This was during the Bush forty-three administration. He was thirty then and had been working as a PO for close to the past decade. Scott was single, never married and was always on the lookout for some honey to hook up with. Of course, socializing with offenders on one’s caseload was a big fat no no.
Lynda had called him shortly before her release from a weeks-long incarceration for drug possession, so he had been expecting her. Except that her file didn’t contain a photo and therefore he had no idea what she looked like until he called out her name. And that’s when he knew it wouldn’t be easy maintaining his professional façade. She was neither drop-dead gorgeous or beautiful. Didn’t matter. He thought she was adorable. A petite five-foot-two or thereabouts. Long auburn hair. Blue eyes. Lovely smile. What else could he say? Nothing that would do her justice, at least what it was about the looks of this twenty-two-year-old offender that gave him pause. ‘When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie…’ You get the picture. That’s amore it wasn’t. What it was, was: wow! It was something that lies deep in the mysterious ways that human beings are attracted to other human beings. The tricky part was keeping those feelings to himself.
She wore a dress that day Scott met her. Nothing provocative, but it did reveal more leg than he should have seen when she took a seat beside his desk in his small office. She wore no stockings either, another turn-on. Yes, she was very pretty, but she had loads of problems, and she wasn’t shy about telling him what they were: fibromyalgia, seizures, drug addiction (though she insisted she was clean from her methamphetamine habit) and emotional issues related to being sexually abused by her stepfather. She was adopted at age one; never knew her birth parents. In her early teens, around the time of the abuse, she drifted into drug use. She got pregnant at age fourteen, had an abortion and dropped out of high school a year later. Other than all that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play? No, Scott didn’t say that, but he thought of it. A little dark humor every now and then kept him sane. Few people on his caseload appeared as needy as Lynda Penelope Jensen.
She was unemployed and living in Maryland with another young woman, her ex-jail mate (and also on probation to another agent in the same office), and the woman’s boyfriend. “But for how long, I’m not sure,” she said, “because we don’t always get along. It’s Rhonda and Ed’s place and they could kick me out anytime. So maybe you can supply me with places to go if that happens.”
From the desktop, Scott did a Google search and came up with a list of state-supported places for the homeless. “Thanks, this should be helpful,” she said.
Before she left, he asked if she had any skills that might interest a would-be employer. “I can draw and paint,” she said. “I once thought about a career in art. But…” She looked down at the floor and shook her head. Then she stood up and said, “Anyway, thanks again for your help.”
Days later, Scott received the presentence investigation report. It contained some of what she told him, plus a few other things. A psych evaluation given to her in jail listed her IQ in the high-average range. There were also remarks by presentence investigator Carol Maynard: “Lynda is fairly articulate for someone with only a tenth-grade education…Lynda also appears to be an accomplished manipulator…” No surprise, Scott had got that impression also. No doubt, the girl used her femme fatale looks to get what she wanted. Except, based on her life up to that point, it hadn’t taken her very far.
A special condition of her probation included drug testing and NA meetings. In a subsequent phone call, he said, “If you’re not clean, get yourself clean within the next two weeks.”
Two weeks later, she came in, gave a urine specimen and then, when she took a seat in his office, she said, “I’ve got something to show you.” She reached into her backpack, pulled out a manila folder and slid it across the desk. “Open it.”
“Wow! You did this?”
“I did. Did I get it right? I hope you like it.”
It was a pen and ink sketch of Scott from his chest up, sitting behind his desk. Any amateur artist could have rendered the dress shirt and tie okay, but Lynda captured his face close enough to where anyone in the office could have identified who it was without Scott telling them. His wide mouth and curly Roman haircut. His strong nose and brown eyes. “Notice also how I sketched your shoulders,” she said. “I always went for guys with thick, broad shoulders.”
He nodded. “I noticed. Needless to say, I’m impressed.”
“Thanks. You lift weights I bet.”
“I do.”
“My ex-boyfriend did, too. He still does. Behind bars.”
Oh… He rolled his eyes. “You’ve got talent, I must say.” He put the sketch down and continued. “You had mentioned something about a career in art. In my line of work, we have artists that sketch defendants during courtroom trials and also sketch suspects as described by witnesses. Something to consider.”
