‘I understand. If you do decide to participate, you are entitled to bring a support person to accompany you into the hearing. We’ve posted you a letter and booklet outlining the process, but I’ll give you a number to call in case you have any other queries.’
Carla scrambled for a pen and scribbled down the number on the back of a birthday card from Geoffrey and Mildred – a sunglasses-wearing baboon blowing out candles in the configuration of the number fifty.
‘Between you and me, Mrs Reid, I don’t expect parole to be granted, so probably no concerns there. Just a formality, really.’
‘Yes … uh, right. Thank you.’
Then a click and the line went dead.
Carla chewed off a piece of nail and worked it between her teeth. Parole. Already? He’d barely served one-third of his sentence.
Everyone had said time would be a great healer, and in some respects they had been right. The passage of years had dulled her grief and faded the intensity of her pain. Yet now, like some cruel joke, she found herself back at the beginning, the anguish as acute as ever.
She fiddled with her wristwatch, flicking the clasp open and shut. Just before two. With her siesta interrupted, the day was in disarray. What would she do with the extra time? Kevin would still be asleep at the centre, and they wouldn’t allow her to disturb him until three at the earliest.
The room for the parole hearing was bare – the walls, the whiteboard, even the waste-paper basket empty of any clues. The space reminded Carla of her old school science laboratory with its lifeless smell, rows of yellowed benches, and lone desk up front.
She made her way to the back of the room and sat down on a chair in the corner. She put her handbag at her feet and crossed her legs. Then she uncrossed them and picked up her bag. She rummaged through it for a mint. She shifted two seats along. Then one along from that.
A man in prison green put his head around the door. ‘Kia ora,’ he said with a friendly grin. ‘Won’t be long now.’
She nodded.
No sooner had he left than the door swung open and four men in dark suits and a woman in a cherry-red two-piece filed in with all the gravity and solemnity of a funeral processional. They took up their seats at the front table and one of the men poured each of them a glass of water. A policewoman talking on her mobile wandered in and sat down in the front row, followed by a large, wheezing woman, who subsided into the chair right in front of Carla, obscuring her view completely. The woman’s dandruff-sprinkled blouse ballooned in and out with each whistling breath.
Just like in a movie theatre, thought Carla irritably, people clumping together in tight pockets when there is an entire room of seats available. She stood up and moved back to her original corner.
Ten minutes elapsed. The members of the parole board shuffled documents and conferred in hushed tones. More people arrived. The noise level in the small room rose. Talking. Coughing. Sneezing. Chairs scraping.
After fidgeting and worrying at a scab on the back of her hand, it started to bleed. Carla dabbed at the raw skin with a tissue until the tiny spring of red dried up. When she looked up her throat constricted around a painful gulp of air. He was there. In the room. A dark, brooding shape. His back to her.
He was taller than she recalled, his black hair longer and wilder, and streaked with grease that glistened under the lights. His tracksuit bottoms hung low over his hollowed-out bottom and his shoulders curled away from her.
The man in green uniform stood up to open the session. Carla tried hard to concentrate on his words, but her eyes kept wandering to Jack’s killer.
‘And he has been involved in a number of violent outbursts,’ the officer said in a plank-flat voice. He looked down at the notes on his clipboard. ‘It is noted that the prisoner’s behaviour has in fact deteriorated over the past two years of incarceration. He has shown little motivation to change, not signing up for any of the recommended rehabilitation classes. He has also been found with contraband on his person on several occasions and …’
A psychologist – the wheezy woman – was next. Her tight bra corrugated her outline.
‘I would have grave concerns about the release of prisoner Toroa into the community at this time. As you have heard, his behaviour has often been aggressive and hostile towards staff, and his tendency to violence appears to have become more pronounced in the past eighteen months – an observation already outlined by my colleague. The prisoner is manipulative to his own ends, and it is my opinion that …’
Everyone was facing the front, their backs turned on Carla. They should have been addressing her, not five random people up front! Had the woman in red ever felt Toroa’s hand over her mouth? The man with a silver tiepin, had he smelt Toroa’s fermented breath on his face? And the guy with a chisel-thin nose and absent chin, had he ever heard Toroa’s soulless voice raging around him? The degrees that no doubt hung on their walls would attest to their qualifications and wisdom. But what of real life? She could tell them. She had the most important qualification of all.
