going over the speed limit, and you rolled their car into a ditch, and you walked away from that crash. You walked away from a crash that took the firefighters an hour to cut their mangled, dead bodies out of the twisted metal of what used to be a car, Old Drunk. Three people, not one of whom was over the age of 23. One of those kids might have grown up to be a Doctor and discovered a cure for cancer. Or another might have grown up to be a Statesman who could bring Peace to warring nations. Or maybe the third could have become a Soldier who would save his platooon from being overrun on a patrol by enemy forces. But we'll never know now, will we?" "Well, I was drunk, it wasn't really my fault now was it. I'm an alcoholic. I can't help it." Old Drunk, according to the State of Texas, it was your fault. According to this Parole Certificate you signed yesterday, and the special conditions you are not allowed to drink alcohol. You will also attend Alocohol Counseling. In your case that will be Alcoholics Anonymous. Here is a list of meetings in this county. I want you to make 90 meetings in 90 days."
And he starts sputtering like an engine in need of a new carburator. "Well, you can't make me do that. I only had to make one meeting a week before when I was on parole!" To which I replied rather pithily, "You never killed anybody before, Old Drunk. And you never had ME for a Parole Officer before either."
I'll tell y'all about the one "good" parolee I had in similar circumstances tomorrow. I promise I won't leave you hanging like other Bloggers I know.
Although I had more DWI/DUI/Involuntary Manslaughter Parolees on my caseload than the three I'm going to write about today, these three are the ones who stand out in my memory.
Trucker lived in the next county West of my Home county. He drove a tandem rig hauling rocks to road construction projects. One of the problems Trucker had was that he took "white crosses", little white tablets, scored with two marks that quartered the tablet, hence the nickname. The tabs allowed him to drive for long periods of time with no sleep and make more money. The downside of that was that he became a very aggressive driver.
He's speeding down a 2 lane US Highway, with improved shoulders. He approaches a small passenger car, going the speed limit. Since there is oncoming traffic, he can't pull around her to pass. She is unwilling to pull over on the shoulder to allow him to pass her in the main traffic lane.
As he tells it, he'd been 'speeding' on the 'white crosses' for a 'couple of days' and 'when that bitch' refused to pull over onto the shoulder of the road, HE RAN OVER HER!!!
What amazed me was his total lack of remorse. This woman was in the hospital for months, with major internal injuries and multiple broken bones. It is only by the grace of a Merciful and Loving God that she survived that crash! She will never walk without a cane again. And he doesn't even feel a whit, not an iota of guilt!
He sat there in our first meeting, the day after he got out of prison, and told me the wreck was HER fault. "If she'd just moved over and let me pass I wouldn't have hit her." Having read the offense report, and the accident report, I confronted his denial. "You didn't 'hit' her car, you ran over and crushed her car , with her in the car." He admitted that was true. So I continued, "Do you realise that, if the hospital had not been within a mile of the crash site, she would have died? And you would have been charged with Involuntary Manslaughter?" He answered, "Yeah, my lawyer explained how lucky I got."
I stopped him. I was outraged. I may not have been able to change his attitude about his crime, but I could by Goddess change the way he addressed ME. "Let's get something straight right now. You don't say 'yeah' or 'nah' to me. You will address me, and answer my questions with 'yes,ma'am' or 'no,ma'am'. Is that crystal clear?" "Yes, Ma'am"
"Now. That woman was in the hospital for four months, then she was in a rehab hospital hospital for another six months. She will have to use a cane to help her walk for the rest of her life. But you are sitting there telling me that the wreck was her fault?" "Yep, ur,uh, Yes,Ma'am. And my insurance premiums went through the roof! You wouldn't believe how high they are!"
"Well, Mr. Trucker, if it was up to me, you wouldn't be allowed to drive anything bigger than a Tonka truck, so you better just sit there and count your blessings. Now, you will take a UA EVERY week. Here's the address. You miss one test, or have one dirty UA, and I will violate you so quick your head won't have time to stop spinnin' before you're back in a cell! You understand me?"
"Yes, Ma'am. But who's gonna pay me for the time I miss from work to go take that UA?"
I just looked at him for several seconds. I wish I'd worn glasses, so I could have looked at him over the top of the frames. Finally I said, "Don't push your luck, Mr. Trucker, or we'll make it 2x/week."
Old Drunk lived in my Home County. When I got his Criminal History I couldn't believe it. It was six pages long. It went back 30 some years, and was nothing but drunk in public, public intoxication, Driving drunk, Driving while Intoxicated and finally when he came onto my caseload, Involuntary Manslaughter.
Old Drunk admitted the wreck was his fault, but he didn't feel any guilt. He thought the fact that he killed three young people in another car was excused because he was drunk at the time. In his words, "Everybody's driven when they've had a drink or two. Why I bet you've even driven after having a drink, Ms. Parole Officer." My standard reply when a parolee tried to bring my behavior into question went something like this, "Whether I have or not, isn't the question, Old Drunk. We're here to talk about what you did on such and such a date. And what you did was get in a car, so drunk that you caused three young people, with a lot to live for, three young people who had NOT been drinking, and who were driving the speed limit, on their side of the road, and you crossed over the center line, because you were so drunk you couldn't tell where you were on the road. You crashed into their car going over the speed limit, and you rolled their car into a ditch, and you walked away from that crash. You walked away from a crash that took the firefighters an hour to cut their mangled, dead bodies out of the twisted metal of what used to be a car, Old Drunk. Three people, not one of whom was over the age of 23. One of those kids might have grown up to be a Doctor and discovered a cure for cancer. Or another might have grown up to be a Statesman who could bring Peace to warring nations. Or maybe the third could have become a Soldier who would save his platooon from being overrun on a patrol by enemy forces. But we'll never know now, will we?" "Well, I was drunk, it wasn't really my fault now was it. I'm an alcoholic. I can't help it." Old Drunk, according to the State of Texas, it was your fault. According to this Parole Certificate you signed yesterday, and the special conditions you are not allowed to drink alcohol. You will also attend Alocohol Counseling. In your case that will be Alcoholics Anonymous. Here is a list of meetings in this county. I want you to make 90 meetings in 90 days."
And he starts sputtering like an engine in need of a new carburator. "Well, you can't make me do that. I only had to make one meeting a week before when I was on parole!" To which I replied rather pithily, "You never killed anybody before, Old Drunk. And you never had ME for a Parole Officer before either."
I'll tell y'all about the one "good" parolee I had in similar circumstances tomorrow. I promise I won't leave you hanging like other Bloggers I know.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Sex Offender Overview
Being a Woman who keeps her word, I will give you a general idea of how I was trained to deal with the sex offender caseload.
I started as a Parole Officer in 1987. In the Spring of 1988, the Board decided to create some new specialized caseloads in some offices. These were voluntary caseloads, no Officer was forced to take on the stress of handling just "Mentally Challenged" offenders, or Sex Offenders. There wasn't any extra money involved, just a challenge. Like an idiot, I volunteered.
I've always been something of an over-achiever, so I was up for a challenge. I thought it would be interesting. I should have remembered the Chinese curse: "May You Live in Interesting Times."
I drove down to Austin with a fellow female officer from the neighboring county for the week of training. We had 8 hours every day, Monday through Thursday. Friday we got out at noon so we could make it back to our district offices by 5. Goddess Forbid we should get any comp time on the drive home! What we learned in those 36 hours of classroom training was eye-opening, but it turned out to be the tip of the iceberg. I learned a lot more from the counselors I talked to over lunches and articles and research papers I read on my own than I did in that classroom in Austin.
We had two day refresher classes now and then over the next couple of years. The other S.O. Parole Officers and I had been burning up the phone lines building support networks. And we needed it. The Board and Administrative Chain had not forseen the need for Officer support. As a result, of the approximately 40 Officers who started in the program, half dropped out at the end of the first year.
During these refresher courses, we brought the material we had found on our own. The articles and research, and notes we'd taken during meeting with counselors and whoever. Turned out WE gave a lot of information to the people who were supposed to be educating US! So the second year, a survey was sent out. They asked us what we wanted to learn, what we wanted to share with new officers, and what we thought was unnecessary in the current curriculum. One of the few SMART things the traing section ever did.
Six months later, we had a kick-a$$ seminar on Padre, in December! It was a week-long, experts out the wazoo, full-on, LEARNING experience. Really great. But, it was also full of some of the most disgusting, soul-searing descriptions of debased abuse I have ever had the misfortune to have to hear.
The supervisors of most of the Sex Offender P.O.s had been sent to this seminar along with their officers. The rationale for this was that the sups needed to know WHY their officers were getting a little "bent" on occasion. In order to fully understand why their officers were disgusted, appalled, beleagured,and otherwise crispy around the edges, they needed to be exposed to some of the same information, at least briefly, that the officers were exposed to daily.
During one slide show of pediatric female patients' gentalia injured by sexual abuse, several sups, including mine, got up and ran for the restrooms to throw up. We looked at one another and shook our heads, as if to say, "Woosies, we see this stuff all the time. Bullets bounce off us. They need to Butch Up!" Nah, we weren't burnin' out, not us.
During Happy Hour, my sup, Randa, looked at me and asked, "How do you deal with that crap? That slide show really got to me!" I took a sip of my frozen 'Rita, shrugged, and nonchalantly tossed off, "You get used to it. You either Cowboy Up, or you get out." I take another drink and continue, "If I'm not doing it, somebody else, who's NOT as good as I am, will take over. They will miss things I wouldn't miss and some child will get hurt. So I stick with it. And I make sure these perverts are doing what they are supposed to be doing, and try to keep them away from anymore kids." Then I shrugged again, like it was nothing.
But it was something.
I started as a Parole Officer in 1987. In the Spring of 1988, the Board decided to create some new specialized caseloads in some offices. These were voluntary caseloads, no Officer was forced to take on the stress of handling just "Mentally Challenged" offenders, or Sex Offenders. There wasn't any extra money involved, just a challenge. Like an idiot, I volunteered.
I've always been something of an over-achiever, so I was up for a challenge. I thought it would be interesting. I should have remembered the Chinese curse: "May You Live in Interesting Times."
I drove down to Austin with a fellow female officer from the neighboring county for the week of training. We had 8 hours every day, Monday through Thursday. Friday we got out at noon so we could make it back to our district offices by 5. Goddess Forbid we should get any comp time on the drive home! What we learned in those 36 hours of classroom training was eye-opening, but it turned out to be the tip of the iceberg. I learned a lot more from the counselors I talked to over lunches and articles and research papers I read on my own than I did in that classroom in Austin.
We had two day refresher classes now and then over the next couple of years. The other S.O. Parole Officers and I had been burning up the phone lines building support networks. And we needed it. The Board and Administrative Chain had not forseen the need for Officer support. As a result, of the approximately 40 Officers who started in the program, half dropped out at the end of the first year.
