With Good Behavior (2 page)

G
lancing around nervously, Sophie tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear and refocused her attention on the clipboard in her lap. She had completed most of the job application in her neat handwriting, but one section remained blank. Clearing her throat, she returned to the dreaded unanswered question, her pen hovering inches above the paper:

Have you been convicted of or pleaded “No Contest” to a felony within the last five years?

She sighed while tapping her pen against the clipboard, barely aware of the announcements pouring from the intercom over her head. Judging by the smooth female voice directing doctors to various operating rooms, Human Resources was located on a surgical floor at Northwestern Memorial Hospital.

Because Sophie had completed her pre-doctoral psychology internship in a Veterans Administration hospital, she figured she would start her job search in the familiar environment of a hospital setting. She obviously could no longer apply for psychologist positions, but she was hopeful about securing a post as a patient care assistant, orderly, receptionist—no job seemed beneath her at the moment.

The mocking words of the question danced before her eyes. Should she be truthful? If she admitted her felony conviction, she would likely forfeit any chances of securing a job. If she lied, she didn’t know how she could live with herself.

Sophie was an honest person, although in prison she’d learned how to be secretive and dishonest by necessity. She also realized the hospital might find out the truth anyway. Her father had kept her arrest and conviction on the down-low, but if potential employers were to dig deep enough, they could certainly find the public records of her ignominious crime.

With a resolute frown, she hastily scribbled 
Yes.

The subsequent question then stared her in the face:

If yes, please explain:

Explain? Explain how she crossed every boundary to fall in love with a psychotherapy client? Explain how she let him and his influence seep further and further into her life, only to find out he was a Mafia thug who had used her for his own purposes? Explain how she’d ruined her career and her dignity in the process? How the intense shame of her actions had destroyed her family?

Exhaling in frustration, she scrawled:

Convicted of accessory to armed robbery and possession of illegal weapons. Sentenced to two years of prison.

It still felt surreal to write those words, though it had been more than a year since she’d heard the court’s judgment against her. No matter how she tried to deny it or hide behind her illustrious academic career, her well-bred family, her good intentions, the truth was she was a felon. She felt trapped in a nightmare created by one client. Listening to herself rationalize and deflect, she felt a flash of anger. 
Stop externalizing blame
. This nightmare was her own creation.

Sophie scooped up her handbag in one hand and held the clipboard in the other. “You can kiss 
this
 job goodbye,” she muttered.

As she left the hospital, she felt despondency overtake her. She’d planned to apply for several jobs before returning to Kirsten’s apartment, but after just the first application, she barely had the energy to keep trudging down Huron Street. Perhaps it was time to regroup.

* * *

Upon entering the small one-bedroom apartment, Sophie heard the tapping of a computer keyboard before she saw her roommate. Stealing a look into the bedroom, she noticed Kirsten sporting a bright smile while typing away happily. The twenty-eight-year-old woman’s sleek brown hair was fastened in a ponytail, and her blue eyes danced with amusement.

“Looks like you’re making great progress, Kir,” Sophie observed, stepping into the room and collapsing on the bed.

Kirsten looked up, her smile fading quickly. “Oh, hey, Sophie. I didn’t hear you come in.” She tilted the laptop away from Sophie’s line of vision.

“Kirsten …” Sophie’s voice rose. “Are you chatting online again? You’re supposed to be working on your dissertation!”

“I know,” she replied. “But I just got home from work, and I had a crappy day, so the last thing I want to do is write my crappy dissertation.”

Sophie could definitely relate to having a bad day. She kicked off her boots and scooted up to rest her back against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. “What happened at work?”

Kirsten held up her finger and explained, “Just give me a sec to tell everyone goodbye, okay? Then I’ll fill you in.”

Sophie shook her head slowly, amazed at how addicted her roommate had become to the internet forum for her favorite TV show. While Kirsten typed a message, Sophie waited patiently to hear about the trials of her job as a counselor at a substance abuse treatment center.

Closing her laptop, Kirsten turned to Sophie. “My day sucked because I had three no-shows in a row this morning. I decided to give up and come home.”

Sophie nodded. There was nothing more frustrating than clients failing to show up for their appointments. “Is your supervisor going to be upset?”

“I’m more worried about the lost income. I only make like thirty-five percent of each session fee since I’m not licensed yet, and when I get no-shows I have no idea how I’ll make rent.”

Sophie fidgeted with her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I’ll try to find a job soon.”