She drew a look of amused skepticism and shrugged. “I wouldn’t know how to get started. Plus, I’ve got a record. I doubt that they’d hire someone like me, a druggie who never finished high school. I’ve been on an up the down staircase since I was born, agent Brewster.”
A little pep talk might be in order, he thought. “Lynda, I’ve seen people turn their lives around. Don’t let your past define you. I still say that a career in forensic art is worth looking into. I’d also recommend GED classes to work toward a high school equivalency degree.” Again, she shrugged. “Not interested?”
“I don’t know, we’ll see. Meanwhile, I heard you guys make home visits. Should I expect you soon?” She batted her pretty eyes, then crossed her slender but shapely legs and tugged her dress up a couple inches. He looked for just a few seconds but she noticed (they always notice) and grinned.
He was on to her flirty game. Even so, she was so damn cute, he struggled not to get ensnared. “Expect me but I can’t say when,” he said. “We do home visits at random.”
Days later, she called to say that she’d found part-time employment cashiering at a nearby video store. That was a plus, along with her urine specimen, which returned clean. Scott decided it was time for a home visit. He made one at Saint Regis at Old Court, the garden style apartment complex she shared with Rhonda, her ex-jail mate and Rhonda’s boyfriend Ed. Saint Regis, built in the early nineteen-seventies, used to be a desirable place for families just starting out; singles also. However, the last few years had seen a decline, along with the surrounding area. By the turn of the millennium, you were more likely to find people like Lynda and Rhonda than educated, goal-minded people on their way up in the world.
More often than not, offenders weren’t home during these visits. Either that, or they refused to answer the door. Agents did home visits to verify residence, and that could be done by someone else who lived there. Seeing the offender wasn’t necessary. But this was a bonus because not only was Lynda home, she answered the door, barefoot, wearing a robe and holding a basket full of laundry. He couldn’t help but notice that the ends of her robe were far enough apart for him to catch a peak of boob. “Well, I guess you live here,” he said.
He was about to hightail it out of there when she said, “I’m just doing some housework. You’re welcome to come in if you’d like. I’d like to talk about a few things anyway.” She paused, then added, with a chuckle, “I’ve got nothing to hide.” She then dropped her clothes basket, grabbed the ends of her robe and pulled them fully together. “Well, nothing but my titties.” She looked at him and giggled.
Scott knew he should have said thanks but no thanks to her invite and gone on his merry way. Instead, he walked in and stood in the living room while Lynda dumped her load of laundry in the washer. Why did he venture forth? To test boundaries, he reasoned. Both hers and his.
Scott was sure she was going to change into something less revealing. But no, robe still on, she came back into the living room and invited him to have a seat on one of the two stuffed chairs, clearly second-hand like the rest of the furniture and the rug that looked like it hadn’t been replaced for years. Facing him in the other chair, she crossed her legs, affording him a view far enough to see that she wasn’t wearing panties “Sorry,” she giggled, and then flapped a side of her garment to cover most of it.
“So, what’s on your mind?” he asked, thinking she looked absolutely adorable the way her long and full auburn hair framed her face. And there was her cute, concave-shaped nose, high cheek bones and a sunny smile that belied her depressing life. Get the picture? Scott resisted the temptation to whip out his cell camera to take one.
She said she’d been thinking about his suggestion about a career as an artist for law enforcement. “Maybe you can look into it for me? And if you could look into GED classes for me also, that would be great. Remember, I’m from Oregon, so I’m not familiar with what’s available or where to go. No car either, so I’m dependent on Rhonda or Ed or the bus. Oh, and is medical marijuana legal here? It is in Oregon. It helps my fibromyalgia.”
Yes, she was one needy offender. Scott told her that Maryland was considering making marijuana legal for medical purposes, but it hadn’t yet become law. She frowned and said, “That’s disappointing. There’s now talk that Oregon will soon make weed legal for recreational use also.”
She was in Maryland in the first place because that’s where she and her girlfriend were pulled over for speeding. The girlfriend was behind the wheel, but the cop found marijuana and meth in the car. Arrests followed. Her jail-mate (not the girlfriend she was arrested with), a Marylander, offered Lynda a place to stay upon their release, and she accepted as a way of making a new start.