Memory of Two Mondays

by John Davis Collins.....© 1996 by John F. Clennan, All Rights Reserved

Parole Judge Tim Jayson's court appearance...neat and crisp grey suits, properly knotted black tie and white shirt and proper court room etiquette in the improvised hearing room in Hunter's Point Correctional Facility masked a complex individual. Out of court, Jayson enthralled parole officers as they sat on plastic chairs, coffee cup in one hand, newspaper in the other, waiting for their case, with his biting caustic humor. "Never give one of these suckers a second chance, " he'd say, "They'll make you live to regret it. They're pros, crooks, cons and pukes, but they're all out to pull your heart strings if they can."

At the onset of the Great Sweep, the Parole Division quadrupled Judge Jayson's case load. He had barely 5 minutes per case and had to rely on the Parole Officers to make deals with the assigned counsel to give the Parole Division a new statistic and the parolee an early release. A tired Jayson looked up from the swirl of papers on his bench to say, "Parole may regret this," as he imposed the agreed upon term.

Late one Friday afternoon, just as I returned from Hunter's Point Correctional Facility, I was called by Parole Officer Sandy Muller. She was prosecuting Joe Freeze, an absconder who had been newly assigned to me. She wanted to run his case through Monday morning so that she could get him a spot in a drug rehabilitation program.

I was suspicious. Assigned that very afternoon, I had met Freeze for an instant. I didn't interview him. The Bar Association would not confirm by appointment for weeks. If they declined, I would work for free and go hungry.

If the parole officer were honest, she took a big risk by pushing the case forward. In the torrid temper of the moment, a rereleased inmate with new offenses might generate headlines.

I tested her, "I don't mind, if the client goes along, but what happens on your end if this guy goes out and messes up."

Muller replied, "Jayson said you'd warn me. I think the parolee is a good risk." The end of the question came with hesitation and ended high as to question not to answer.

I detected the doubt. It wasn't my job to warn my enemy and benefator the parole officer any more than I had. A win was a win. I met the client on Monday. A weekend in jail had given the prisoner some much needed weight and improved his color.

Inmate Freeze struggled for a chilly shrug when he was told of the offer.

Still concerned of some trap, I asked Judge Jayson to go off the record as the Judge listlessly started to intone the standard, lengthy introduction to parole revocations.

"Judge, the parole officer intends to recommend restoration." Restoration to parole was the lightest punishment. I had never seen Parole Judge Jayson release a prisoner.

" If you're all agreed," Jayson shrugged his shoulders listlessly. Too busy to give meticulous attention to on case, Parole Judge Jayson wearily completed the standard introduction. After desultorily listening to the Parole Officer, Jayson said with a sigh, "Restoration in accordance with recommendation." He turned to me with a snicker and added sarcastically, "great job counselor."

After the sweep abated, the process reverted to its formalistic rendition of rights followed by a ceremonious display of routine indifference.

Officially the small group of assigned counsel had been horrified by the sweep. "Round'em up. The law forbids rich and poor alike from cleaning windows of passing cars, sleeping in the park and lighting fires under the bridge!" Most of the parolees caught up in rule book enforcement were technical violators guilty as charged of offences as minor as turnstile jumping in the subways or being evicted for inability to pay rent. However, paid by the state per case, we defenders of the right at the height of the frenzy hung a sign "Good Hunting" in the rest rooms reserved for parole officers. Although technical adversaries, we assigned counsel had become in the course of the Great Sweep, amiable side kicks to the quixotic crusade of the Division of Parole.

It was late one Friday afternoon when P.O. Muller called again. Freeze was back in the facility. Released for delivery to a rehabilitation program, "Freeze," she told me, "walked in the front door and out the back." There was a pause. The Parole Officer added with a sigh, "Jayson suggested I call you. Division already cleared your appointment with the Bar Association."

They wanted a hatchet job...on Monday morning. Since the sweep abated, business had fallen off. I needed work.

I sympathetically parroted Judge Jayson's favorite line, "They came as punks, pros and ordinary scum, but they're only cons at heart."

"You're all heart." The Parole Officer laughed. "At least, Jayson promised you wouldn't say 'I told you so.'"

It was the same hearing room, same Parole Judge. The client had dyed his hair a bright orange; its ragged matted appearance suggested the appearance of a spike. Dully nodding a head topped by a fluff of hair dyed fire engine red-orange, the parolee apathetically admitted guilt.

The parolee grunted a guilty plea to the charge of leaving the program and shrugged his shoulders when asked for an explanation.

After accepting the plea and imposing the maximum hold, Jayson smiled, "They love to pull on your heart strings if they can...but they still return to papa."