Aggravated: Prison Series Book 1

By Conklin

A young park ranger, just doing her job, runs afoul of a local rich kid and his more psychopathic buddy. Trying to stop them from abusing animals and shooting near a public campsite, she ends up shooting one and prosecuted for aggravated assault. The men continue to attack her after she leaves prison, but a man comes looking for a dog and changes h

• Language: English
• Publisher: George S Conklin
• Release date: Nov 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9780578994901

Conklin

George Conklin is the author of three previous books. All dystopian and hopefully fiction. This is the first of three books on people running afoul of the legal system.

Book preview

Part 1

Committed

1

Out

The big steel doors clanged shut behind me. I stiffened. I was out, but not free, totally anyway.

I still had a year in a halfway house and then many years on parole ahead of me. But there was a light in the tunnel I’d found myself in for crimes I hadn’t committed.

You’ll be back, Convict. And I can’t wait to see it, said Linc, from the open grate in the closed doorway behind me.

I was tempted to give him the finger but didn’t. I was done giving people what they were looking for.

There’s your ride, he said as a taxi pulled up. All my worldly belongings were in a Presidio County Jail laundry bag. I dragged it into the cab.

The cab driver sighed and smiled sadly at me. Hey, Linc, said the older man. Linc looked over at him. My granddaughter asked me to send you a message. He gave Linc the finger, and we drove away. Linc looked at me one more time before closing the grate. He had a look on his face which I can only describe as sadistic. I knew I would see more of him.

That guy’s one major prick, he said. I hope he gets it one of these days. You got your transfer voucher?

I handed him the piece of paper, and he saw the address to which he was to deliver me. Not in a friendly area of town; we got about an hour’s ride before we get there. Relax, honey. I’m happy to talk if you want to but can just as easily shut up. Let me know.

Thanks, I said. Right now, I’d just like to absorb being out.

After a couple of seconds of thinking, though, Hey, mister. Any chance that we might take a little side-trip? I asked. The Presidio County jail was in Marfa, Texas, which attracted many weird people, UFO nuts, and the like. I wanted to look at the scene of the crime, so to speak, if I could. A place I truly had loved since I was a kid.

Maybe. What do you want to do? he asked.

It’s quite a way out of your way, but I have a little money, I said.

OK, where?

I’d like to take a ride through Big Bend Park. You could head east out of town here and pick up 118 South, I think, into Lajitas and then turn west on 170 into Presidio. It would add an hour or so to the trip, but I’d pay for it, I said. I hated I sounded like I was pleading with him.

He looked up into the rear-view mirror and said, Sure, kid. You have any time you need to be at the halfway house?

Just by 8 PM. I think we’ll be all right. Many thanks.

I settled back and let images cascade over me. I thought of my last day of freedom six and a half years ago. Those memories felt so far away like I was looking at scenes from an old black and white movie. Someone else’s life, long gone, now unrecoverable. My last day as a Park Ranger. The woman stopping me and saying someone was shooting near their campsite. Scenes with Granger and Jerry with the deer: Granger kicking the fawn in the air and shooting it. Me stepping out of the woods to arrest them. Them coming after me. My gun going off, hitting Jerry, and firing again but missing Granger. The sheriff. That first night in jail. The trial, the Judge, the sentences, my moments with the Crutch and Wilson families, and then with Granger. God, with Granger; him again and again over the six-plus years. My life sailing off a cliff. In prison. My sisters. My sisters: I hope I can still find them. Jane, my rat. Soap, soap, soap, and soon more soap.

I glanced out of the window of the cab and took in the countryside outside Marfa. It was the first time I’d been there since well before I went to prison. It was just as I remembered it. Not a pretty area of the country. That was still to come.

My mind drifted back to the first time I was in court…

We entered the courtroom. The Guard led me to a glass cage that had no seat in it. Lowell Blanchard, my court-appointed attorney, sat at a table nearby. He looked more disheveled than the previous day when we’d first met and with him half in the bag.

All rise for Her Honor Louisa Minor.

A tall, older woman in robes strode in. She looked around the room and fixed me with a glare. Please sit, she said.

