Page 20 of Someone Like Me
Don’t get me wrong. White privilege is real. And it’s everywhere. Especially in Louisiana’s penal system. I don’t for a minute think I know what it means to be a minority.
I just know that right now, I stick out like a trail of toilet paper out of the back of some schmuck’s pants.
And that scenario doesn’t sound so bad once I meet my P.O., Mr. Alan Overton.
The guy is about fifty-five. His hair and skin are one color — a color I could only describe as sand. He’s unsmiling. Maybe because his office smells like vinegar.
By way of greeting, he slides a specimen cup across his desk. “Mandatory drug test. Tell me now. Are you going to pass?”
“Yes, sir.”
Angola has no shortage of drugs. And, yes, I’ve taken them. Eight years is a long time, after all. But I haven’t done anything in forever. Not since Annie, who was sixteen at the time,casuallyasked me in one of our phone conversations what I thought about marijuana.
I told her to stay the hell away from it, and then I took my own advice.
Overton follows me to the restroom and stands behind a partition while I face the urinal.
Now, I’ve heard guys on The Farm talk about beating the system by taping a Ziploc bag of clean piss right by their junk and tearing a hole in it at the right moment. Hell, one guy smuggled a vial up his ass to keep the stuff body temperature.
I think about this while I’m trying to take a leak. How the hell did that guy get it out with some dude watching over his shoulder?
Back in Overton’s office, we sit across from each other, and he stares at me in silence for what seems like ten minutes.
“You good-timed out, but before that you never sought parole.”
This isn’t a question, so I don’t feel the need to answer. Most people don’t believe me when I say I deserved to stay right where I was. But Louisiana prisons are crowded. Guys who’ve done three-quarters of their time can get out for good behavior. Even if they don’t particularly want to.
Overton lowers his pale blond brows. What they lack in color, they make up for in volume. “Does that mean youlikedprison?”
“No, sir. I did not like prison.”
His frown deepens. “So, then are youlazy?Too lazy to meet with your attorney and seek your parole hearings?”
The accusation chafes. Even as a thief, I wasn’t lazy. Anyone who wants something has to work for it. I like work. I like problems that need to be solved. A car engine is a great place to solve problems.
“I’m not lazy, Mr. Overton.”
He leans back in his desk chair, which issues a squeaking protest. “Good. Because one of the conditions of your probation is employment.”
I nod. “I got a job yesterday, sir.”
“Where?”
“C & C Auto. On Johnston Street.”
He shifts his gaze to the dinosaur of a computer on his desk and grunts. “Worked in auto tech,” he mutters under his breath, to whom I’m not sure. Then he glances at me. “Are you familiar with the terms of your probation?”
I nod again. “My lawyer went over them with me last month.”
He looks unimpressed. “Well, I’m going over them again.”
So he does. No drugs. No alcohol. No weapons. No associating with known felons. I must maintain employment. I must maintain housing. I must not commit any misdemeanors nor felonies. I must not leave the state of Louisiana. I must meet with my probation officer once every thirty days here in his office. I must submit to drug testing at each visit. I must submit to his unannounced visits and search of my dwelling. Should I follow all of these terms for one year from my release date, I will be cleared from probation.
“You understand, Mr. Moroux, that the violation of any of these terms of your probation means that you would be returned to Angola or any other state facility to serve out the remainder of your ten-year sentence?”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
He raises a bushy brow. “Tell me now. Am I going to catch you in violation of any of the above.”
