Love, Felony Style

I've told you about M2 before, haven't I? She started at the probation department about six months before I did, so she's been here a little over 13 years. I've previously described her as stubborn, spiky-haired and able to make grown men twice her size tremble in fear. She sort of reminds you of how Cruella DeVille might be after she found the Lord.

M2 was one of three perennially single officers - she, Rose, and myself. The three of us have all gotten married in the last few years - first Rose, then me, then M2. This proved a source of consternation for our defendants, many of who were convinced we were involved in an ongoing menage a trois. They based these assumptions on such irrefutable evidence as our tendency to eat lunch together several times a week.

My father has performed all three weddings and of the three, only mine wasn't a secret. He did Rose's wedding twice - the first time in secret and the second time a full show for friends and family. The big payoff came at the end of the service when instead of the usual pronouncement of "husband and wife" they revealed that they'd actually gotten married three months earlier. It certainly made for a more interesting than average receiving line.

M2 called me up one day and asked for my father's phone number. I guess after growing up as a preacher's kid I learned not to ask questions because I gave her the number and promptly forgot all about it. A month or so later she showed up for work all martimonized, having had her wedding dinner at the Dairy Queen in Friona, Texas with only my parents in attendance.

One day last week M2 came into my office and collapsed in a chair.

"Oh. My. God." M2 is almost never flustered. "You are not going to believe this."

She told me when she went out to the waiting room to collect her first appointment of the day, a tall, wiry black man asked to speak to her. She asked him what he wanted. He told her he would like to speak to her in her office, not the waiting room. She asked his name but he declined to give it until they spoke in private. She was somewhat exasperated, and told him she had other people to see. He could wait until she was finished if he wished. He said that was fine.

When he finally did get to M2's office, the first thing she wanted to know was his name. He told her it was Bobby Cole. She immediately remembered him - he'd finished up a 9-year felony probation almost 2 years ago. His wife divorced him about a year ago (after finishing two felony probations herself) because she finally figured out she'd be better off without him.

"What did you need to talk to me about, Mr. Cole?"
"Are you married?"

Its hard to catch M2 off guard, but that did. Speechless, all she could do was hold out her left hand and show him the ring.

"Well, I saw you at the post office on Friday, and I thought it was fate. I knew I wanted to see you and ask you out." He sighed. "I guess I should ask - are you still married?"

M2 found her voice and reassured him that she was most certainly still married and thoroughly uninterested in him. Bobby was somewhat deflated and got up to leave. When he was out the door, M2 reached for her glass of tea because she "needed a drink". Just as she took a swig, he stuck his head back in the door.

"By the way, what's your name?"


When M2 told me this story I couldn't stop laughing. Not only is Bobby a convicted felon with a failed marriage and a dead end job, he is sixty-three years old!

Hair Today...

This is a photo from 12 1/2 years ago.

The Hanging Judge was swearing me in as an Officer of the Court. Just like a police dog. I'm not posting this because I really miss The Hanging Judge. I'm not posting this because The Hanging Judge is now just a little old man lawyer. I'm not even posting this because no one could masticate posterior the way The Hanging Judge could. He gave the best speeches when he got angry. His right eyebrow would go to wagglin' during testimony and you knew somebody was in for a major butt-chewing.

My all-time favorite speech always started with these words - "Do you see that tree right outside the window?" Then there were the two or three months following his visit to Huntsville to tour the prison system. He would lecture the defendant in great detail about the wonders of the Texas prison system that awaited them in that fair city of Huntsville. "...and that horse has been specially trained, so that when you slow down or get lazy, that horse will bite your..."

But none of that is why I posted this picture. I posted it because I got my hair permed last night. I am once again a poodle-head! My hair is only half as long as it was in this picture. I'm feeling all red-neckish about it. Why? Because I went to the Wal-Mart Beauty Salon so Wanda could work her hairish magic.

Wanda. At Wal-Mart. Isn't that great?

I love Wanda. I'd been going to the same hair-lady for years - Rita. She was ok, but try as she might, she could never get my hair to perm after I had my thyroid "fixed". I had considered going somewhere else but geeze - I hate the drama of looking for someone to do your hair! But Rita has decided to sell her business, so now I had to find someone. I moped around and whined about it at work.

