Portray

Changes

Tray sits in the tiny office of his P.O. Pictures of her husand and children decorated her desk with artificial flowers displaying about her window seal. An attempt to provide a warm allure of her life in hopes of creating a positive atmosphere for clients, Tray suspects. Yet upon meeting, Debra Cox—for the second time—she came off uneasy and disconnected to him as a client. Though, considering his case and conviction, Tray understands that many people would be uneasy with the knowledge of his alleged offenses.

"Mr. Diggins, it's understood you'll be staying with an aunt?" Mrs. Cox reads from the paperwork in front of her.

"That's correct, ma'am." Tray answers, his palms sweaty and he wasn't sure why. Considering it was cold in the office.

"You mind verifying your aunt's name and address?" Mrs. Cox looks up with her glasses hanging from the bridge of her nose. Her pen at the ready.

Tray clears his throat, "Vanita Hill... 15410 Piedmont Ave, Detroit, MI."

On the paperwork, she checks off something.

"Besides this aunt, who all will be staying at this home?"

"My cousin, Denise," Tray replies. "we're a year apart." his foot lightly tapping the floor.

"Does your cousin have any children?"

He peeps the bread crumbs she was laying out.

"Not that I'm aware of. ."

"You know, per the judges orders, if there are any children living in the household, you are prohibited from staying there?" It was a matter-of-fact statement more than a question.

Tray's jaw clenches from hearing those words as he looks down between his legs. His hands ball into fists. Though he was free, he was still being punished for something he took no part in.

"For what? It's my own blood!" A sudden rage of thunder erupts inside of him.

Mrs. Cox adjusts her collar by the buttons, then removes her wire-framed glasses and places them gently over the paperwork, "Mr. Diggins, there will be no outbursts in here," she speaks with a cool composure, yet authority remains in her tone.

Her hands cups her glasses while Tray scans over her frail knuckles and apparent wrinkles in her hands.

"And we've been over this at the parole board. You agreed to go on parole while avoiding minors who are not your offspring. Thus, you are not required to register as a sex offender."

After a few long seconds, Tray finally looks up. His eyes peers into the P.O.'s. He holds his gaze as he speaks,

"I had no part in what happened to that girl." he tries his hardest to fight the tears brewing.

"this is ruining my life... I've served my time, miss. How do y'all expect me to find work-"

Mrs. Cox clears her throat, straightening her gray collar shirt, "Young man, there is a popular saying that is common in my line of work: wrong place, wrong time." she interrupts Tray.

"In that same seat you're sitting in, I've had dozens of people argue their innocence and what a waste of time it was being in here.." Mrs. Cox states, her redness in her sclerosis peering through him.

"Yet, what you can't argue against is evidence linking you to a crime."

The P.O. removes a sheet of paper from her binder and places it in front of him.
Tray only needed to see the white plush seats of Nap-o's Cadillac to know where this was going.

"Upon examination of the vehicle you were pulled over in, your DNA was found in the backseat. Ultimately linking you to the victim." she states matter-of-factly.

Tray instinctively had the urge to argue his case, yet was emotionally and physically drained as he knows it wouldn't make a difference. He already served his time and was breathless in fighting to prove himself to people that deemed him guilty by looking over his file.