She’d not been able to stay away from the hearing. She wanted something from the process. Perhaps the knowledge that Toroa was suffering. The security of seeing him shackled? A sign of repentance, maybe. An apology. At least an acknowledgement – if not from him, then from the others – of her grief, of the sense of hollowness inside that never abated. The law had forgotten about her and her family. To have simply written a letter would have been too academic, too abstract. She had come as Jack and Kevin’s representative. She was there to remind the board that it was dealing with people, not a series of events and blood-soaked evidence already bleached by time.
The busyness of the small room suddenly overwhelmed her. The voices were too loud, the place too hot. She felt herself disengage; she’d become a master at it. Had she taken the chops out of the freezer in her hurry to catch the bus? She should stop on the way home to buy grapes for Kevin at the fruiterer – the black seedless ones he loved. She had to remember to also stop at the post office to pay her electricity bill. It was overdue. They would cut her off.
Toroa’s voice was slow, slovenly – one word running into the next – and evil deep. He slouched there before the table of five, speaking indistinctly, sloppily. Carla shook with anger. His posture smacked of disinterest and irreverence. His demeanour was blatantly scuttling the civility such a proceeding demanded. She couldn’t even see his face – his untidy mane concealing his profile from her. She had the right to see his face.
Bile shot into her mouth. He was asking to be released.
Hearing that word suddenly crystallised for Carla what the day was about. She had not allowed herself to even entertain the idea he might be freed. It was unthinkable. The man who’d telephoned had said the hearing was a mere formality. Yet the people on the panel seemed to be listening to him. Considering. Weighing up the possibility.
She swayed in her chair.
Then, it was over. Abruptly.
A brief explanation. No slow build to a climax. The parole board had announced its decision. Toroa had failed in his bid.
Carla was the first to leave, but as she hurried from the room, she in no way felt the victor.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
BEN
‘Fuck ’em all!’
‘Chill, Bennie boy. There’s always next year.’
‘Piss off, Randy! Anyway, you in this shithole for longer than me. Your mitt’ll have fallen off by then from all the jacking off you do.’
‘I thought you weren’t in any hurry to get out of the boob, brotha? Wasn’t that what you said last night? “Not like something special waiting for me out there.” Your words, bro, not mine.’
‘I know what I said. And I meant it. I won’t give those pencil necks the satisfaction of thinking I’m desperate or nothin’. They just want the power to play with my fate. Well I’m gonna have the wood over them.’
‘Sometimes your logic’s all twisted, man. Anyway, we’re tight.’
Ben ign
ored the mixed compliment. He was still reeling from the belated realisation that what he’d just missed out on was the one thing he actually wanted the most. He hadn’t made any effort to present well, hadn’t bothered to enrol in any courses in the lead-up to the hearing. He hadn’t even brushed his hair for it. Thought he didn’t care. But standing there in front of those suits had vacuumed up all the interference in his life and clarified his thoughts. His freedom could have been just a signature away. Now he couldn’t let go of the notion. In his mind he was already released and cruising the hood.
‘I’d give anything for a proper piss-up, bro. A shit ton of DB draught, a tub of chicken wings from the Chinks. Smokes too. And bitches. As many as I can handle.’
They were standing in the corner of the yard, not easily visible to the bridge. Randy glanced over his shoulder, then put out a hand, his fist clenched tight. ‘My shout.’
‘Fuck me! Is this what I think it is?’ Ben said, grabbing the small parcel. ‘Where’d you get it?’
His friend tapped the side of his nose. ‘Special delivery.’
‘Jesus, you’re the man,’ Ben crooned, a proper smile spreading over his face.
