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.”