Dan Driscol, my first sex offender, lived with his widowed mother out in Watertown. He should have been with
Special Management, but state budget cuts had slashed them down to skeleton crews, and my office was relieving some of the load.
Inside the Driscols’ old farmhouse were tall, haunted rooms with narrow windows and argyle wallpaper, a dismal cast of lamplight that made me ask if we could take our business outside. This was our first meeting, and I wanted to start off on the right foot. Driscol led me out to a heavy redwood picnic table on the front porch, where afternoon sunlight splayed through a chokecherry tree. He was smaller than most of my guys, thin shouldered with pencil arms poking out of his short sleeves.
