#The Case of the Parolee

[kwebtv]

From the Golden Age of Television

Series Premiere

Public Defender - The Case of the Parolee - CBS - March 11, 1954

Crime Drama

Running Time: 30 minutes

Written by Howard J. Green

Produced by

Directed by Erle C. Kenton

Starring

Reed Hadley as Bart Matthew

Chris Drake as Mark Collins

Mary Ellen Kay as Alice Parker

Douglas Fowley as Fred Davis

Fay Roope as Mr. Marshall

John Close as Hamlon

George Lloyd as Bartender

Snub Pollard as Barfly

[sarahowritesostucky]

The Fic:

You've been working as a parole officer for King's County (Brooklyn) for several years now, and while most of your cases come with their fair share of headaches, James Buchanan Barnes may just take the prize for most complicated parolee you've ever had to deal with.

And it certainly doesn't help that you may be falling for him.

[crybaby-bkg]

CONTROL FREAK

Getou Suguru x f!reader Warnings: smut, ex con getou, cult leader getou, parole officer reader, abuse of authority, unprotected sex, riding, gum swapping, spit as lube, a couple gentle face slaps, mention of drugs. please let me know if I missed anything!! Word Count: 4.1k Minors/blank/ageless blogs DNI! Also available on Ao3!

Getou Suguru was an odd case for you, different compared to the other ex-cons you’re usually in charge of. You would get the occasional murderer, or arsonist, or drug addict who did stupid shit and landed themselves behind bars. But you had never been in charge of such an…infamous parolee. 

He was a cult leader, though he never actually claimed that his organization was a cult itself. He always used this roundabout type of language when he was in court being questioned for his charges—money laundering through his organization. You use the term lightly, because if judging by the way his workers acted during the trial, with such admiration and devotion in their eyes, it couldn’t be labeled as anything but cultish. 

Somehow, the attractive felon was only sentenced to sixteen months in prison. His workers and supporters fussed and hollered at the sound of that, earning a few of them their own charges for disorderly conduct in the courtroom. But he—he was cool faced the entire time. Only nodded his head once when delivered his sentencing, put his hands behind his back without a fight, an easy smile on his face as he was walked out, a wink sent to the supporters who sobbed at the sight of him. 

He did his time well, you heard through the grapevine from your CO friends. Said he received tons of mail everyday, always had money on his books, and anyone who tried stepping to him always ended up in the infirmary just days later. (Though, he never had a trace of blood on him; never had scarred knuckles or bruises or anything. You had theorized with the CO’s that he somehow kickstarted another cult in the prison, too.) 

When he was released, you heard that there was this whole shebang about the ordeal. That his workers showed up, deep in numbers, with signs and cries of his name. They argued over who would be taking him to his new home, but you heard they all sobbed when he told them that he’d be driving himself and would stay there at the new house—alone. 

The house looks a bit like shit though, you think to yourself as you stand outside of it. Getou had visited you the day after he got out to get his paperwork sorted, what his parole consisted of for the next four years, acquainted himself with you, and the like. He looked the same as when he was in court, that was broadcasted on the news, the same as when he was publicly arrested, the same as when his followers would post videos of him and his infamous speeches. (For the greater good, was his motto. It sounded more like; do whatever is necessary for my satisfaction.)

You think they’re all shit. A scam meant to prey on the little people who have no direction in life. It doesn’t help that he’s attractive; has a tall build, seemingly lanky until he unfurls his shoulders, can find muscle peeking from under his usually baggy clothes, kind eyes that draw an innocent in, midnight black hair that has only grown longer since his time in prison. You can admit that he’s pretty, and you believe that that’s some of the allure that brings so many vulnerable, easy to manipulate people to damn near bowing down to the man. 

Well, not you. You weren’t that fuckin’ stupid nor desperate nor weak willed. If anything, you’d have the once powerful man eating from the palm of your hands. Besides, he has to listen to everything you say and command him to do, lest he want to go back to his cell for the rest of his probation time. 

You think you’re gonna have some fun with him. 

You bang your fist on the door far too hard for it to be so early in the morning. You assumed one of his lackeys would come running, greeting you with a huff and their nose stuck in the air, even though he promised it would only be him living in the house. But you’re surprised by the presence of Getou Suguru himself. 

He opens the door fully, his eyes closed as he smiles softly at you, breathing your name out quietly. He towers over you, feels like he looms over your head, and you can’t tell if its intentional. When you first met him, you were both sitting, but now—unless its all in your head—it feels like he’s trying to assert himself in some way. Like he’s trying to placate you with his disarming smile, but his posture tells you everything but. He notices the same time you do, and relaxes against the openness of the door, folding his arms across his chest, body adorned in a matching dull gray sweater and sweatpants. You try not to look down. 

“Good morning, officer,” he greets you, head tilting to the side, and you notice his hair is loose from the usual bun he adorned. “Can I ask the reason for your visit this fine Tuesday morning?” 

His voice is like silk, must have some kind of charm imbued into it, you think to yourself. You twist your mouth this way and that, eyebrows furrowed as you take all of him in. (Yes, even between his legs, but you make the glance quick. He seems to notice, anyway, and smiles a little wider at you.) 

“Just doing a house check.” You nod your head to the humble abode he stands in, looks more like some dull shack that you would’ve never expected him to stay in. He was known for liking the finer things in life. “Since it’s a new property that was brought while you were incarcerated by one of your followers, I need to do a thorough inspection.” 

Well, you didn’t have to. But you figured that it wouldn’t hurt, and he didn’t seem like the type of guy who would cry about you not following the rules exactly how you should. You just wanted to drop in and make sure that he wouldn’t be running another scam in the house, nor supplied any kind of weaponry. 

“Also gonna need you to piss in a cup for me.” You expect for him to argue, as he should. That wasn’t a special condition for him, as he never had any kind of charges brought up on drugs, despite there being an inkling that he kept them supplied for his followers. But he only huffs a little laugh at you, head tilting this way and that until locks of his hair cover his dark eyes. 

“That’s no problem at all, officer.” Getou says easily, another smile gracing his face as he swings the door open wider for you to come in. It makes you give pause, but you don’t let him stump you. After all, you were the one in charge here. 

So you strut inside like you own the place, the gum you had pushed to the corner of your mouth finding its place between your molars again as you chew loudly. You cross your arms over your chest, eyes narrowing when you turn to watch Getou shut the door behind you, his gaze dropping down for a second before they meet your own again. 

“Parole officers don’t wear uniforms?” He inquires, hands shoved in his pockets as he slouches slightly in front of you. You roll your eyes at him, motioning for him to show you around the house with a grunt. 