During these refresher courses, we brought the material we had found on our own. The articles and research, and notes we'd taken during meeting with counselors and whoever. Turned out WE gave a lot of information to the people who were supposed to be educating US! So the second year, a survey was sent out. They asked us what we wanted to learn, what we wanted to share with new officers, and what we thought was unnecessary in the current curriculum. One of the few SMART things the traing section ever did.
Six months later, we had a kick-a$$ seminar on Padre, in December! It was a week-long, experts out the wazoo, full-on, LEARNING experience. Really great. But, it was also full of some of the most disgusting, soul-searing descriptions of debased abuse I have ever had the misfortune to have to hear.
The supervisors of most of the Sex Offender P.O.s had been sent to this seminar along with their officers. The rationale for this was that the sups needed to know WHY their officers were getting a little "bent" on occasion. In order to fully understand why their officers were disgusted, appalled, beleagured,and otherwise crispy around the edges, they needed to be exposed to some of the same information, at least briefly, that the officers were exposed to daily.
During one slide show of pediatric female patients' gentalia injured by sexual abuse, several sups, including mine, got up and ran for the restrooms to throw up. We looked at one another and shook our heads, as if to say, "Woosies, we see this stuff all the time. Bullets bounce off us. They need to Butch Up!" Nah, we weren't burnin' out, not us.
During Happy Hour, my sup, Randa, looked at me and asked, "How do you deal with that crap? That slide show really got to me!" I took a sip of my frozen 'Rita, shrugged, and nonchalantly tossed off, "You get used to it. You either Cowboy Up, or you get out." I take another drink and continue, "If I'm not doing it, somebody else, who's NOT as good as I am, will take over. They will miss things I wouldn't miss and some child will get hurt. So I stick with it. And I make sure these perverts are doing what they are supposed to be doing, and try to keep them away from anymore kids." Then I shrugged again, like it was nothing.
But it was something.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Chanel and George's "Divorce"
It's a good thing I gave the Board another option to issuing a warrant on Chanel for the "body work" she did on George's car. They didn't issue a warrant, they didn't even go through the motions of a hearing. They just added a special condition for generic "counseling" to her Parole for a period of six whole months.
She comes into the office after she gets out of jail. George didn't even have to post Bail for her. The Muncipal Court Judge gave her time served for "Public Disturbance" and that was that. She spends one night in jail, and has to attend six months of counseling at MHMR.
About three months into the counseling, she and George have another big fight. This time, she threatens HIM, not his car, with the baseball bat. He manages to calm her down and get the bat away from her.
The next morning, at 8:00 a.m., they are waiting at the back door of the Parole office, which is where all the employees entered. Randa, the Supervisor and I happened to pull up at the same time. George jumps out of his car and runs over to me while Chanel approaches Randa.
While we listen to their seperate sides of the same story, Randa and I keep looking at each other across the parking lot. She motions me to approach the door as she does, and she tells George and Chanel to wait in the Reception area. She and I go to her office to trade versions of their stories.
Surprisingly, they want the same thing, a divorce. There's just one small problem, they can't afford a divorce. Not even one of those "do-it-yourself-divorces" where you only have to pay the filing fee and court costs.
Randa thinks for a minute and then has an idea. She sends me to the supply room for a "prop" and tells me to just go along with whatever she says and does. She goes to fetch Chanel and George to her office.
I come back to her office with the broom she had sent me to get at the same time Chanel and George come into her office. She has them move the chairs back against the walls. She very solemnly ask them if they really and truly want to end their marriage vows. They nod.
She tells me to move behind them and she does the same. She motions for me to hand her the bristle end of the broom, and I do, while holding the handle end of the broom.
She instructs Chanel and George to jump backwards over the broom, without holding hands, at the same time. We are only holding the broom about 2" off the floor, so this is an esay task. They manage the jump with ease.
"With the authority the State has invested in me, I pronounce you - Divorced," intones Randa solemnly. Chanel and George actually smile and hug one another and then they hug Randa and me in turn.
It was the darnedest thing I'd ever seen! My hand to Gawd!
Now if you're not familiar with Black history, you may be somewhat adrift righ now, so let me explain.
Back in the days of enslavement, when a couple married, they would perform a ceremony known as "jumping the broom". Today, some Black couples, after a formal wedding, will still "Jump the Broom" as a nod to their distant heritage.
By having them jump the broom backwards, Randa was essentially voiding that commitment, in Chanel and George's minds, anyway. Since Randa WAS a State official, of a sort, it lent the "ceremony" an air of authority.
Randa explained her thinking to me after Chanel and George left. She'd known Chanel and George for about 7 years. They went through these "spells" now and then. They would eventually make up and get back together. They'd go down to the J.P.'s office and get re-married. The little 'divorce' she'd performed today would be forgotten , no harm, no foul.
I sure hoped so.
She comes into the office after she gets out of jail. George didn't even have to post Bail for her. The Muncipal Court Judge gave her time served for "Public Disturbance" and that was that. She spends one night in jail, and has to attend six months of counseling at MHMR.
About three months into the counseling, she and George have another big fight. This time, she threatens HIM, not his car, with the baseball bat. He manages to calm her down and get the bat away from her.
The next morning, at 8:00 a.m., they are waiting at the back door of the Parole office, which is where all the employees entered. Randa, the Supervisor and I happened to pull up at the same time. George jumps out of his car and runs over to me while Chanel approaches Randa.
While we listen to their seperate sides of the same story, Randa and I keep looking at each other across the parking lot. She motions me to approach the door as she does, and she tells George and Chanel to wait in the Reception area. She and I go to her office to trade versions of their stories.
Surprisingly, they want the same thing, a divorce. There's just one small problem, they can't afford a divorce. Not even one of those "do-it-yourself-divorces" where you only have to pay the filing fee and court costs.
Randa thinks for a minute and then has an idea. She sends me to the supply room for a "prop" and tells me to just go along with whatever she says and does. She goes to fetch Chanel and George to her office.
I come back to her office with the broom she had sent me to get at the same time Chanel and George come into her office. She has them move the chairs back against the walls. She very solemnly ask them if they really and truly want to end their marriage vows. They nod.
She tells me to move behind them and she does the same. She motions for me to hand her the bristle end of the broom, and I do, while holding the handle end of the broom.
She instructs Chanel and George to jump backwards over the broom, without holding hands, at the same time. We are only holding the broom about 2" off the floor, so this is an esay task. They manage the jump with ease.
"With the authority the State has invested in me, I pronounce you - Divorced," intones Randa solemnly. Chanel and George actually smile and hug one another and then they hug Randa and me in turn.
It was the darnedest thing I'd ever seen! My hand to Gawd!
Now if you're not familiar with Black history, you may be somewhat adrift righ now, so let me explain.
Back in the days of enslavement, when a couple married, they would perform a ceremony known as "jumping the broom". Today, some Black couples, after a formal wedding, will still "Jump the Broom" as a nod to their distant heritage.
By having them jump the broom backwards, Randa was essentially voiding that commitment, in Chanel and George's minds, anyway. Since Randa WAS a State official, of a sort, it lent the "ceremony" an air of authority.
Randa explained her thinking to me after Chanel and George left. She'd known Chanel and George for about 7 years. They went through these "spells" now and then. They would eventually make up and get back together. They'd go down to the J.P.'s office and get re-married. The little 'divorce' she'd performed today would be forgotten , no harm, no foul.
I sure hoped so.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Chanel and George
Y'all remember Chanel, the Dancing Queen, right? Well, George was her husband. By the Grace of a Wise and Merciful God, George and Chanel never had children. What they did have was a passionate, though sometimes stormy marriage.
George comes into the office one day and asks to see Randa, Chanel's former Parole Officer. Randa is now the Unit Supervisor, so she brings George across the hall and introduces him to me. "George, this is Holly So-So, she is Chanel's Parole Officer now. She's the person you need to talk to about any problem you have with Chanel." {btw, I always wanted to open a Chinese restaurant and name it Holly So-So}
George and I sit down and he launches into his tale of woe:
Miz So-So, you got to do Something about Chanel!
Well, give me a clue, George. What, exactly, is Chanel doing?
She's gone CRAZY!
Now, I'm thinking Chanel's about a bubble off plumb on a GOOD day, so I'm still lost as to what the problem is.
George, what is Chanel doing that makes you say she's 'crazy'?
She thinks I'm cheatin' on her.
Well, Are you? Cheatin' on her?
Not really.
Not Really? What does that mean, exactly, George?
Well, Miz So-So, I see this Lady. And we go out.
Aanndd....
And sometimes we have a drink or two...
and I don't say anything, I just wait.
and sometimes we go dancing...
I think "Bingo", that would most definitely light Chanel's fuse.
You see, what with Chanel's parole conditions and all and her not being allowed to go to bars and such like, well when I get off work I like to go out and blow off a little steam. And a man likes to have company when he goes out and I ain't really cheatin' on Chanel but you see she THINKS I'm cheatin' and so last night, well actually it was this morning if you get right down to it...
Right down to what, George?
Well, now, just give me a second, I'm trying to break this to you gently, like, so's you don't get too upset with Chanel. I don't want her to go back to Gatesville... and...
I interrupt him...
Go back to Gatesville for What?!?!
Now, now, Calm down, Miz So-So, I wasn't the one who called the Po-leese. One of the neighbors must have called them b/c of all the racket she was making.
All the racket? What was she doing? to make racket?
Well, I was a bit late gettin' in, and it was oh, I guess it was about 1, maybe 1:30 in the morning. And Chanel, she had a full head of steam built up. So, I pull in to my parking spot in the apartments, and she comes out there w/ the baseball bat we keep in our place for protection. And she comences to whalein on my car.
On your car, not you?
Oh, no, Ma'am! Chanel wouldn't hit me! She loves me! She just beat up my car. Said if I was gonna use my car to run around, cheatin on her with Floozies, she fix it so I couldn't use my car no more. And she did a pretty good job , too. By the time the Po-leese got there she had broken all the windows and windshield, the headlights, dented the driver's door, put some good dents in the hood and the trunk. I told the Po-leese Officer I didn't want to press charges, but he took her away anyhow. Said she was creating a public disturbance. You got to do Something, Miz So-So, I don't want her to go back to prison, but I don't want her beating up my car no more either.
Well, George, I don't have a choice here. Since she got arrested I have to report the new arrest. You do whatever you want to do. If you want to bail her out, and you can afford it, you go bail her out. But I still have to report that she violated her parole.
And I showed him out.
I went over to the police statino and picked up a copy of the police report and interviewed Chanel. She asked me what my recommendation was going to be. I told her I didn't know, that I hadn't decided. And that was true, I hadn't decided.
But I went back to the office. I read the police report. I called a Domestic Violence Counselor I knew and discussed the situation with her, got her take on the situation, discussed the situation with Randa.
I knew Randa would recommend issuing a Blue Warrant and revocation of Parole. That was her standard recommendation for every violation. Period.
