Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

As the group reclaimed their seats, Susanne spoke again. “I know you all share my gratitude to Dylan for the courageous work he’s been doing on behalf of crime victims.” They began to applaud.

“Thank you,” he said. “But you’re the courageous ones, not me.”

“You’re too modest, Dylan.”

He shook his head. “My job is merely to chronicle your courage. The word ‘crime’ means nothing to public officials, except pages of cold, empty statistics. But when you stand up and speak out for justice, you put human faces on all those abstract numbers. I’m honored to be in your presence.”

Morgan Jackson, a dignified, middle-aged African-American, and co-chair of the group, took the floor to open the session with a prayer. As he spoke, those in the room bowed heads and joined hands. A frail elderly woman, who had been introduced to him as Kate Higgins, rested a pale, thin hand on Susanne’s shoulder.

“And Lord,” Jackson concluded, “in Your infinite mercy, please lift the burdens from our hearts. Remember especially in this difficult hour our sister Susanne. Give her comfort, even as You welcome into Your holy presence the soul of her dear husband and our beloved brother, Arthur. And Lord, continue to shine Your grace upon the souls of those whom we have lost. Amen.”

The meeting began with reports from various fundraising and project committees. Before long, the agenda turned to new business. Jeri West, a svelte blonde in her early fifties, stood and faced the group with a grim expression.

“I spoke this morning with the chief of staff in Congressman Shipler’s office. He told me that H.R. 207 was going to pass favorably out of committee.”

The room erupted in protests; she raised a hand. “I know. Last week we were told it wasn’t going to happen. But it looks like the ‘prisoner rights’ lobby finally got to some of the committee members. So did the idea of getting a lot of federal money in their districts.”

“Damn the bastards! We can’t let them get away with this!” George Banacek’s eyes blazed. Well into his sixties, he had the rugged face and rough manner of a man who had worked all his life with his hands. There was no sign of pain in that face; whatever private agony he had endured had long since metastasized into unforgiving anger.

“I’m sorry,” Hunter said, “but I don’t know the bill you’re referring to.”

Jeri explained that if passed into law, H.R. 207 would provide states tens of billions of federal dollars to fund and expand experimental “alternatives to incarceration” programs. Strapped for cash, state and local governments were eager to slash their prison budgets, even if it meant dumping thousands of dangerous inmates back out onto the streets.

Banacek exploded again. “No way we let this pass! You all know my boy Tommy was murdered by a couple of punks who never should’ve been on the streets.”

Kate Higgins covered her face with her hands.

Banacek saw her and pointed. “And poor Kate here, her Michael, he was-”

“George, stop it!” Jeri interrupted. “Please. This is hard enough on many of us. We’ll just have to fight it when it gets to the House floor.”

“What good’s it going to do? Once it gets out of committee, we know they got the votes to pass it in the House. The Senate, too. And our dear president-hell, he’s a lost cause. He’ll sign the damned thing in a heartbeat.”

“We just can’t let the sentences be slashed on all the vicious criminals who did these things to us and our families,” added Bob West, Jeri’s husband. “Once they’re out again, they’ll just prey on others.”

“After what that monster did to my little Loretta, I don’t think I could deal with it if he got out,” Lila Jackson, Morgan’s wife, said in a soft voice. “I don’t care if it sounds un-Christian. Those vigilante people who killed Susie and Arthur’s attackers. Whoever they are, I pray to God they would do the same thing to him.”

“Easy, honey,” Morgan said, putting his arm around her. “You know you don’t mean that.”

“I do! God help me, I do. But that’s too much to hope for. There’s just no justice in this world. No justice at all. People just don’t have a clue what’s going on in the legal system. We have to stop this madness.”

“Maybe we can, if we bring it to public attention,” Jeri said.

“How the hell we going to do that?” Banacek demanded.

“Perhaps I can help,” Hunter said.

They all looked at him. He drew a slim black recorder from his sports jacket.

“If you tell me your personal stories, I’ll give them the attention they deserve. I’ll tell everybody how the early-release programs in this bill will lead to more crimes like those that you’ve experienced. Together, we can make that bill so radioactive that no politician will dare touch it.”

Everyone broke into smiles and excited chatter. Kate Higgins rose unsteadily and shuffled toward him. He stood to receive her. He took in her white hair, her ravaged face. She reached out and grasped his hands; in his, hers felt tiny, delicate, and lost.

“God bless you, Mr. Hunter,” she said, smiling through her tears.

He couldn’t say anything.

He felt another set of eyes on him. He looked past her and saw Annie Woods watching him intently from across the room.

*

After the meeting broke up two hours later, he shook hands all around. It wasn’t a coincidence that he found himself leaving at the same time she did. They said their goodbyes to Susanne at the door.

They strolled casually, side by side, toward their cars. The bright moon cast tree shadows across the pavement of the cul-de-sac. Deep in the wealthy residential neighborhood, only the sounds of their footfalls broke the eloquent silence. He felt an electric tension rising between them with each step.

She broke it first. “It’s wonderful. What you’re doing.”

He looked at her. She wouldn’t meet his eyes; hers remained focused straight ahead as she walked.

He said, “Susanne is fortunate to have someone as loyal as you in her life.”

Her expression seemed to change, but she didn’t reply. As she reached her car, she pulled out her keys and unlocked it remotely.

You can’t get involved.

“I was wondering,” he heard himself say, “if you’d like to have dinner this Friday evening.”

She stopped. Didn’t speak for a moment. Then turned to face him. The moonlight bared what he thought was a hint of fear in her eyes.

“Dylan, I like you. But I hardly know you. And-”

“-and when you get to know me better over dinner, maybe you won’t like me.” He knew he should stop. He couldn’t. “But at least you’ll have had a great dinner.”

The fear was obvious now. “I really shouldn’t.”

Let her go.

“I really shouldn’t either. But I don’t seem to care.”

“Tell me you’re not married. Or involved with somebody.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “No, Annie. I’m not married. And I’m not involved with anyone.”

“Then why do you say you shouldn’t?”

“For the same reason you do.”

“You’re scared?”

“Terrified.”

“Terrified? Of what?”

“Why don’t we reveal our respective fears over dinner?”

She laughed. He did, too. It broke the tension. He asked for her number and address. She told him. She asked why he didn’t write them down. He told her he never had trouble remembering truly important things. She laughed again.

He loved her laugh.

He followed her around to the driver’s side. It was a physical effort not to touch her as she slid into the seat. Then to refrain from touching the window when she looked up at him and smiled.

She started the car and pulled away into the night.