Nick was bored. He was sitting in District Court, Judge Harmon's courtroom, trying to stay awake. Not that the matter wasn't serious enough, or that it lacked points of interest, Nick has just heard it all before. Mentally, he cursed himself for the thousandth time- it had seemed like such a good idea back in college-- switching his major from pre-law to psychology. It just hadn't occurred to him that while psychology majors weren't exactly a dime a dozen, they did max out at $30,000 each.
Nick Adams was a parole officer, the lowliest of county workers. He worked in Union County, New Jersey, home to the collection of slums that called itself Newark. Even prison guards at the local state prison in Rahway looked down at parole officers. Nick had thought about quitting more than once, but to do what? He thought about applying for a teaching credential, but teachers made about the same as parole officers-although they did have the summer off.
Even worse than the job, Nick hated the pay. By the time he paid the rent for his miserable one bedroom apartment and made the payment on his 1991 Mitsubishi, Nick didn't have much money left, certainly not enough to chase the higher-class New York suburban pussy that he so desired. Nick was currently between girlfriends- his last one was sick of going out for a big night at Pizza Hut- and he had even worked out the economics of resorting to hookers rather than dating. At least for $200, you knew what you were getting. Some of the ones sitting around in the Airport Hilton were pretty damn nice looking, especially the redhead with the big …"Mr. Adams, I won't ask you again," barked Judge Harmon. "Please answer the question."
"Uh, your honor, could you be more specific? I am not sure what your line of questioning is aimed at." The reason Nick had no idea what the judge was driving at is that he was mentally tuned into the red-headed hooker from the Hilton, replaying the show she put on last night on the dance floor.
"Mr. Adams, what my line of questioning is aimed at is that I need to understand why, in your opinion, the defendant, Mr. Ramirez, can't hold a job. Please do your sleeping outside my courtroom, or I WILL charge you with contempt."
With that, Nick was back in the real world, and did a nice job of explaining that while Mr. Ramirez had an excellent skill set, a good work history and high self-esteem, cocky, arrogant second-story men with 10 priors were just not in demand by high-tech industries in the area. Court adjourned; Ramirez and Nick went back to their respective prisons.
His office was a small room in the county office building, but it was private, quiet, and it did have air-conditioning. It was in the basement, didn't have a window, and had peeling paint and thread-bare carpet, which explained why someone important didn't want it. Even though it was one step above broom closet, Nick thought it was nicer than his apartment.
As soon as he walked into his office, the intercom buzzed. "Mr. Adams, Ms. Elkins will be in to see you in a few minutes. The director assigned her to you, case file 2349784808239234/L3J. Please try to be on time."
"That goddamned fuckin' cunt," thought Nick. Another crack whore, no doubt. Or maybe a shoplifting welfare queen." Nick and the director didn't get along well. They were perfectly civil- as long as they were separated by at least 200 feet- but any closer, and Nick wanted to rip her throat out. Even worse was her prissy little receptionist, Lisa. She was certainly cute enough, a sort of Vanessa Williams look, although her skin was a little darker. Lisa loved to wear short skirts, which just made it worse for Nick. He wanted to grab her and throw her across the desk and show her what he thought of case file 234978…..
"Mr. Adams?" cooed a gentle voice accompanied by gentle tap at his open door.
"What the f… I mean, Can I help you?" It wasn't often that Nick got caught off-guard, but this was one of those times. Ms. Elkins was absolutely stunning, even prettier than the stunning redhead that almost got his ass thrown in jail this morning for contempt-of-court.
Gina Elkins strutted into Nick's office. She was dressed in ordinary jeans and a sweater, and even though both were quite loose and baggy, there was no doubt about the charms hidden underneath her clothes. Her face was made up to highlight her auburn hair and red eyes, with big, moist lips and a deep red glow about her skin. More than anything, she resembled the movie actress Jill Ireland.
"Sit down and let's get a few things straight. Beginning Monday, we will have a weekly meeting for twenty minutes, starting at 10:20AM. That means twenty after ten. Steal yourself a good watch, because if you show up at twenty-one minutes after ten, I won't meet with you, and you will be remanded back to prison. When I tell you to do something, that means do it- no arguments, no excuses, no explanations. I am a busy man, I have lots of work to do, and the easiest way for me to cut down on my workload is to send you back to prison. I get paid whether your ass is in prison or the penthouse. Remember that! Now get the fuck out of here, and come back Monday. I don't have time today." Even Nick had to admit the performance was a little strong, but pretty women just pissed him off. Always thought they could flash a smile and a little tit and get whatever they wanted. "Well, fuck 'em all," Nick thought.
Actually doing his job, Nick went down to RECORDS and pulled Ms. Elkins' file. She was certainly no angel, and had a couple of drug convictions, although she seemed to have given up the narcotics. Her latest exploits were arrests and convictions for prostitution along with a score of arrests and acquittals for theft, robbery and assault. The last convictions were for conspiracy, robbery and pandering. Quite an impressive career for a 25 year-old, thought Nick.
Her last conviction stemmed from running an escort service preying on merchant seamen calling on Port Newark. It seemed to Nick that she was prosecuted, not so much for the prostitution, but for scamming the sailors and sending large knucklebusters out with the girls to collect money from the johns and then and take off without delivering the goods. It should have been plea-bargained, but there was no deal. Nick chuckled to himself…how could she have known that the judge in the case was a former merchant sailor? Five years of parole and a $10,000 fine- sounded to Nick like the good judge had a score to settle with a former madame somewhere. Even the parole instructions were extremely harsh- just about guaranteeing that the offender would violate one of them and be remanded to prison. "Tough luck, bitch" thought Nick.
When Friday came, Nick had another of his usual weekends- thank god for strip-clubs or he would never get to see any pussy. He had dropped $25 in the Pink Pagoda on Saturday night, and didn't get so much as a second look from any of the strippers. Nothing unusual in that, but Jesus, thought Nick, at least they could smile at him when he tried to cop a handful with one of his dollar tips.
Monday morning came soon enough, and Nick spent the first part of the day with the usual collection of lowlifes. His ten o'clock appointment, Danny Quinn, had a hard luck story about how he lost his job after just being late one time for five minutes. A quick phone call to his former boss revealed that Danny was on-time exactly once, and usually didn't show up at all. Nick sent Mr. Quinn on his way- with instructions to show him a paycheck next week for at least $150, or else be ready to go back to prison.
