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1
LAKEN
“Sign here.”
A clear plastic zip-pressed bag slides to the side of the counter before a pen follows its fumble. Inside the bag are possessions I haven’t seen for over nine years. A watch with a sentimental worth that will forever exceed its value, a money clip with a few crinkled bills, and a wallet that appears flatter than it did years ago.
I discover why when the officer preparing me for release says, “Your driver’s license expired during incarceration, so they will organize a new one through the BOP system.”
“BOP?” I ask, a little overwhelmed.
My release from federal prison is occurring as swiftly as my incarceration. The past month has been a blur of release prep meetings, two in-depth parole hearings, and multiple one-on-one prayer sessions with the prison chaplain.
I’m not a preaching man. I was merely willing to doanythingnecessary for a reduced sentence. Three years might not seem like much to the average man, but to me, it is more than I could have hoped for.
Not looking up, the officer replies, “Board of parole. You have a meeting with your parole officer tomorrow morning. Details are in here.” He slides a second baggie across the counter dividing us. It is thicker than the first and full of paperwork. “If you don’t want to return here by the p.m., don’t be late for your first check-in.” Finally, he looks up. “I don’t want to see you back here.”
Nothing but honesty rings true in my tone when I gabber out, “I have no interest in returning.”
Hepfftsme like he hears that line every day, before nudging his salt-and-pepper afro to my release form that states what items were in my possession when I handed myself in to authorities. “Unless something is missing, you’re free to go once that’s signed.”
“It all appears in order,” I mumble, more to myself than the prison officer with “Riley” marked on his uniform.
After scribbling my name across the slip I’ve been working toward for the past nine years, I stuff my wallet into the back pocket of my jeans and my bill clip in the front before securing my watch on my wrist. Its fit is as snug as my jeans since I've spent almost a decade working out and have gained significant muscle in my calves and thighs.
I had nothing else to occupy my time, so I kept my head as low as my percentage of body fat. Being incarcerated with mass murderers, rapists, pedophiles, and drug lords meant even if I didn’t want to play the part of a criminal, I had to look it, or I would have left prison in a body bag instead of the ride arranged by the parole office board when they granted my early release.
“Eleven a.m., Howell,” Officer Riley reminds me in a snide tone as I make my way to the double exit doors. “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.”
Hot, sticky heat hits me in the face when I push through the paned glass doors. Summer ended a few weeks back, but Florida never seems to get the memo.
After relishing the warmth of the late afternoon sun on my face, I drop my chin and scan the guarded grounds. The officers walking the jail's external walls are armed like the ones manning the yard from above, but since I’m wearing jeans and a ripped white T-shirt instead of a federally issued jumpsuit, they don’t pay me any attention.
Well, that is until my name is shouted across the grounds in an egotistical jock-running-onto-the-field way.
“Laaaa-keeen Hooowwwelll.”
Even with a low-hanging cap hiding his eyes, and his stubble the thickest I’ve seen it, there’s no mistaking the face of the man catcalling my name. His visits were sporadic over the past twelve months, and his care packages nonexistent six months prior, but before a possibility of early probation was sniffed at, his visits were bi-monthly.
Noting the surprise on my face, Knox slaps his hand into mine before using his sweaty grip to pull me in for a man hug. “Did you seriously think I’d let the parole board reintroduce you to society?” With his free hand, he whacks my back until the nerves in my stomach rattle free. “How the fuck have you been, Laken? Feels like forever since we’ve caught up.”
As I inch back, my brows furrow while I stray my eyes to the massive brick-and-steel establishment next to us. It stands out like Captain Fucking Obvious.
“Oh shit, man. My bad.” Knox barks out with a breathy chuckle. He glues his hip to mine, his arm not dropping from my shoulders. “I figured it was best to stay away while they were discussing early parole.” He scrubs under his nose with his free hand, the diamond-encrusted family crest ring on his pinkie finger dancing in the low-hanging sun. “I’m not the best character witness.”
He isn’t lying. He was removed from the courtroom twice during my hearing and found in contempt three times. My lawyer believes he was the catalyst of my harsh sentencing. Pleading no contest to the charges brought against me when I handed myself in should have seen me serving an eighteen-month sentence with the possibility of parole in six months.
I received twelve years with no stipulation of an early release.
“But you’ll forgive me when you see what I’ve got up my sleeve.” When we reach a blacked-out top-of-the-line SUV, Knox’s arm drops from my shoulders before he grips the back passenger door handle so hard his knuckles go deathly white.
His pause to build the suspense is nothing out of the ordinary. He was the captain of our high school's football, basketball, and lacrosse teams because if there was a chance it would secure him attention, he demanded a front-row seat.
When we met, we were the equivalent of chalk and cheese, but since Knox refused to let his family’s wealth and stature wedge a gap between us, we became joined at the hip. We’ve been friends since the sixth grade and have each other’s backs no matter what.
The past nine years of hell have been a testament to this.
