Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

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.

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.”

He leaned forward, continuing his contrived eagerness. “First, the victim”-he nodded toward Susanne-“will have the opportunity to explain how she feels and felt, and what needs were not met as the result of the offender’s actions. Then, the offender must repeat what he has heard, and he must continue to listen and repeat what the victim says she feels and needs.

“Once our victim feels completely heard, then she will be ready to listen to what Adrian, our offender, feels and needs now-and also what he felt and needed at the time of the offense. Susanne then will reflect those feelings and needs back to her offender. At the end of our dialogue, Susanne will make a request to Adrian, and Adrian will do likewise. Our aim is to arrive at a strategy for resolution.”

Hunter watched as Annie’s expression moved from incomprehension to incredulity to indignation. She got up from her chair and leaned toward Frankfurt, just inches from the glass, her palms flat on the counter.

“Are you telling us,” she said slowly, through her teeth, “that Susie is supposed to sit here and swap feelings with this-”

“Annie, don’t.”

They turned to Susanne.

“It’s okay. Really. Remember, I get to speak first.”

Something unspoken passed between the women. Annie sat down slowly. Crossed her arms. He saw that she and Wulfe locked eyes.

“For the last time, Ms. Woods, I must caution you that you aren’t to interrupt the dialogue between Susanne and Adrian. Susanne, would you like to go ahead and say something to Adrian?”

She drew a breath, released it. Placed her hands on her lap. Raised her eyes to Wulfe’s.

“Two years ago, on a beautiful July evening, you and two young thugs destroyed my life. I don’t have to tell you what you did. But maybe he”-she glanced at Frankfurt-“doesn’t know the whole story. So let me tell it.

“Arthur and I were going home from a friend’s house, down a country road, when we had to stop because of a flat tire. He tried to change it, but the lug nuts were too tight. And out there, we couldn’t get a cell signal. So we were just standing beside the car, waiting for somebody to come along, when the three of you drove up. At first, you pretended that you wanted to play Good Samaritan. You were all smiles. Next thing I knew, your friends grabbed me, and you punched Arthur and knocked him down.

“Then you dragged us into the weeds beside the road. And you held Arthur down, and you made him watch-while they raped me.” She paused. “And you know what else they did to me, too… And through that whole nightmare, I remember Arthur screaming and crying and I heard you laughing and hitting him and telling him to shut up, and then laughing some more at what they were doing to me, and telling them to hurry up, because they didn’t have a lot of time, and it was your turn.”

She stopped. Her eyes were closed.

Adrian Wulfe’s face was expressionless.

“It must have made you feel so very powerful to do that to Arthur, didn’t it, Mr. Wulfe? I mean, to hit him, hold him down, humiliate him like that? After all, Arthur wasn’t a great big guy like you. And Arthur wouldn’t have known how to overpower or hurt someone. Because he never wanted to. He was a doctor, Mr. Wulfe. A plastic surgeon. Unlike you, he devoted his whole life to fixing people’s injuries-not causing them. Sometimes, he even had to repair the horrible damage that monsters like you cause.”

Frankfurt squirmed in his seat. Wulfe sat motionless.

“You and I both know you were going to kill us that night, Mr. Wulfe. You wouldn’t have wanted to leave us alive to identify you. It was sheer dumb luck for us that you didn’t-if you want to call us lucky for surviving. If it wasn’t for that pizza delivery kid driving past with his windows down, who heard our screaming and radioed for the cops, I wouldn’t be here. Of course-” Her voice caught. “Of course, Arthur isn’t here. Is he, Mr. Wulfe? No, because he couldn’t deal with it.”

She turned to Frankfurt, her eyes blazing. “So, doctor. You want me to talk about how I felt. You want me to talk about how I feel. You want me to say what I need. Let me tell you what I need. I need my husband back. I need the wonderful man who shot himself ten days ago, to end the hell that son of a bitch put him through. I need the husband he took from me! I need the man he murdered, just as sure as if he’d bashed in his skull with the tire iron that night. So tell me, doctor: How do you suppose he’s going to ‘restore’ my husband? And why in God’s name should I give a damn about his feelings and his needs?”

Frankfurt shifted again uncomfortably.

“You’re right, Mrs. Copeland.”

They all turned to Adrian Wulfe.

“There’s absolutely no reason why you should care about anything I feel or need. Absolutely none. Everything you said about me-you’re right. It was monstrous, what I did. Inexcusable.”