Chapter Four: Time On Paper
TWO days later, Nikki sat in a small, claustrophobic office, blinking rapidly from the eye-watering stench of dust, industrial cleaning fluid, and aftershave. In an effort to distract herself from her burning sinuses, she let her gaze wander, soaking up myriad tiny details hoping to gain insight into the character of the man sitting across the cluttered desk from her. Her gaze fell on the plaque on his desk, a simple triangular wooden block with a plastic name plate, reading ‘Diego Garcia’.
Parole Agent Diego Garcia, she mentally added. Her parole agent. She studied him as he sifted through the pile of paperwork on his desk, an open folder sitting in a little cleared space on his blotter as paperwork, keyboard, mouse, pens, pencils, paperclips -- general chaos -- threatened to cross the little cleared semi-circle. She frowned, wondering at the implied metaphor: her life surrounded by chaos, with only the smallest of artificial buffer zones for protection. She shook her head, pushing the thought out of her mind as she sought distractions to keep the thought from creeping back in. She looked up at the wall behind him, studying the line of framed degrees on display, along with several citations of merit.
Bachelor of Arts, Psychology, UC Berkeley.
Bachelor of Arts, Criminal Justice, UC Berkeley.
Master of Science, Criminology, University of Pennsylvania.
She swallowed hard, momentarily overawed, “He must have wanted to be a parole guy since high school,” she murmured, then froze when he looked up. “Sorry, I was just looking at your wall -- at your pictures -- degrees on your wall, and was just” babbling like an idiot “thinking out loud.”
She coughed, blood rushing to her face, “Maybe a little too loud.”
He smiled absently as he looked back down, his scrutiny of her paperwork leaving her feeling as though she was suffering through a particularly thorough doctor’s exam. She wanted to simultaneously check the buttons on her blouse and take a very long, very hot shower. He was swarthy, middle aged but fit -- perhaps a little bit too sedentary for his own good. His black hair was cut short, though it was starting to go prematurely white; perhaps the contrast made the white more visible. He was only average height, but somewhat muscular and broad shouldered, his blue chambray work shirt pulling ever so slightly tight over his shoulders.
Nicolette had the sudden urge to scatter his paperclips on the floor, or run her fingers through his hair. She fought to suppress nervous giggles at the mental image of Agent Garcia’s hair standing at all angles, struggling to keep her composure at the inappropriate absurdity of the thought. She desperately wanted to break the feeling of solemnity the whole proceeding had, to mitigate the fear engendered by that solemnity. Anything to make Garcia seem more human and less...institutional. It was that last which filled her with fear -- the idea that he was merely an instrument of an institution which regarded her as insignificant; she was just a thing to be shuffled back and forth and discarded with unthinking indifference should circumstances beyond her control warrant it, like a bent paperclip shuffled from one end of the desk to the other until it was finally tossed in the wastebasket when it became a nuisance. Only in her case, it was back to prison instead of the wastebasket...though she supposed one could argue there wasn’t much difference.
She folded her hands in her lap to keep them from visibly shaking, her earlier nervous mischief gone.
She watched his lips moving as he subvocalized some of the paperwork he was reading. She was momentarily fascinated by the way his pencil-thin mustache seemed to exaggerate the movement of his lips. She briefly wondered whether his lips would be soft or if his mustache would tickle. Whether he’d be fun to kiss.
Jesus Nikki, she thought, he’s old enough to be your father! Down girl!
She shook her head, forcibly pushing the thought away, painfully conscious that her desperation to humanize P.O. Garcia drove the inappropriateness of her thoughts. She doubted he saw her as anything other than an inconvenience; something to be managed, perhaps, but never quite making the transition from something to someone. Unfortunately, once acknowledged, the thought stubbornly refused to go away. She found herself wondering what she would do if he made an advance, if allowing it would help her or hurt her.
She took a deep breath, forcing her fear back as she realized she was seriously debating whether she would be willing to prostitute herself to stay out of prison. So far, Garcia had given no indication he was that kind of man.
Let It go, she told herself, you’re borrowing trouble. The only thing going on here is that you’re scared spitless and writing horror stories for yourself as a result.
He nodded as if unconsciously agreeing with her thoughts, then closed the folder resting in its little window of calm, “Let’s talk about you and your situation. You’ve reviewed the terms of your parole?” He paused long enough for her to nod before continuing, “Good. I see some really promising things in your file -- things which I don’t see often; you joined a substance abuse program, you sought out counseling, you got your GED and managed to get an AS degree as well.”