“Did you see me in a uniform while in my office?” You snark at him, not giving him anytime to answer before you speak again. “Show me where you sleep, parolee.” You spit the term out, a reminder of his place; beneath you. He only looks at you with eyes so dark you fear they may be blacker than night, before they’re shaded by another lock of his hair. He doesn’t say anything, just strolls on casually away from you, heading down a long hallway with a few doors on each side. 

“No followers live here like they do at the other compound?” You ask him, hand on your weapon in case anybody tried any magic tricks while you strolled behind him. Getou huffs a chuckle under his breath, looking at you from over his shoulder as he stops at the last door at the end of the hallway. 

“Compound?” He questions, as if the very thought of that word makes absolutely no sense. “You mean the group home I brought for my workers, as most of them were unhoused?” You roll your eyes at him, waving a dismissive hand as you push past him to open the door. 

“Cult, not cult. House, compound for said cult. Same thing.” You mutter under your breath, peaking your head in before you fully enter. You glance over your shoulder when you feel Getou’s presence entirely too close behind you, but he only sends you another one of those calm smiles. It feels everything but calm though, with that glint in his eyes that tells you everything you need to know about the man. 

Gods, you can’t wait to fuckin’ break him. 

You walk slowly around the room, placing your feet in front of the other with unhurried steps. Your chin is held high, as if the place disgusts you, even though he keeps his space notably clean. The only strewn thing in the room are the covers, barely ruffled, as if he had roused them when he got up to meet you at the door. 

You peak in his closet, under his mattress, behind a few things on the dresser. You don’t find anything until you open the little black nightstand beside his bed, a sudden throb making your thighs clench at the sight of a pocket pussy, and a box of extra large condoms sitting beside them. 

“You aren’t hiding any drugs in this thing, are ya?” You mumble to him, picking up the toy with the tip of your index finger and thumb, though the weight of it almost makes you drop it. It even feels ghastly warm, as if he had just been holding the thing…close to him, before you made him open the door. 

Getou only laughs at you, placing a hand on the middle of his stomach, his eyes closed in mirth. He seems to be mocking you though, with the low gaze he sends you when his little fit ends, how his fist curls into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. He tilts his head at you, eyes sliding between your own and the toy that you hold, a clear, sticky substance still oozing from the hole. 

“Not to my knowledge, no.” Getou shakes his head, as he leans against the dresser closest to you. “No drugs, officer. Just the usual stuff that goes inside that kinda thing.” He’s sly, with his mouth pulled tight and his gaze locked on you like a predator. But you’ve never been prey, and you wouldn’t start that shit now. 

You drop the toy on the middle of his bed, sending him a faux shrug when you watch the thing dribble out whatever he must’ve left inside of it. You try not to act bothered, try not to size up just how deep he got into the toy, because based on how low you saw it hang through his sweats earlier, there was no way that toy was taking every inch. 

You plop down on the bed, ignore the toy rolling toward you from the added weight, sitting your bag down beside you. You rummage through it for a few seconds before you pull out a clear cup with a white top, leaning back on one hand as you offer the cup to Getou. 

“Well, now that my inspection is done, its time for the next step: piss in this cup for me, parolee.” You tell him with a sarcastic grin, one that he only faintly smiles at. He stands on the other side of the room, taking all of you in for a moment; the cup dangling from your fingers, your crossed thighs that you keep trying to subtly clench, the pocket pussy oozing precum on the hip of your jeans, your eyes trying to stay above his neck. 

Getou smiles at you. Crossing the room in only a few short strides, he goes to pluck the cup out of your hand, willing to play your little game, but you don’t let go. He pauses, one of his eyebrows raising in question, his cold fingers grazing your own as you both hold the plastic. You quirk your own eyebrow at him, before a sly smirk crosses your face. 

“You gotta do it right here, while I hold the cup.” You whisper to him, grin growing Cheshire when his eyebrows twitch only a hair. “Precautionary measures, and all.” You shrug, head resting back on your shoulder, your position entirely too relaxed for what you’re trying to make him do. But Getou composes himself quickly, his grip loosening on the cup as he cocks his head ever so slightly. 

“Is that so?”

“I fear it is.” You hum, twisting your mouth a little to the side, as if your made up rules disappoint you. Getou plays into it though, as he finally releases the cup, shoving his hands into his pockets as takes a single step away from you. 

“Well, it looks like you’ll have to come back later to retrieve your sample.” He says, looking down his nose at you, lips twitching at the corner. It makes your own mouth pull down slightly, trying to gauge what game he’s playing at, keep the control solely in your corner. You slit your eyes at him, clear cup still held out in between the two of you. 

“And why is that, parolee?” You lower your voice, eyes narrowing at the now grinning man, his shoulders hiked up to his ears in an over exaggerated shrug. 

“Well, most people can’t piss when they’re hard.” He says softly. Your eyes instantly shoot down to between his legs, at the now very obvious erection tenting the fabric. You’re not sure how you hadn’t noticed beforehand, but its kind of hard to miss now, with how he takes a step forward again. The thickness of it twitches at your wide eyed stare, and you can even see a little spot beading with precum through the gray fabric. 

The silence between the both of you is thick, heavy with tension, unsure of the other’s next moves. But you smile at him, throwing the cup to the other side of the room, as you splay your hands on his bed, leaning back on them, body open and inviting. 

“It looks like I’ll just have to get a sample of something else instead, then.” You shrug, still trying to hold on to being carefree and in charge. But Getou can see the want in your eyes, and practically pounces on top of you when you crook a single finger at him. 

He hovers over you, touching you and not all at once. He lingers, his mouth skimming yours, his erection just barely resting against where you need him most. He smiles, his palms splayed beside your head, his eyes teasing you. 

“Take what you want, officer. I’m in no place to refuse you.” Getou whispers, gaze as charming as his cock that spills precum through the thick fabric onto your jeans. He doesn’t have to tell you twice, as you hook a leg over his thigh and flip him until you’re on top without any complaints from him. 

If anything, the fucker just grins at you, hands squeezing your waist as you settle on top of him like it’s your gods given right. He runs his palms up under your shirt until his cold touch sends chills down your spine, mouth twitching when you settle heavily on his throbbing cock. 

“You couldn’t refuse me if you tried, parolee.” You snark at him, guiding his hands to your chest to squeeze. His lids lower, his head tilted back, hands warming up from your fiery skin as he kneads your chest in his palms. 

“Why on earth would I ever try that?” Getou says breathily, reaching around to unclip your bra effortlessly, makes you wonder how many times he’s been able to do that with some unsuspecting girl. 

“You’re a smart boy; you know better than that.” You smile at him, peeling your shirt from over your head the same time he undoes your bra, everything going at once. Getou admires you for a few seconds, his lips just barely parted as he palms your nipples in his hands, rolling them around until you sigh out of pleasure. 

