Chapter 1: Dolores

Joe

Everywhere in the mall, the obnoxious canned Christmas music was playing. I was not in a festive mood at all, but I had to buy some household items for my new apartment. I did not want to think about Christmas, not with the prospect of spending the holidays alone in a furnished apartment. That was how it was, however. Three months ago, my wife had asked me for a divorce. She had been nice about it, had waited until I had fully recuperated from my gunshot wounds, but once I went back to work, she decided she could not take it anymore.

It, being my job. I am a Community Supervision Officer, a bullshit title for what was formerly called a Parole Agent, for the State of Maryland. Before that, I used to be a State Trooper, but when a colleague was shot on Highway 51 after stopping a speeding driver, I applied for a transfer to Community Supervision within the Dept. of Public Safety & Correctional Services (DPS&CS) to appease my wife.

Then, last January, I stepped out from my office and ran smack into one of my former parolees who held a grudge against me after being sent back to finish his sentence following a DUI. He held an old .38 six-shooter and when it was empty, I had taken three hits: one in the chest, one in the shoulder, and one in the leg. Ironically, it was the leg wound that proved to be near-fatal as it severed the femoral artery.

It took three operations, seven bags of donor blood and four months to get back on my feet. Judy pressed me to quit the job but I saw no sense in quitting and giving up my pension and benefits. I also liked my job. We argued for weeks, neither of us relented, and then she hit me with divorce papers. Hence the new apartment. At least, I was now living closer to work and to downtown Bethesda with its eateries.

After two weeks of verbal sparring and cussing between us we sat down under the moderation of my sister Ruth and came up with some rules. Who got what, when could I see the children – Bethany, 12, and Michael, 8 – and the support payments I had to make. Since Judy would get the house and had a well-paying accountant job, the home equity pretty much got me off the hook financially. Judy did not take me to the cleaners, but it still hurt to pack my stuff and leave. One thing I insisted on was that I paid the kids' allowances. Every first weekend of the month would be spent with me. Payday, as we called it with a trace of rekindled humor.

Looking at my wristwatch, I realized I had to get back to my office. I had one late client marked for a 4 p.m. appointment. She was coming fresh from the joint and had only been released that morning.

She was a bit of a celebrity as celebrity status goes these days. Her nom de plume had been Dolly Dickinson and yes, she was a porn actress, a former porn actress. Her real name was more down to earth – Dolores Jorgensen. Three years ago, after being forcibly sodomized during the shooting of a BDSM scene, she'd gone Berserker. Once unshackled, she had taken a pool cue to the Director/Producer, first whacking him unconscious and then ramming the cue home, splintered end first, to give him a dose of the same medicine.

Unfortunately – or fittingly, depending on your view point – the Director/Producer suffered a torn colon and since he did not recover consciousness for more than two hours, the infection in his peritoneum was out of control before they could hook him up on antibiotics. He died of a septic shock within a day and our Dolly Dickinson was sentenced to four years for assault and voluntary manslaughter. Ramming a billiard cue into somebody's behind is a felony after all, even if she herself had to undergo surgery for a torn sphincter. The DA agreed to mitigating circumstances in return for her testimony against the male performer who had sodomized her. He won't be out for another seven years. Under Maryland's laws she became eligible for a parole hearing after two years.

Reading her file, sent over from the Corrections Division of DPS&CS, I couldn't help but thinking that she was screwed over. Her Public Defender could have easily gone for temporary insanity. No jury with a single woman on it would have sent a girl to jail after she struck back at the man who'd had her ass raped. I looked at the name of the Public Defender. Levon Arbuckle. Yeah, I'd known quite a few parolees who had been represented by that clown. I doubt he has ever seen a court room from the inside. He always goes for a plea, the lazy bastard.

Her file indicated that she had been almost a model inmate, except for a scuffle early in her incarceration. She had sent four fellow inmates who had tried to enforce some sort of initiation ritual (speak: lesbian gang rape) to the infirmary. It had been ruled as self defense by the warden. I revised my view of her a little. The girl seemed to have a hair trigger temper and the skills to dole out severe punishment.

She had taken home econ classes, bookkeeping, and of all things, cabinet making. She had also volunteered for regular sessions with the shrinks. They had all recommended a release on parole to "further Ms. Jorgensen's speedy reintegration into society". Now I had her on my plate. Gee, thanks, folks!

I made it back to my office with a few minutes to spare and brewed a coffee. She was right on time knocking on my door and I yelled, 'Come in!'.

In she came and I was in for a surprise. I had done some 'research' over the internet. Her videos were still in circulation; even two fan sites were still up. She had been a bleach blonde 'teeny', mostly braiding her hair in pigtails and wearing ringlet socks, 'acting' as a 'schoolgirl' up for a detention with some bulky, tattooed bruiser who played the 'teacher'. The young woman who came in had dirty blonde hair, almost shoulder length and bound in a simple pony tail. Her face had lost the roundness, had more defined features, and it was dominated by her large blue eyes. Her body was slimmer too; no, the correct word was 'trim'. I could see the play of muscles under the skin of her forearm when she shook my hand.

"Have a seat, Ms. Jorgensen," I told her. "Coffee?"

"That would be nice."

That voice! It still had the timbre, the seductive quality I remembered from her videos. Well, not that there had been much dialogue in those clips but her voice had been memorable. I poured a cup for her and one for me before I sat in my chair opposite her.