Given Chanel's history of violence, and her current state of emotional "upset" I recommended a warrant and a revocation hearing. BUT, I also gave TPTB a fall back position. If they would not give me a warrant, I requested two new special conditions of mandatory anger management counseling and mandatory marriage counseling.
That way, my pretty little tookus was covered if any future violent incidents occurred. "Hey, I tried to fix the problem. The Board wouldn't give me a warrant, so I sent her to counseling, not my fault, don't look at me. " Yeah, I knew how to cover my a$$.
George comes into the office one day and asks to see Randa, Chanel's former Parole Officer. Randa is now the Unit Supervisor, so she brings George across the hall and introduces him to me. "George, this is Holly So-So, she is Chanel's Parole Officer now. She's the person you need to talk to about any problem you have with Chanel." {btw, I always wanted to open a Chinese restaurant and name it Holly So-So}
George and I sit down and he launches into his tale of woe:
Miz So-So, you got to do Something about Chanel!
Well, give me a clue, George. What, exactly, is Chanel doing?
She's gone CRAZY!
Now, I'm thinking Chanel's about a bubble off plumb on a GOOD day, so I'm still lost as to what the problem is.
George, what is Chanel doing that makes you say she's 'crazy'?
She thinks I'm cheatin' on her.
Well, Are you? Cheatin' on her?
Not really.
Not Really? What does that mean, exactly, George?
Well, Miz So-So, I see this Lady. And we go out.
Aanndd....
And sometimes we have a drink or two...
and I don't say anything, I just wait.
and sometimes we go dancing...
I think "Bingo", that would most definitely light Chanel's fuse.
You see, what with Chanel's parole conditions and all and her not being allowed to go to bars and such like, well when I get off work I like to go out and blow off a little steam. And a man likes to have company when he goes out and I ain't really cheatin' on Chanel but you see she THINKS I'm cheatin' and so last night, well actually it was this morning if you get right down to it...
Right down to what, George?
Well, now, just give me a second, I'm trying to break this to you gently, like, so's you don't get too upset with Chanel. I don't want her to go back to Gatesville... and...
I interrupt him...
Go back to Gatesville for What?!?!
Now, now, Calm down, Miz So-So, I wasn't the one who called the Po-leese. One of the neighbors must have called them b/c of all the racket she was making.
All the racket? What was she doing? to make racket?
Well, I was a bit late gettin' in, and it was oh, I guess it was about 1, maybe 1:30 in the morning. And Chanel, she had a full head of steam built up. So, I pull in to my parking spot in the apartments, and she comes out there w/ the baseball bat we keep in our place for protection. And she comences to whalein on my car.
On your car, not you?
Oh, no, Ma'am! Chanel wouldn't hit me! She loves me! She just beat up my car. Said if I was gonna use my car to run around, cheatin on her with Floozies, she fix it so I couldn't use my car no more. And she did a pretty good job , too. By the time the Po-leese got there she had broken all the windows and windshield, the headlights, dented the driver's door, put some good dents in the hood and the trunk. I told the Po-leese Officer I didn't want to press charges, but he took her away anyhow. Said she was creating a public disturbance. You got to do Something, Miz So-So, I don't want her to go back to prison, but I don't want her beating up my car no more either.
Well, George, I don't have a choice here. Since she got arrested I have to report the new arrest. You do whatever you want to do. If you want to bail her out, and you can afford it, you go bail her out. But I still have to report that she violated her parole.
And I showed him out.
I went over to the police statino and picked up a copy of the police report and interviewed Chanel. She asked me what my recommendation was going to be. I told her I didn't know, that I hadn't decided. And that was true, I hadn't decided.
But I went back to the office. I read the police report. I called a Domestic Violence Counselor I knew and discussed the situation with her, got her take on the situation, discussed the situation with Randa.
I knew Randa would recommend issuing a Blue Warrant and revocation of Parole. That was her standard recommendation for every violation. Period.
Given Chanel's history of violence, and her current state of emotional "upset" I recommended a warrant and a revocation hearing. BUT, I also gave TPTB a fall back position. If they would not give me a warrant, I requested two new special conditions of mandatory anger management counseling and mandatory marriage counseling.
That way, my pretty little tookus was covered if any future violent incidents occurred. "Hey, I tried to fix the problem. The Board wouldn't give me a warrant, so I sent her to counseling, not my fault, don't look at me. " Yeah, I knew how to cover my a$$.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Cupcake Man's Revocation Hearing
When last we "saw" Cupcake Man he had been arrested Officer Greg and had new felony charges pending against him. This necessitated immediate action on my part.
In the unlikely event that CCM was able to make bail, which was pretty darn high b/c the D.A.'s office stacked the charges against him. IIRC, he was charged with Assault with Serious Bodily Injury {the patron at Mrs. Baird's was transported to the E.R. with facial fractures and was in danger of losing his left eye !!!}; Resisting Arrest; and multiple counts of Assault on a Police Officer.
But, just in case, when a parolee broke his parole by committing new offenses, the officer was required to submit a "Report of Violation" as soon as possible. Given the severity, I called the Regional office and tried to find a Hearing Officer still in the office at 5:45 pm on a Friday afternoon. Yeah, right. That's like trying to find a virgin on Saturday morning after Prom Night!
I wound up talking to one of the Assistant Regional Supervisors. I explained the situation to him and he agreed we needed a "Blue Warrant" post haste. I faxed him a Report of Violation; he faxed me back an Emergency Blue Warrant.
A Blue Warrant is actually a No Bail, Warrant to Revoke Parole. It is a notice to the Parolee that the Board and its representatives, in the persons of their Parole Officer and a Hearing Officer or in this case, an Assistant Regional Supv. have become aware of a parole violation severe enough to cause them to be arrested and held without bail pending a revocation of parole hearing. They were called "Blue Warrants" because they were printed on blue paper. The cops LOVED blue warrants. The P.O.s LOVED blue warrants. The parolees did not love blue warrants.
From the time they were arrested until the time of the hearing and then the time the hearing officer made a decision and then the Board considered the evidence presented at the hearing and the recommendation of both the P.O. and the Hearing Officer could take up to three months. And the burden of proof was a Preponderance of the Credible Evidence. Yeppers, doncha just love that?
So I go on over to the jail Friday night and give the Sheriff's Office a copy of the Blue Warrant so Cupcake Man won't get out on bail, no way, no how. Officer Greg is still there! He's standing at the book-in desk filling out paperwork for the S.O. and muttering.
I sidle up to him and ask, "You in the market for a 'Blue Warrant', Big Guy?"
He hadn't seen me walk up, so he gives me a double take, and then he drops his pen, and picks me up, and spins me around. As he sets me down he grins as asks me, "How in the heck did you get one of these at," and he checks the clock on the wall, " 7 o'clock, on a Friday night?" "Oh, Officer Greg, what's a few begging phone calls to Foat Wuth, and a couple of burning faxes for a good-looking, hard-working cop like you? It was the least I could do." I answered, waving the warrant like a Southern Belle with a fan at the cottilion.
On Monday, I call Ft.Worth, and get a Revocation Hearing scheduled and go up to the jail and notify Cupcake Man of the date of the hearing and why he is facing the revocation of his parole. As if he didn't know this was going to happen. I thought he smelled a little ripe, but I just wrote it off to him not having had a shower over the weekend. His hearing was scheduled for three weeks after the day I notified him.
About two weeks later, I was up at the jail on other business and one of the jailers asked me if I was Cupcake Man's P.O. I admitted that I was. He informed me that they'd had to move CCM to an isolation cell the week before. I asked if he had been "acting up". He said, "Sorta." I asked, "Sorta? What does 'sorta' mean?" The jailer explained," Well, I don't know if ol'Cupcake Man is REALLY crazy, or just getting ready to look that way for his trial. He's stopped showering, and he won't use the john for his, uh, his, uh #2 business."
I put my purse on the counter, put one hand on my hip and peered at him with my best skeptical look, "What do you mean? What is he doing with his...feces?"
"Well, Ma'am, it looks, from the shape and smell, of his cell, that he's...um...decorating with them," he answered. After a long pause, I queried, "You mean he's smearing it on the walls of his cell?" Nodding his head, the jailer replied, "Yes, Ma'am."
Shaking my head in disgust, I say, "I gotta talk to Sgt. So&So about THIS!" And I head off towards the office of the Head of Medical Services for the Jail. I get to his office and the door is open, so I knock and go on in.
"You're here about Cupcake Man, right?" He's a good guesser, huh?
"That is not only disgusting, it's got to be unhealthy, not only for him, but for everybody around him and, and, and," I just start sputtering.
The Sgt. laughs, partly at my sputtering and partly at the whole craziness of the situation. He explains, "We can't put him on any psychotropics against his will, and he won't agree to a psych eval. His Lawyer for the new charges haasn't been to see him yet. His lawyer for the revocation hearing hasn't been to see him, yet either. Even if he is, you should pardon the expression, 'crazy as a shithouse rat', there ain't nothing we can do about it w/o either his cooperation or a court order. The D.A.'s office don't want to hear it, b/c it would give him a free pass to Rusk {the State Hospital for the Criminally Insane} rather than a conviction and another trip to prison. MHMR is out of the question b/c he's a prisoner. Wichita Falls {a State Hospital for Mental Health care}is not an Option b/c he's a criminal. So, the Sheriff and I talked it over. Since he's violent, and it puts our people at risk whenever we have to do an extraction from his cell, we'll only hose it, and him down twice a week. That's the best I can do."
I mull this over, "Actually, when you put it that way, sounds more than reasonable to me. " And I get up and leave.
I go back to the office and report this situation to my Unit Supervisor. She has a little trouble wrapping her mind around this information. She's been with Parole a long time, but she's never heard anything like this. "He's got to be settin' up an insanity defense."
I nod my head, "Got to be. So, should I let the Hearing Officer know, or what?"
"Yeah, draft a memo, address it to the H.O., but copy Region, and Austin," she advises.
"Will do," I assure her.
And off I go to my office. This was back in the days before we had computers. BUT, I could smoke in my office. SO I kick off my shoes, pull out the bottom drawer, prop up my feet, get a legal pad and a pile of sharp pencils and go to work. I'm scribbling and puffing and scratching out and all told it must have taken me two hours and 1/2 a pack of cigarettes to draft this kick-a$$ memo advising the food chain of the bizarre situation in the jail.
There is nothing like working for a State agency, except maybe working for Uncle Sugar, to teach you how to CYA.
On the day of the hearing, the Detention Lt. in charge of assigning rooms in the jail gave us a BIG conference room for the revocation hearing. He also put three big fans in the room, all pointed at one end of the table. The end where Cupcake Man would be sitting.
I got there first and the Lt. explained about the fans. I thanked him profusely. In fact, the next day, I went to the best bakery {not Mrs.Baird's} in town and got him a Pecan Pie and took it up to him.