Rose told me to go see Wanda. She had just started working at the cozy, comfy beauty shop I had considered going to anyway. But why should I go to Wanda, I asked? For one thing, Rose explained, she is my cousin. Who knew?

Wanda's grandmother and my grandfather were cousins. That makes us practically twins. And I don't even know her last name. Wanda is tall and thin and occasionally blonde. She is the only member of her immediate family that has managed to stay out of jail and off drugs. She's working hard to help her husband make a living and be a productive member of society. And she sounds a lot like Woody Woodpecker when she talks.

She gave me the best haircut I've ever had! I was thrilled! And she promised she could work some mojo that would make my hair take a perm again. Wanda knows all and I am a true believer.

The only fly in the ointment - she had to move to Wally World because she wasn't making any money at the comfy cozy beauty shop. It was way off the beaten path and the girl who'd been the big money maker for the place had moved on, taking most of the clientele with her. So, Wanda sucked it up and moved to where the action is. I sucked it up and got my hair done at Wally World.

It's not the greatest, but Wanda still is. She asked me who to call at the police department to report someone for cooking meth. She told me about how her husband is working construction in Amarillo and when he gets home he cooks for their son so she can work evenings and make more money. She told me she's hoping to make tons of sales this week so she can get a commission bonus. She was proud of the fact that she'd already paid all her bills for the month so this check will be the only money she has for Christmas and she's hoping for the extra commission. She talked about her son who is having a really tough time in school, but how she is thankful that he is doing better than before.

She even mentioned that I looked sort of tired. And I was. I'd spent the whole day listening to dead beats and losers - people full of excuses. It was really nice to listen to someone who doesn't have much , works hard for what little they do have and is proud to be able to do so. Hell, I even bought that $10 bottle of shampoo on the way out.

Some material not suitable...

We try very hard not to appear surprised. It is very difficult sometimes.

I never knew what a propensity there is in the human psyche to exhibit one's scars, spots and sordid tattoos to the general public. I kind of understand wanting people to see your tattoos. But if you plan on showing them, put 'em on your ankles and forearms,ok? Its gotten so bad that we no longer request that defendants list their identifying marks for us when they are first placed on probation. Like I'm not going to take your word for it that you tattooed all your children's names (in order of appearance) on your right butt cheek.

I fully expected to one day see a lower abdomen tattoo, complete with arrows and line drawings, that said something about "Insert Tab A into Slot B".

The moments of exhibitionism tend to sneak up on you. And its not just show and tell. Often times its tell, tell, tell. As a defense we've all cultivated the "I'm not impressed - Let's move on" look. We've also learned not to ask about operations, foot maladies and trips to Mexico to purchase false teeth. Just when you start to get a little bit smug and think you are totally unflappable - that's when bad things happen.

Mindy had a guy on her caseload who's been a real problem. He's got problems. Not the least of them is his claim that rampaging agoraphobia keeps him from leaving the house to do community service work. The agoraphobia doesn't seem to prevent trips to the grocery store or the bootlegger's house. Just community service.

Mindy has worked with this guy - trying to motivate, cajole or otherwise threaten him into doing probation. He is down to the end of his sentence. He hasn't done enough to be released.
He whined. He cried. He pleaded for one more chance. Against her better judgment, Mindy agreed to ask the Judge to give him more time to do this. However, she told him this is the end of the line. If he doesn't break his neck getting things done this month, its all over. He made lots of promises. Mindy told him she wants him to come in again at the end of the month to see what he has gotten done.

"I'm scheduling you for 4:00 p.m .on the 30th," she said.
"Umm... I don't think I can be here then." he said.
Mindy came unglued. "What do you mean you can't be here?!! You better be here or you will go to jail! Don't you understand that this is your last chance? Your only chance to show that you are willing to do what it takes to stay out of jail? You are 35 years old, unemployed, and living with your mother. You have no responsibilities, but now you are telling me you can't be here??"
"I'm going into the hospital that day to be circumcised because the yeast infections have gotten so bad."

Silence.

"So, can you be here on the 29th?"

Would you like fries with that?

