his decision?”
“Not at all. It’s never been about them, you know. He has nothing against them. He’s often said he feels sorry for them and wishes they could get real answers.”
“The mother will be notified,” Green said, “and she’s not in such a conciliatory mood. I suspect she’ll prepare a victim’s statement and attend the hearing.”
“Oh, she’s already been notified, although she hasn’t sent in her reply yet. You boys would have been notified too.”
“When were the notices sent out?”
“A couple of weeks ago? If your desk is anything like mine, it’s probably buried in your inbox somewhere.”
Goodfellow roared with laughter, but Green was too busy doing calculations to rise to the bait. The timing was perfect to explain Marilyn’s tailspin. Just as she was struggling to adjust to a new life, news had arrived that the man who had killed her daughter and haunted her husband to his grave was applying for release. As she had always feared, Rosten would be free to get on with his life while her daughter was gone forever. Green knew without doubt that Marilyn would attend that review.
The mother tiger was back.
A small crowd had already gathered in the waiting room by the time Green arrived with barely two minutes to spare. He’d had to perform some fancy last-minute footwork with Superintendent Neufeld, who didn’t consider parole hearings part of an inspector’s job description, but he was damned if he was going to miss James Rosten’s next move. All Green’s private doubts, all the years of second-guessing the evidence, might be erased in a single afternoon.
Would Rosten admit his guilt? Express remorse? Apologize to the Carmichael family? Was he really a changed man with a fresh vision for his future, or was this just a ploy to advance his own interests?
It was a question of intense importance to Green, but, judging by the sparse crowd, to few others. After twenty years in prison, the man who had commanded media headlines for months barely merited a footnote. Green scanned the faces of the group, spotting Archie Goodfellow in huddled conversation with the parole officer beside him. Normally Archie filled any room he occupied, not just with his six-foot, three-hundred-pound frame but also with his booming baritone voice that could shake the rafters of the largest opera house. Yet today his voice was a mere whisper in the other man’s ear.
Green was just debating whether to approach him when the door opened and James Rosten wheeled in. Green was immediately struck by his transformation. No longer did he look like a shrivelled old man. Muscles rippled down his arms as he propelled his chair across the room.
As he had been during his trial, this was a man gearing up for battle.
Rosten searched the room, nodding briefly to Archie and the parole officer before settling on Green. Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise? Alarm? Before Green could decipher the meaning, the interior door opened and the hearing officer ushered them inside.
It was an unadorned, institutional room with a table in the centre and a row of chairs along the back. Rosten, his parole officer, and a civilian sat at the table, observers and interested parties at the back. There was a shuffle of movement when Marilyn Carmichael entered through another door and took a seat in the farthest corner, her head bowed and her thin frame cradled as if to ward off blows. Unlike Rosten, she did not look geared up for battle, but Green observed with relief that although she was wearing her familiar navy suit, at least it was pressed.
Once everyone was settled, all eyes turned to the two Parole Board members on the other side of the table. The official reports on Rosten were in a file in front of them, documenting Rosten’s insight into his crime, his conduct within the prison, his release plans and sources of support, the impact on the victim, and most important, his risk to the public.
From experience, Green knew how
“Not at all. It’s never been about them, you know. He has nothing against them. He’s often said he feels sorry for them and wishes they could get real answers.”
“The mother will be notified,” Green said, “and she’s not in such a conciliatory mood. I suspect she’ll prepare a victim’s statement and attend the hearing.”
“Oh, she’s already been notified, although she hasn’t sent in her reply yet. You boys would have been notified too.”
“When were the notices sent out?”
“A couple of weeks ago? If your desk is anything like mine, it’s probably buried in your inbox somewhere.”
Goodfellow roared with laughter, but Green was too busy doing calculations to rise to the bait. The timing was perfect to explain Marilyn’s tailspin. Just as she was struggling to adjust to a new life, news had arrived that the man who had killed her daughter and haunted her husband to his grave was applying for release. As she had always feared, Rosten would be free to get on with his life while her daughter was gone forever. Green knew without doubt that Marilyn would attend that review.
The mother tiger was back.
A small crowd had already gathered in the waiting room by the time Green arrived with barely two minutes to spare. He’d had to perform some fancy last-minute footwork with Superintendent Neufeld, who didn’t consider parole hearings part of an inspector’s job description, but he was damned if he was going to miss James Rosten’s next move. All Green’s private doubts, all the years of second-guessing the evidence, might be erased in a single afternoon.
Would Rosten admit his guilt? Express remorse? Apologize to the Carmichael family? Was he really a changed man with a fresh vision for his future, or was this just a ploy to advance his own interests?
It was a question of intense importance to Green, but, judging by the sparse crowd, to few others. After twenty years in prison, the man who had commanded media headlines for months barely merited a footnote. Green scanned the faces of the group, spotting Archie Goodfellow in huddled conversation with the parole officer beside him. Normally Archie filled any room he occupied, not just with his six-foot, three-hundred-pound frame but also with his booming baritone voice that could shake the rafters of the largest opera house. Yet today his voice was a mere whisper in the other man’s ear.
Green was just debating whether to approach him when the door opened and James Rosten wheeled in. Green was immediately struck by his transformation. No longer did he look like a shrivelled old man. Muscles rippled down his arms as he propelled his chair across the room.
As he had been during his trial, this was a man gearing up for battle.
Rosten searched the room, nodding briefly to Archie and the parole officer before settling on Green. Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise? Alarm? Before Green could decipher the meaning, the interior door opened and the hearing officer ushered them inside.
It was an unadorned, institutional room with a table in the centre and a row of chairs along the back. Rosten, his parole officer, and a civilian sat at the table, observers and interested parties at the back. There was a shuffle of movement when Marilyn Carmichael entered through another door and took a seat in the farthest corner, her head bowed and her thin frame cradled as if to ward off blows. Unlike Rosten, she did not look geared up for battle, but Green observed with relief that although she was wearing her familiar navy suit, at least it was pressed.
Once everyone was settled, all eyes turned to the two Parole Board members on the other side of the table. The official reports on Rosten were in a file in front of them, documenting Rosten’s insight into his crime, his conduct within the prison, his release plans and sources of support, the impact on the victim, and most important, his risk to the public.
From experience, Green knew how
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