His hands are surprisingly soft, a little clammy, cold enough to make your nipples stiffen up under his touch. He rolls them between his forefinger and thumb, plucking at them to hear your voice hitch just the slightest bit. Your hips roll against his own, earning you a soft hiss that makes you grin wickedly at him. 

You lean down to peel his shirt off of his own body, finding yourself nose to nose, chest to chest, with him. Only a beat passes before you both surge forward, lips meeting in a rough kiss. His teeth knock against yours, his tongue pushing and pushing, yours doing the same. They tangle together in a messy kiss, spit sliding from your mouth into his, and when you pull back, breathless, Getou is chewing with a suspicious grin. 

“You nasty fucker,” you moan to him, diving in to steal your gum back, but he puts up a fight. Grinds you down against his cock, feels for the dip between your lips, rubs the thick shaft between them until your body goes limp on top of his. He does everything he’s wanted with your mouth since the moment he first laid eyes on you, sucking your tongue into his mouth as he palms both cheeks of your ass. 

Few words are exchanged as you unzip your jeans, shimmying out of them with the desperation only someone thirsty for the cult leader could possess. He lays back with his hands behind his head as you yank his sweats down, mouth suddenly salivating when you see that he wasn’t wearing underwear this whole time. 

“Pretty,” you murmur, holding him at the base as you lean over his cock, your lips pursing as you spit on the pink head of it. “See why all your little cult followers would go to war for you.”

You look up from under your lashes at Getou, who only grins at you, never confirming or denying this cult you keep speaking of. He only flexes his biceps once, twice, as he watches you pull your panties to the side and hover over top of him. He doesn’t even try to help you out, figures you’d want to stay in control, even though he’s really the one with all the power right now. But he lets you believe whatever you want, as long as you sit on his dick for the time being. 

Without much thought, do you finally sink down on Getou’s thick cock. It’s bigger than you would’ve imagined, fat and heavy as it fills you up so delectably, you think you might split in two. You can feel every vein that twitches when you swallow him up, your eyes fluttering as you work yourself down, down, down until your lips meet his curly base. 

“Tell anybody about this, parolee, and I’ll send your ass back to your cell for the next ten years.” You threaten him, but its hard for Getou to take you seriously with how breathy your voice is. How your eyes start to roll back when he ever so slightly cants his hips up inside of you. How you palm your lower stomach, groaning in pleasure when you feel his tip just barely beneath the surface of your skin. How your cunt wraps around him so deliciously, leaking all over his pubes, dribbles down in thick rolls around his waist onto the bed. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, officer.” Getou smiles at you, giving you another false sense of control before he stops resting back on his hands to grip your hips. Without warning, Getou plants his feet on the bed, and begins snapping his hips up into you. You yelp, falling forward onto his chest, eyes clenched in pleasure as you can only hold on for the ride. 

But you won’t let the fucker take control that easily. You push up on shaky arms as much as you can, back arching from the force of his thrusts, your eyes narrowing at his own cocky smile. You meet his thrusts halfheartedly as much as you can, fucking your hips back on his, the clap of your ass meeting his pelvis loud and echoing throughout the silent house. Getou only grins wider at you, makes you reach down to fist his hair in your hands. 

At that, he moans, to your surprise. His eyes fluttering closed, his rhythm momentarily thrown off from the pleasure. But he regains his footing, staring up at you hazily with a shit eating grin, his nails digging into your skin as he fucks his cock inside of you, holding it there for a few seconds to hear you cry out his name. 

He circles his hips, looking for that spot inside of you that makes you see stars. When he finds it, you mewl, your head thrown back, your nails digging into his scalp and the skin of his chest. Getou hisses through his teeth, but picks up his pace until it becomes brutal, his thrusts harsh and fast and dizzying enough that you collapse against him with a little cry of pleasure. 

“Fuck, right there, right there!” You moan to him, searching for his mouth as you lean up the tiniest bit. He catches you, one hand still holding your cheeks open, the other gripping your face between big hands. He shakes your head at him, mocking, laughing under his breath at the dumb little look on your face—and to think you have so much power over him. 

“Right there? Yeah?” He teases you, letting you go just to smack your cheeks lightly a few times before gripping you once more. You pout to him, nodding, reaching your hand down to start swiping at your clit, feeling your climax start to build with quickness you can barely prepare for. 

“What a dumb look on such a cute face.” Getou grins at you, finally pulling you in for a kiss when you start to fuss at him. He quiets you with his lips, your gum swapping between your mouths again, sloppy. But you love it, can’t help but start to feel addicted to it, wonder if its worth it to give up your job and become one of his followers if he could fuck you like this every night. No wonder people became so addicted to him. 

“Make me cum, parolee.” You whimper to him, your fingers rubbing at your clit, your other hand holding his face close to yours by his jaw. Getou opens his mouth in a moan, eyes heavily lidded as he looks at you, leans forward to lick at your teeth quickly. 

He scans your face as he holds you down, his hips snapping up to fuck into you, your voice high and staccato as you can only hold on for the ride. Without much preamble, do you tumble over the edge of your climax, moaning out his name as you ride out your orgasm, clit throbbing with every pound of his hips inside of you. You both curse under your breaths, your eyes clenched shut as you try to meet his hips, although your lower body trembles with exhaustion when he continues to pound inside of you. 

Suddenly, Getou pulls himself out of you, barely managing to slide his tip out before he’s coming all over your stomach. It drips back down onto his own clammy skin, but he doesn’t seem to mind, his eyes closed in bliss as he empties his load all over your tummy, your pubes, aims for the little gaping hole that he, sadly, had to pull out of. 

When he finishes, do you reach between your bodies, swiping a finger through the mess he’s made on you. You pop it into your mouth, humming in delight at the slightly salty taste of him, hearing his groan, feeling his still hard cock twitch against your lower back as you sit on his pelvis. 

“Nice job, parolee.” You grin to him, to which he chuckles under his breath at you. “I’ll make sure to get this sample in the system.” 

thank you so much for reading! kind comments/likes/reblogs are all appreciated <3

[heartsbreaking]

@popularmxnster sent ❛  just stay put, i'll be over in a minute.  ❜ (from Billy in his adult verse for Jennifer Jareau!!)

it wasn't usually her job to check in on parolees, but they had a case and tara was needed elsewhere. that meant that the appointment they'd made to talk to billy loomis together fell on just jj. tara had offered to come later, but she'd insisted she could handle loomis on her own. now, she leaned against the side of her black sedan waiting for billy to put his work things away so they could talk. "take your time," jj smiled and crossed her arms. she could wait a few minutes. this wasn't meant to be an interrogation, just an informal chat so she could get a read on him. she couldn't share much about the case with him, but when they'd had a string of copycat murders since billy's incarceration, they'd started keeping tabs on anyone involved with the previous cases.