A lot of times people around me end their stories with the phrase "and that's why I could never work at the bank." Its nothing personal against bankers, but a recognition that a lot of us just wouldn't fit that corporate mold. The dress code we could grudgingly handle - its not so different from our own. The holidays would be toasty-nice. We have extensive experience in working with the public. But...

I went to church today. On a Monday. Yeah, I can't believe it either. But there was free food. The church is sponsoring an out door lunchtime bible study during the month of October. They provide a free brown bag lunch. Why is it plain old sandwiches taste so much better when someone else makes them?

Mindy, ER and I walked over from work. Walking made us feel especially self-righteous. It ought to be worth an extra punch on our Christian cards. Going to church on a Monday ought to be a bit like double-stamp day. Double-extra Christian card punches for sure. (You know about the Christian card, right? Fill it up before the end of time and you either get eternal life or a free video tape rental. Your choice.)

We were a little late. After lunch our friend C admoninshed us for being tardy - it messed with the seating arrangements at the "cool kids" table. I admitted it was my fault. (Ok. Its not really the "cool kids". More likely the "yearbook staff/nerds".)

"I had a guy crying in my office," I told her. "I figured it would be wrong to say 'Get the hell out. I have to go to church.'"

It was only the second time I'd seen this guy. He's been on probation for years, but is new to my caseload. Right before I took his case, he'd failed a drug test. Today was my first chance to confront him about it.

He flat out denied using drugs. Denial is a double edged sword. If you can stick with it, cold turkey, it will take you a long way. But very, very few people can stick with it. We always want to elaborate or fudge or somehow change our story. The minute you deviate from the original "Hell no - and you can't prove any different" line, you are screwed.

He was screwed. I had one positive drug test for methamphetamines, from a couple of months ago. By the time I told him what I had, he'd already admitted to using cocaine and marijuana on his birthday last week and marijuana at least twice a week for the two months before that. Why did he use?

Because he's afraid to die. He has hepatitis C. He can get treatment, but that involves needles. He doesn't want shots. (He's willing to snort cocaine and smoke marijuana and do God knows what with methamphetamine, but draws the line at taking a shot?) He's afraid to die, so he uses drugs, which causes his disease to get worse, which causes him fear of death, which causes him to use drugs. After a long ride on this merry-go-round I had to get off. It was becoming evident that he really just needed an excuse to get high. Toking up to keep from kicking off was some kind of a justification for him.

I finally said, "Look - you are either going to have to go ahead and die or you are going to have to change your life. One or the other. So go home, figure it out, and let me know what you decide."

... and that's why I could never work at the bank.

He's not actively suicidal. He even managed to look sheepish when he knew his bluff was called. However, anyone who is (a.) using drugs and (b.) refusing treatment for a life-threatening disease has some real problems. He's going to get counseling until he either gets better or pukes. Or both.

How To Succeed in Prison Without Really Trying

Friday was a busy day - lots of court hearings. One of them was mine. Unlike our friend Fred, this defendant's case was a felony and heard in District Court. (Cue the Perry Mason theme song.) District Court is a nail-biter. Forget the laid back, night court style. This is Law & Order stuff.

The defendant, or as I like to call him - my guy, was one of the first hearings of the afternoon. I was seated at the council table with Mark the Assitant DA. We both tried to look like grown-ups who were taking this important business seriously. Its a lot easier to pull that look off now that they have replaced the table that was too tall and the chairs that were too short. When we sat in the old furniture and pulled up to the table, we hit it at about the same level as Mikey and his bowl of Life cereal. Hard to pretend to be a grown up when you start out at that level!

My guy and his lawyer were at the table beside us. The defendant testified first.

His attorney took him through the reasons why he screwed up his probation. Why had he failed to report? Well, at first it was because he was having trouble doing his community service hours. He knew his officer would be disappointed in him and possibly angry, so he didn't go in to see him. Then, he got a letter saying his officer had been changed to yours truely.

I told him to come in to see me. He did. Once. Why didn't he go back? Because I was obvioulsy not interested in anything he had to say and it was just not a pleaseant experience.

Imagine that - not pleasant. Huh. I guess this means I will have to work on my people skills. Mark the DA had my notes of the visit and started to cross-examine.

