Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 45821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 229(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 153(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 229(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 153(@300wpm)
On Friday, a text appeared on her phone from James Flanigan, her release officer. I am outside for my first home visit. Please come open the door.
Instantly nervous, Cynthia flew toward the door and peeked out. A tall, thick man stood on the porch. He looked at the peephole as if he knew she was assessing him. Cynthia thought about asking to see his ID but realized she already had confirmed his identity through their previous communication on the phone.
Slowly, she opened the door and peeked through the scant opening. “Mr. Flanigan?” she questioned, needing to double-check his identity.
“Yes. I hope this is a good time for us to talk.” His expression and the messenger bag over his shoulder gave her the impression it didn’t matter whether or not she was prepared to talk to him.
“Of course. Please, come in.” Cynthia opened the door and stepped back to allow him to walk inside. “Where would work best to talk?”
“Let’s sit at the kitchen table,” Mr. Flanigan suggested.
Leading him through the open area, Cynthia gestured to the large oak table. She was pleased to see him sit in a chair that neither Dirk nor she preferred. Sitting across from him in her Daddy’s chair, she tried to control her apprehension as he shrugged off his bag and set it in his lap.
“I will see you for sporadic visits to ensure you are conforming to the conditions of your release while you await a trial date. Each time, I will ask a series of questions. Lying will have disastrous consequences,” he warned.
“I’ll tell the truth,” she promised.
“What is your name and age?”
“Cynthia Grant. I’m twenty-seven.”
“May I see your ID?”
“Let me get it.” Cynthia stood and ran to snag her phone from the couch. As she returned, she pulled her driver’s license out of the pocket attached to the back.
James Flanigan took it from her when she extended the ID. Reading it carefully, he held it up in the air to compare her picture to her real-life image before opening a folder and comparing it to her awful mug shot. Obviously satisfied, he pulled out a sheet and carefully copied her name and age to the form with the date noted.
“Have you interacted online since your release?” he asked. His pen was poised at the first question.
“Only text messages between you and me and myself and the owner of this house.”
“Nothing else?”
“No, sir. I don’t want to jeopardize my release.”
“Have you remained at this address since your release?”
“Yes. I haven’t left. I haven’t even ventured outside. I didn’t know how close I needed to stay.”
He checked off her answer on the recording sheet, as he had her other responses. “Who is the owner of this house?”
“Dirk O’Roark.”
“Has he interacted online following your directions?”
“No, sir. He’s a lawyer. He knows that would get me in trouble.”
Again, Mr. Flanigan made a check mark in the appropriate box before looking up at her. Surveying the space between them, he pushed the chair between them out. “Your ankle bracelet is on your right leg. Please place your ankle on the seat here and raise your pant leg so I can inspect the number.”
Cynthia followed his directions and lifted her jeans out of the way. She jumped when he rotated the device around slightly until the numbers appeared. Tilting it for the best view, Mr. Flanigan picked up his phone and took two photos. Using the pictures, he expanded the image so he could copy the numbers on the visit form. Those he compared to the registered numbers of the ankle bracelet that had been recorded for her use.
Satisfied, he looked up and nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Grant.”
Withdrawing a card from his messenger bag, he handed it to her. “Here is my contact information. If you have important questions or concerns, you may contact me here. Your device has an acceptable range that you may operate within. You may go to the mailbox at the front of the house or into the backyard as long as it’s not a mile deep into the woods. If you need to go to the doctor or hospital, call my phone and leave a message. That will register in advance your variance from the perimeter of the zone they have restricted you to, and I will investigate. This is not the time to go have your nails or hair done or go through a drive-thru for tacos. Remain offline and continue your exemplary conduct. Do you have questions for me?”
“Will you be back next week?” she asked.
“I could be back later this afternoon or next month. Continue to stay in your assigned location,” he answered with an expression that told her she’d asked the wrong question.
“I’ll be here. I promise. I don’t want to go back to jail. It… It was awful,” she assured him.