“Susie, I never told you to meet with him in the first place. It was your idea. You can still call this whole thing off right now.”
Her companion shook her head. “No. I’m going through with this.”
They had turned off Interstate 95 some time ago, heading west on a two-lane road that crossed miles of barren fields and bleak villages. The sky was a soiled sheet, and darkening clouds clung to the basin rim of the western horizon, like dirty suds.
“Do you really think he asked for this meeting because he’s feeling remorse now?” Annie asked. “Is that what you’re hoping for?”
“No. Not really. But whatever he’s feeling—that’s not the point. This is for me. I need to face him.”
“Okay. I’m just not sure I understand why.”
Susie unclenched her hands, inspected the ragged edges of her unpolished nails. “I’m not really sure, either. I guess it’s about control. About taking back control. From him.” Her voice had an edge now. “When he—when they had me—there was nothing I could do. I was powerless. Nothing I said mattered to them. I begged them to stop. But they just slapped me and told me to shut up.”
Susie lifted her eyes toward the road ahead; they appeared to be unfocused—or perhaps focused on things Annie didn’t want to imagine. Her voice now was very soft.
“I thought I was going to die. I was sure they were going to kill us. I—” She stopped. “Well, I guess they did kill Arthur that night. It just took us both a while to realize it.”
“Susie—”
“No. I’m okay. I guess I was better able to deal with it than he could. Arthur could never forgive himself. For what they did to me. For having to watch and not being able to do anything about it. He felt so helpless. So worthless.” She lowered her head. “God, I miss him.”
“I just wish that there was something I could do for you.”
“Oh, Annie, you are. You’ve been here for me through all this. It means so much that you’d take today off just to be with me. I couldn’t possibly do this without you being here.”
Annie reached out, touched the clenched hands. The skin felt cold and dry. Susie looked away, blinking.
There was nothing to say for a while.
When Susie spoke again, it was to change the subject. “So. How’s that mysterious project you’ve been working on, what, six months now?”
“To be honest, not so great.”
Silence.
“I know: If you told me, you’d have to kill me.”
Annie chuckled. “Not quite. Let’s just say it’s been frustrating. I haven’t been able to crack a puzzle we’ve been working on since I got there. We’ve been testing a theory that would explain—something that otherwise just doesn’t make any sense. I’ve been running down leads, but finding nothing but dead ends. Grant is really good about it, he’s a patient guy. But we’re both going a bit nuts.”
“I could tell that whatever it is has been worrying you. Overall, though, do you like your new gig in DCS?”
“Sure do. Grant’s great to work for. He’s— Oh, we’re here.”
*
They had crested a rise in the road, and a small community appeared before them, about a mile away. On this, its eastern side, they were approaching what looked like an industrial park with a water tower and a vast spread of lawn among the buildings. But as they got closer, the reflected glint of the sun raced along the razor wire atop the concentric fences that circled the compound, sparking like twin strings of fireworks.
Annie slowed as they came to an access road that ran from the complex out to the highway. At the intersection stood a sign, raised gray metal letters embedded in a red-brick wall:
Claibourne Correctional Center
Virginia Department of Corrections
Incongruously, a colorful, well-tended bed of flowers surrounded the base of the sign.
Turning onto the road, Annie sensed the sudden tension in her companion. She drove on toward a parking lot in front of a single-story, tan-brick building whose windowless face peeked from behind the security fence. The flags of the United States and the Commonwealth of Virginia stirred on tall poles on either side of the entrance.
She pulled into a diagonal parking spot marked for visitors and turned off the ignition. She heard a long hiss of expelled breath beside her.
“You okay, girlfriend?”
Susie opened her eyes. “Yes.” She unsnapped her seat belt. “Let’s do this.”
Remembering to leave their purses locked in the car, they got out into the harsh sunlight. The pinging sound of the ropes bouncing against the metal flagpoles tolled in the chilly breeze. They walked toward the shadow of the covered entranceway.
A man sat on a low wall beside the front door. He wore sunglasses, a gray tweed jacket, gray cord slacks, and fashionably low-cut black boots. He stood as they approached, as if he’d been waiting for them.
“Hello again, Susanne.” He removed his sunglasses and smiled. “Dylan Hunter.”
“Oh!” Susie said. “You were at the funeral home. And you wrote that article in the Inquirer yesterday.”
“I did. I hope it didn’t upset you in any way. That’s the last thing I would want.”
“No, not at all,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m grateful for what you said. I just can’t tell you how grateful, Dylan.”
“I’m relieved to hear that.” He turned toward Annie.
“You remember my friend, Annie Woods.”
The eyes—in the sun, an even-more-intense hazel green.
“I certainly do. We meet again—is it Mrs. Woods?”
“Not Mrs. And it’s Annie.” She offered her hand. His—warm, strong, just as she remembered. She felt rattled again. “That article of yours—I read it, too. I was surprised to see your name on it.” Wrong thing to say. “I mean, surprised to see your name so soon after we met. What you wrote—it was infuriating.”
“That’s for sure,” Susie said. “I had no idea those two had juvenile records that horrible. That’s not what the prosecutor told me. He said they had no prior convictions.”