The defendant confirmed that he had in fact told me that the reason for his non-compliance was that he was the caretaker for his uncle. (Insert slightly martyristic facial expression here.) He began to explain how his Uncle was disabled but Mark cut him off.

Mark got him to admit that he also told me his uncle was well enough to live alone. The uncle had a girlfriend. The uncle had many other members of his family living here in town and that my guy had not seen the uncle for at least 4 days prior to seeing me. And this prevented him from complying with probation in what way?

At this point my guy was becomming offended at Mark's snarky attitude and command of the facts of the situation. Finally Mark asked "Why was your uncle more important to this probation?"

"Because he bought me a $60,000 and when he said "jump", I jumped."

"Excuse me? He bought you what?"

"A $60,000 car."

"I see. So was the car worth losing your freedom over?"

"No sir, but I don't think I deserve to go to prison for stealing a dog either."

"Wasn't it four dogs, worth about $600 each and you stole them from the owner's home?"

Let me just interject that in this part of the world that would be considered livestock. The Judge Almighty used to be an emu rancher. Emu's are just dogs with wings.

My guy got the maximum sentence and will be spending the next few years in prison. For stealing a dog.

Lurkers and Skulkers Anonymous

Once upon a time we had regular staff meetings. They were pretty much as exciting as your staff meetings. Except for the one with the speaker on time managment. She wanted us to do an ice-breaker. Yeah, well, there were like 12 of us. Our ice is about as broken as its going to get. Her ice-breaker included several actions like turning around or switching chairs and other tasks designed to get your blood moving. One of the actions involved swatting your partner on the rear. I kid. you. not.

The participation level pretty much bottomed out at that point. (hyuck, hyuck.) Not only was it a stupid idea, we'd just had a supervisor get fired and later prosecuted for having sex with his probationers on his desk. I don't remember anything the lady had to say about time management, but I will never forget the look on everyone's face when she wanted us to do some butt-bumping.

However, that is not the story I was gonna tell you. This is not even really story - just a photo.
We had an 8:00 meeting scheduled. Life was hectic and the boss was never late, but she was generally less early than most of the rest of us. She came charging in and sat down at the conference table. She launched into her first topic still having only barely glanced at the assembled masses. After about a minute, she realized that something was up - we were all being respectfully silent and overly attentive. She took a good long look at the end of the table.

That's me on the left. And unless I receive remuneration, I will identify the person on the right. (Technology has made my extortion business much easier, but I have yet to reap any financial dividends.)

As for staff meetings, we never paid much attention anyway, and none of us were in any way interested in posterior proximity exercises, so now we only have to endure them a few times a year.

We were notified today that Ken has died. Second from the right. We will miss you Ken. I'll never hear about the dead sea scrolls without remembering your sly grin. I'll miss you when NPR has broadcast a really witty story and I've no one to discuss it with. And sometimes I'll buy biscotti - not because I like it, but because you would. You will always have a place in our stories.

Romance in the Car - Part III or Reverend Frank Speaks

I know you are wondering what ever happened to Frank. Remember Frank?

Frank got a lawyer. Finally. He came back to county court again today, this time with plea bargain. Frank was in a mood. A real good mood.

"You been comin' to my court for a long time Frank." the Judge drawled from the bench.
"Yeah, that's the truth!" Frank laughed a little hysterically.
"I have an affidavit here that you signed. It says that when you get out of jail, you are leaving Fake Cow County and not ever coming back."
"That's right Judge. I'm gettin outta here and I ain't never coming back." Frank cackled this time. He was starting to sound a little like Al Sharpton.
"Well good. You been in this court practically since I became judge and I am tired of seeing you."
"Don't worry bout that Judge - You won't be seein me any more."

I stifled an "Amen!"

So, the Judge revoked Frank's probation and he will spend a few more months in the Fake Cow County Hoosegow. Frank sat down in the back of the courtroom to watch the rest of the festivities before being chauffeured back to the Bars and Stripes Hotel.

We handled a few more cases, then there was a lull in the proceedings while we waited on an attorney to arrive. Since the Judge hadn't officially called time-out, everyone stayed in the courtroom, twiddling their thumbs. Frank evidently felt this was his chance to prophesy.

