Lisa Gardner - The Neighbor

“In other words, you’re just regular, everyday folks.”

“Regular as clockwork.”

“Who happen to live in a house with reinforced windows and steel doors?”

“We live in an urban environment. Home security is nothing to be taken lightly.”

“Didn’t realize Southie was that rough.”

“Didn’t realize the police had issues with citizens who favor locks.”

D.D. decided to declare that interaction a draw. She paused again, trying to find her bearings in a conversation that should be taking place in person and not by phone.

“When you first arrived home, Mr. Jones, were the doors locked?”

“Yes.”

“Anything out of the ordinary catch your eye? In the kitchen, hallway, entryway, anything at all as you entered your house?”

“I didn’t notice a thing.”

“When you first realized your wife was not home, Mr. Jones, what did you do?”

“I called her cell. Which turned out to be in her purse on the kitchen counter.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I walked outside, to see if she had stepped out back for something, was maybe stargazing. I don’t know. She wasn’t inside, so I checked outside.”

“Then what?”

“Then I checked her car.”

“And then?”

“Then… what?”

“What you described takes about three minutes. According to the first responders, you didn’t dial nine-one-one for another three hours. Who did you call, Mr. Jones? What did you do?”

“I called no one. I did nothing.”

“For three hours?”

“I waited, Sergeant. I sat on the sofa and I waited for my world to right itself again. Then, when that didn’t magically happen, I called the police.”

“I don’t believe you,” D.D. said flatly.

“I know. But maybe that also proves my innocence. Wouldn’t a guilty man manufacture a better alibi?”

She sighed heavily. “So what do you think happened to your wife, Mr. Jones?”

She heard him pause now, also considering.

He said finally, “Well, there is a registered sex offender who lives down the street.”

On October 22, 1989, a boy named Jacob Wetterling was kidnapped by a masked man at gunpoint, and never seen again. Now, in 1989, I was only three years old, so you can trust me when I say I didn’t do it. But thanks to the abduction of Jacob Wetterling nearly twenty years ago, my adult life was changed forever. Because Jacob’s parents formed the Jacob Wetterling Institute, which got the Jacob Wetterling Crimes Against Children and Sexually Violent Offender Registration Act signed into law in 1994; basically, Jacob’s parents helped create the very first sex offender database.

I know what you’re thinking. I’m an animal, right? That’s the conventional wisdom these days. Sex offenders are monsters. We should not only be denied all contact with children, but we should be ostracized, banned, and otherwise forced to live in squalid conditions under a Florida bridge. Look at what happened to Megan Kanka, kidnapped from her own bedroom by the sex offender living right next door. Or Jessica Lunsford, snatched from her unlocked home by the sex offender living with his sister in the trailer just across the street.

What can I tell you? According to my parole officer, there are nearly six hundred thousand registered sex offenders in the United States. A few of them are bound to behave badly. And when they do, we all get punished, even a guy like me.

I get up, I go to work, I attend my meetings, I keep my nose clean. I’m a regular success story. Yet, here it is, five P.M., I’m wrapping up at work, but mostly I’m waiting to get arrested by the police.

By five-fifteen, when half a dozen squad cars still haven’t careened down the streets with lights flashing, I give it up and begin the walk home. I retrace the day in my mind, trying to control my growing anxiety. After spotting the canvassing officers this morning, I did the sensible thing and went to work. After all, the police will find me soon enough, and when they do, how I’ve spent the hours since Mrs. Jones went missing is going to be a key topic of discussion. As it stands, I was half an hour late from lunch, given my talk with Mr. Jones. This anomaly will stand out, but nothing I can do about it now. I had to talk to the guy. After all, my only hope is that they arrest him instead of me.

Now, approaching my front steps, still not seeing signs of men in blue-or, more likely, SWAT team members in flak vests-I realize it’s Thursday night and if I don’t hustle, I’m gonna be late for my meeting. I can’t afford another deviation from my schedule, so I hustle, bursting into my bedroom for the five-minute shower-and-change, then I’m back out the door, hailing a cab for the local mental health institute; it’s not like eight registered sex offenders can hold their weekly support group meetings at the neighborhood library.

I arrive at the front doors at 5:59 P.M. This is important. The signed contract states you cannot be even one minute late for meetings, and our group leader is a stickler on this point. Mrs. Brenda Jane is a licensed clinical social worker with the looks of a six-foot blonde cover girl and the personality of a prison guard. She doesn’t just run our meetings, she controls every facet of our life from what we do or do not drink to who we do or do not date. Half of us hate her. The other half are extremely grateful.

Meetings are approximately two hours long, once a week. One of the first things you learn as a registered sex offender is how to do a lot of paperwork. I have an entire three-ring binder filled with such documents as my signed “Sex Offender Program Contract,” my customized “Safety Plan for Future Well-Being,” as well as half a dozen “Program Rules for Group Sessions,” “Program Rules for Dating/Relationships,” and “Program Rules for Offenses Within the Family Unit.” Tonight is no exception. Each of us begins by filling out the weekly status report.

Question one: What feelings have you experienced this week ?

My first thought is guilt. My second thought is that I can’t write that down. There is no confidentiality when it comes to statements made in support group. Yet one more piece of paper we all had to read and sign. Whatever I say tonight, or any night, can be used against me in a court of law. Adding to the daily paradox that is any sex offender’s life. On the one hand, I need to work on improving my skills in the honesty department. On the other hand, I can be punished for doing so at any time.

I write down the second answer that comes to me: fear. Police can’t deny me that, can they? A woman has gone missing. I’m the registered sex offender living on her block. Damn right I’m afraid.

Question two: What five interventions did you use this week to avoid unhealthy situations ?

This question is easy. First day in group, you receive a list of approximately one hundred and forty “interventions” or ideas on how to break the abuse cycle. Most of us laugh at the list first time through. One hundred and forty ways not to re-offend? Including such winners as call the police, take a cold shower, or my personal favorite, jump in the ocean in the middle of winter.

I go with the usual: Wasn’t alone with children, stayed out of bars, didn’t drive aimlessly, didn’t place high expectations on myself, and snapped a rubber band.

Sometimes I include “avoided self-pity” as one of my five, but even I know I didn’t achieve that this week. The “didn’t place high expectations” makes a nice substitute. I haven’t had expectations in years.

Question three: What five interventions did you use this week to promote a healthy lifestyle ?