mail, let alone respond to phone messages. Bypassing the chaplaincy office, Green called his cellphone and left a message, hoping the man would find a spare moment sometime that week.
He was pleasantly surprised when Goodfellow returned his call less than an hour later. In the background, Green could hear the soft rumble of engines and the sibilant hiss of tires on wet pavement. Archie was on the move.
“Speak of the devil!” Goodfellow boomed in his deep, honeyed voice long since perfected to waken the sinners in the farthest pews of cavernous church halls. “I’ve been meaning to call you. Good work, Inspector. Whatever you told James Rosten — and I don’t need to know, although curiosity may be the death of me — he’s turned a corner. He has a mandatory parole review coming up, and this time he didn’t waive it. Extraordinary! I’ve been trying for five years to get him to at least go through the process, but he’s always said there’s no point because he’d have to admit his guilt. But now, not only has he asked for a meeting with the prison parole officer, he’s developing a release plan.”
Green swallowed his shock. “Has a hearing date been set?”
“Next week. I’m working with the IPO on the plan. It’s not going to be an easy sell. James has a lot of ground to make up. As you know, he’s been an argumentative sonofabitch all the time he’s been inside, refused the treatment programs offered to help him come to terms with his offence, and also much of the rehab for his spinal injury at the treatment centre.”
“Yes, it’s hard to argue that he’s developed much insight into his behaviour.”
“No, but in the plus column, he’s been no trouble on the inside. Except for the prison fight, of course, but that was ten years ago and he didn’t start it — although he’d just lost his last appeal and I think he was itching for a fight. The guards should have seen that coming. He does his job in the library and even helps run the school literacy program. He stays away from drugs and badasses; he’s co-operative with the routine. Personally, I’d say — and I will say in my report — he’s at low risk to reoffend and a minimal risk to the community.”
“The wheelchair would certainly cramp his style anyway.”
Goodfellow chuckled. For a moment his voice was swallowed in the roar of a passing truck. “I’m pleased he’s decided it’s time to get out. I see this as a big step. He has always said he could never lie about his guilt, but I think, underneath it all, he was just afraid to get out. He had no hope of going back to the life he had before — no university or even private college would hire him, he’d never pass a crim records check anyway — and life for a poor, unemployed paraplegic can be really tough on the outside.”
“None of that has changed,” Green said.
“But you must have triggered some new idea,” Goodfellow said. “You must have made him think there was something for him. And I’ve got him a place on the outside, a new halfway house in Belleville. It’s fully accessible, he’ll have his own room but share meals, and Belleville is big enough he has a hope of finding some sort of job. Because it’s practically the only wheelchair-accessible house in all of Ontario, he could probably stay there for years if he wanted.”
“Uh-huh.” Green tried to reconcile this new vision of Rosten with the man who’d fought his conviction for twenty years. “All he has to do is say ‘Yes, I understand and regret what I did.’”
“Yeah. I know. It’s a big step.”
Green could hear his own doubt echoed in the chaplain’s voice. “Do you think he means it?”
As the silence dragged on, Green wondered whether the chaplain would reply at all or whether he was treading too far into confidential territory. Finally Goodfellow chose to be noncommittal.
“Honestly, I don’t know. And I don’t plan to ask.”
“Did he mention the Carmichaels at all in
He was pleasantly surprised when Goodfellow returned his call less than an hour later. In the background, Green could hear the soft rumble of engines and the sibilant hiss of tires on wet pavement. Archie was on the move.
“Speak of the devil!” Goodfellow boomed in his deep, honeyed voice long since perfected to waken the sinners in the farthest pews of cavernous church halls. “I’ve been meaning to call you. Good work, Inspector. Whatever you told James Rosten — and I don’t need to know, although curiosity may be the death of me — he’s turned a corner. He has a mandatory parole review coming up, and this time he didn’t waive it. Extraordinary! I’ve been trying for five years to get him to at least go through the process, but he’s always said there’s no point because he’d have to admit his guilt. But now, not only has he asked for a meeting with the prison parole officer, he’s developing a release plan.”
Green swallowed his shock. “Has a hearing date been set?”
“Next week. I’m working with the IPO on the plan. It’s not going to be an easy sell. James has a lot of ground to make up. As you know, he’s been an argumentative sonofabitch all the time he’s been inside, refused the treatment programs offered to help him come to terms with his offence, and also much of the rehab for his spinal injury at the treatment centre.”
“Yes, it’s hard to argue that he’s developed much insight into his behaviour.”
“No, but in the plus column, he’s been no trouble on the inside. Except for the prison fight, of course, but that was ten years ago and he didn’t start it — although he’d just lost his last appeal and I think he was itching for a fight. The guards should have seen that coming. He does his job in the library and even helps run the school literacy program. He stays away from drugs and badasses; he’s co-operative with the routine. Personally, I’d say — and I will say in my report — he’s at low risk to reoffend and a minimal risk to the community.”
“The wheelchair would certainly cramp his style anyway.”
Goodfellow chuckled. For a moment his voice was swallowed in the roar of a passing truck. “I’m pleased he’s decided it’s time to get out. I see this as a big step. He has always said he could never lie about his guilt, but I think, underneath it all, he was just afraid to get out. He had no hope of going back to the life he had before — no university or even private college would hire him, he’d never pass a crim records check anyway — and life for a poor, unemployed paraplegic can be really tough on the outside.”
“None of that has changed,” Green said.
“But you must have triggered some new idea,” Goodfellow said. “You must have made him think there was something for him. And I’ve got him a place on the outside, a new halfway house in Belleville. It’s fully accessible, he’ll have his own room but share meals, and Belleville is big enough he has a hope of finding some sort of job. Because it’s practically the only wheelchair-accessible house in all of Ontario, he could probably stay there for years if he wanted.”
“Uh-huh.” Green tried to reconcile this new vision of Rosten with the man who’d fought his conviction for twenty years. “All he has to do is say ‘Yes, I understand and regret what I did.’”
“Yeah. I know. It’s a big step.”
Green could hear his own doubt echoed in the chaplain’s voice. “Do you think he means it?”
As the silence dragged on, Green wondered whether the chaplain would reply at all or whether he was treading too far into confidential territory. Finally Goodfellow chose to be noncommittal.
“Honestly, I don’t know. And I don’t plan to ask.”
“Did he mention the Carmichaels at all in
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