Kirsten looked startled and immediately began apologizing. “Oh, no, Sophie. I’m not trying to pressure you to give me money for the rent. I …” She stumbled over her words. “Listen to me, going on and on about myself, complaining about the lousy pay of being a therapist …” She was about to complete her sentence with, 
when you’re not even allowed to be a therapist anymore,
 but thought better of it. Instead, she tried to redirect the conversation. “Um, how was 
your
 day? How was your meeting with your parole officer?”

Still wringing her hands, Sophie replied, “It was awful. I hated it … I just want to be done with all of this, and I have a whole year of parole left. He told me I had to get a job in the next two weeks or I’m going back inside.”

“That sounds scary. Did you put in some applications today?”

Sophie nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah, at the hospital.”

After waiting expectantly a few moments, Kirsten prodded, “And? Where else?”

“That’s it. Just the hospital.”

“Sophie! You have to apply to more places than one if you want to find a job.”

“I know, but … but what’s the point? They’re not going to hire a felon, anyway.”

Kirsten waited a few moments before quietly offering, “If you don’t find anything, you could always call your dad. He’s loaded—maybe you could work for him.”

Sophie snapped her gaze upward. “No, I cannot! I don’t want anything to do with his construction business, and he doesn’t want anything to do with me, especially after what happened, um, what happened,” she gulped, her next words barely above a whisper, “… what happened to my mom.”

Kirsten’s eyes widened. “That is ludicrous! Your dad can’t possibly blame you for your mother’s death!”

“He can, and he does. You saw him. You saw how he was at the funeral. He wouldn’t even look me in the eye.”

Sophie could not prevent her consciousness from flooding with the memory of her mother’s grave on a cold, rainy day last December. Icy winds and pelting raindrops had buffeted the group surrounding the gravesite of Laura Taylor. Sophie’s mother had succumbed quickly following a heart attack, and despite the inclement weather, the gravesite had been packed with her father’s work colleagues. After one brief, accusatory glance toward his daughter, Will Taylor had avoided all eye contact.

The overwhelming grief of losing her mother, the disdainful brush-off by her father, and the sheets of rain pouring over her as tears trailed down her face had seemed too much to bear in that moment. But the fact that she’d been handcuffed, dressed in her thin prison uniform while shivering in the wind, had only made it worse.

Fellow prisoners told her she was lucky the DOC had allowed her to attend her mother’s funeral. She certainly had not felt lucky. She would never forget the shame of that day.

Kirsten’s blue eyes filled with concern as she watched her friend withdraw into a cocoon of despair. Seeing Sophie handcuffed like a common criminal, flanked by two police officers as if she were some danger to society, had been one of the most bizarre experiences of Kirsten’s life. At the reception after the funeral, there had been whispers that Laura’s heart attack was brought on by the stress of watching her only child go to prison. This had horrified Kirsten.

Clearing her throat nervously, Kirsten attempted a smile. “Hey, roomie, I’ll make you a deal. For every job you apply for, I promise to spend one hour on my dissertation.”

Sophie glanced up, grateful for Kirsten’s transparent attempt to cheer her up. She took a deep breath and felt a slight dissipation of her crushing guilt. “Two hours,” she countered, a small grin spreading across her face.

“One job application for two hours of dissertation time? Hmm …” Kirsten stroked her chin, considering the negotiation. “You drive a tough bargain. Okay, it’s a deal.”

They reached forward to shake hands, smirking.

Eyeing her friend’s lean frame, Kirsten asked, “Did you eat any breakfast today?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Sorry, I just worry about you. You’re so skinny now.”

“The prison diet works wonders. Nobody wants to eat that swill.”

“Well, now that you’re residing 
chez
 Kirsten, there’s no excuse not to eat. C’mon, let’s make some lunch.”

Kirsten hopped up and headed into the small kitchen with Sophie following. They began cooking some noodles and making a salad. In the midst of chopping tomatoes, Kirsten glanced at her roommate.

“So, your parole officer’s a guy. Is he cute?”

Sophie scoffed, “He’s like sixty years old, Kir!”

Laughing, she wiped her hands on a towel and set a couple of plates on the table. “Okay, okay. We do need to find you a man, though. You’ve had a long drought since 
him
.”

With a far-off look, Sophie drifted back to the deep-blue eyes that had once stared into her own, eyes that had been at one moment wounded and vulnerable, then suddenly suspicious and angry. She’d thought those eyes communicated love and devotion, but in reality they’d simply been playing her.

