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Article snippet: HARTFORD, Conn. — During Erroll Brantley Jr.’s nearly two years in prison, his girlfriend, Katherine Eaton, visited him three times a week, the maximum allowed. She wrote him letters and spent hundreds of dollars on phone calls, during which the couple spoke of their longing to be back together in her three-bedroom house with the picture window. Amid the I love yous and I miss yous, she promised to help him stay off heroin and readjust to life outside. But when Mr. Brantley was released on parole, he got some bad news: He would not be allowed to live with his beloved Katherine. Or see her. Or even call her. At first, Mr. Brantley, a chef by trade, shrugged off the no-contact rule. His first day out, he went to Ms. Eaton’s house, where she had stocked the fridge with shallots and jalapeños. The couple went hiking in the woods and shopping at Marshalls. They cooked Thanksgiving dinner. “She’s my best friend. She’s my support system,” Mr. Brantley said. “She’s my rock.” But when Mr. Brantley walked into the parole office with Ms. Eaton, he went a step too far. His parole officer, Mark Pawlich, strapped an ankle monitor on him and sent him to a halfway house. “The state,” Mr. Brantley protested, “has broken us up.” The state can do that. Parolees may not live behind bars, but they are far from free. Their parole officers have enormous power to dictate whom they can see, where they can go, and whether they are allowed to do perfectly legal things like have a beer. Bre... Link to the full article to read more