When the Hearing Officer got there I explained to her that tomorrow was Cupcake Man's hosing off day and he was likely to be a bit "ripe" smelling. I told her that several members of the Detention staff had recommended the use of the fans. She seemed to think it was rude, but I urged her to wait and see how CCM smelled when he came in.
Oh, I almost forgot. The staff had set up three long tables. They had placed three chairs at one end. Those chairs were for the Hearing Officer, me, and any witnesses who would testify. At the other end of the table there were two chairs. One for Cupcake Man and one for his lawyer. Even the one for his lawyer was on the other side of the fans. If the jailers were willing to be that nice to a lawyer, I figured CCM must smell pretty bad.
And was I ever right. His lawyer tried to sit with us, just to get away from him. The Hearing Officer made him go sit closer to his client. The Detention Officers who brought Cupcake Man to the hearing wore masks. He was handcuffed, and the cuffs were attached to one of those waistband things. He was also wearing leg-irons. They seated him in a chair and then put another belt around his waist to make sure he stayed in the chair. They never got more than five feet away from him.
Officer Greg and Officer Dave testified at the hearing. I had to present an affidavit from the fellow who had his cheek broken and his eye damaged{he did get to keep it, but the medical bills were astronomical}. I also presented medical reports I had subpoenaed from the hospital. Mr. Victim had gotten a Fellowship at a Major Eastern University, and couldn't come back to testify. In a case like that, a sworn affidavit is acceptable next best evidence.
Cupcake Man's Parole was revoked by unanimous recommendation of his Parole Officer, the Hearing Officer and the Board Members who voted.
He also got new time on all the charges. His sentence was the maximum allowable at the time, but they were to run concurrent, not consecutively, so unless he got shanked in prison, he out there somewhere even as I type.
Now there's a comforting thought.
In the unlikely event that CCM was able to make bail, which was pretty darn high b/c the D.A.'s office stacked the charges against him. IIRC, he was charged with Assault with Serious Bodily Injury {the patron at Mrs. Baird's was transported to the E.R. with facial fractures and was in danger of losing his left eye !!!}; Resisting Arrest; and multiple counts of Assault on a Police Officer.
But, just in case, when a parolee broke his parole by committing new offenses, the officer was required to submit a "Report of Violation" as soon as possible. Given the severity, I called the Regional office and tried to find a Hearing Officer still in the office at 5:45 pm on a Friday afternoon. Yeah, right. That's like trying to find a virgin on Saturday morning after Prom Night!
I wound up talking to one of the Assistant Regional Supervisors. I explained the situation to him and he agreed we needed a "Blue Warrant" post haste. I faxed him a Report of Violation; he faxed me back an Emergency Blue Warrant.
A Blue Warrant is actually a No Bail, Warrant to Revoke Parole. It is a notice to the Parolee that the Board and its representatives, in the persons of their Parole Officer and a Hearing Officer or in this case, an Assistant Regional Supv. have become aware of a parole violation severe enough to cause them to be arrested and held without bail pending a revocation of parole hearing. They were called "Blue Warrants" because they were printed on blue paper. The cops LOVED blue warrants. The P.O.s LOVED blue warrants. The parolees did not love blue warrants.
From the time they were arrested until the time of the hearing and then the time the hearing officer made a decision and then the Board considered the evidence presented at the hearing and the recommendation of both the P.O. and the Hearing Officer could take up to three months. And the burden of proof was a Preponderance of the Credible Evidence. Yeppers, doncha just love that?
So I go on over to the jail Friday night and give the Sheriff's Office a copy of the Blue Warrant so Cupcake Man won't get out on bail, no way, no how. Officer Greg is still there! He's standing at the book-in desk filling out paperwork for the S.O. and muttering.
I sidle up to him and ask, "You in the market for a 'Blue Warrant', Big Guy?"
He hadn't seen me walk up, so he gives me a double take, and then he drops his pen, and picks me up, and spins me around. As he sets me down he grins as asks me, "How in the heck did you get one of these at," and he checks the clock on the wall, " 7 o'clock, on a Friday night?" "Oh, Officer Greg, what's a few begging phone calls to Foat Wuth, and a couple of burning faxes for a good-looking, hard-working cop like you? It was the least I could do." I answered, waving the warrant like a Southern Belle with a fan at the cottilion.
On Monday, I call Ft.Worth, and get a Revocation Hearing scheduled and go up to the jail and notify Cupcake Man of the date of the hearing and why he is facing the revocation of his parole. As if he didn't know this was going to happen. I thought he smelled a little ripe, but I just wrote it off to him not having had a shower over the weekend. His hearing was scheduled for three weeks after the day I notified him.
About two weeks later, I was up at the jail on other business and one of the jailers asked me if I was Cupcake Man's P.O. I admitted that I was. He informed me that they'd had to move CCM to an isolation cell the week before. I asked if he had been "acting up". He said, "Sorta." I asked, "Sorta? What does 'sorta' mean?" The jailer explained," Well, I don't know if ol'Cupcake Man is REALLY crazy, or just getting ready to look that way for his trial. He's stopped showering, and he won't use the john for his, uh, his, uh #2 business."
I put my purse on the counter, put one hand on my hip and peered at him with my best skeptical look, "What do you mean? What is he doing with his...feces?"
"Well, Ma'am, it looks, from the shape and smell, of his cell, that he's...um...decorating with them," he answered. After a long pause, I queried, "You mean he's smearing it on the walls of his cell?" Nodding his head, the jailer replied, "Yes, Ma'am."
Shaking my head in disgust, I say, "I gotta talk to Sgt. So&So about THIS!" And I head off towards the office of the Head of Medical Services for the Jail. I get to his office and the door is open, so I knock and go on in.
"You're here about Cupcake Man, right?" He's a good guesser, huh?
"That is not only disgusting, it's got to be unhealthy, not only for him, but for everybody around him and, and, and," I just start sputtering.
The Sgt. laughs, partly at my sputtering and partly at the whole craziness of the situation. He explains, "We can't put him on any psychotropics against his will, and he won't agree to a psych eval. His Lawyer for the new charges haasn't been to see him yet. His lawyer for the revocation hearing hasn't been to see him, yet either. Even if he is, you should pardon the expression, 'crazy as a shithouse rat', there ain't nothing we can do about it w/o either his cooperation or a court order. The D.A.'s office don't want to hear it, b/c it would give him a free pass to Rusk {the State Hospital for the Criminally Insane} rather than a conviction and another trip to prison. MHMR is out of the question b/c he's a prisoner. Wichita Falls {a State Hospital for Mental Health care}is not an Option b/c he's a criminal. So, the Sheriff and I talked it over. Since he's violent, and it puts our people at risk whenever we have to do an extraction from his cell, we'll only hose it, and him down twice a week. That's the best I can do."
I mull this over, "Actually, when you put it that way, sounds more than reasonable to me. " And I get up and leave.
I go back to the office and report this situation to my Unit Supervisor. She has a little trouble wrapping her mind around this information. She's been with Parole a long time, but she's never heard anything like this. "He's got to be settin' up an insanity defense."
I nod my head, "Got to be. So, should I let the Hearing Officer know, or what?"
"Yeah, draft a memo, address it to the H.O., but copy Region, and Austin," she advises.
"Will do," I assure her.
And off I go to my office. This was back in the days before we had computers. BUT, I could smoke in my office. SO I kick off my shoes, pull out the bottom drawer, prop up my feet, get a legal pad and a pile of sharp pencils and go to work. I'm scribbling and puffing and scratching out and all told it must have taken me two hours and 1/2 a pack of cigarettes to draft this kick-a$$ memo advising the food chain of the bizarre situation in the jail.
There is nothing like working for a State agency, except maybe working for Uncle Sugar, to teach you how to CYA.
On the day of the hearing, the Detention Lt. in charge of assigning rooms in the jail gave us a BIG conference room for the revocation hearing. He also put three big fans in the room, all pointed at one end of the table. The end where Cupcake Man would be sitting.
I got there first and the Lt. explained about the fans. I thanked him profusely. In fact, the next day, I went to the best bakery {not Mrs.Baird's} in town and got him a Pecan Pie and took it up to him.
When the Hearing Officer got there I explained to her that tomorrow was Cupcake Man's hosing off day and he was likely to be a bit "ripe" smelling. I told her that several members of the Detention staff had recommended the use of the fans. She seemed to think it was rude, but I urged her to wait and see how CCM smelled when he came in.
Oh, I almost forgot. The staff had set up three long tables. They had placed three chairs at one end. Those chairs were for the Hearing Officer, me, and any witnesses who would testify. At the other end of the table there were two chairs. One for Cupcake Man and one for his lawyer. Even the one for his lawyer was on the other side of the fans. If the jailers were willing to be that nice to a lawyer, I figured CCM must smell pretty bad.
And was I ever right. His lawyer tried to sit with us, just to get away from him. The Hearing Officer made him go sit closer to his client. The Detention Officers who brought Cupcake Man to the hearing wore masks. He was handcuffed, and the cuffs were attached to one of those waistband things. He was also wearing leg-irons. They seated him in a chair and then put another belt around his waist to make sure he stayed in the chair. They never got more than five feet away from him.
Officer Greg and Officer Dave testified at the hearing. I had to present an affidavit from the fellow who had his cheek broken and his eye damaged{he did get to keep it, but the medical bills were astronomical}. I also presented medical reports I had subpoenaed from the hospital. Mr. Victim had gotten a Fellowship at a Major Eastern University, and couldn't come back to testify. In a case like that, a sworn affidavit is acceptable next best evidence.
Cupcake Man's Parole was revoked by unanimous recommendation of his Parole Officer, the Hearing Officer and the Board Members who voted.
He also got new time on all the charges. His sentence was the maximum allowable at the time, but they were to run concurrent, not consecutively, so unless he got shanked in prison, he out there somewhere even as I type.
Now there's a comforting thought.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
CupCake Man
When that nutjob in San Francisco used the "Twinkie" defense, I wasn't surprised. His lawyer had probably talked to the lawyer here who had the unfortunate luck [now there's an oxymoron I didn't even plan] to be appointed to represent "Cupcake" man.
Friday was my "Duty" day. That meant I had to stay in the office that day. I couldn't do any home visits, couldn't go to the jail and do any interviews, had to stay in the office and see my miscreants and any new releasees if the PO they would be assigned to was out of the office.
On a Parolee's first visit to the Parole office a requirement of their release was for a Parole Officer to read the Parole Certificate and any special conditions typed on the face of said Certificate to the Parolee and explain every word and phrase to them. Then the Parole officer and the Parolee had to sign the certificate attesting that it had been read, explained and that the parolee completely understood every word, phrase, comma, and period.
That way, later on, if s/he violated one of the terms of his/her release they could NOT claim they did not know or understand it was not "okay" for them to do what ever they had done that was in violation of their parole conditions.
