"R" is for Ricochet by Sue Grafton Page B

“Twenty-two months. What’d you do with your time?”
    â€œI learned computer programming. That’s a hoot and a half. Also, I memorized prison stats,” she said.
    â€œSounds like fun.”
    She began dunking her fries in a lake of ketchup, eating them like worms. “Well, it was. I spent a lot of time in the library reading all the studies they’ve done on female inmates. Used to be, I’d pick up an article like that and it had nothing to do with me. Now it’s all relevant. Like in 1976? There were eleven thousand women in state and federal prisons. Last year, the number jumped to twenty-six thousand and you want to know why? Women’s Liberation. Judges used to take pity on women, especially those with little kids. Now it’s equal-opportunity incarceration. Thank you, Gloria Steinem. Only something like three percent of convicted felons do any prison time anyway. And here’s something else. Five years ago half the killers released from prison had served less than six years. Can you believe that? Murder someone and you’re back on the street after six in the can. Most parole violations, you end up doing a bullet, which is a lot if you look at it proportionately. I flunk one drug test and I’m back on the bus.”
    â€œA bullet?”
    â€œA year. I’m telling you, the system’s really screwed. I mean, what do you think parole’s about? You serve your sentence on the street. What kind of punishment is that? You have no idea how many vicious guys you got walking around out here.” She smiled. “Anyway, let’s go meet my PO and get it over with.”

5
    Parole offices were housed in a low yellow brick building of a style popular during the sixties—lots of glass and aluminum and long horizontal lines. Dark green cedars grew under an overhang that ran the length of the façade. The parking lot was generous and I found a spot without difficulty. I shut down the engine. “Want me to go with you?”
    â€œMight as well,” she said. “Who knows how long I’ll have to wait. I could use the company.”
    We crossed the parking lot and hung a right, moving toward the entrance. We pushed through the glass doors and found ourselves facing a long drab hallway lined with offices on both sides. There was no reception area that I could see, though at the far end of the corridor there were a few folding chairs where a smattering of men were seated. As we entered, a big woman with red hair and a fat file in hand peered out of an office and called to one of the guys loitering against the wall. A sorrowful-looking man in his sixties stepped forward, dressed in a shabby sport coat and pants that were none too clean. I’d seen guys like him sleeping in doorways and picking half-smoked cigarette butts out of the sand-filled ashtrays in hotel lobbies.
    She glanced over at us, catching sight of Reba. “Are you Reba?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œI’m Priscilla Holloway. We spoke on the phone. I’ll be with you in a sec.”
    â€œGreat.” Reba watched them depart. “My parole officer.”
    â€œI figured as much.”
    Priscilla Holloway was in her forties, strong-featured, big-boned, and tan. Her dark red hair was pulled back in a French braid that extended halfway down her back. Her dark slacks were wrinkled from sitting. Over them she wore a white shirt, hem out, and a zippered red knit jacket that was open down the front, discreet concealment for the firearm she wore holstered at her side. Her build was athletic, and my guess was she played the fast, hard-sweating sports: racquet-ball, soccer, basketball, and tennis. When I was in grade school a girl her size would have scared the crap out of me, but I learned, in those days, that if I cultivated a friendship, I’d end up with playground protection for life.
    Reba and I staked out our claim on a tiny section of the hallway where we