[offender42085]

Post 835

Dylan M Lahr, Pennsylvania inmate MD9266, subsequently paroled to parolee 868IX, born 1996, incarceration intake in 2016 at age 20, released from custody to parole supervision on 03/16/2019, subject to full release in 2035

Aggravated Assault, Conspiracy

In September 2015, three teenagers involved in a rock throwing incident that severely injured a woman from Ohio were sentenced.

The victim Sharon Budd and her family were in court as well.

The case was closed as the remaining three teenagers were sentenced. All three were led away in handcuffs.

Inside the Union County Courthouse Keefer McGee, Dylan Lahr, and Tyler Porter apologized to Sharon Budd for their roles in the July 2014 rock throwing incident that left her with a severe brain injury.

"One of the boys -- I forget which one it was -- I actually felt goose bumps going up and down my arms. All four of our children are in their twenties so I can't imagine saying, 'Good luck, I'll see you in four and a half years,'" Sharon Budd said.

All three teenagers were sentenced for their roles in the crime.

Dylan Lahr was sentenced first. The judge says Lahr must spend four and a half to 20 years in state prison. He gets credit for close to one year's time served in jail.

Next Tyler Porter faced the judge. He was sentenced to 22 months to 10 years in state prison.

The Budd family says the biggest shock was Keefer McGee's sentence. His plea agreement called for 11 and a half to 23 months in the county jail, which is what he got, but he also was granted work release -- something the Budds did not expect.

"That privilege has been taken from Sharon and my comment was that he will have 11 and a half months, that's under a year and then he can work for the rest of his life," said Sharon's husband Randy Budd.

The Budd family says with the sentencings come closure.

"It's been 14 months and it's finally completed so we can kind of put this one behind us," Randy Budd said.

Brett Lahr previously pleaded no contest to criminal conspiracy to commit aggravated assault. He was sentenced earlier to one and a half to 20 years in prison for that offense.

3j

[mouser26]

Detective Torres work look

So Torres is a detective in a kind of reskinned character Buddy cop drama AU.

IE he was inspired/based loosely off one of my other OCs and just kinda got his own quirks along the way. Overworked detective in Los Lingeros Mikel Torres deals with his massive case load and lack of a personal life via an iron clad caffeine addiction and an absolute lack of fucks to give about his personal appearance when it comes to work attire. It's just a little loose fitting, rumpled and unstained y'all will live.

It drives his parolee/partner/roomate absolutely nuts.

October Art #2

[the-wanted-man]

𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℕ𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝔹𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖…

It was the night before Starlight, and a certain Desperado had a deadline to make before dawn. He sprinted with long, bold strides through the icy streets of Ishgard, surefooted as a bounding deer and equally as graceful jumping from the unfinished foundations that littered the Brume to make it down to street level.

Being out this late was not his first choice. Even for Coerthas it was damn cold but he somehow managed to break a sweat despite the bitter chill that nipped his cheeks into a crimson as deep as the checkered cloth at his throat. He was making good time, arriving at the end of an unlit street before the first pale beams of light started stretching across the dark and starry night. Illuminated by the ethereal glow of the sky he could make out the old, rickety manor.

He’d been casing it for the better part of a week. It clearly stemmed from old money but had fallen into a creeping state of disrepair with the ticking of Althyk’s clock. Lawrence was diligent, and in his time surveying he’d learned the general lay out of the building. He knew who came and went. He knew how many heads resided within and where they slept. When they went to bed and when they woke up. Where the important things would be kept. He even knew where they put the milk and cookies.

The outlaw Parolee had been keeping his head low since his arrest, avoiding his usual crimes (if one did not count his brief overture liberating over a half dozen, under-loved dogs from their unappreciative owners, or the occasional break-ins to several churches in the area as particularly criminal). He couldn’t let this one slide though, and so he’d donned his leathers and went to work.

These old buildings rarely withstood the test of time without sufficient upkeep, he knew the owners likely hadn’t fixed the window latch on the second floor leading into what might have been an office. Thus, Roman shouldered the large knapsack and made his way up the gutter pipe before slipping into the manor. A flurry of snow blew in behind his lanky figure, ushering him in bag and all. He made his way downstairs slowly to avoid any creaky steps or floorboards, eventually creeping into the living space where a rather sad looking fir tree held silent vigil for a Starlight that seemed unlikely to come.

It’s branches were sparse, devoid of any real ornaments, and the floor beneath it was a barren, lacking any gifts to greet the little ones come dawn. It seemed to be the only expense of any note for the holidays which only made him more determined. He got to work in quiet haste, beginning to empty the sack of its contents. The first few items were some bundled lights, and coiled ribbons he’d pulled from…well, the important thing was that they wouldn’t be missed where he’d got them, but they’d be appreciated here. They were spun around the tree, making for a more pleasant sight.

He was half way through removing the gifts he’d collected for the orphans, a selection of boxes full of plushies, blankets, and toys when the subtle creak of wood betrayed a spy somewhere behind him. When he turned to look, he just barely caught sight of a small head of dark, curly hair disappearing behind the couch they’d been peering from. The Cowboy lofted a brow, but hunkered down to a squat that made him of equal height immediately.

“Well, now, don’t I know a rebel when I see one! Ain’t you s’posed t’be in bed?” He lowered his mask to appear less intimidating, and removed his hat for much the same reason. “Ain’t much fer it now. Why don’t ya come outta hidin’, an’ I’ll let ya choose yer gift first. What’s got ya outta bed?” He whispered, loud enough to be heard by the kid but not by the rest of the orphanage.

The small child slowly shuffled around the couch, likely no older than eight and looking a little bashful to have been caught. She quickly overcame her shyness when she took in the soft glow of the tree lights and the colorful ornaments upon its branches. “I wanted to see the Saint! Are you him?” She squinted a little suspiciously. “You don't seem like a saint. And you talk odd…”

He couldn’t help but snicker, shaking his head. “Naw. I ain’t him. Just’ One’ve his helpers is all. What’s yer name?" he asked in a soft whisper.

“…R-Rosamund. But my friends call me ‘Rose’.” Rosamund stated matter-of-factly. She looked from him, to the tree, and all it’s piles of gifts before looking back at the cowboy. The fixation was not lost on him, and he tipped his head back towards the bounty lingering beneath the sparkling tree. "Well, Rose. Go on n'help yerself then. I reckon you'll like that long one there, tho' yer free t'choose any two you'd like." He pointed to a longer, flat box nestled amongst others of various shape and size.