This is the arraignment of Ms. Christine Witt on three charges, all felonies, two counts of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, and one count of reckless discharge of a firearm.

Is there a plea here?

Lowell looked at me, and I shook my head no.

May I speak to my client privately, Your Honor?

Yes, but make it quick, Counselor.

The deputy took us to a room off the courtroom. There was a table and two chairs, but the deputy, grinning, took one chair away and chained me by my belt to a bolt in the tabletop. I had to lean over the table.

See that camera up there? If you move past that red line on the floor, I’ll be in here in a second.

I stepped back to the red line, which forced me to lean over even more uncomfortably.

Back to the present day…

I leaned over in the cab’s seat as the driver turned south on State Highway 118, the road that would brush up against the park. The land here was more rugged, building up to the Big Bend. The further south we went, the wilder it got. Off to our west, I could just see Santiago Peak. There was still an old Apache camp at the peak. Warriors used it to watch out for the cavalry. I remember hiking up to it once. Tough climb, 6500 feet.

You ever been up there to the Apache camp? asked the driver.

Yeah, once years ago. Hell of a hike, I said.

Sure is. I won’t ask what got you in jail, but what did you do before you were in there? he asked. Tell me to shut up if you want.

No, no. I’m fine about that. I told him my story. Before I was arrested, I’d been a ranger in the park. On one of my regular rounds, a woman came running to the Jeep and told me that someone was shooting near their campsite. She was concerned about her kids and themselves. I went to look and found two men. I was to find out they were Granger Crutch and his psychopathic buddy Jerry Wilson, with a dead doe and a panicked fawn. A few minutes later, Granger kicked the fawn into the air, and as the poor thing tried to run away, he shot it. That was it for me. It wasn’t illegal to shoot a fawn, but decent hunters generally viewed it as poor practice. The way they did it was what got to me; it made me sick to my stomach and maybe that made me act a little rashly. Rather than calling for help, I announced myself, tried to arrest them, and things went sideways from there.

They tried to grab me and my gun, I said, and, unfortunately, it discharged, hitting Jerry in the leg. Jerry fell on me, forcing another trigger pull, and a shot planted itself near Granger’s foot. I radioed for help, and other wardens and the police, and an ambulance showed up. I was sent home and was arrested shortly after I returned from a run. That was the last I saw my apartment, my things, everything I owned and was free.

We got to FM 170 and turned west, heading toward Lajitas, Texas, and the Park. In Lajitas, the driver said that he had to hit the can, and we pulled over at a truck stop. I sat in the car while he was in the restroom. He didn’t leave the car running, and I supposed that would have been too much trust to expect right now, anyway. When he came out of the store, he had two sodas in his hands. He handed one to me. I went into my pocket to get some money and he said, Nah. Don’t worry about it, kid. Return the favor someday.

We got back on the road and continued west, through the park. A half-mile or so inside it, the driver pulled over. FM 170 overlooked the Rio Grande here, and you could see the water, pretty deep, moving sluggishly in the late afternoon sun. We got back into the car and were in Presidio about 40 minutes later.

It was good to have been able to get back into the park. I didn’t see any way that was going to happen easily after I reported to the halfway house and started my work, so this was a welcome micro-mini vacation. As rugged and as barren as this area was, it held a kind of majesty and beauty that I certainly had not seen for the last six and a half years. I was glad that we had made this detour.

We still had a little time before I needed to sign in at the halfway house and so I asked the driver to take me over to Lowell Blanchard’s office. I ran up the stairs and knocked on the door with his name on it. A woman told me to come in. I told her who I was, and she said that Lowell was on the phone, but that I could wait. She gestured at a stiff-looking chair in the office’s corner. She read me, I guess, as a former client and not worth one of the comfortable chairs. In a few minutes, she told me I could go in.

I walked in and Lowell stood up with a surprised look on his face. You’re the last person I expected to ever see again, Chris, he said as he stuck his hand out a little hesitantly.

