Wyre nodded. “That’s right, sir,” he said in a deferential tone.
“Very well.” Corso glanced up and down the table. “Who’s the parole officer?”
One of the state officials seated in the rear stood up. “I am, sir.”
“Forster, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come forward.”
The man named Forster came down the center aisle. Wyre looked over, nodded.
Corso folded his arms on the table and leaned toward the parole officer. “I must say, Forster, we were surprised to learn of this man’s eligibility.”
You’re not the only one, Frank Piston thought.
“Mr. Wyre’s sentences weren’t stacked, sir,” Forster said. “They’re being served concurrently.”
“I’m aware of that.”
Wyre, the killer, cleared his throat. He glanced down at a piece of paper in his hand. “Sir,” he began, “because of my health, I’d planned to ask for a special needs parole—”
This was too much. Wyre looked and sounded the picture of health. Piston stood up quickly, his wooden chair squeaking loudly against the floor.
Corso glanced over, frowning. “You wish to interject, Mister—?”
“Piston. Frank Piston. Assistant district attorney.”
“Ah yes, young Piston. Proceed with your interruption.”
“May I point out, sir, that offenders convicted of aggravated offenses are not eligible for special needs paroles?”
“The board is aware of that, thank you. Mr. Wyre, you may proceed.”
“As I was saying, sir, I had planned to ask for a special needs parole. But then I learned it would not be necessary.”
“So the case summary says.” Corso glanced at the parole officer. “Mr. Forster, would you care to explain?”
“Sir, Mr. Wyre has amassed a remarkable amount of good conduct time. The maximum permissible, in fact.”
Piston sat forward. Now, that was bullshit. He’d heard more than once about the kind of trouble Wyre had caused in prison. He was the worst of offenders, a stone killer with the mind of a fox. He was always turning prisoners against each other, inciting fights and riots, sowing dissent with the guards. Not to mention that string of jailhouse murders. You didn’t exactly rack up “good time” for shanking fellow inmates, even if nothing could be proven.
“Said good conduct time, along with Wyre’s community service, participation in work programs and rehabilitation encounter groups, has accelerated his eligible parole date — with mandatory supervision factored in, of course — to September 29 of this year.”
Piston felt a current of shock go through him. Immediately, he stood again. September 29 was two days ago. Wyre’s eligible? Already? Impossible.
Corso glanced over. “You have something further to add, Mr. Piston?”
“No. I mean, yes. Good conduct time is a privilege, not a right. It doesn’t change the fact that Wyre here killed six people, including two police officers.”
“Are you forgetting, Mr. Piston, that Mr. Wyre here was convicted, and sentenced, for the murder of one person?”
Piston swore silently. This was true: Wyre had only been brought to trial for the murder of his final victim. There had been legal technicalities involved, some bungling of the evidence. Though it seemed foolish in hindsight, the DA had wanted to go for the one sure conviction rather than taking a chance on having Wyre walk on circumstantials. There’d been a hue and cry in the press at the time — didn’t these jokers remember that?
Aloud, he said, “I’m not forgetting, sir. I’m only asking that the circumstances of the murders, the nature of Wyre’s atrocities, be factored in—”
“Mister Piston. Are you telling the parole board how to do its job?”
Piston swallowed. “No, sir.”
Corso shook a sheaf of papers over the desk at him. “Do you have all the facts of this hearing? Are you in possession of this case summary?”
“No, sir.”
“Then sit down and bite your tongue, young man, until you have something of value to add.”
Wyre glanced back at Piston. It was a brief, almost casual look, but it chilled the lawyer to the bone. It was the kind of look a cat gave a canary. Then the convict turned back, smiling once again at the board.
Piston — shaken by the parole eligibility, unnerved by the eye contact with Wyre — tried to calm down, think straight. He had to remember who he was dealing with here. Everybody knew Wyre had killed those two cops. He’d set them up, stalked them, planned on killing an FBI agent as well. Old Corso wasn’t likely to forget that, either, and he was as close to being a hanging judge as any parole chief could be. Anyway, there would be all the details of the case summary to wade through. That’s where Wyre would get nailed, if nowhere else.
Corso seemed to read his mind. “Very well, Mr. Forster, let’s get to this summary of yours. The entire board has had a chance to look at it. I must say we were all a little surprised by your findings, none more than myself.”
“I understand that completely, sir. But I stand by both the evaluation and the pertinent data.”
“Oh, I’m not questioning anything, Mr. Forster. You’ve always proved yourself conscientious in your case work. We’re just… a little surprised, that’s all.” Corso leafed through the summary report. “These social profiles, the psychological batteries, Wyre’s history of institutional adjustment. I’ve never seen such scores.”
“Neither have I, sir,” said Forster.
Standing beside the parole officer, Wyre’s eyes glittered.
“And these testimonials you’ve procured are equally remarkable.”
“They were all in the database, sir.”
“Hmm.” Corso riffled through the final pages of the document, then pushed it aside. “Yet I don’t know why we are so surprised. After all, we’re here because we believe in the efficacy of our prison system — no? We’ve struggled to bring these services, these opportunities for rehabilitation, to our inmates. So why should we be so shocked when we come face to face with an instance where this rehabilitation works? With a success story?”
Oh, my God, Piston thought. There was only one thing that could put Corso in a lenient mood. And that was the dangled carrot of advancement. Because Corso, the parole board head, was also Corso, would-be assemblyman. And transforming Edmund Wyre from sadistic murderer to reformed penitent would be a feather in his cap like no other…
But that couldn’t be, it simply wasn’t possible. Wyre was a puff adder, a malevolent nut case. What was in that case summary? What had happened on the tests?
“Sir,” Wyre said, gazing meekly at Corso, “in light of all this, I would like to request the board now grant my application for parole, set a release date, and formulate a plan for parole supervision.”
Piston stared in growing disbelief as Wyre glanced down again at the sheet of paper in his hand. He’s got this process nailed. Somebody’s coached him, shown him just what documents to read. But who?
Instinctively, he rose once again to his feet. “Mr. Corso!” he cried out.
The old man frowned at him. “What is it now?”
Piston’s mouth worked, but no words came. Wyre glanced casually over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed as he caught Piston’s gaze, and he licked his lips, slowly and deliberately: first the upper, then the lower.
Piston sat down abruptly. As the drone of conversation picked up again at the front of the room, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed the office. It was, as he expected, answered by the service. He began to dial his boss’s private number, then stopped. The DA was out on the links right now, grabbing a quick eighteen, and he would have turned his phone off, as always.