Expecting the familiar ache of betrayal, Sophie was surprised to find this recurring vision abruptly interrupted by a new image instead. Flashes of clear, innocent eyes flooded her brain, their color a lighter, warmer blue. These eyes had stolen her breath and left her wanting more. These were the eyes she’d seen outside Officer Stone’s door.

She felt a steadying hand on her wrist, bringing her back to the present. “Sophie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bring him up like that.”

Sophie gazed at her apologetic roommate and swallowed guiltily. Kirsten would be thoroughly disappointed to learn Sophie was already obsessing over yet another criminal. The two men actually looked somewhat alike, now that she thought about it. Maybe she really did need help!

“So, listen to this. My damn PO is forcing me to attend therapy as a condition of my parole.”

Kirsten quietly continued lunch preparations, refusing to empathize with the indignant anger in Sophie’s voice. What had happened to Sophie was every psychologist’s nightmare, and it scared Kirsten immensely. She desperately wanted her friend to move on and heal.

“And why is therapy such a bad idea?”

“It’s not … it’s …” Sophie sighed in frustration. “I know I need to talk about it. I just don’t want to, you know?”

“Absolutely.” Kirsten often felt that way about her dissertation.

“Officer Stone gave me a list of therapists. Will you maybe, um, help me find a good one?”

Kirsten smiled encouragingly. “Of course. If you want, I can ask my supervisor what she thinks of the people on the list. She knows a lot of therapists in Chicago.”

“Okay.” Sophie joined Kirsten at the little round table in the nook next to the kitchen. She began twirling pasta on her fork.

Ready or not, Sophie was going to start building her life back, trying to make sense of the mess it had become. 
If yes, please explain.
 With the help of a supportive friend and hopefully a good psychologist, she was going to explain how she’d gotten here.

And as those beguiling turquoise eyes flashed through her mind once again, she hoped maybe she could explain why she was immediately attracted to another criminal.

Or maybe the explanation was that the man was fucking hot.

J
oe Madsen thought he’d heard a sob, and when he realized his shoulder was damp from accumulated tears, he knew for sure the strong man he held in his arms was crying. He also knew Grant would be embarrassed as hell to be weeping in public.

Gently he pulled out of the hug, looking away while Grant stared at the sidewalk outside the courthouse and furtively wiped his cheeks. His nephew nervously kicked at the concrete with the toe of his shoe, reminding Joe of when eight-year-old Grant and his mother had come to live with him. It was a full minute before Grant slowly looked up, meeting the worried gaze of his uncle.

“You’ve lost some weight,” Joe observed.

Grant sniffed and nodded.

They stared awkwardly for a few moments until Grant finally found his voice. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Well, you sure didn’t make it easy to find you. I figured you’d have to meet with your parole officer at some point, so I’ve been camped out here for a while.”

“Sorry.”

Joe had waited long enough to ask the question that had gnawed at him for two years. “Why the hell wouldn’t you let me visit you at Gurnee?”

Shooting a culpable glance at his Uncle Joe, Grant sighed. How could he explain his failure to stand up to his own father?

Miffed, Joe continued. “I couldn’t believe it when they said you took me off your visitor list. I thought there had to be some mistake. I begged for leave time, and then I couldn’t even use it.”

“Did your captain approve your leave this time?”

“I’m due back in Virginia tomorrow. But don’t change the subject, Grant. Why wouldn’t you allow me to visit you? Did I do something wrong?”

Grant snapped his head up, startled. “No! No, sir, it was nothing you did. It was …” He sighed, knowing he would never escape his destructive family, no matter how hard he tried. “It was my father.”

“Enzo? Oh, shit. I should’ve known. Of all the bad luck, to be thrown into the same prison as that gangster. What did he do to you?”

Grant stared into the distance, eventually mentioning with a slight smile, “He doesn’t like you very much.”

“Yeah, well, the feeling is mutual,” Joe said. “I hate Enzo for what he’s done to your brother Logan. And for what he did to your mother as well, God bless her soul.”

An unspoken sadness crossed Joe’s face as he remembered his beautiful sister, Karita, who’d been left alone to care for two boys after her husband was sentenced to life in prison. Enzo had summarily abandoned his wife and sons, and Joe had tried to assemble a new family for his sister. But when Logan had run away and Karita fell ill with cancer, the patched-together family was destroyed. Yet Joe was determined to help Grant get his life back together.

“She deserved a better husband,” Grant said softly.

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “I never wanted her to marry that bastard. Did Enzo hurt you?”

“It was my first day at Gurnee,” Grant explained, thinking back to the abject fear he’d felt at being caged in a state penitentiary for three whole years. It was day one of a 1,095-day sentence, and he’d been scared out of his mind.