"Well! That last guy sure got a sweat deal, Judge," he proclaimed, loudly. "They sure wouldn't give me a deal like that."
"Whatever you say, Frank." the judge said.
"I can tell you this - " he addressed his once and future roommates on the pew alongside him. "If they give you probation, you won't last a week. A week!" He scrunched his eyes and clawed up his fingers and pointed various appendages in my direction. "Especially not if you have Miss Rachel for an officer!" Everyone in the courtroom burst into nervous laughter.

Frank was evidently possessed by the spirit. He began to writhe around on the pew and glare at me as I lounged in the jury box. He roared, "I don't know how you can be a probation officer and hold your head up. I don't know how you can go to church on Sunday!" Then he cowered and covered his head with his hands. "I'd be afraid of the lightning!" More maniacal laughter. At this point, people were chuckling half-heartedly and moving far away from him.

The deputy decided now would be a good time to drive Frank back out to his county suite and took Frank's arm, leading him out of the courtroom.

"Geeze Frank," I said. "I'm gonna miss you too."


Anybody want to bet on how long it will be before Frank returns? And yes, this is the first time I've ever seen the Judge make a person swear in writing that they would saddle up and 'leave town by sundown'. I guess Fake Cow County just ain't big enough fer the two of 'em!

Romance in the Car - Part II, Or I Fixed Her Van

Perhaps you remember this guy, who sent me the letter from jail about how he'd been arrested for violating a protective order after a joyously tasteful reunion with his estranged wife in the backseat of his car?

Well, today he faced the music in County Court. I don't know how your county court works, but ours is exactly like an episode of Night Court - bizarro characters and all. I got called over to the court house from my extra plushy office because somebody wanted my testimony at the hearing. Doesn't that sound official and Perry Masonish? Translation: I went into the courtroom where a herd of people were milling around, chewing cud and the judge stopped what he was doing, looked at me and pointed to a guy in the back. "I need you to talk to Frank," he said, and then resumed the hearing in progress. I took my file over to sit by a guy on the back pew. (There are only two pews. Its a small, cramped room in the basement of the courthouse where misdemeanor cases are heard. The Judge's bench is pushed up in a dark corner and it makes you feel sort of hunched over when you stand before him.)

Frank was wearing the ever popular orange jumpsuit and a prodigious number of shackles. I am guessing that was due to the fact that Frank is freakin' messed up. He is fried. He has cooked himself on methamphetamine for just too damn long. When he talks to you his eyes begin to roll around in his head, eventually rolling up to the point that all you see is white. I can't prove it but I swear to you his eyes roll in different directions and at different speeds. Then he makes hand gestures - the more agitated he gets, the more he gestures. I wish I could show it to you, but imagine fingers twisted into claws and swirling around the room with an effect reminiscent of the head spin from The Exorcist.

"What's the deal, Frank?"
"I want to get out of jail," he hissed at me.
"I don't think that's gonna happen, Frank. You got a new charge for violating you wife's protective order."
"I gotta get out of jail." His voice starts to get louder. "My little girl is sick and I gotta get out and help her."
"She still livin' with your parents, Frank?" "Yessss." He hisses some more.
"Well, what's the problem?" At this point the freaky-looking guy sitting in front of us turned around and began to tell me how he is Frank's dad and the little girl has kidney disease and she is going to have to have surgery and Frank just needs to get out of jail.
"What are you going to do if you get out of jail, Frank?"
"I'm gonna get the hell out of this county! You people all have it in for me. I am going to Mineral Wells to live with my brother - he's a state cop and he won't let me use. I'm clean now and you just won't believe me!"
"Of course you're clean, Frank - ya been in jail for the last three months! But once you get out you and I both know you won't stay clean. How long did you stay in treatment last time?"
"Three weeks." Lots of hand gestures. Eyes are rolling like dice.
"No, man. How long did you stay at the treatment center before you tried the suicide thing and they took you to Big Springs?"
"Three days."
"Well, I gotta tell ya, I cannot in good conscience recommend to the judge that he just let you out of jail. If he does let you out, you are going into drug treatment."
"I never have trusted you!" His voice keeps getting louder. "You had it in for me from the start, cuz you're Debbie's officer too and she poisoned your mind against me!" Hand gestures, eye-rolling and nods from Dad.
"Well, your doing a pretty good job of getting yourself in trouble without help from me, Frank."
"I don't need no treatment. I'm clean."
"I'm not discussing this with you any further. We'll talk it over with the Judge when he calls your case."