So I stayed til 6pm on the first Friday of every month so that the Parolees who worked in the far parts of the county could make it in after they got off work at 5pm. Since a lot of these folks were real good at pushing limits, and they knew the doors got locked at 6, they'd show up at 5:58. But that was fine. I got comp time. I knew I could come in late, or take off early on a different day, or save it up until I had 8 hours of comp time and take a whole Monday off and have a three day weekend. Anyhoo...
This particular Friday I get a call from Officer Greg at the Local Poleece Department about 5:30 pm. Seems he and Officer Dave have answered a call at Mrs.Baird's Discount Bakery.
My Parolee, whom I shall call Cupcake Man, had gotten a craving for one of those delicious little chocolate cupcakes filled with white cream and iced with chocolate with the white zigzags on top. Know the ones I mean? If you're real careful, you can just peel that icing off in one piece.
Well, Cupcake Man gets to the bakery and there's ONE package of cupcakes left. Another patron has just reached for it, has his hand on what Cupcake Man really, really wants. What is Cupcake Man to do? Someone else is taking what he NEEDS!!! With his left hand Cupcake Man grabs the package of those wonderful, delicious, tasty delights, with his right fist, he slugs the other patron right smack dab on the zygomatic arch under his left eye.
This maneuver causes several things to happen. The other patron releases his hold on the cupcakes, which is all that concerns Cupcake Man. He goes to the cash register to pay for his treat, but the clerk is too busy calling to Poleece to ring up his purchase, so he just walks outside with his chocolate trophy and sits down on the curb in the parking lot and begins to eat his own version of taste bud heaven.
The reason the other patron released his hold on the package of cupcakes is because of the searing pain in his left cheek and the fact that his left eye is no longer secure in its socket. He's sitting on the floor, screaming in pain, both hands cupping the left side of his face, rocking back and forth.
One of the clerks is on the phone by the cash register calling the Police. The other clerk has run in the back of the store screaming for help. Some of the delivery drivers are back there. Some go into the store and check on the other clerk and the patron. One grabs a first aid kit. And one, keeps his cool and calls the Fire Department for an Ambulance.
Friday was my "Duty" day. That meant I had to stay in the office that day. I couldn't do any home visits, couldn't go to the jail and do any interviews, had to stay in the office and see my miscreants and any new releasees if the PO they would be assigned to was out of the office.
On a Parolee's first visit to the Parole office a requirement of their release was for a Parole Officer to read the Parole Certificate and any special conditions typed on the face of said Certificate to the Parolee and explain every word and phrase to them. Then the Parole officer and the Parolee had to sign the certificate attesting that it had been read, explained and that the parolee completely understood every word, phrase, comma, and period.
That way, later on, if s/he violated one of the terms of his/her release they could NOT claim they did not know or understand it was not "okay" for them to do what ever they had done that was in violation of their parole conditions.
So I stayed til 6pm on the first Friday of every month so that the Parolees who worked in the far parts of the county could make it in after they got off work at 5pm. Since a lot of these folks were real good at pushing limits, and they knew the doors got locked at 6, they'd show up at 5:58. But that was fine. I got comp time. I knew I could come in late, or take off early on a different day, or save it up until I had 8 hours of comp time and take a whole Monday off and have a three day weekend. Anyhoo...
This particular Friday I get a call from Officer Greg at the Local Poleece Department about 5:30 pm. Seems he and Officer Dave have answered a call at Mrs.Baird's Discount Bakery.
My Parolee, whom I shall call Cupcake Man, had gotten a craving for one of those delicious little chocolate cupcakes filled with white cream and iced with chocolate with the white zigzags on top. Know the ones I mean? If you're real careful, you can just peel that icing off in one piece.
Well, Cupcake Man gets to the bakery and there's ONE package of cupcakes left. Another patron has just reached for it, has his hand on what Cupcake Man really, really wants. What is Cupcake Man to do? Someone else is taking what he NEEDS!!! With his left hand Cupcake Man grabs the package of those wonderful, delicious, tasty delights, with his right fist, he slugs the other patron right smack dab on the zygomatic arch under his left eye.
This maneuver causes several things to happen. The other patron releases his hold on the cupcakes, which is all that concerns Cupcake Man. He goes to the cash register to pay for his treat, but the clerk is too busy calling to Poleece to ring up his purchase, so he just walks outside with his chocolate trophy and sits down on the curb in the parking lot and begins to eat his own version of taste bud heaven.
The reason the other patron released his hold on the package of cupcakes is because of the searing pain in his left cheek and the fact that his left eye is no longer secure in its socket. He's sitting on the floor, screaming in pain, both hands cupping the left side of his face, rocking back and forth.
One of the clerks is on the phone by the cash register calling the Police. The other clerk has run in the back of the store screaming for help. Some of the delivery drivers are back there. Some go into the store and check on the other clerk and the patron. One grabs a first aid kit. And one, keeps his cool and calls the Fire Department for an Ambulance.
When Officer Greg and Officer Dave arrived at Mrs. Baird's Bakery, Cupcake Man is still sitting on the curb, there in the parking lot. But the arrival of two squad cars, lights and sirens going full tilt boogie, seems to snap CCM out of his chocolate induced reverie, according to Officer Greg. His head whips around, he bounds off the curb like he's doin' his best "Tigger" impression and takes off down the side street.
Officer Greg and Officer Dave give pursuit. They shout, "STOP! PO-LEEZE!" Cupcake man continues to flee. Officer Greg and Officer Dave continue to pursue. Officer Greg and Officer Dave do not like to pursue. In fact, Officer Greg and Officer Dave REALLY do not like to pursue fleeing felons when they are wearing slick soled shoes, full gear and body armor on hot days.
I must take a sec to give y'all a quick description of Offiver Greg and Officer Dave. They were both in their late 20's, and had they not been law enforcement officers, they could have played defensive linemen for the Cowboys. They weren't big, they were HUGE.
So here's the fleeing 5'10", 170lbs felon, and there's the two HUGE LEOs chasing him. Finally, Officer Greg reaches out to grab Cupcake Man around the shoulders, but winds up with his left upper arm. CCM pivots around with his right fist aimed at Officer Greg's face. Luckily, Officer Greg ducked under CCM's arm and Officer Dave was able to get a good hold on the right arm preventing further swinging with that arm.
But Officer Greg lost his hold on the left arm. It took those two officers a good 10 minutes of heavy effort to get Cupcake man subdued. And they had to call for assistance. It eventually took four officers to get him handcuffed and leg-shackeled and into the backseat of a squad-car.
And this is not the end of the...saga.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
The Time I Had to Have a Parolee
break into my Husband's truck.
BTW, I chose this color b/c the truck had a racing stripe this same shade.
I have to back up and explain why I did something monumentally careless.
My Daddy [God Love him] and his Daddy[God love him, too] knew a lot of things. But they knew almost nothing about what they were looking at when they popped the hood of a car. And other than how to change a tire, and how to put gas in a car, they taught me nothing about cars.
Neither my first husband or my second husband, who knew how to pull, rebuild and replace an engine, corrected this deficit in my education. As a matter of fact, the husband in question used to tell me, "Don't worry about the car, I'll take care of the car." OK, fine.
Except when I got my CJ-7, he didn't take care of the maintenence. His idea of taking care of it would be to say something like, "you need to get the oil changed". But he'd say it while I was fixin' dinner, or bathin' two kids, or writin' a paper.
At the time he was workin' 40 hrs/week. I, on the other hand, was goin to school full time, and takin' care of 2 kids, and keepin house. So when he would say somethin' like that once every 5-6 months when I was busy with somethin else, it would go in one ear and out the other.
So, now that I've rationalized my carelessness, long story short, I blew the engine in my CJ-7. It hadn't had an oil change in 2.5 years. The oil in the pan was the consistency of chocolate puddin'. How many of you just shuddered?
While it's gettin fixed, I'm drivin' his truck.
I'm out doin' home visits one evening, but rather than out in the middle of nowhere, I'm in the city. This parolee, named Greg, lived on the edge of the "Projects". In fact, he lived a couple of streets over from Colored Man. He lived with his Daddy and I had been to see him before, this was just a routine 1/3months visit. I forget what he had gone to prison for, but if I was only seeing him once every three months he must have been doing pretty good on his parole.
Since it's my husband's truck, he had wanted me to lock it whenever I got out and wasn't going to be within sight of it "at all times". So I dutifully get out of the truck, lock it, and go up to Greg's door. I go inside, do the home visit, and go back out to the truck.
Reach in my pocket and NO KEYS. I look in the window, there they are, dangling from the ignition.
I go back to Greg's door and ask him if I can have a coat hanger. He looks at me funny, so I point to the truck and with a great deal of embarrassment admit that I've locked the keys inside the truck. He laughs at my predicament and tells me, "I can get in that truck in a jiffy. Those old Fords are easy."
Sure enough, he walked out and with a metal ruler and had the door open in about 5 seconds.
I thanked him and he said, "Sure."
I've never told anybody this story.
BTW, I chose this color b/c the truck had a racing stripe this same shade.
I have to back up and explain why I did something monumentally careless.
My Daddy [God Love him] and his Daddy[God love him, too] knew a lot of things. But they knew almost nothing about what they were looking at when they popped the hood of a car. And other than how to change a tire, and how to put gas in a car, they taught me nothing about cars.
Neither my first husband or my second husband, who knew how to pull, rebuild and replace an engine, corrected this deficit in my education. As a matter of fact, the husband in question used to tell me, "Don't worry about the car, I'll take care of the car." OK, fine.
Except when I got my CJ-7, he didn't take care of the maintenence. His idea of taking care of it would be to say something like, "you need to get the oil changed". But he'd say it while I was fixin' dinner, or bathin' two kids, or writin' a paper.
At the time he was workin' 40 hrs/week. I, on the other hand, was goin to school full time, and takin' care of 2 kids, and keepin house. So when he would say somethin' like that once every 5-6 months when I was busy with somethin else, it would go in one ear and out the other.
So, now that I've rationalized my carelessness, long story short, I blew the engine in my CJ-7. It hadn't had an oil change in 2.5 years. The oil in the pan was the consistency of chocolate puddin'. How many of you just shuddered?
While it's gettin fixed, I'm drivin' his truck.
I'm out doin' home visits one evening, but rather than out in the middle of nowhere, I'm in the city. This parolee, named Greg, lived on the edge of the "Projects". In fact, he lived a couple of streets over from Colored Man. He lived with his Daddy and I had been to see him before, this was just a routine 1/3months visit. I forget what he had gone to prison for, but if I was only seeing him once every three months he must have been doing pretty good on his parole.
Since it's my husband's truck, he had wanted me to lock it whenever I got out and wasn't going to be within sight of it "at all times". So I dutifully get out of the truck, lock it, and go up to Greg's door. I go inside, do the home visit, and go back out to the truck.