‘Stick with me, bro,’ Randy grinned, slapping him on the back. Then he stepped behind the wall to shoot up.
‘Hey,’ Ben called after him.
‘What?’
‘I’m getting out of this hellhole next hearing.’
‘Whatever you say, brother.’
‘I got me a plan.’
Randy looked up, his eyes already glassy.
‘I’m gonna meet with that Reid woman. I’m gonna r-e-f-o-r-m. Tell her I’m real sorry for what I did. Them parole dudes gonna be so impressed, it won’t be long before Ben Toroa parties when he wants to party, and not just when his homie gets his paws on some!’
Dear Mrs Reid,
I am writing to you on behalf of Ben Toroa, who, as you are aware, is currently serving a fourteen-year prison term in Auckland Maximum Security Prison. You will no doubt recall his unwilling participation in the restorative justice meeting a few years ago. This is not uncommon in such cases. Frequently, it takes a significant amount of time before the offender will come to own his crime.
Recently, prisoner Toroa has expressed regret over the offence and vocalised a desire to meet with you again. We are encouraged by this gesture and are hopeful that it signifies a change in his attitude – a crucial step towards the reform of an offender. The prisoner was very young at the time he perpetrated the felony and with the maturity that comes with additional years under his belt, this may account for his recent transformation.
We understand if you no longer wish to have anything to do with him. A significant time has elapsed since the incident and we hope you have been able to move beyond the terrible events. If, however, this is something you would wish to participate in, we will provide every support. I encourage you to give the proposal due consideration. We must look beyond retribution towards rehabilitation, if we are to achieve a better society.
The meeting would be closely monitored, and counselling made available both before and after the session, should you so desire it.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours sincerely,
Jim Haslop
Manager
Auckland Maximum Security Prison
Chapter Thirty
CARLA
The morning was brisk, the sky a frost blue and the air taut. Carla welcomed the changing season, winter at least more congruent with her reclusiveness. It was acceptable to stay indoors when it was cold; shunning the sun of summer was altogether stranger.
Her Citroën complained at the early start, heading up The Avenue in lurches and pauses. She turned on the radio and dialled through the crackles to find a station. Soon a light melody filled the moment.
The road was steep as it wound up the hill to merge with Paremoremo Road, a once regular haunt of hers. She used to visit the Curly Cabbage on a weekly basis, the farm store boasting the freshest produce in town. Good old Roy with his polio-short leg and flaming-red hair, always throwing in something extra with her order, and never tiring of sourcing the unusual ingredients she needed for her Mediterranean meals. ‘The Italian variety of parsley has a more subtle flavour, Roy. And the texture is altogether more pleasing than the curly-leafed variety.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, Mrs Reid,’ he’d say with a chuckle, his ruddy cheeks dimpling into deep culverts. He’d eventually cultivated some for her from seed, in exchange for a jar of salsa verde whenever she made a batch.
She salivated now as she thought of the tangy blend of chopped parsley, anchovies, boiled egg yolks, garlic and olive oil – a condiment to be eaten alongside poached chicken or boiled meats. Roy just ate it by the spoonful!
A stack of taupe town houses now covered the slope where pumpkin vines had once rambled, the rows of affordable housing spreading greedily over the hills to transform the green curves into monotonous urban angles. The city had cast its net widely and without regard.
After a time, the landscape became more honest – the cabbage-tree skyline, orange-clay earth, and grey-green manuka, siding more closely with her memories.
Then she was on the brow of the hill. She slowed. Below her, crouching in the valley was Paremoremo Prison, dark and brooding.
‘No mobiles allowed, love.’ The guard’s accent was pure Cockney. He was gaunt, with impossibly high cheekbones and close-set eyes. He stood behind the counter in regulation green, the last letters of a tattooed name poking out from under his uniform.
Carla tried not to stare at his nose – an unsettling violet colour.
‘You can leave your bag in one of these lockers. You’ll need a locker too, sir.’