“‘Convictions’ don’t tell the whole story,” he said, still holding Annie’s eyes. And hand. He seemed to realize it at the same time she did. He released it and turned to Susie.
“I never would have agreed to those plea deals if I’d known any of that,” she continued. She nodded toward the doors. “I only wish I could find out more about him.”
“Me too,” he said. “I heard about your meeting him here today and thought I might tag along. Maybe interview him. But it appears that the Department of Corrections isn’t as pleased with my article as you are.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was just in there,” he said, hooking his thumb toward the door. “They won’t let me back inside. The Corrections Commissioner sent out an email last night to all his state prison wardens, telling them to refuse any of my future interview requests.”
“That’s outrageous!”
“I agree, Susanne. So, I gave them fair warning.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I don’t deal well with rejection.”
They laughed. Annie liked his crooked little smile. His stomach looked tight and flat beneath the dark gray shirt, and his shoulders filled the jacket. A few strands of gray caught the sun at his temples.
“Anyway, some DOC muckamucks are waiting for you. Because of the bad press, they seem anxious to make you happy.”
“You mean because of your article. Well, if that’s the case, then maybe I can change their minds about keeping you out.” Susie turned and marched through the automatic doors.
He looked at Annie, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “After you,” he said, sweeping his open palm toward the entrance.
She smiled and went in ahead of him.
Felt his eyes on her as she walked.
*
For the next ten minutes, they argued it out in the lobby with the warden, his deputy superintendent
, and the security staff’s shift supervisor. It took an ultimatum from Susie—a threat to leave and go to the news media—before the warden relented and a compromise was reached. Hunter would not be allowed to interview Adrian Wulfe or to remain in the same room with Annie and Susie during their meeting; however, he would be permitted to watch the proceedings from behind the glass wall of a side observation room, take notes, and then write about their meeting, if he wished.
After being signed in and issued badges, they passed through the metal detector, underwent a pat-down from corrections officers, then were led through a maze of security checkpoints. Every time they reached a door, their escort signaled a guard who buzzed them into a waiting chamber; the door behind them locked shut; then another door was unlocked in front of them, allowing them to proceed.
Hunter had been through this drill two months ago, at a prison in another state, while researching a story about frivolous inmate lawsuits. “Nothing cheap here,” his young guide had boasted then, eager to show off the lavish array of inmate amenities. Well-stocked law libraries. A modern gym loaded with expensive workout machines. Infirmaries providing free medical and dental care. A building housing inmate organizations, including a drama club that toured local colleges. A music room crammed with electric guitars, keyboards, drums, and amplifiers. In-cell TVs with access to premium cable channels, for inmates willing to pay for them. Classrooms where thugs could take college courses from teachers moonlighting from local campuses.
“What does this prison offer by way of punishment?” he had asked the guide.
The kid frowned and replied: “People are sent here as punishment. They’re not sent here for punishment.”
So, some predator rapes a woman. His taxpaying victim then pays to house him where he can build his body to be even stronger and more intimidating. Where he can fuel his fantasies with cable-TV porn. Where he learns how to file lawsuits against the very system that’s pampering him....
Today’s escort stopped outside a final door. As they were waiting to be buzzed through, Hunter noticed a memo on a nearby bulletin board. It was signed by Claibourne’s policy coordinator:
A third softball field will be made in the West Field in order to allow more inmates to play softball. The horseshoe pits will be temporarily relocated near the miniature golf course. The bocce area will be relocated at the site of the new gym. And the soccer field will be relocated to the East Field behind the softball field.
The escort directed Hunter into a narrow, sterile cinderblock room. It was painted cold white and lit by fluorescent tubes in the ceiling. A row of blue plastic chairs lined one wall. They faced a tinted observation window that ran the full length of the room, made of one-way shatterproof glass. It allowed him to see into the next room without being seen.
The adjoining room was divided into two facing cubicles by a waist-high cinderblock wall, topped by its own thick window. It was the kind of window you see at the teller counters in banks—laminated glass, embedded with a circular speaking grill. On either side of the window, stainless-steel surfaces served as desktops; beneath them twin metal chairs were bolted to the floor. This allowed pairs of seated people to converse through the window grill.
For his part, Hunter could roam the full length of his observation room to watch the occupants in either of the two cubicles. Though soundproof, their ceilings were miked; a speaker in his room let him listen in on the conversations.
After a moment, the door opened at the far end of the cubicle to his left. Annie Woods entered first, leading a nervous-looking Susanne Copeland by the arm. They each took a chair, Annie the one nearest to his window.
He stood there, unseen, looking down at her.
Only once before, in his teens, had a female affected him at first sight like this. That girl had a vaguely similar look. He wondered why each of us, in our youth, seem to fixate on certain physical and stylistic traits that become our “type.” He’d never known what his own type was, until he had seen that girl long ago.
Well, you’re seeing it again.
Her eyes were what first riveted him. Smoky gray, set wide, crowned by brows that arced up and outward. The subtly feline look accentuated by her mouth—wide, full-lipped, turning up at the corners when she smiled. Short, tousled chestnut hair framing a pale oval face. Her neck, like the rest of her, gracefully long-lined and slender, suggesting an incongruous delicacy.
