Chapter 19: Cuffs on the Lawn

Two patrol cars stopped at the curb, and a gray sedan pulled in behind them.

A woman in a county windbreaker got out of the sedan.

She was Luka's parole officer, and she held a tablet in front of her with the monitor's map on it.

"Luka Stafford," she said. "Step down off the porch."

"I'm delivering a legal document," Luka said.

"You're three miles outside your approved address, with no permit."

"I had a permit."

"From whom?"

He did not answer.

"Hands behind your back, Mr. Stafford."

Luka looked at my mother, then at me.

He seemed to be adding something up.

Then he came down the steps slowly, and the two deputies took his arms.

He did not fight them.

He said, loud enough for the street, "I came here in good faith."

"You came here to scare a cook," my mother said from the doorway. "In front of God and Pine Street."

"Ma'am," said the old neighbor in the housecoat, "I've got every bit of it."

The cuffs closed on his wrists with a sound I will remember for the rest of my life.

I had waited nine years to hear it, and it was a small, plain click.

I did not smile.

I did not cry.

I just stood there and let myself hear it.

"Violation of condition four, no contact with the victim," the parole officer said, reading from her tablet.

"Violation of condition seven, absence from the approved residence."

"I'm placing a hold, and I'll file for revocation in the morning."

"My mother will have me out by dinner," Luka said again, to nobody.

"Your mother's lawyer hasn't called," the officer said. "I checked."

They walked him across the lawn to the car.

At the curb he looked back over his shoulder, and his eyes found the porch.

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