Reach in my pocket and NO KEYS. I look in the window, there they are, dangling from the ignition.
I go back to Greg's door and ask him if I can have a coat hanger. He looks at me funny, so I point to the truck and with a great deal of embarrassment admit that I've locked the keys inside the truck. He laughs at my predicament and tells me, "I can get in that truck in a jiffy. Those old Fords are easy."
Sure enough, he walked out and with a metal ruler and had the door open in about 5 seconds.
I thanked him and he said, "Sure."
I've never told anybody this story.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
The Ladies in Red Social Club
Yes, this is another Parolee story.
Chanel is one of the two female parolees I briefly mentioned in my last post who actually admitted her guilt. In fact, she not only admitted she had done what she was accused of doing, she was actually proud of having done it! I inherited Chanel from one of the other Parole Officers in the office when I started. She told me Chanel was a little "quirky", but basically not a big problem... as long as she stayed sober and didn't have any marital problems.
Those of you who read a lot of crime fiction or true crime books or watch crime shows on the TeeVee or who have worked in the criminal justice field may be familiar with the term "Misdemeanor Murder". Chanel considered her crime a misdemeanor murder. Before she came in for her first office visit, I took a look through her file to familiarize myself with her criminal history and background while on parole. She'd gotten 10 years on a plea bargain for Murder. She got out on Parole after doing 5 years.
Chanel was at the Ladies in Red Social Club one Saturday night. After having a few Salty Dogs, she felt like dancing. Lacking a partner, but never one to be held back by convention, she gets out on the dance floor by herself and proceeds to boogey down. Another patron of this establishment, who evidently thought she was a superior dancer and thus in a position to sit in judgement of Chanel's terpsichorean skills, committed what proved to be a fatal error. She began to point at Chanel and laugh. And Chanel, in her own words:
That just pure dee pissed me off. So, I reached down in my boot, pulled out my .25 and put a cap in that Bitch! She quit laughin' after that, I guarandamntee you.
And Chanel returned to her table. Set the gun on the table, ordered another Salty Dog and waited for the Po Leece, as she called them.
Talk about an open and shut case.
Chanel is one of the two female parolees I briefly mentioned in my last post who actually admitted her guilt. In fact, she not only admitted she had done what she was accused of doing, she was actually proud of having done it! I inherited Chanel from one of the other Parole Officers in the office when I started. She told me Chanel was a little "quirky", but basically not a big problem... as long as she stayed sober and didn't have any marital problems.
Those of you who read a lot of crime fiction or true crime books or watch crime shows on the TeeVee or who have worked in the criminal justice field may be familiar with the term "Misdemeanor Murder". Chanel considered her crime a misdemeanor murder. Before she came in for her first office visit, I took a look through her file to familiarize myself with her criminal history and background while on parole. She'd gotten 10 years on a plea bargain for Murder. She got out on Parole after doing 5 years.
Chanel was at the Ladies in Red Social Club one Saturday night. After having a few Salty Dogs, she felt like dancing. Lacking a partner, but never one to be held back by convention, she gets out on the dance floor by herself and proceeds to boogey down. Another patron of this establishment, who evidently thought she was a superior dancer and thus in a position to sit in judgement of Chanel's terpsichorean skills, committed what proved to be a fatal error. She began to point at Chanel and laugh. And Chanel, in her own words:
That just pure dee pissed me off. So, I reached down in my boot, pulled out my .25 and put a cap in that Bitch! She quit laughin' after that, I guarandamntee you.
And Chanel returned to her table. Set the gun on the table, ordered another Salty Dog and waited for the Po Leece, as she called them.
Talk about an open and shut case.
My Adventures with Bus Man
Ready for a Parolee story that still makes me shudder when I think about it?
Back when Gawd made dirt and I was a Parole officer, District Parole offices were assigned territory based on the number of Parolees in a given area. For instance, Dallas County was both a Regional office and had three District offices. My District office was in the North Texas area and covered three counties. I was luckier than some of the other P.O.s in my office. During my tenure I never had to supervise parolees living outside my home county. And I usually racked up about 1K miles/month making home visits.
During the early years, when I was still supervising garden variety felons, my territory was the Northern and Western areas of the County. Now, when I took this job, my Daddy, a 27 year USPS employee, told me that if I ever need directions to a parolee's house to stop at the Post Office and ask them for directions. I have since learned that the police station or a fire station are also pretty good places for directions.
And don't give me any of that bushwa {thanks, LawDog, knowing you is sooo good for my vocabulary} about using MapQuest or a Mapsco. You show me a woman who would rather use a computer or a book than talk to a Cop or Firefighter, and I'll show you a woman who needs to have her hormone levels checked! Besides, back when the earth's crust was cooling and I was doing Home Visits, there WAS no MapQuest. Heck, we didn't even have a computer in the office.
So, BusMan gets out of Prison and reports to me. I had done his pre-release investigation, checked with his friends, "Yeah, we got a place for him to stay 'til he gets on his feet."
BusMan had gone to prison, this time, for Theft. His story, and he was By Chris stickin' to it, was that he thought the stuff he took outta those folks yard was "junk". That's how he supported hisself, y'see, he was a "Junkman". He didn't KNOW that items in a person's yard had to be w/in 5' of the curb or street to be considered "trash". And he had taken the plea offered by the DA so he didn't have to wait 2 years for a trial, even tho he wasn't really guilty.
It's amazing, when I look back, how many innocent parolees I supervised. In any given month I had probably 100 parolees on my caseload. I can only remember about 10, 8 men and 2 women who took responsibility for their crimes. Someday, I'll write about the one guy I see from time to time who still thanks me for the difference I made in his life.
But back to BusMan.
BusMan lived so far in the Western part of my county that I had to leave my county and then reenter it, b/c of the way the roads were laid out, to get to his "domicile". When his friends said they had a place for him to stay, I was naive enough to assume this meant a room or at least a bed or couch in their house. You know that old saying "when you assume you make an ass out of u and me"?
I followed BusMan's directions about taking US 123 to FM 456 to Rutted Road and turn left, then take a sharp right at the black mail box. Then when you get to the green house on the right, take the left fork and go about 1/4 of a mile down another bumpy road, but they are gonna get it graded pretty soon, or maybe after the Spring. And then when you top the hill... I swan, y'all would NOT believe me if I was to swear on the heads of my muchly loved offspring, just how many times I have had to follow directions like this... then when you see the gray house on the left and the kinda blue house right across the yard, just stop and beep your car horn twice,"Then I'll come out and get the dogs, so you won't get mud on you."
When I finally pull up to this, this, this, what my then culture shocked self can only describe as "Deliverance Movie Set" compound, I have made several observations and mental reminders. The first observation is that I can barely see, through the trees at the northern and eastern edges of this compound, maybe 250 yards away a housing development where the cheapest homes sell for $250K+. That was mind blowing. The second observation was the motorcycle gang clubhouse I had passed. I ain't talkin' middle-aged crazy motorcycle "Club" that some of these upscale homeowners might have formed. No, chirren. I'm talkin' the Color-wearing-drug-dealin'- scare-the-bejabbers-out-of-decent-citizens motorcycle gang type clubhouse. The kind built out of cinderblock, iron bars on the windows, steeldoored, Rotties, Dobies, and Pitts chained outside type clubhouse.
The mental reminders to self? I would discretely break a couple of Parole Board Rules on my next visit in the interest of practicality and self-preservation. I'd be stoppin' by my house and changin' into jeans and tennies. And I'd be...nevermind, not sure if the statute of limitations has run out yet on the other rule I broke.
So I beep my horn twice. Does BusMan come out of the gray house I'm lookin' at? Does he come out of the kinda blue house I'm lookin at? No, the doors open on an old, yellow school bus parked amid several rusting and rusted out cars on blocks, and out jumps Bus Man. He corrals the dogs, about five, that have come runnin' and barkin' as I was makin' my way up the rutted, bumpy, driveway[?]. I was never so thankful, that I drove a Jeep, as I was that afternoon. Until the day I went out there when it was raining. Some of those ruts turned into small lakes!
Once the dogs have been chased back a suitable distance, he invites me into his home. I step up into the bus and take a look around. He or somebody has taken most of the seats out. The remaining seats have been turned to face the center of the bus, sort of like benches.
He has those heavy duty extension cords running back to the grey house. They power his hot plate and tiny space heater. He has a Coleman lantern for light, and a cot to sleep on. I ask about a toilet. He points to the bus' back door, and says he has a "portajohn" out there. I nod my head and tell him it kinda reminds me of the deer camp my GrandDad had one year. That brings a big grin to his face.
I tell him I'll see him next Friday, and remind him to bring all the paperwork he needs to bring.
And I get the hell outta there. Go home and don't even touch my kids 'til I take a long hot shower and throw all my clothes in the washer and put on all clean stuff. Then I hug them tight and we have a long talk about their day and I slowly return to normal.
I have another couple of stories about BusMan, but you'll have to wait until I'm ready to write about the sex offenders. He eventually wound up on my S.O. caseload.
Back when Gawd made dirt and I was a Parole officer, District Parole offices were assigned territory based on the number of Parolees in a given area. For instance, Dallas County was both a Regional office and had three District offices. My District office was in the North Texas area and covered three counties. I was luckier than some of the other P.O.s in my office. During my tenure I never had to supervise parolees living outside my home county. And I usually racked up about 1K miles/month making home visits.
During the early years, when I was still supervising garden variety felons, my territory was the Northern and Western areas of the County. Now, when I took this job, my Daddy, a 27 year USPS employee, told me that if I ever need directions to a parolee's house to stop at the Post Office and ask them for directions. I have since learned that the police station or a fire station are also pretty good places for directions.
And don't give me any of that bushwa {thanks, LawDog, knowing you is sooo good for my vocabulary} about using MapQuest or a Mapsco. You show me a woman who would rather use a computer or a book than talk to a Cop or Firefighter, and I'll show you a woman who needs to have her hormone levels checked! Besides, back when the earth's crust was cooling and I was doing Home Visits, there WAS no MapQuest. Heck, we didn't even have a computer in the office.
So, BusMan gets out of Prison and reports to me. I had done his pre-release investigation, checked with his friends, "Yeah, we got a place for him to stay 'til he gets on his feet."
BusMan had gone to prison, this time, for Theft. His story, and he was By Chris stickin' to it, was that he thought the stuff he took outta those folks yard was "junk". That's how he supported hisself, y'see, he was a "Junkman". He didn't KNOW that items in a person's yard had to be w/in 5' of the curb or street to be considered "trash". And he had taken the plea offered by the DA so he didn't have to wait 2 years for a trial, even tho he wasn't really guilty.
It's amazing, when I look back, how many innocent parolees I supervised. In any given month I had probably 100 parolees on my caseload. I can only remember about 10, 8 men and 2 women who took responsibility for their crimes. Someday, I'll write about the one guy I see from time to time who still thanks me for the difference I made in his life.