"Been working out?" I asked trying to start on an easy note. She did not bite.

"It's easier to find sleep when you've worked yourself dog tired," she answered with a twinge of sadness.

"Ms. Jorgensen, have you been informed about the conditions under which you were paroled?"

"Yes, Mr. Dresdner. I was to report to you upon my release. I am to accept the work you approve for me. I am not to associate myself with known felons or with anyone representing the adult entertainment industry. Neither am I to give interviews to news media or run a web blog in which I refer to my former occupation. I am not to leave the State of Maryland. I have to continue my therapy sessions with a DPS&CS approved psychologist once a month. I am not to drink alcoholic beverages or to consume illicit drugs in any form. Any failure on my part to adhere to the conditions of my parole will result in my immediate re-admittance into the state correction system."

She listed the conditions by heart and in a monotonous voice but she swallowed briefly before citing the last sentence. I nodded.

"Ms. Jorgensen, the Corrections officials all concur in their assessment of your good prognosis and believe that you will rehabilitate yourself. My job is to help you. I know that people see us as the evil guys who try to trip you, so we can send you back into the slammer. That is not the truth. I want you to succeed."

I pointed at the wall behind me. "All those people are former offenders. I was their parole agent. Their pictures come up on that wall when they make it through parole and then for two years without any misdemeanors or felonies. I am proud of these people. I would like nothing better than to add Ms. Dolores Jorgensen's picture to that wall in four years. You've got to help me though. Play honest with me. If you have committed a screw-up, be open about it. There are a lot of things we can square if you stay on the level with me. Do you understand?"

"I guess, Mr. Dresdner. I need to get my possessions from New York. A friend has stored my clothes and personal items. I also have a savings account up there. How can I access my property without leaving Maryland?"

I sighed. "Don't you have any relatives?"

"I don't think they'll want to hear from me. I'm from Clearwater in Montana. Let's say it's a rural community. My father is a farmer, salt of the earth, and he must have gone through hell when I appeared in those videos. Worse still when I became a felon."

"Okay. I believe any savings bank can assist you in transferring your money from New York. If you need a sponsor to open a savings account, have them call me. Look, I haven't had the time to determine what kind work you are eligible to do. How can I reach you?"

"I have a prepaid cell phone that I purchased with my reserve account funds," she answered and gave me a file card with the number and a Bethesda address.

"Your parole plan says you have a place to stay?"

"I'm staying with the mother of my cell mate Beverly Anson. Mrs. Anson lets me have Beverly's room. She's a cashier at Sutter Square Gourmet."

"What did Beverly do?"

"She let her boyfriend take her along in a stolen car and she was stoned. Second drug offense. She got ten months. She'll be up for parole in two. I should be able to find something before then."

"And her mother lets you stay?"

"I kinda looked after Bev in her first weeks. Her mother's grateful for that. The girl was really lost in there."

I thought. It was not against regulations. "Okay for now. Listen, go to the downtown Bethesda branch of Liberty Savings and ask for Mr. Prentice. He's helped us out before when my clients needed to establish a savings account. Then, tomorrow, you can hit the classifieds. Remember that I must approve whatever job you find." I opened a desk drawer and fished out a print-out. "Unofficially, this is a list of employers in the area where parolees found jobs in the last years.

For the first time, Dolores Jorgensen looked straight at me.

"Thank you, Mr. Dresdner. I'll do my best to get back on my feet, and I appreciate your time and efforts."

"That's my job. Remember, I'm here to help. I'm not the enemy."

I held out my hand and she shook it after just a tiny hesitation. I showed her out then and watched her as she went downstairs. I shrugged. I'd learn soon enough whether she was being honest.

There was just one thing I thought I'd try. Starting with Google, I found the number of the Clearwater County Sheriff's Department with no trouble. The voice of the receptionist was pleasant.

"Sheriff's Department, how may I help you?"

"Hi, my name is Joe Dresdner. I am a parole agent with the Maryland Division of Community Supervision. May I speak with your Sheriff?"

"I'll put you through, Sir," she said and a second later, another female voice sounded.

"Sheriff Cramer, how can I help you?"

"Hi. I'm Joe Dresdner. I'm a parole agent with the Maryland DPS&CS division of Community Supervision."

"Let me guess. You're calling about Dolores Jorgensen?"

"Yes, indeed. How..."

"There's not many of our folks doing time in Maryland. What about her?"

"She was released on parole earlier today. Can you perhaps tell me a little bit about her, you know, background?"

"She was a great kid. She wasn't on the cheerleading squad or anything, but a good student. After graduation, she just left and next thing rumors started that she was doing porn. We didn't have broadband internet out here but some young folks who attended college brought back video clips. It was kinda hard for her parents. Worse even when she killed that porn producer. Real pity all that."

"Was she already into martial arts?"

"She did Jujutsu, no, Judo. I remember because she went to a state championship once, even placed as runner up in her weight class."

"Thanks, Sheriff. One last favor, can you give me the phone number of her parents?"

"Sure thing. They'll be happy to hear she was released. I take it she did well in prison?"

"Model inmate, warden's pet, shrink's delight," I gave back with a touch of cynicism. "I just spoke to her and even with her file in front of me I can hardly believe she rammed a pool cue up a guy's waste chute."

"Maybe the guy needed it?" Sheriff Cramer returned with just a touch of anger.

"I'll not argue with you on that. Point is, we'd rather deal with sleaze bags the official way here on the East Coast."