I shook it and smiled at him. You don’t have to worry about me, Mr. Blanchard. I just wanted to come by and to tell you thank you for trying to help me. When I stepped into that campsite with Crutch and Wilson, things were already decided. There was nothing anyone could have done for me.

Please sit. Can I get you a water? he asked.

Sure, that would be nice. I’ve been out in the desert up by Big Bend and so a little parched. Maybe when I leave, I could have another one for my driver downstairs? I asked.

Certainly. Now, is there anything I can do for you? After your case, I realized I was killing myself and hurting others. So, I took some time off and went into rehab. Been an avid member of Al-Anon ever since, he said.

I hear that I’ll have to do the same sort of thing in the halfway house, but with Crim-Anon. I’m not keen on it, I said.

The best decision I ever made. Take the opportunity. I know it will help, he said.

Thanks, Mr. Blanchard. I better grab that bottle of water and go. I’ll keep in touch, I said.

Call me Lowell and call any time.

------------

I went back out to the cab and gave the driver the bottle of water. He thanked me and we drove to the west side of town a few blocks from the Mexican border to the halfway house. I reached into my pocket to pay the driver and he said, No. Thanks for the afternoon and the very best to you, kid. He drove off. I went into the halfway house and the next stage of my life.

2

Halfway House

The halfway house was in an old rooming house that the County had bought. I’d expected it to be pretty dilapidated but was surprised at the good condition that it was in. It had four areas on the first floor: the manager’s apartment, near the front door, so he could monitor it, a common area we called the big room, a kitchen, and a dining room. We socialized in the big room and that’s where the local Crim-Anon session was held. There was a big-screen TV which I found too complicated to operate, several tables and chairs set out around the room and a library of books, most of which were well-used and fragile as a result. It was an odd collection: many romance novels from Harlequin, St. Martin’s, and Loveswept; a few computer books; two or three mystery stories from authors like Agatha Christie; a half-dozen Bibles; and a couple of semi-religious oriented self-help books by guys like Rick Warren and Joel Osteen. None were at all interesting to me.

My roommate was a Hispanic kid who’d just been released from a term in the County Jail section of the prison I was in, so I’d never seen her. She had done six months for prostitution because it was her second offense. Her pimp, good news, was doing 2-10 for aggravated promotion because he had a few girls out on the street. She was a nice kid, but English wasn’t even close to her second language. I tried, but my Spanish was only slightly better than passable. We got along fine, though.

The last time I had a roommate was when I was in General Population or GP. I had three of them and they and three of their friends beat the crap out of me. It was an uneven fight, but I held my own, causing me to get six months added to my sentence. I was apprehensive about having a roomie in the halfway house. In fact, after nearly six and a half years with only dear Jane, my trusty friend at the prison, and those bastards, the Sheriff and Linc around me every day, being in the hallway house with its thirty women was almost too much. I didn’t sleep well the first few nights.

The house manager, Eric Flynn, was a retired guard whose wife had passed away the year that he retired. He felt useless after that and so got back into the business. He liked the job, was hard on us, but also was a fair and kind man. You could almost see how his wife dying had emptied him out. We were all very protective of him. He spent time with each new girl to make sure that she adapted to the rigors of freedom. As the Sheriff had said to me years before, I was one of the longest timers at the jail aside from Jane. So, Eric spent extra time with me getting me settled and, as I got comfortable over the next several weeks, we talked a lot.

I took on extra chores around the house to help him out and to keep myself occupied. After all, Idle hands… and all that. I guessed, right off, his wife must have done his wash for him. His clothes always looked like he’d slept in them, though they were always clean. He fought me at first, saying I wasn’t a convict anymore, but then eventually relented and let me do his wash along with mine. I ironed his shirts and pants as well. I could see a few of the girls thought I was sucking up to him, but I wasn’t and said screw ‘em to myself. Mostly, though, I guess I had a rep as a tough one and so all I heard was minor grumbling and even that was not for very long.

Getting up for work, work, taking buses to get around and the Crim-Anon sessions was a lot to deal with. I could see why some former prisoners relapsed and ended up back in jail. Despite all its negatives, it was a much simpler life