"Two??" She exclaimed before slapping a hand over her mouth for the outburst. He chuckled, nodding his head. "Got enough fer everybody. Now go on." The young girl scampered over to the tree, deliberating on her choices. She went with the one he pointed out, and a squat, square box. Clutching both to her chest, she ran back to him with wide eyes. "I can open them, then?" She clarified, as if not wanting to risk losing his permission. The Desperado simply dipped his head, and before he could even utter the full "Sh--" of 'sure', she was already ripping open the wrapper and delighting in the prizes buried beneath. Upon opening, she found herself with a new blanket of soft, warm fabric and a fuzzy teddy bear, both of which she clutched tight to her chest.

The cowboy beamed, happy to be the cause of such a bright smile in the youth. "Alright, Buckerette. I got a job fer ya's. Can ya count?" In whispers, he quietly gave her the task and once done, she nodded emphatically before covering her face with the blanket. She began to count, a tiny voice counting down from ten. By eight, had gifted new life to the tree with a touch, letting the branches grow thick and heavy with their own needle-like leaves. By six, he was heading for the door. By three he was at the threshold, twisting open the knob. By one, there was a soft click as the door latched behind him. A loud, childlike scream erupted from the interior. "GIFTS! GUYS LOOK!"

Lawrence chuckled, hearing the commotion from outside as windows illuminated themselves by the light of candles and lamps being turned on in a hurry. Thundering footsteps pounded down the stairs until presumably stumbling across the decorated tree and the many gifts beneath. There was laughter, screams, and enthusiastic shouting upon which Lawrence turned back to the biting wind and slipped away into the dim, morning light.

This was supposed to be around Christmas but I never finished it. So I finally did and am opting to post it late instead for more cowboy activities.

[futureofthemasses]

Hello friends,

If you aren't aware, I have been volunteering with a local refugee group for almost two years now. We have welcomed a total of ten families so far (with another one on the way) which is frickin amazing but they are all here on something called humanitarian parole. While humanitarian parole is great for getting refugees to safety quickly from areas with war, natural disasters, and political disruption, it isn't great at helping keep them here. It only allows parolees to stay in the US for two years, which is coming up as soon as this December for our first few families. Since they are all from either Haiti or Ukraine, where things have gotten way worse since they arrived rather than better, it really isn't an option for any of them to go home. Our most recent family made it out of Haiti only two days before the airport was closed and the one before that was directly in the middle of attacks from Russia before getting to NY.

That being said, we made this petition to hopefully get lawmakers to at least extend the parole option, if not also give a path to citizenship. These families have become more than our responsibility - they are our friends, and in my case several of them are now well loved neighbors. Extending humanitarian parole has been suggested for Ukrainians, but there is currently no legislation for Haitians. I know compassion fatigue is real, but this is something anyone can do to hopefully make things better for my friends. If you are willing, please consider signing and/or sharing. We all would be so grateful

[skyekilaen]

💛 Butch with a heart of gold

💜 Pan gal who loves makeup & hates injustice

💋 Star-crossed the first time, now reunited

Kindle, KU, paperback

And here's the full blurb in case your interest is piqued...

A butch lesbian parolee. The pretty pansexual nurse who got away. Is this their second chance at a happily ever after?

Finn is finally out of prison, which is great. Having no job, no car, and no place to sleep except her cousin’s couch? Not so great. Plus, her felony theft conviction isn’t doing wonders for her employment prospects, so she can’t afford her migraine meds without the public clinic.

The last thing she ever expected was for the gal who stole her heart to come walking down that clinic’s hallway: Vivi, the manicure-loving nurse who spent two years fighting the prison system to get proper medical care for her patients, including Finn.

Finn could never believe she imagined the attraction and affection between them. But acting on that in prison, especially as nurse and patient, had been a serious No Way. She’s had eight months to get over Vivi, who abruptly left her job without saying goodbye. Finn is over it. Honest! It’s totally and completely fine.

Except Vivi, here and now, doesn’t seem fine. And Finn couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t try to help.

Is fate offering Finn a second chance? Or is finding love as likely as finding a job with health insurance?

A high heat contemporary sapphic romance novella with a guaranteed HEA.

[power-chords]

@coolwitchaunt to belatedly address your reply re: Wardell/Waingro/the "golem" interpretation, this raises a loaded question, right? Did Vincent and Neil actively create them? Or are they more like twisted embodiments of karmic obligations, emergent collateral for an unintentionally incurred but no less destructive debt?

To me the latter is more compelling. The most ingenious and ballsy thing Mann has done with Heat is to implant this totally deliberate allegorical sub-reading in which Neil and Vincent represent two generational Ashkenazi immigrant bargaining strategies with American modernity and whiteness.

In Neil’s case, it’s the standard issue “hedge” of material growth and gain, the promise of prosperity minted by our capitalist democracy. And once he gets enough, he’s getting out. Vincent, by contrast, pursues total assimilation through the organizations that establish and perpetuate the norms of American social life. Family, law and order, the machines of pop and intellectual culture. He’s going all the way in. And if you revisit their conversation in the diner, you'll notice that Neil talks like someone who’s playing a game to win and cash out, making moves on a timer, trying to avoid getting boxed in. Vincent can’t shake the vernacular of the regular-type life he’s desperate to maintain, even as it crumbles around him for the third consecutive time. The first time he cracks a smile is when Neil speaks to him in language that identifies this preoccupation and their mutual alienation from it. ("What the fuck is that, barbecues and ballgames?")

This would be striking enough if all we got were the horrific consequences depicted in the film, which are not limited to white supremacist (!) serial killers. Neil's recruitment of Donald Breeden, a working class Black parolee, while dressed in a suit, resulting in Breeden's death, takes on a new layer of moral indictment. Neil dies in the uniform of a class traitor (private security! Just like those guys he robbed in the opening heist!) at the hands of the only person who understood him. A cop. Who just abandoned his family, including a stepdaughter who just attempted suicide, because he can't quit the rush of state-sanctioned predation. Whew.

BUT THAT'S NOT ALL! In the book, Neil’s romantic frontier fantasy leads to the displacement and destruction of an indigenous family who has lived on the Mexicali border for 400 years. Vincent’s desperate longing for safety, order, and community — maybe even a repressed, unspeakable longing for something or someone else entirely — results only in his further alienation, a downward spiral into substance abuse and yet more authoritarian violence. (Including explicit Nazi imagery! LMAO.) What he can’t confront, or refuses to remember, is what Justine rightly identifies as "self-incineration." Not hard to read between the lines here!!!

[functionbydesign]

Arrested Again part 39

(with apologies to cuffedstories deactivated 202211)

When I awoke the next morning the first thing I did was to check the power level on the tracker. As I expected it was fully charged. And they would now deal with me on a respectful level.

