“Do you have legal representation present?”
Ryker stepped forward. “Ryker Kincaid, counsel for Mr. Blackwood.”
She made a note. Shuffled a paper. “Very well. Let’s proceed.”
For the next several minutes, they ran through the standard formalities. My sentence. My conviction. The dates of my previous parole denials.
Two of them, to be exact.
I’d walked into this room two times before and walked out with nothing but another year of concrete walls and crushing disappointment.
This time had to be different.
The thin man with the mole cleared his throat, flipping to a new page in my file. His eyes flicked up to meet mine with all the warmth of a morgue freezer.
“It says here you obtained a college degree while incarcerated. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. Business administration.”
“And what are your plans if you’re released?”
If.
Not when.
I let the word land, felt its weight settle into my bones. They were already hedging. Already preparing me for disappointment.
“I’d like to secure full-time employment while continuing my education,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I’m pursuing a degree in finance.”
The woman’s eyebrows shot toward her hairline. “Finance.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You understand you’ll be a convicted felon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She exchanged a glance with her colleagues. The kind of glance that said,Is this guy serious?
“Most financial institutions do not hire individuals with criminal records,” she continued. “Particularly for positions with access to monetary assets.”
I bit back the response that wanted to crawl up my throat, choosing my words carefully.
“I’m aware of the challenges, ma’am. But I’ve spent fourteen years preparing for them. I’m not expecting anyone to hand me anything. I’m willing to start at the bottom and prove myself at a smaller firm that would be willing to take a chance on me. And there are a lot of positions that don’t have access to people’s money, but rather provide insight and analysis on it.”
Her expression didn’t change. None of theirs did.
We talked for a few more minutes about my career goals, my job prospects, my “rehabilitation activities” over the past decade. With each answer I gave, their frowns deepened.
The sausage-fingered man leaned forward. “If released, where would you reside?”
“I have several options. Friends who’ve offered temporary housing. Access to transitional resources. As soon as I secure employment, I’d find my own apartment.”
More note-taking. More frowns.
Then the thin man flipped to another page, and his eyes narrowed.
Here we go.