She wore a short brown suede jacket over a white cotton blouse and jeans. She would have looked just as sensational wearing a canvas sack. If it weren’t for the window, he could have reached down and touched her hair.
Steps approaching in the hallway.
Get a grip.
He watched the door at the end of the other cubicle. Saw motion in its narrow window.
It swung open.
ELEVEN
CLAIBOURNE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY
CLAIBOURNE, VIRGINIA
Monday, September 8, 10:15 a.m.
The first man to enter was short and pudgy and wore a red plaid shirt and tan slacks. He had receding, copper-colored hair and a goatee, both wiry and unkempt. Smiling, he moved purposefully across the room to the window where the women sat.
“Hi. I’m Dr. Frankfurt. We spoke on the phone. Susanne, so good of you to come.” He took the chair opposite Annie, and they exchanged introductions.
Hunter kept his eyes on the open doorway. A corrections officer stood there waiting, then stepped back.
Adrian Wulfe strode in.
The guy was huge, about six-six, big-boned and lanky. He wore pale blue-gray prison coveralls. His eyebrows drooped downward at the outside, giving him a faintly sad look. His hair was a bit shorter than Hunter recalled from his photo, but still tossed back loosely, indifferently. As he moved to take his seat, Hunter saw that his nose in profile was large and blade-like, reminding him of an American Indian. He didn’t speak, but nodded once at Susanne, in acknowledgment.
Her eyes bore into him, wide and unblinking. Her lips were a thin scar, and her fingers gripped the edge of the stainless-steel desktop.
Annie’s eyes were filled with contempt.
Frankfurt tried to break the ice. “Let me say: It’s so good of you all to do this!” It sounded forced, like a comic trying to warm up a tough crowd. “Susanne, I know this is a big step for you, just as it is for Adrian. I’m so proud of you both. And Ms. Woods, thank you so much for accompanying Susanne. I understand that you’ve been a central pillar in her restorative support system. That’s why—”
“Her what?”
He blinked. “Restorative support system. Friends, family, peer-group members—all those who have been there to help her through the Four Restorative Stages.”
“Look, I don’t know a damned thing about your ‘restorative stages.’ I do know that Susanne has some things that she needs to say”—she pointed right at Wulfe—“to that piece of crap that’s stinking up your room.”
Hunter laughed, wishing that they could hear him.
Wulfe eased back in his chair, staring at her. He smiled slightly; it looked pasted into place and didn’t reach his eyes.
Frankfurt didn’t notice; he was too preoccupied waving his hands around, as if erasing a student’s embarrassing mistake from a blackboard. “Now, I fully understand how difficult this is for all concerned. But we’ve already taken the first big step, so please let’s try to move forward in a mutually positive spirit. Your role here, Ms. Woods, is only as a nonparticipating observer, to lend emotional support to Susanne. So before we begin, let me explain how this Restorative Justice Dialogue will proceed.”
He leaned forward, continuing his contrived eagerness. “First, the victim”—he nodded toward Susanne—“will have the opportunity to explain how she feels and felt, and what needs were not met as the result of the offender’s actions. Then, the offender must repeat what he has heard, and he must continue to listen and repeat what the victim says she feels and needs.
“Once our victim feels completel
y heard, then she will be ready to listen to what Adrian, our offender, feels and needs now—and also what he felt and needed at the time of the offense. Susanne then will reflect those feelings and needs back to her offender. At the end of our dialogue, Susanne will make a request to Adrian, and Adrian will do likewise. Our aim is to arrive at a strategy for resolution.”
Hunter watched as Annie’s expression moved from incomprehension to incredulity to indignation. She got up from her chair and leaned toward Frankfurt, just inches from the glass, her palms flat on the counter.
“Are you telling us,” she said slowly, through her teeth, “that Susie is supposed to sit here and swap feelings with this—”
“Annie, don’t.”
They turned to Susanne.
“It’s okay. Really. Remember, I get to speak first.”
Something unspoken passed between the women. Annie sat down slowly. Crossed her arms. He saw that she and Wulfe locked eyes.
“For the last time, Ms. Woods, I must caution you that you aren’t to interrupt the dialogue between Susanne and Adrian. Susanne, would you like to go ahead and say something to Adrian?”
She drew a breath, released it. Placed her hands on her lap. Raised her eyes to Wulfe’s.
“Two years ago, on a beautiful July evening, you and two young thugs destroyed my life. I don’t have to tell you what you did. But maybe he”—she glanced at Frankfurt—“doesn’t know the whole story. So let me tell it.
“Arthur and I were going home from a friend’s house, down a country road, when we had to stop because of a flat tire. He tried to change it, but the lug nuts were too tight. And out there, we couldn’t get a cell signal. So we were just standing beside the car, waiting for somebody to come along, when the three of you drove up. At first, you pretended that you wanted to play Good Samaritan. You were all smiles. Next thing I knew, your friends grabbed me, and you punched Arthur and knocked him down.
HUNTER: A Thriller (A Dylan Hunter Thriller) Page 7