At 8:00 AM sharp I presented myself at Mitch’s office. It was a spartan affair, and reflected the penny pinching attitude of corrections funding. “Sit down Beck” he commanded. “While the incidents of the last few days were unfortunate, hopefully you've come to the realisation that any breach of your monitoring programme will be dealt with quickly and effectively. On your parole record the incident has been recorded as an equipment malfunction. I need you to sign this document acknowledging that to be the case”. He pushed the piece of paper across the desk. The document was headed “Waiver”, and essentially asked me to absolve the Department of Corrections from any liability for having given me faulty equipment. As it appeared to be totally in my favor, and was not putting any blame on me, I duly signed it.

“That’s all for today” Mitch said. “how about we meet here same time next week?” he  continued. “any questions?”

“None whatsoever” I replied.

After leaving his office I caught the bus to the county jail. When I arrived who should be on the front desk but Scott. He gave me a broad smile, then said “as an external visitor you will need to go through a security check”

“Does that involve a body frisk?” I asked, returning the smile.

“Sure does!” he replied. “Could you please spread your legs and put your arms out to the side, Sir”.

It seemed strange having Scott refer to me as “Sir”, after the many years he called me “inmate”.

Once I had done as he asked he ran his hands over my upper torso and arms, then started patting me up from the ankles. He finished with a not too subtle grabbing of my genitals. Given that the whole procedure was turning me on it was not surprising when he said “You sure you’re not bringing in a weapon Sir?”

“Very funny!” I replied.

“OK. I’ll take you to your class. Please check with me on your way out Sir. You’ll need a further security check”. The “Sir” bits, and his constant inuendo were unnerving me a bit.

Thankfully another CO stood guard for the class, so I could concentrate on my teaching. It was difficult adapting to being an external teacher teaching  inmates, when many of them had previously known me to be an inmate. They had to adapt to calling me “Mr Beck”, when previously just “Will” was the norm. Such was the nature of prison protocols.

At the end of the class I was taken back to the reception area, where Scott was still on duty. “Time for your security checkout Sir” he grinned. “Will you be requirIng a legal consultation?”

“I would prefer to play it safe” I answered. “Mitch is clearly watching my tracker like a hawk.  Until he loosens up a bit I don’t want to give him further excuses to slap me back into here”.

“OK. Just a frisk then” he said. This time he made a point of grabbing my genitals extra hard and giving them a shake. After he let go he whispered “let me know when you’ve got your own accommodation and I’ll come pay you a visit.....Sir”.

“Will do” I replied, giving him a knowing smile.

I walked a few blocks from the jail to catch a bus back to the transit accommodation. I decided to get off at a shopping centre a few streets past my accommodation so that I could talk to a letting agency about arranging permanent accommodation.

“You working?” asked the clerk when I entered.

“Yes” I replied.

“Where at?”

“I’m a teacher at the County Jail”.

“You a parolee?” she asked.

“Yep” I answered.

“You’ll need an extra month’s bond” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because parole officers are notorious for doing searches and destroying the place” she replied.

“That’s hardly fair!” I protested.

“Parole Officers are exempt from liability for damage they do. Somebody has to pick up the tab. Parolees are the reason parole officers visit” she explained.” Take it or leave it”.

Was there no end to having to eat shit by virtue of being a convict?

“OK. So what have you got?” I asked.

“All I have is a ground floor apartment with one bedroom.$250 per week”.

I was in no mood to haggle further. I agreed to take it, as the three days I’d spent back in County were still deducted from the one week I had been given to find my own accommodation. After I paid her the bond money she gave me the keys to the apartment. It was three blocks away and I easily walked it.

The apartment was dark, musty and peeling paint was everywhere. Being on the ground floor it had a rear door leading out to a yard at the back. It was minimally furnished, and I would need to find a bed somewhere.  I realised I would need to inform Mitch, so I texted him the address of the apartment.

The phone rang straight away. “you there now?” Came Mitch’s voice through the phone.

“yes Sir” I replied

“Stay there until I get there!” he demanded.

Twenty minutes later Mitch appeared at the front door.

“Unlock your phone and give it to me” he demanded. I promptly did as he asked, as Mitch was not one to be argued with. He quickly browsed through the texts that I had sent and received. Luckily none of them we’re in any way controversial. He then navigated to the recent calls screen, pulled out his own phone, then photographed that screen. “I’ll be running a check on the calls that you’ve made and received. I hope for your sake that they are all in order” he said, handing me back the phone. He then quickly checked out the flat, snapping a few photos of it with his phone.

“This will do” he said. “just remember you oughta be here between 6:00 PM and 6:00 AM every evening without fail. Any visitors you have are to be approved by me. Understood?”

This arsehole was really starting to piss me off. I didn’t recall my parole conditions requiring that I tell him who my visitors were, but again he was not someone to argue with.

“Yes Sir” I reluctantly replied.

It was still mid-afternoon, so once he had left I went down to the local supermarket to get some food for dinner. I located a pay phone in the supermarket. Obviously if I wanted to do anything without Mitch’s knowledge I could not use my own phone. I put a coin in the phone, and dialled.

“Hi Scott. Will here” I said. “I need you, real bad”. I then explained what my address was, and how my mobile could not be used.

I returned to my apartment with a bag of groceries. I waited, and waited, until around 8pm a Harley bike roared to a stop out the front. A classic Leatherman got off it, the chaps he was wearing accentuating a bulge in the jeans underneath. He knocked loudly on the front door. I opened it, and immediately recognised Scott’s facial features under the Muir cap, and behind the mirrored glasses. He entered, closed the door then ordered “Strip boi!”.

“Yessir!” I yelled, hurriedly denuding myself, wanting to please the leather god before me. Once complete he pulled out a pair of heavyweight Clejuso handcuffs, then quickly snapped them on my wrists behind my back.

“On your knees boi!” he  ordered. “Tonight you’re going have to  work super hard to earn your way out of those restraints!”

[bllsbailey]

Bombshell Report Reveals Disturbing Truths About the Biden-Harris Parole Pipeline

If you thought you heard the worst concerning the U.S. southern border under the Biden-Harris Administration, think again. A new bombshell House Judiciary report found illegal immigrants wanted for sex trafficking and various other violent crimes found a loophole to enter the United States. 

Due to the Biden-Harris Administration’s categorical parole program for nationals of Cuba, Haiti, Nicaragua, and Venezuela (CHNV), at least 30,000 illegal immigrants monthly with violent records have been allowed to bypass coming into the U.S. through the southern border, and instead fly into domestic airports. This results from what the administration calls “legal pathways,” created without Congressional authorization. 

Illegal aliens are directly let into the country “on commercial flights” to be then “granted parole��� for up to two years by the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security (DHS). As of September 2024, more than 531,000 Cubans, Haitians, Nicaraguans, and Venezuelans” had done just that. 