Carla turned to see a young man standing behind her. He had an open face and a head of loose blonde curls. He smiled. An ID badge – Social Worker – was clipped to his brown jumper. She could imagine him working in such a role; his pleasant face fitted.
‘I need to take this in with me,’ he said to the guard, holding onto his small red rucksack. ‘Got all my paperwork and that sort of stuff, mate.’
The other guard at the desk invited Carla through the metal detector.
‘Have a seat, Mrs Reid,’ he said, pointing to a wooden bench. ‘Mr Haslop shouldn’t be long. Just finishing up in a meeting.’ He tipped his head towards a door marked Manager.
‘Is there a toilet nearby?’ Carla asked, her stomach a knot of nerves.
‘That door there, love. Unisex.’
She closed the door to the windowless booth. Someone had sprayed the air freshener too generously and a cloying scent of frangipani hung heavily in the air. The margarine-yellow walls had been scrubbed so that they shone and Carla could catch a silhouetted shadow of herself in them. On the back of the door was a handwritten note: Please remove any pubic hair from the toilet seat. It is only courtesy. Rachel. Life beyond the security of Carla’s daily routine was so surprisingly crude, so blatant.
Back outside, she sat down where the guard had first left her. The bench was hard, the bones of her bottom uncushioned by any extra flesh. She shifted, trying to get comfortable. It was cold and her jumper was thin. She should have brought a coat. She fiddled with her visitor’s sticker, pulling it on and off until she’d blunted its stickiness altogether.
‘Jesus, Bob. What we gonna do ’bout it?’ It was the Cockney guard, in a loud whisper.
‘Is … dog handler still … site?’ It was the other guard. ‘… here this morning.’
Her interest piqued, Carla strained to follow the thread of conversation.
‘I’ll ring down to Rachel and see.’
‘Stupid fella. What was he thinking?’
‘Look, it’s not our problem. Just wanna hand it over. Then me job’s done.’
‘Hiya. Rachel. Ross here. Good, yeah. Listen we got an incident at the gate. Is the dog handler still with you? Yup. Great. Can you send him up ASAP?’
C
arla was deep in the intrigue when a door to her left swung open and several people emerged. One, a very tall man with a fluff of grey hair and dense black eyebrows, moved towards her, his hand outstretched in greeting.
‘Mrs Reid? Sorry to have kept you waiting. Jim Haslop. Do come in.’
The prison manager had an easy smile, a strong handshake, and a warm office.
The room was frugally decorated with a wide wooden desk off to one side and a navy leather couch pushed up against the wall. A rubber plant, its leaves dulled by dust, stood under the window beside a fish tank, which was home to two sluggish goldfish.
Carla sat down on the couch. The seat, clearly just recently vacated, was still warm.
Haslop went over the procedure for the day, his manner a careful blend of kindliness and pragmatism. He didn’t fit the Hollywood image of a truculent prison warden that she’d been expecting. This was no Karl Malden of Alcatraz.
Once the preliminaries had been dispensed with and the red tape cleared, walkie-talkie commands were relayed, and Haslop and Carla began their descent into the bowels of the building. They moved briskly through a warren of corridors, their progress clatteringly arrested as gates were electronically unlocked and then re-secured under the watchful eye of closed-circuit cameras. Carla had to move quickly to keep pace with Haslop’s long strides.
The room set aside for the meeting was empty except for six blue chairs spaced evenly in a semicircle. A red plastic chair completed the ring. Déjà vu. How the intervening years fell away.
One by one, four other officials arrived: Toroa’s unit manager, a caseworker, the prison psychologist, and a member of Victim Support – not Lorraine, though; she’d moved to Nelson.
There was much preliminary discussion about the format the meeting would take, with considerations diplomatically vocalised and recommendations made. Carla peeled off her jumper. Despite the group consisting of only a handful of people, the acoustics left the room feeling cluttered and overcrowded – too many words echoing around the room and already muddling her thoughts.
The Last Time We Spoke Page 16