But back to BusMan.
BusMan lived so far in the Western part of my county that I had to leave my county and then reenter it, b/c of the way the roads were laid out, to get to his "domicile". When his friends said they had a place for him to stay, I was naive enough to assume this meant a room or at least a bed or couch in their house. You know that old saying "when you assume you make an ass out of u and me"?
I followed BusMan's directions about taking US 123 to FM 456 to Rutted Road and turn left, then take a sharp right at the black mail box. Then when you get to the green house on the right, take the left fork and go about 1/4 of a mile down another bumpy road, but they are gonna get it graded pretty soon, or maybe after the Spring. And then when you top the hill... I swan, y'all would NOT believe me if I was to swear on the heads of my muchly loved offspring, just how many times I have had to follow directions like this... then when you see the gray house on the left and the kinda blue house right across the yard, just stop and beep your car horn twice,"Then I'll come out and get the dogs, so you won't get mud on you."
When I finally pull up to this, this, this, what my then culture shocked self can only describe as "Deliverance Movie Set" compound, I have made several observations and mental reminders. The first observation is that I can barely see, through the trees at the northern and eastern edges of this compound, maybe 250 yards away a housing development where the cheapest homes sell for $250K+. That was mind blowing. The second observation was the motorcycle gang clubhouse I had passed. I ain't talkin' middle-aged crazy motorcycle "Club" that some of these upscale homeowners might have formed. No, chirren. I'm talkin' the Color-wearing-drug-dealin'- scare-the-bejabbers-out-of-decent-citizens motorcycle gang type clubhouse. The kind built out of cinderblock, iron bars on the windows, steeldoored, Rotties, Dobies, and Pitts chained outside type clubhouse.
The mental reminders to self? I would discretely break a couple of Parole Board Rules on my next visit in the interest of practicality and self-preservation. I'd be stoppin' by my house and changin' into jeans and tennies. And I'd be...nevermind, not sure if the statute of limitations has run out yet on the other rule I broke.
So I beep my horn twice. Does BusMan come out of the gray house I'm lookin' at? Does he come out of the kinda blue house I'm lookin at? No, the doors open on an old, yellow school bus parked amid several rusting and rusted out cars on blocks, and out jumps Bus Man. He corrals the dogs, about five, that have come runnin' and barkin' as I was makin' my way up the rutted, bumpy, driveway[?]. I was never so thankful, that I drove a Jeep, as I was that afternoon. Until the day I went out there when it was raining. Some of those ruts turned into small lakes!
Once the dogs have been chased back a suitable distance, he invites me into his home. I step up into the bus and take a look around. He or somebody has taken most of the seats out. The remaining seats have been turned to face the center of the bus, sort of like benches.
He has those heavy duty extension cords running back to the grey house. They power his hot plate and tiny space heater. He has a Coleman lantern for light, and a cot to sleep on. I ask about a toilet. He points to the bus' back door, and says he has a "portajohn" out there. I nod my head and tell him it kinda reminds me of the deer camp my GrandDad had one year. That brings a big grin to his face.
I tell him I'll see him next Friday, and remind him to bring all the paperwork he needs to bring.
And I get the hell outta there. Go home and don't even touch my kids 'til I take a long hot shower and throw all my clothes in the washer and put on all clean stuff. Then I hug them tight and we have a long talk about their day and I slowly return to normal.
I have another couple of stories about BusMan, but you'll have to wait until I'm ready to write about the sex offenders. He eventually wound up on my S.O. caseload.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
That Colored Man
Now, don't get your Vickies in a twist! I call him "Colored Man" , not because he was black { although he was} but because his 'rents, in their infinite wisdom, named him after a color.
I asked him once, after he'd been on my caseload a while, how many fights he'd gotten into in school b/c of his name, he hung his head and then he looked up at me and said, "Aw, Miss Holly, I gots in a few, but then I learned to joke about it, you knows, make fun and laugh about it wif them."
When Colored Man first got out of prison he was living with his baby's Mama. But then they had a fight and he moved in with his Grandmama. He did the right thing, though and called me on the Monday after he moved and told me about his new address. I made an appointment to come see him the next day between 6pm and 8pm since that was my usual night to do home visits in that town.
I was familiar with the neighborhood. Single family homes, some owner occupied, some rentals, lower income, mostly black, but some some hispanics had started moving into the area in the last few years. His Grandmama's house happened to be on the border street with the area's only Public Housing Apartment Complex. Very high crime area. But, I was hoping the Grandmama would be a stabilizing influence on Colored Man.
I park on the street because the driveway is full and as I walk to the door I am encouraged to notice that there is no trash in the yard and the grass and weeds have been recently mowed. There are even some Mums growing in a flowerbed by the porch, which has been swept!
I knock and when Grandmama opens the door the stench from inside almost knocks me off the porch. I manage to cover my gag with a cough. I introduce myself to this polite old lady. I tell her my name and that I'm Colored Man's Parole Officer.
"I need to make sure he's living with you now." Grandmama says,"Yes,Ma'am, he moved in here Saturday after that no account Shaniqua kicked him out. Do you want to come in and see his room?" "No, Ma'am, I will take your word for that. You seem like an honest woman. I sure do like your flowers out here. Could you ask Colored Man to come out here, please?" "I go to the Missionary Episcopal Church every Sunday and sing in the Choir, too. Let me get Colored Man for you." And she bustles off.
Colored Man comes to the door and we talk out on the porch. He, too, invites me in but I decline his invitation. We conduct our business, I ask what his squabble with Shaniqua was about, trying to ascertain if there was any domestic violence involved, knowing I will have to follow up with her, anyway. A Parolee works from sun to sun, but a P.O. work is never done.
At least Colored man lived in a house. Next up will be Bus Man.
I asked him once, after he'd been on my caseload a while, how many fights he'd gotten into in school b/c of his name, he hung his head and then he looked up at me and said, "Aw, Miss Holly, I gots in a few, but then I learned to joke about it, you knows, make fun and laugh about it wif them."
When Colored Man first got out of prison he was living with his baby's Mama. But then they had a fight and he moved in with his Grandmama. He did the right thing, though and called me on the Monday after he moved and told me about his new address. I made an appointment to come see him the next day between 6pm and 8pm since that was my usual night to do home visits in that town.
I was familiar with the neighborhood. Single family homes, some owner occupied, some rentals, lower income, mostly black, but some some hispanics had started moving into the area in the last few years. His Grandmama's house happened to be on the border street with the area's only Public Housing Apartment Complex. Very high crime area. But, I was hoping the Grandmama would be a stabilizing influence on Colored Man.
I park on the street because the driveway is full and as I walk to the door I am encouraged to notice that there is no trash in the yard and the grass and weeds have been recently mowed. There are even some Mums growing in a flowerbed by the porch, which has been swept!
I knock and when Grandmama opens the door the stench from inside almost knocks me off the porch. I manage to cover my gag with a cough. I introduce myself to this polite old lady. I tell her my name and that I'm Colored Man's Parole Officer.
"I need to make sure he's living with you now." Grandmama says,"Yes,Ma'am, he moved in here Saturday after that no account Shaniqua kicked him out. Do you want to come in and see his room?" "No, Ma'am, I will take your word for that. You seem like an honest woman. I sure do like your flowers out here. Could you ask Colored Man to come out here, please?" "I go to the Missionary Episcopal Church every Sunday and sing in the Choir, too. Let me get Colored Man for you." And she bustles off.
Colored Man comes to the door and we talk out on the porch. He, too, invites me in but I decline his invitation. We conduct our business, I ask what his squabble with Shaniqua was about, trying to ascertain if there was any domestic violence involved, knowing I will have to follow up with her, anyway. A Parolee works from sun to sun, but a P.O. work is never done.
At least Colored man lived in a house. Next up will be Bus Man.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Creepy Crawlies I've seen on Home Visits
Other than the Parolees, of course.
The Sex Offenders were slugs, they slithered and left slime tracks.
No, I'm talking about insects and parasites, alive and dead, I have had the misfortune to encounter in the course of making required home visits to the reported domiciles of Parolees. Or folks released from prison on something called Mandatory Supervision.
I have to explain that last. Back in the day, when the Earth's crust was still cooling, and I was laboring in the Fields of the Board of Pardons and Paroles, the prisons of Texas were overcrowded. They were under a Federal Judicial mandate to empty. And Barefoot Sanders meant: Pronto!
So, Texas installed revovling doors in their prisons that were called the Mandatory Supervision Release Program. This brain far...er, uh brilliant idea, brought to you by Austin's Finest Beaucrats, was a formula for the release of inmates. If their time served, plus their "good time" [which, for those of you unfamiliar with prison slang, is time they have served with no rule violations] equaled their total sentence, that had to be released. It didn't matter if they had not participated in any type of rehabilitation program, it didn't matter if they had participated in any educational program, if they had been there on a probation or parole violation, which SHOULD have meant that they served ALL of their original sentence before being released, they would in reality, do what came to be derisively called the "90 day Turnaround" and they knew it. But that's a subject for another blog. Trust me, I won't forget.
Back to Creepy Crawlies:
I went to do a home visit with a Parolee one night at a No-Tell Motel out on the highway that goes through town. His Mom had gotten tired of his routine and kicked him out. She's the one who told me where he was stayin'.
He was surprised to see me when I show up at this fine establishment that was his new home. He answers the door wearing a pair of unsnapped, but thankfully, zipped dirty jeans, no shirt, no shoes, dirty hair, TV blaring MTV. I told him I'd wait by the door while he found a shirt and turned off the TV.
Of course I had to shout this, but he turned off the TV and said, "Yes, Ma'am."
While he is hunting for the least dirty shirt among the piles of clothes scattered around the piles on the floor, I take a glannce around the room.
Standard cheapo motel room. Dirty, matted shag carpet. TV bolted to the wall on a metal arm. Lamp with a cracked shade on a cheap, warped bedside table.
Threadbare sheets thrown back on a sagging mattress. One chair, stuffing coming out in about four different tears in the covering, grease stains and ground in dirt obliterating the pattern of the upholstery. And polka dotted wall paper?
By now, Bad Son has his shirt on and, leaving the door open, I take a baby step into the room so I can take a better look at this Polka dotted wall paper while I ask about his job, if he's got his NA sign in sheet, has he got his Parole fee and his restitution fee for Friday?
When I get a better look at this Wall paper I realize it NOT wall paper. It's dead roaches stuck to the wall. So Many dead roaches all over every wall that it, my hand to the Goddess, looks like polka dots. I immediately check my feet, cause I feel something crawling on them. But no, nothing there. Must have been phantom roaches I felt.
I tell Bad Son to be on time Friday, and to bring the receipt for his UA he needs to take sometime this week and remind him to bring his pay stub, too.
And I get the heck out of there.
At least those roaches were dead. And at least it didn't smell.