To mask the border crisis and artificially decrease historically high border encounters, President Biden and Vice President Harris implemented programs and policies that allowed aliens to bypass the southwest border so they would not be included as encounters in Border Patrol data. The CHNV supporter must “file a Form I-134A, Online Request to be a Supporter and Declaration of Financial Support” (Form I-134A) with U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) and must agree “to provide [the CHNV beneficiary] with financial support for the duration of their parole in the United States.” The CHNV alien then arrives at a U.S. airport where a DHS official paroles the alien into the country. Once paroled, the alien can apply for a work permit.

The report accuses the outgoing administration of committing “fraud,” undermining national security, and endangering the American people “all in favor of ensuring that hundreds of thousands of otherwise illegal aliens can come to the U.S. through CHNV.”

To make it even more disturbing, the House Judiciary report found that “sex traffickers have potentially used CHNV to exploit women and girls” after discovering a “fraud analysis of CHNV applications revealed that some applications that were sent from the same IP addresses were submitted on behalf of a high proportion of female CHNV aliens.”

In a separate report, the House Judiciary Committee found that sex traffickers may be using the administration’s “parole” program to sneak illegal immigrant women into the U.S. by using “welfare recipients.” This means individuals involved with criminal activity have been approved as sponsors for parolees from Cuba, Haiti, Nicaragua, and Venezuela (CHNV).

In 2021, Homeland Security Secretary Alejandro Mayorkas created the system, which has since been over by massive fraud. 

An internal investigation at U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services found Venezuelan gang members, dead people and stolen identities being listed as applicants. One case even used former first lady Michelle Obama’s passport number. The new report, from Judiciary Committee Chairman Jim Jordan’s staff, suggests the program was fatally flawed from conception, allowing people who seem to have been bad risks to act as sponsors. Among the committee’s findings:  At least 336 sponsors were approved despite receiving welfare benefits. The report said that undercuts the point of the program, since sponsors are supposed to prove they can support migrants on their own without them becoming dependent on the government. 21 sponsorship applications were approved even though the supporters admitted at least some of their income came from an illegal source. Homeland Security told the committee that was okay, as long as the department thought there was “sufficient income” from legal sources too.

The report later discovered that the program does not conduct criminal records checks and couldn’t do them even if it wanted to because it is not authorized to run names through the FBI’s databases.

Trending on Townhall Videos

[shamelessrabbithole]

why wasn't Ian arrested for what he did to Byron

Which time? When he pissed in his Vespa’s fuel tank or when he laid him and all his friends out in the middle of a bar? 😂

Probably the same reason Mickey wasn’t arrested for assaulting Ian at City Hall. And neither guy received more time on their sentences after stabbing Chester. Even though Ian hatched a plan to do that very thing one episode later to another inmate.

The show is idiotic with continuity errors galore. The police come knocking and arrest cast members when it suits the plot and when someone, in this case a parolee, needs to steal a tow truck for a day, then an ambulance, then amass an arsenal of guns, then hire a murdering nun who kills his dad, the authorities are typically nowhere to be found.

[npzlawyersforimmigration]

Progress on USCIS Processing Times

We have released a new fact sheet (PDF, 81.49 KB)showing significant progress on reducing processing times across a range of different forms.

What You Need to Know

The fact sheet (PDF, 81.49 KB) includes newly published data showing that, for nearly all our highest-volume forms, median processing times are significantly lower in fiscal year 2024 to date than in the previous fiscal year.

Notable median processing times include:

Less than 30 days for employment authorization documents from asylum applicants and from certain parolees;

5.2 months for naturalization, which is the lowest since 2016;

3.6 months for employment authorization documents from adjustment applicants, which is the lowest since 2017;

4.4 months for advance parole documents, which is the lowest since 2018; and

2.7 months for Form I-129, Petition for a Nonimmigrant Worker (nonpremium).

At the same time, we acknowledge that we need to make more progress to reduce processing times for certain other forms. For example, processing times and net backlogs remain higher than our processing goals for Form I-601, Application for Provisional Unlawful Presence Waiver; Form I-730, Refugee/Asylee Relative Petition; and bona fide determinations related to Form I-918, Petition for U Nonimmigrant Status. Fortunately, the HART Service Center is poised to make significant progress on these forms, as described in new FAQs (PDF, 271.11 KB) recently posted on the center’s first anniversary.

We are also making steady progress related to EB-5 immigrant investor forms by hiring new staff and making other important investments at our Immigrant Investor Program Office, while strictly complying with Congress’ anti-fraud and integrity provisions. For more information, please see the newly updated EB-5 FAQs.

On April 1, 2024, we began using a final rule to adjust, for the first time since 2016, certain immigration and naturalization benefit request fees. With this fee rule, we can recover our operating costs more fully and support more timely processing of new applications.

We have also updated our Check Case Processing Timesresource to clarify the difference between administrative processing times, which we are working hard to reduce, and delays due to statutory limitations, which only Congress can resolve. For example, certain processing times for Form I-130, Petition for Alien Relative, can appear very long, but this is because there are not enough available immigrant visas under the statutory caps established by the Immigration Act of 1990. We use the State Department’s visa bulletin to determine whether a visa is available before processing a Form I-130 preference petition.

For More Information.

For a full list of processing times going back to FY 2013, please see our historical processing times page. .

https://www.uscis.gov/newsroom/stakeholder-messages/progress-on-uscis-processing-times

[agentcable]

Law & Order Special Victims Unit Season 22 Episode 10 "Welcome to the Pedo Motel"

The Special Victims Unit initially suspects Lonnie Liston, a parolee living in the halfway house for sex offenders, of the murder of Victoria Lily Robertson, a teenage girl found dead nearby. However, Lonnie is lynched by vigilantes who took the law into their own hands, unaware that he was set up by someone else. Meanwhile, Rollins' father suffers a stroke.

If you want to watch the series for yourself, stop reading! This post contains spoilers to the storyline.

A young woman informs her mother that she will be home later tonight.

A person in a hurry refuses to assist a neighbour in a wheelchair up the steps. The individual is warned about potential legal consequences and losing pay for being late to work. Additionally, the boss reprimands the individual for flirting with the woman from the previous scene. A group of motorcyclists yell at some individuals on a stoop before quickly departing.

The girl from the previous scene punches someone out. The boy offers to walk her to the bus, but she declines. The boy leaves, appearing uneasy.

An old man is shown praying to resist his sinful urges before watching a pornographic video.

As the girl walks down the street, she is grabbed from behind.

SVU is called in. The girl did not return home, and her wallet and cell phone were found. Fin suspects that one of the pedophiles living down the street is responsible. The police talk to the parents and the girl's boss. The boss claims that Loni, the boy from before, is on parole and lives in the "pedo motel". The police question him, and Fin is tough on him.

