“Yes, sir. She told the man to stop touching her and when he wouldn’t, things escalated quickly.”
The room goes silent, before the commissioner nods his head. “Prior to this conviction, you had several arrests tied to vehicle theft and possession of stolen property, is that true?”
“Yes, sir.”
The gray-haired man at the end of the table folds his hands in front of him and leans forward. “Mr. Dover, the court record indicates the judge considered that history when imposing the five-year sentence, along with your specialized training in both martial arts and boxing, indicating that the force used during the altercation was excessive and resulted in injuries that wouldn’t normally be acquired during a physical altercation.”
“That’s what they say.”
The woman studies me over the rim of her glasses. Her large nose hooks downward, almost like a beak, those brown eyes studying me for more of a reaction.
“But since your incarceration, your institutional record has been… unusually clean,” she remarks as the man in the middle flips to another page.
“No disciplinary infractions in three years,” he adds, flipping to another page. “And you completed the necessary anger management and behavioral counseling that was suggested by the court while also working in the prison library for over a year.”
“Yes, sir.”
The gray-haired man leans forward again, forcing streaks of silver follicles to gleam in the overhead light.
“According to correctional staff, you were severely assaulted by other inmates approximately one year and nine months ago.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And during the altercation, you sustained life-threatening injuries.”
“I did.”
They share a look before one of them speaks. “Since your recovery,” he continues, “staff has noted that your behavior has remained exemplary.”
I keep my hands folded in front of me, trying my best not to freak out or hope for anything.
“Yes, sir.”
The woman taps her pen against her lips, her eyes narrowing. “Why is that, Mr. Dover? Why the change?”
I look at her, doing whatever I can to keep from hyperventilating. My lungs may be better, but I still don’t like getting them too worked up.
I take a slow breath. “Almost dying tends to make a man reevaluate things.” There’s no sarcasm or attitude in my tone, just the stone-cold truth. “When you spend weeks in a hospital bed wondering if you're ever going to walk again,” I continue, “you start thinking about what kind of life you want when you get out.”
“And what does that look like for you?” she asks.
“I just want a peaceful life, ma’am. One that’s shared with family and friends. My goal is to work toward a future that I can’t explore behind these walls, one involving stability and marriage someday.” My thoughts instantly drift to Poppy, wondering if she’s even still alive? “I don’t want to waste a second chance.”
The man in the center folds his hands together.
“You know that this hearing is because you’re eligible for parole after serving three years of your five-year sentence.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And we have it in good faith, that you have a verified job offer with a mechanic’s shop and tow yard in Fernley, is that correct?”
Thank God for good friends.
“Yes, sir.”
“You also have confirmed housing with family?” Family doesn’t have to be blood. Rich says there’s plenty of room for me at the clubhouse when I get out of here.
“Yes, sir.”