“Biology, from Chaffey.”
He nodded absently as he continued, “That takes hard work and dedication.”
She sat back, surprised at the implied compliment, listening for a ‘but’ in his words; she was disconcerted when she couldn’t find one. He studied her expressionlessly, watching the emotions playing across her countenance, “That’s a good foundation we can build on, see if we can set you up to get through your time on paper as painlessly as possible.”
She nodded, studying him, wondering what his angle was. She felt a weary sort of surprise as she realized that it might just be possible his intentions could be trusted, that his interests and hers might coincide.
He smiled, despite puzzled lines appearing on his forehead, “You seem surprised.”
She nodded, suddenly finding speech eluding her.
“Miss Cooper -- may I call you Nicolette?”
“Nikki is fine,” she murmured hoarsely.
“Nikki...you’re young, intelligent, a hard worker -- you have all the tools necessary to succeed. We just...”
His voice trailed away as the impact of his words registered. He wondered if Miss Cooper’s tears were a good sign or a bad one.
A good sign, he decided, as he offered her the tissue box which normally lived on his desk. It wasn’t common that his clients reacted so emotionally, but he liked to be prepared. Of course, Nicolette Cooper wasn’t very representative of the type of clients that he usually saw -- he could probably count the number that had earned Associate’s Degrees while incarcerated on his hands with fingers left over. He waited patiently for Nikki to regain her composure.
She smiled apologetically, crumpling a damp tissue in her hand, embarrassed at her display of emotion. The tension and fear had been building since her release; by the time she knocked on his door, her composure had been paper thin.
The conversation she’d had with Daniel’s mother, Ramona, hadn’t helped, she reflected ruefully; two days later, she still felt bruised and torn from their exchange. The bitter knowledge that Ramona’s anger was at least partly justified had left her feeling stripped bare and defenseless against her words.
I’m going to make this right, she thought, determinedly pushing aside her discouragement. I don’t know how, yet...but I will.
She met Garcia’s measuring gaze with a tremulous, embarrassed smile.
“I’m sorry,” she finally continued, “It’s been a trying couple of days.”
He nodded sympathetically, giving her a moment to regain her composure before continuing. He became businesslike and professional as he caught her eyes with his own, “Let’s talk about your living arrangements. I spoke with your father, and it sounds like he wants to help out.”
Nicolette nodded, struggling with her conflicting feelings; gratitude that she would have her own place to stay, frustration that she should need her father’s help, rage and disap
pointment that he would take the easy way out and buy her off despite her earlier refusal of his help, pain at his implicit rejection.
So like Dad, she thought bitterly, always good at finding the middle ground between his obligations with a minimum of personal involvement. And he says I’m not a good influence?, she thought indignantly, her pain and wounded pride competing for space in her emotional landscape. Where were you when Mother was being insane? What were you doing when your eldest daughter ran away from home to get away from that lunatic? How does taking the brunt of Mother’s insane plans and abuse for seventeen years make me a bad influence?
Stupid motherfucker, she thought, feeling her resentful rage rise up. He probably paid for Bea and Stuart’s college. What help do I get from my ‘family’? A bribe to stay away.
She knew it was irrational, but she felt as though she was getting more support from a man who was likely more interested in sending her back to prison. How messed up is that?, she thought, her lip curling in a snarl.
She was startled when Garcia spoke, then a little embarrassed as she wondered what her expression must look like...and how long he’d been studying her, “Nikki... For now, let’s take advantage of the offer. It’s a really good place to start rebuilding; finding work is going to be tough -- with your work history, morality clauses are going to present some serious obstacles in addition to your parole, and your father’s help can give us more time. We can discuss alternative arrangements once you’ve had time to get settled.”
“Okay?” he promoted when she didn’t immediately answer.
Fighting to keep her lips from trembling, she nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Good. I’ll visit and do a walk through once you move in.”
She sighed, resentfully wishing her father spent more time talking with her than her parole officer.
She added, “They’re doing some renovations at the cottage, so...”
He nodded, “Your father mentioned that. We can work out intermediate arrangements, but we need to get you out of the hostel; it’s not a great place for you. Let’s go over your release plan...”
Potential Energy