Carisi talks to Benson about the case and asks about Stabler. The brass wants to know why Stabler interfered with Benson's interrogation. Benson should be careful.

There is evidence that Loni did not return to his room during his break as he claimed. Unfortunately, Saranda has been found dead. Saranda was hit in the head with a brick or a rock, according to the ME. Hasim, who is now working for homicide, arrives and brings Rollins her preferred coffee. Homicide has assigned him to work with SVU because he is Muslim.

Outside the sex offenders' halfway home, there are several protesters. One man admitted to praying to St. Anthony and also mentioned his attraction to young boys. Another man, Frank, expressed his preference for older women who are plus-sized. He also expressed frustration with being checked.

Loni insists he was at the park during his break when Saranda was assaulted. Fin questions his alibi, asking where he was during the time of the assault. Loni maintains that he did not do anything to Saranda. He denies any involvement and claims he is not a rapist. He also mentions that he had a 15-year-old girlfriend when he was 18.

Fin and Benson discuss the case in front of the protestors. Carisi identifies the leader of the group causing trouble as Elvis. Benson urges that they remove the perpetrator before the vigilantes take matters into their own hands. A bloody rock has been discovered, which may lead to an arrest.

Carisi, Fin and Benson discuss the issue of the halfway house. There is no physical evidence, but there is a circumstantial case against Loni. Security footage shows Loni at the junkyard. The police were going to arrest him, but they received a call that the halfway house had been set on fire. Loni was found murdered; he was strangled and then set on fire. Arson investigators have confirmed that the fire originated in Loni's room. News outlets have already reported on Loni's torture. The other residents are currently receiving medical treatment at the hospital. Kat believes that this is an act of racist vigilantism.

Rollins speaks with an elderly man who has difficulty hearing and cannot provide any information. Frank informs them that Loni resided directly above him and he overheard loud voices and screams. Despite hearing someone refer to one of them as Eduardo, he did not contact the police as he did not believe they would be interested. The man in the wheelchair heard motorcycle engines. He stated that the vigilantes have been attempting to intimidate them. The area was quiet at 10 pm last night.

Fin and Benson went to speak with Elvis, who sexually harassed Benson and claimed to have an alibi. The individual stated that the fire was karma and refused to provide any information. Security footage revealed that the bikers were present in the house until after the fire. Additional footage showed another group of bikers, one of whom may be Eduardo Alvarez.

Eduardo was found to have a picture of Loni's body on his phone. He claims he only placed Loni in the chair. However, evidence reveals that Loni was not the one who committed the murder of Saranda. All three perpetrators are accusing each other of being the mastermind behind the crime. Fin comes to the realization that Loni did not confide in him about his alibi due to a lack of trust. He feels remorseful, knowing that Black youths are frequently subjected to unjust treatment by law enforcement. Fin and Benson speak with Loni's parents, who confirm his story. He was in love with his girlfriend, but her father, a parole officer, disapproved.

Rollins receives a call from her father while on her way to see Eastman. Eastman sends his daughter inside, and she appears to have been abused. She tells them that Loni was violent toward her. Rollins believes that all of Eastman's parolees' DNA should be run, as he won't allow them to speak with McKenna.

During their investigation, the police interviewed a man named Antonio, who was afraid of them contacting Eastman. The DNA evidence led them to Antonio, who denied that it was his DNA and claimed that it belonged to a relative.

During a stakeout with Kat, Antonio hesitates to identify the perpetrator, but eventually does so. Fin and Rollins arrest Sam Johnson, who also has a jacket like Loni's. Sami claims that he was only supposed to kidnap the girl and frame Loni. He hit her with a brick and accidentally killed her because she wouldn't stop screaming. Antonio, his half-brother, said he had to do this, or his parole would be violated. It's enough to pick up Eastman. Eastman is arrested and insists he won't go down for this.

Rollins has a lot of evidence implicating Eastman. Carisi is in a hurry because he has a prior engagement. Rollins receives a call from Atlanta and promises to do what she can. Carisi inquires about the situation. Rollins reveals that her father has suffered a stroke. Carisi insists that she leave. She is unable to stay. Carisi assures the girls that everything will be okay.

Benson and Fin speak with Loni's parents, who reveal that McKenna snuck out to see Loni the night he died and feels guilty about it. Saranda's parents arrive, and they offer each other condolences. Fin notes that both of their children were killed due to hate.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"PRISON TRAINING VALUABLE ASSET FOR MANY JOBS," Toronto Star. November 19, 1943. Page 19. --- Nearly 800 prisoners have been paroled from Ontario and federal institutions in the past six months to engage in agriculture or war work, and with few exceptions they are setting an enviable record. This was reported today by C. F. Neelands, deputy provincial secretary.

Additional scores of men and women whose lives have been warped by crime, and who are still In institutions, have turned whole- heartedly to the patriotic tasks of bond buying, blood donations and other volunteer work for the armed forces.

"Many paroled men have risen to executive positions in war industries, have become useful and admirable citizens, and are living up to all the conditions on which they were released," Mr. Neelands said. "Parole revocations have dropped to an all-time low."

One paroled prisoner worked industriously in a war industry, saved his money, and a few weeks ago bought a farm.

"He has stocked it well, is doing fine, and making a valuable contribution to the food supply of the nation," said C. F. Swayze, secretary to the chief officer of the board of parole.

Many young men have been paroled to enter the army, Mr. Swayze told of one transferred from the army to the R.C.A.F., trained as a pilot, and is now overseas where he has already made a name for himself as a gallant and successful airman.

"I know of many others who have done splendidly in industry and in the army, but I hesitate to cite their cases because they could be so easily identified," Mr. Swayze said.

Big Aid to Industry The reformatory at Guelph in particular has made a large contribution to industry, the training the men receive in the institution's shops being valuable assets in war work.

Prisoners at Burwash reformatory are being used to get out a large cut of lumber which is being used by war industries. A considerable number of men have been paroled from Burwash to work in the Northern Ontario lumber camps this winter, putting to practical use the experience they gained while prisoners.

Many ticket-of-leave men from Portsmouth penitentiary, with the trades they have learned in the institution, are going directly into well paid war jobs. One of the largest industries making tanks will take every man the penitentiary's shops can graduate in welding, and the record of successful parolees in this trade is unusually high.

Prisoners in the various institutions are among the large donors of blood, and at Portsmouth penitentiary more than two-thirds of the inmates regularly contribute their quota to the Kingston Red Cross blood clinic. Most of the remaining third have volunteered but are prevented from donating blood for medical or other reasons beyond their control

A comprehensive plan to use paroled prisoners in war work and agriculture, and thus directly to assist them in becoming rehabilitated and worthy citizens in peace time, has been worked out between the federal department of justice and the Ontario attorney-general's department, Mr. Neelands said.