Miffed silence. Dad and Frank begin to grumble to each other. I scoot a little ways down the pew and try to ignore them. In a few minutes, Frank wags an eye at me. "Did Debbie pay her probation?"
"You know I can't tell you that."
"Well she should have." Gestures. Eyes doing the hokey-pokey in his head. "I gave her the money."
This time I am the one yelling in the courtroom. "What are you doing giving her your money Frank? You aren't even supposed to go anywhere near her!"
"Well... she's a mother." He sniffles superiorly and turns his back to me. Frank and Dad grumble to each other some more. Dad starts feeling bold and while sending me eye daggers he tells Frank in a loud voice "If I was you, I'd stay in jail another week and get me a lawyer! Seems like that might do you some good!" No response from me. They grumble together some more. Then Dad stares at me again and says "I drove trucks for 30 years and took that meth stuff because I had to. The minute I quit driving trucks, I quit using it. I think this treatment crap is just a bunch of bullshit!" My eyebrows raised and the deputy who brought Frank up from the jail takes a step closer to us. Frank puts his head in his hands and says "Dad! Stop helpin' me!"

Finally, the judge called our case. I know in your mind you picture a bailiff stepping up to the bar and announcing The State vs. Frank and people standing to attention as their attorneys announce their intentions in the case. In County Court it means the judge looked over at us and said "Y'all ready?"

Frank and I stood in front of the bench with the assistant district attorney. (Night Court, remember? Except instead of Markie Post - the public defender, they get me - the probation officer.) I tell the Judge that Frank would really like to get out of jail. However, Frank has a real big ol' problem with drugs and with beatin' up on Debbie. (Both of Frank's eyeballs appear to be in just one eye socket at this point.) "I don't think we can just turn him loose. I told him if his probation is continued I want him in drug treatment." The judge nods and starts to ask Frank a question. Frank interrupts with a gesture or two and said "Judge - you know I love that woman - and I gave her my money and look where I am now! I talked to you and you said I could be with Debbie. The only person here who don't want me seein' her is Miss Rachel!" Claws are thrust in my direction.

"Me and the judge in Flat Land County who issued that protective order against you!" I said. Loudly. At this point I get all southern. I can't help it. I don't want my accent to show that badly, but some people cain't understand whut yer sayin' unless yew speak their language and yer raisin' begins to tell and ya start to talk real bad. "Look here, man! Yew are goin' to prison if yew don't leave that girl alone! Ya done been put on two probations fer beatin' her up and now yew got this new charge in Flat Land County for violation' that judges order." I glare at one and/or both of his eyes and he waggles his finger-claws at me.

Suddenly, the constable/bailiff, who has been snoozing in a chair in the makeshift witness stand, wakes up and says "Whut? You gotta protective order against you, Frank? Then what were you doin with Debbie when I arrested you on this probation violation!?"

All eyes, including some of his own, turn on Frank. He ducks his head and grins. "I was fixing her van. You know I love that woman!"


Thanks to Headless for title inspiration.

Jail Mail

I received this letter in the mail last week:

Dear Rach...

I don't know what's going on here. Debbie [his wife/drug buddy/punching bag] told me that she wanted to talk to me, so (you know I love that woman) I went over there. She stayed the night with me in my car. [Oh, the romance!] I gave her all my money. [Big mistake!] Then she calls the cops. [Who didn't see that coming?] I didn't cause a scene or nothing. Anyway, I am in the Flat Land County jail. I haven't got to see daylight since I got probation. Please help me. Please give me a chance.

Sincerely,

Inmate # 126274

P.S. I got 2 charges in Fake Cow County and I don't know why. Can you please see what they are so we all can work this out? Thank you.



I am thinking this is not going to be a good year for poor old #126274.