The Parole Office

Emiliano LópezMarch 9, 2025

Project Protocol officially launched last year to help people navigating parole. We’ve been reaching people in reentry facilities, parole offices, and institutions. This work recently led me back to 2444 S Alameda St, a parole office in Los Angeles tucked between industrial buildings and tents. It was my first time being back since I was discharged from parole in 2020. Being there was a stark reminder of how much I’ve put that chapter behind me—with the support of family and friends. But for those still undergoing the parole process, it’s a different reality.

I had forgotten just how terrible it is to go to the parole office. I hated it. Reentry is a process filled with vulnerability, limited resources, and uncertainty. Visiting this office brought back memories of all of these feelings. When I was on parole, I only had to report to the parole office when I needed a travel pass or to see the psychologist for an evaluation. Any other request to see the parole officer at the office was filled with anxiety. Even then, I had to plan my trip two hours in advance.

I would take the train from USC Exposition Park to Pico Station, where I transferred onto the Blue Line. That train took me to Washington Station, followed by a 20-minute walk to the parole office. The walk didn’t bother me—but the environment did. The streets were filled with semi-trucks and cars rushing past, heading to who knows where. The area was lined with abandoned factories, warehouses, junkyards, and recycling centers. Trash piled up along the sidewalks. The air was thick with smoke. That world once felt inescapable.

This time, I arrived at the parole office in my car and parked in the lot. The building itself was nondescript, surrounded by a wrought-iron gate. A tattered American flag flapped in the wind—a fitting metaphor for the broken systems of control inside. I walked in and headed toward the reception area on the right. Behind a mirrored glass window sat the receptionist, making it seem like I was talking to myself.

“Hello?” I said.

A man sitting in the lobby glanced over and told me, “Press the intercom button.”

Before I could react, a voice blasted through the speaker: “PUSH THE BUTTON!”

I pressed it.

Before I could speak, the woman’s voice barked, “WHO ARE YOU HERE TO SEE!?” Her tone sent a chill through me.

“I was hoping to speak to the officer of the day.” 

“WHO’S YOUR PAROLE AGENT!?”

I took a breath. “I’m not on parole. I just wanted to stand outside and talk to people about our program.”

Her tone changed. “Oh. You can stand outside. That’s not a problem.”

I stepped back outside, my heart pounding. My body was tense. Just being in that space triggered something deep—a reminder of the system I survived, and one I am still healing from.

A man walked out of the building. I took a chance. “Hey, would you mind if I told you about our program?”

“NO! I’m heading out of here,” he snapped, moving quickly.

I didn’t take it personally. I understood.

A couple walked in with a toddler in tow. I left them alone. The last thing I wanted was to make them late for their appointment.

Ten minutes passed. Another man walked out, moving fast. He barely looked around before getting into his car and pulling out of the lot. Back to the life he was trying to rebuild. At that moment, I knew: the parole office wasn’t the right place to connect with people or build community around a shared experience. Everything about it—the location, the building design, the two-way mirror that the receptionist hid behind—was designed for control. Just standing there, memories of my parole officer’s threats rushed back, her telling me how she could violate me and send me back to prison, for me that meant continuing a life sentence. 

I didn’t blame any of them for not wanting to stop and chat. The parole office isn’t a place you linger. It’s a place you leave behind.

I got back in my car and pulled away, leaving that pale blue building behind one more relic of a system I refuse to be bound by. Share your stories about the parole office, email us at info@projectprotocol.org