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Chapter 7: The Release
“14250, follow me.”
The officer’s voice cut through the air, and for a moment, she froze. It felt like forever since her last hearing—so long that waiting itself had become a punishment.
She followed the officer through door after door, each one opening and closing with a heavy finality. Eventually, they reached a long passageway lined with solid wooden doors, not the usual metal grilles. The unfamiliarity made her heart race. Outside several doors stood other inmates, faces tense, eyes searching.
“Psst… Pink.”
She recognized the voice instantly, though she couldn’t place it. She turned, scanning the corridor, until she spotted a familiar face.
“Eh—Duck.”
The nicknames were ridiculous, nonsensical even—but inside, they were lifelines. Without words, they exchanged clumsy hand signals, a language formed in confinement. Duck disappeared into one of the rooms. Moments later, Ifa was called in too.
Behind the desk, an officer spoke without looking up.
“Tomorrow will be your final hearing. The judge has more or less decided. It’ll be finalized then.” She slid a document forward. “Confirm your list of personal belongings. There are photos. Check properly. If correct, sign here.”
Ifa hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You mean… I might be released tomorrow?”
“I didn’t ask you to speak,” the officer snapped. “Just do what I told you. And yes—maybe. I don’t know. It’s up to the judge. Judges can change their minds.”
But something in her expression—just a flicker—sent a surge of hope through Ifa’s chest. She signed, hands trembling, and was told to wait outside.
She searched for Duck again.
Duck’s case was similar—caught clubbing, positive urine test—but unlike Ifa, Duck knew what she had been involved in. Her fear wasn’t innocence; it was separation. She had a young son at home, now under her sister’s care.
Duck held up two fingers, then touched her ears.
Two years.
Then Duck gestured something like the letter C.
Ifa nodded slowly, signaling that she still didn’t know her own outcome. Before they could exchange more, officers ushered them back to their cells.
That night, Ifa passed Duck’s message along. The others calculated quietly—good conduct, possible remission. Sixteen months, maybe less. They were relieved for Duck.
But Ifa’s silence unsettled them.
How could she not know?
Neither could she.
Sleep refused to come.
—
The next morning, she was called out again.
The final hearing.
She stood there, heart pounding so loudly she barely heard the words—until one sentence broke through.
“…will be placed on probation for two years, effective today. She will be bound to her home address from 10 p.m. to 7 a.m. daily. The officer in charge will—”
She stopped listening.
She was free.
Outside the courtroom, she saw them—her parents, Jacob, and Mr Chew—standing together, nodding, smiling, eyes shining. She ran straight to Jacob, wrapping her arms around him the moment she stepped out.
Her parents cried openly, thanking Jacob over and over, their gratitude pouring out despite barely knowing him. He followed them home that day. Her mother cooked all her favorites. They talked for hours—about prison, about waiting, about fear on both sides of the bars.
Still, questions gnawed at her.
“So… how much do I owe you, Jacob?” she finally asked. “And why are you so determined to help me?”
He smiled gently.
“Nothing. I told you I’d get this for you. That night—you were desperate. Back home, this would’ve been a slap on the wrist. Here, it would’ve destroyed your future. I just felt… called to help. Money isn’t an issue. I had a few months here before heading back anyway. Why not?”
Jacob was returning to San Diego the following week. He offered to accompany her to her first probation appointment. She declined—he had already done too much.
Yet the next day, there he was.
He drove her to the appointment. He even booked her a haircut.
“Cut it off,” he said simply. “New look. New start.”
Before she knew it, it was time for him to leave. They promised to keep in touch. Even then, she wondered if he was real—if people like him truly existed.
As he said goodbye, he paused.
“And Ifa,” he added quietly, “don’t forget to file for your divorce.”
The words lingered long after he was gone.
Something had ended.
But something else—uncertain, unfamiliar—was just beginning.
//--- Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)
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