It was a chilly March day out on the yard, and cons mingled in their dark-gray jackets. Grant stood alone, leaning on the fence, nervously scanning for any sign of trouble. That was when he noticed the charcoal eyes staring him down from across the way. His father’s jet-black hair had grayed, and he’d lost perhaps an inch in height as he aged, but his eyes had not changed one bit—deep, black, Italian eyes that seared into his son as he strode toward him.

As the group of men approached him, Grant stepped forward. Naturally his father had an entourage with him—men who protected and deferred to their leader. Grant recognized a couple of the Mafia thugs from his childhood. Maybe the big guy had babysat his brother Logan and him once or twice?

“I heard you were coming,” Enzo Barberi said evenly. “What’s it been, Grant, twenty years since we’ve seen each other?”

Grant remained silent, feeling the suspicious stares of his father’s men coat him like olive oil in a skillet.

“You got three years?”

Grant gave a slight nod, wishing his throat had not constricted with fear in his father’s presence.

“Three years is a long time to be alone in here,” Enzo said coolly.

“I don’t want anything to do with you.” Fierce determination flared in Grant’s eyes.

“That is a very unwise approach, Grant.” Enzo glanced around in the yard. “There are lots of cons licking their chops, eager to get to you. There’s a buzz about a handsome young fish arriving at Gurnee. The talk of the block is about a new, fresh, 
pretty
 con.”

His father’s emphasis made Grant’s throat run dry. His eyes drifted in the direction his father had just nodded, and he noticed several men edging closer, leering at him.

“Join us, son. Let me protect you in here.”

“Why do you care?”

“Hey.” Enzo’s eyes narrowed with steely rage. “Even though you abandoned me in here—even though you didn’t visit me 
once
 in twenty years—I can forgive and forget. I can be the bigger man and offer my hand to you now that you need it.”

Grant knew there would be strings attached. His father was a businessman at heart, and it did not take long for the terms of the deal to be revealed. Grant tensed as his father warned, “But if you so much as say one word to Joe Madsen while you’re in here, all bets are off. If you want my protection, you choose to be with 
me
 now, not him. You can’t have us both. That fucking man has led you astray, and you need me to set you straight. But I’ll only do that if you cut all ties with your uncle.”

Grant knew his father was jealous of Joe’s influence over him, but he had not expected an immediate standoff on the issue. His nostrils flared, and he seethed, “Joe is a better dad to me than you’ll ever be.”

“No wonder you got caught in that two-bit robbery. I see you’re as dumb and naive as ever.” Enzo glanced at his men. “Let’s go,” he ordered. He then looked back at his son, shaking his head. “Have it your way, Grant.”

Enzo and his posse skulked off, clearing a path for a new predatory group to approach. The leader was tall and solidly built, blond with icy blue eyes. His two equally blond companions, who appeared quite young, walked a deferential step behind him.

The leader’s calculating stare roamed over Grant’s fine physique. “Fresh meat, boys,” he crowed. One of the underlings smiled lasciviously.

Grant took a slight step back.

“Aw, nothing to be scared of, sweetheart,” the leader assured him. “We just want to get to know you.” One of the accompanying youngsters began to hum “Getting to Know You” from 
The King and I
, eliciting a grin from the leader. “What’re you in for?”

Grant remained silent.

The man pursed his lips and took a step closer, and one of his followers sidled up to Grant, hissing, “Answer the question, boy, if you don’t want to leave Gurnee on a gurney.”

The other youngster cackled like a hyena, and Grant had a feeling this group had used that joke many times before. When the blond leader reached out to stroke Grant’s face, he’d had enough and instantly unleashed a vicious punch, nailing the predator right in his gut. The tall man doubled over, gasping for air.

“Fuck you!” one of his minions cried, swiftly landing on Grant and delivering a sharp blow to his midsection. Despite his groan of pain, Grant gracefully broke free from his attacker’s grasp and sent a glancing blow across someone’s jaw. He couldn’t tell which lackey was which in the melee.

Apparently the leader recovered, because suddenly there were three men raining strikes and punches on Grant’s defenseless body, forcing him onto the ground where they continued the assault. Grant raised his arms to shield his head, feeling his torso on fire from punishing punches to his ribcage. Excited shouting rose up across the yard as the inmates noticed the altercation. Waves of testosterone pulsated as the basest of male instincts played out in the battle.

Then came the staccato of warning shots from the snipers in the guard towers. Blessedly the assault on his body ceased, but Grant soon found himself roughly hauled to his feet by two corrections officers. They quickly cuffed his hands behind his back and led him to the administration building, where a CO dumped him into a chair in the warden’s office.