The Sex Offenders were slugs, they slithered and left slime tracks.
No, I'm talking about insects and parasites, alive and dead, I have had the misfortune to encounter in the course of making required home visits to the reported domiciles of Parolees. Or folks released from prison on something called Mandatory Supervision.
I have to explain that last. Back in the day, when the Earth's crust was still cooling, and I was laboring in the Fields of the Board of Pardons and Paroles, the prisons of Texas were overcrowded. They were under a Federal Judicial mandate to empty. And Barefoot Sanders meant: Pronto!
So, Texas installed revovling doors in their prisons that were called the Mandatory Supervision Release Program. This brain far...er, uh brilliant idea, brought to you by Austin's Finest Beaucrats, was a formula for the release of inmates. If their time served, plus their "good time" [which, for those of you unfamiliar with prison slang, is time they have served with no rule violations] equaled their total sentence, that had to be released. It didn't matter if they had not participated in any type of rehabilitation program, it didn't matter if they had participated in any educational program, if they had been there on a probation or parole violation, which SHOULD have meant that they served ALL of their original sentence before being released, they would in reality, do what came to be derisively called the "90 day Turnaround" and they knew it. But that's a subject for another blog. Trust me, I won't forget.
Back to Creepy Crawlies:
I went to do a home visit with a Parolee one night at a No-Tell Motel out on the highway that goes through town. His Mom had gotten tired of his routine and kicked him out. She's the one who told me where he was stayin'.
He was surprised to see me when I show up at this fine establishment that was his new home. He answers the door wearing a pair of unsnapped, but thankfully, zipped dirty jeans, no shirt, no shoes, dirty hair, TV blaring MTV. I told him I'd wait by the door while he found a shirt and turned off the TV.
Of course I had to shout this, but he turned off the TV and said, "Yes, Ma'am."
While he is hunting for the least dirty shirt among the piles of clothes scattered around the piles on the floor, I take a glannce around the room.
Standard cheapo motel room. Dirty, matted shag carpet. TV bolted to the wall on a metal arm. Lamp with a cracked shade on a cheap, warped bedside table.
Threadbare sheets thrown back on a sagging mattress. One chair, stuffing coming out in about four different tears in the covering, grease stains and ground in dirt obliterating the pattern of the upholstery. And polka dotted wall paper?
By now, Bad Son has his shirt on and, leaving the door open, I take a baby step into the room so I can take a better look at this Polka dotted wall paper while I ask about his job, if he's got his NA sign in sheet, has he got his Parole fee and his restitution fee for Friday?
When I get a better look at this Wall paper I realize it NOT wall paper. It's dead roaches stuck to the wall. So Many dead roaches all over every wall that it, my hand to the Goddess, looks like polka dots. I immediately check my feet, cause I feel something crawling on them. But no, nothing there. Must have been phantom roaches I felt.
I tell Bad Son to be on time Friday, and to bring the receipt for his UA he needs to take sometime this week and remind him to bring his pay stub, too.
And I get the heck out of there.
At least those roaches were dead. And at least it didn't smell.
Being a Parole Officer
Yeah, I think I've finally had enough distance to share a few stories from my days in Criminal Justice. This was an interesting period in my life. I was a brand new Baby Social Worker ! The ink was barely dry on my Diploma ! My 2nd ex-husband was working for the Sheriff's Office and this position that would give us some common ground.
I found out later, much later, that the Regional Supv. hired me not only b/c I had a degree in Social Work and the new attitude in Parole was on Rehabilitation, but also b/c I had long, shapely legs. Brains and Beauty, that's me in a nutshell.
My first day, I got a call at 6:30 am from the District Supv. to report to a different address than where I had interviewed. When I got there I found out that the week before a parolee had broken into the office and set almost all the records on fire and darn near burned the entire office up. He was afraid his Parole Officer, Randa, was going to submit a "Report of Violation" about his recent activities and try to get his Parole revoked.
He was right. She had already sent the Report to the Regional office and the Warrant had already been issued. He got picked up about a month later. Thanks to good work by the Arson investigator, and sloppy work by Mr. Stupid Parolee, his prints were found all over the office, he got new convictions for Arson and tampering with Gov't. records and Burglary of a bldg. Since this was the Parole office he wasn't offered a plea bargain. They did give him concurrent sentences, though. He got out after 10 years.
Since I started in mid January, I worked one day and then got the next day off for MLK day. I thought it was a pretty cool gig.
Working for the State you get most of the National Holidays off, but you also get some cool State holidays, too. Some you get outright, but some are what's known as "Skeleton Crew" holidays. A Skeleton Crew day means that everybody can take off, but whoever is the "Duty" officer and one clerical person. Sometimes, in big offices a Supv. will stay, too. Confederate Heroes Day and LBJ's birthday are good examples of Skeleton crew days.
I found a postcard once that had a skeleton leaning on a timeclock. The caption read, "Skeleton Crew Day". I bought it and put it next to the mailboxes so everyone could enjoy the humor.
We stayed in the temporary offices about four months. And just as we were finally getting settled in... The old offices had finally been rebuilt and it was time to move back.
During that time, all the Parolee files had been rebuilt. See, anytime a piece of paper was generated in the District off, a copy of that paper was sent to the Regional Office and sometimes, the State Office. All that Parolee's efforts for naught.
My first reaction to the refurbished offices was the same as everybody else's, PEEYEW!!! It was like working inside a chimney flue. I smoke, and it was overwhelming. Whoa! Man it was awful. It took about 6 months to get used to it. We kept the front and back doors open 'til June just to help things air out. There would still be Mondays when we'd walk in and the odor would be like a slap in the face. Or you'd open a file that hadn't been burned, but had been in the office during the fire and that smoky smell would just waft up and fill the room.
Office Ghosts.
My Office was pretty cool, though. Nice and roomy. Had a window wall that looked oout on the hall. It had those Floor to ceiling vertical blinds. If I wasn't too busy I'd leave them open. If I didn't want any distractions, or if I was interviewing a newly released non-violent offender I'd shut them. However, if I had a violent offender, or once I started handling Sex Offenders the blinds stayed open and so did the door.
The single most important safety rule I was taught as a new Parole Officer was: NEVER LET THE PAROLEE GET BETWEEN YOU AND ANY DOOR, NEVER.
Followed closely by: NEVER TURN YOUR BACK ON A PAROLEE, NEVER.
Words to live by.
A general health rule I had learned when I was doing an internship with Child Protective Services I carried with me to Parole and other positions where I had to do home visits:
Do NOT sit on or within 6' of upholstered furniture if at all possible.
Now, those of you who have not had to visit in the homes of the poor or lazy or filthy or those with children who attend school with all of the aforementioned may not understand that rule, so I will explain. Lice may be teensy, tiny little creatures, but they not only live in upholstered furniture and pillows, but they can jump up to 6'. And they are a double dog bitch to get out of curly, permed or long hair. And whether you get them or not, you WILL be scratching your head when you leave a particularly filthy domicile if you even THINK there were lice or other creepy crawlies there.
In fact, I think that will be tomorrow's blog... "Creepy Crawlies I have seen on Home Visits"
I found out later, much later, that the Regional Supv. hired me not only b/c I had a degree in Social Work and the new attitude in Parole was on Rehabilitation, but also b/c I had long, shapely legs. Brains and Beauty, that's me in a nutshell.
My first day, I got a call at 6:30 am from the District Supv. to report to a different address than where I had interviewed. When I got there I found out that the week before a parolee had broken into the office and set almost all the records on fire and darn near burned the entire office up. He was afraid his Parole Officer, Randa, was going to submit a "Report of Violation" about his recent activities and try to get his Parole revoked.
He was right. She had already sent the Report to the Regional office and the Warrant had already been issued. He got picked up about a month later. Thanks to good work by the Arson investigator, and sloppy work by Mr. Stupid Parolee, his prints were found all over the office, he got new convictions for Arson and tampering with Gov't. records and Burglary of a bldg. Since this was the Parole office he wasn't offered a plea bargain. They did give him concurrent sentences, though. He got out after 10 years.
Since I started in mid January, I worked one day and then got the next day off for MLK day. I thought it was a pretty cool gig.
Working for the State you get most of the National Holidays off, but you also get some cool State holidays, too. Some you get outright, but some are what's known as "Skeleton Crew" holidays. A Skeleton Crew day means that everybody can take off, but whoever is the "Duty" officer and one clerical person. Sometimes, in big offices a Supv. will stay, too. Confederate Heroes Day and LBJ's birthday are good examples of Skeleton crew days.
I found a postcard once that had a skeleton leaning on a timeclock. The caption read, "Skeleton Crew Day". I bought it and put it next to the mailboxes so everyone could enjoy the humor.
We stayed in the temporary offices about four months. And just as we were finally getting settled in... The old offices had finally been rebuilt and it was time to move back.
During that time, all the Parolee files had been rebuilt. See, anytime a piece of paper was generated in the District off, a copy of that paper was sent to the Regional Office and sometimes, the State Office. All that Parolee's efforts for naught.
My first reaction to the refurbished offices was the same as everybody else's, PEEYEW!!! It was like working inside a chimney flue. I smoke, and it was overwhelming. Whoa! Man it was awful. It took about 6 months to get used to it. We kept the front and back doors open 'til June just to help things air out. There would still be Mondays when we'd walk in and the odor would be like a slap in the face. Or you'd open a file that hadn't been burned, but had been in the office during the fire and that smoky smell would just waft up and fill the room.
Office Ghosts.
My Office was pretty cool, though. Nice and roomy. Had a window wall that looked oout on the hall. It had those Floor to ceiling vertical blinds. If I wasn't too busy I'd leave them open. If I didn't want any distractions, or if I was interviewing a newly released non-violent offender I'd shut them. However, if I had a violent offender, or once I started handling Sex Offenders the blinds stayed open and so did the door.
The single most important safety rule I was taught as a new Parole Officer was: NEVER LET THE PAROLEE GET BETWEEN YOU AND ANY DOOR, NEVER.
Followed closely by: NEVER TURN YOUR BACK ON A PAROLEE, NEVER.
Words to live by.
A general health rule I had learned when I was doing an internship with Child Protective Services I carried with me to Parole and other positions where I had to do home visits:
Do NOT sit on or within 6' of upholstered furniture if at all possible.
Now, those of you who have not had to visit in the homes of the poor or lazy or filthy or those with children who attend school with all of the aforementioned may not understand that rule, so I will explain. Lice may be teensy, tiny little creatures, but they not only live in upholstered furniture and pillows, but they can jump up to 6'. And they are a double dog bitch to get out of curly, permed or long hair. And whether you get them or not, you WILL be scratching your head when you leave a particularly filthy domicile if you even THINK there were lice or other creepy crawlies there.
In fact, I think that will be tomorrow's blog... "Creepy Crawlies I have seen on Home Visits"
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