All parole officers are generally assholes, but this mean little despot was one of the worst. He was a psychotic stickler for details and rules. Bodkin sent more paroled cons back to prison than any other PO in New York State.

Bodkin said, “Sit down.” It was an order, not a request.

The imam sat down.

None of Rasheed Jamal’s old clothes fit him anymore. He was too muscular. The neck of his shirt was choking him. When he sat down, the waist of his pants was so tight Jamal could hardly breathe. Jamal tried to make himself comfortable in the hard wooden chair. The chair didn’t even have arms. None of that helped the imam’s increasingly foul mood.

The PO’s fidgety hands squared a pile of papers on his desk over and over again. Eventually he looked up and said, “Steven Beastie, also known as Cleveland Steve Beastie from Chicago, right?”

“I prefer to be addressed as Imam Rasheed Jamal now.”

“Oh, ya would, would ya? Now ain’t that sweet.” Bodkin squared the same pile of papers again and said, “By the way, you’re one black dude, you know that?”

“You got a problem with that?”

“Anyone in this room with problems got to be you,” said a pissed-off Bodkin, jabbing his finger at Jamal. The PO had taken immediate umbrage at the parolee’s tone of voice and had a fierce dislike for the big nigger. Bodkin smiled a venomous smile at Jamal, then turned his squinty eyes behind his rimless glasses to the papers in front of him. It was the pile he was continually squaring. Bodkin was searching for something. “Where is it? Ah, here it is. Beastie. Steven Beastie, right?”

“I prefer—”

“Why is it all you niggers come outta prison immediately got to change your name to Muhammad this or Allah that? Huh? Anyway, Beastie, as I said, if anyone in this office has a problem, it’s you, my friend.”

I ain’t your motherfuckin’ friend, the imam almost said.

“Let me explain the rules to you, friend,” said Lester Bodkin, proficient in the most perverse ways to infuriate any living creature. His instincts seemed to be working especially well on the con sitting in front of him. The probation officer leaned back in his chair so he could place his shoes up on his desk and into the face of the imam. The chair squeaked when he did this. The soles of the PO’s shoes were filthy.

“Let me be the first to inform you, Beastie, of what you can and cannot do. We’ll go down the list one at a time. I’ll tell you this. There ain’t much you can do.” Bodkin giggled. His giggle was high-pitched, like a girl’s giggle. Bodkin continued. “You can’t own a firearm or any other dangerous device. Let’s see, are you a convicted drug felon?”