“This one just got in a fight, sir,” the CO informed his boss. “Inmate Grant Madsen.”

“Wait outside,” the warden instructed, and the officer dutifully left the room. The warden opened a file drawer and extracted a manila folder.

Grant shifted uncomfortably in his chair, trying to release the pressure from the handcuffs. Noting the absence of other inmates, Grant determined that apparently he would be the only one punished for the fight. His father probably had worked out an arrangement with the COs in Gurnee, some sort of 
quid pro quo
 in which Enzo paid them to leave him and his business alone. Some things never changed.

He studied the older gentleman across the desk as he read the file. Warden Raymond Arthur appeared to be in his late fifties, with receding black hair, ruddy cheeks, and a belly protruding beneath the vest of his three-piece suit. Large glasses magnified his shrewd eyes, which now gazed at the prisoner.

“You’re a college graduate and a former naval officer, Mr. Madsen.” Raymond’s voice was weathered from years of smoking cigars. “I wouldn’t expect you to be disturbing the peace on your very first day.”

Grant felt a sharp pain in his ribs with each breath, but he managed to say, “Yes, sir.”

“What was the fight about?”

Swallowing, Grant said, “I had a, um, disagreement with another inmate, sir.”

“Which inmate?”

Grant’s stared straight ahead and remained silent. Evidently nobody at Gurnee knew he was the son of Vicenzo Barberi, the head of a Mafia organization, and Grant intended to keep it that way.

Frustrated by the prisoner’s silence, Raymond coldly ordered, “This is your first day at Gurnee, Madsen, and it seems you’re unable to play nice with the others. Sixty days in solitary. And when you get out, I don’t want to see your face in here again.”

Grant’s heart pounded and sweat trickled down his back at the thought of being locked in a tiny, dark cell for that length of time, but he showed only a resolute coolness as he met the warden’s stare. “Yes, sir.”

“Guard!” Raymond’s voice boomed authoritatively.

“Jesus,” Joe exhaled, bringing Grant out of solitary’s claustrophobic walls and back to the open-aired brightness of the courthouse steps in downtown Chicago. “No wonder you took your father’s protection when you got out of solitary.”

Grant looked down.

Joe chewed the inside of his cheek. “Did they, uh, those guys ever, uh …?”

Grant quickly shook his head. “My dad’s a powerful man.”

Squinting, Joe’s expression became stormy. “He is.” He sighed heavily. “So, how was solitary?”

Grant found his hands balled into fists. It became difficult to breathe as dark walls closed in on him.

“Grant?”

Shaking his head to stop the disturbing images, Grant jammed his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants. “I’m sorry. You deserve better after taking care of me all those years, after helping to get me into the Navy, after saving my life, really.”

Joe peered at him strangely. “What 
happened
 in the hole?”

“Please, sir, please don’t make me tell you what happened.” Grant’s eyes begged right along with his voice. “I understand if you never want anything to do with me ever again. Just please, please don’t ask me to explain.”

Joe was pained as he watched his nephew trembling before him, seemingly on the verge of tears once again. What the hell had transpired in prison?

“It’s okay, Grant. You don’t have to tell me. Of course I want to be part of your life. I …” He looked away, clearing his throat. “I love you.”

“Th-th-thank you.” Grant couldn’t get out the words 
I love you too
, although they were certainly true. Love for his uncle was what landed him in prison in the first place.

“Just don’t cut me out of your life again, okay?” Joe was the one pleading now.

Grant took a deep breath. He would not have to abide by his father’s rules now that he was out of prison. He no longer needed his father’s protection. “Okay.”

“You’re the only family I’ve got.”

His nephew silently agreed. Joe was the only family who mattered to him, the only family with his best interests at heart. His father, brother, uncle, and cousin only looked out for themselves, desperately craving more and more power and dragging down anyone who stood in their way. Grant could not get away from them fast enough.

“So.” Joe smiled faintly, trying to lighten the mood. “I don’t suppose you’ve found a place to live yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Or a job?”

Grant shrugged. “Haven’t found that either.”

“C’mon, I know a guy who maybe can help with both.”

Joe stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi. As they passed the Wrigley Building, Grant remembered the excitement of his first cab ride to Michigan Avenue for a shopping trip with his mother and brother. He must have been only five or so, and he’d clutched his mother’s hand while gawking at the tall, elegant buildings. It felt wrong to be back in the city without his mother by his side.