Just a small one. If anyone besides Wanderer reads the comments, they will see his comments to me on the first part of the story. While those comments were all very interesting, and thought provoking, as well as the exact things that he knows push my buttons and get me going on one of my rants he so loves to tear apart, I decided to simply let the story play itself out over the coming weeks and see how many of his questions can be answered that way. After all, this story is here partly because of those very same questions. Hopefully, Steve, and everyone else curious, the answers to your queries will show up in the story before its conclusion. When I type the words "The End" on this one, I fully expect that to be the beginning of another one of our famous discussions. Until then, keep commenting, and keep asking. The story is far from over, even in my handwritten draft from which I am typing this. Who knows? One of your questions could end up leading this thing in a direction I cannot now foresee.
God Bless, Arthur B Roberts
Part Three to be posted soon, but I am going to be extremely busy for the next few weeks, so, as usual, no promises.

THE MEETING part two: Reporters

"Reverend Woods! Reverend Woods! Do you expect an apology from your daughter's killer?"
"Mr. Woods, why are you doing this?"
"Who initiated the contact?"
"What do you think your daughter would say if she knew you were here today?"
And a thousand other questions, all being shouted at him, overlapping each other and making it extremely difficult for him to keep walking forward. The distance between him and the prison's visitor entrance was no more than fifteen feet, yet Alex wasn't sure he could make it.
The media had been obsessed with the case ever since Jessica had gone missing that Monday morning. There was a call from the school at 9:00 asking where Jessica was. Then, at 10:00, after a little girl reported seeing a pretty blond dragged from the city bus stop to a waiting car, a call from the police. By noon, Alex and Aimee Woods were making passionate pleas to the kidnapper on local news stations. The media ran reports throughout that excruciatingly long week, and when rumors sparked that Jessica's disappearance may have been connected to a recent string of killings in the area, the coverage increased.
Then, that Saturday afternoon, a search party came across Jessica's body buried in a shallow grave in a nearby forest and all hell broke loose. Not only had the killer left Jessica's body in a rather obvious place, he'd also left behind some rather crucial evidence, including a well preserved shoe print and, for the first time since the disappearance of Katlin Jones, whose decomposed body hadn't been found until two agonizing months later, he had left both fingerprints and DNA. That, along with a police sketch derived from the memory of the little girl who had witnessed Jessica's abduction, led the police to Vincent J. Hynes. Jessica, being the most recent known victim, became the case's poster child. The media was calling the Woods' house every day asking for interviews, pictures, even a prime time special on one of the major networks.
All that Alex and his family had wanted was to grieve for Jessica and to see her killer come to justice. Newspapers, TV shows, magazines, and news radio hosts ignored that. They wanted a story. When they realized that the Woods family wasn't going to allow their mourning to become a public spectacle, the pressure eased considerably. At least it did before Alex again made headlines with his act of forgiveness at sentencing. Then, they were back in full force. They weren't satisfied with his statement: "What I said was between Mr. Hynes, myself, and God. Thank you." But he would give them nothing else.
Now, all he wanted was to get into that prison and out again without being bombarded with questions. That wasn't going to happen. He braced himself, looked firmly at the door and the sign that read: "ALL VISITORS MUST CHECK IN AND BE APPROVED. NO EXCEPTIONS!"
And he was in. He checked in immediately. The receptionist said that they were expecting him. He glanced back outside the glass doors at the intruders with their cameras and tape recorders and note pads and said, "No kidding." She laughed a little at that and then flushed red, realizing that there wasn't much humor in this situation. She took down his name, had him sign in, and then told him to wait for his escort who was due any minute.
After a cursory search by a bored looking corrections officers Alex was led to the visitation room. Standing outside the gray metal door were two men. One was a short balding black man in a white uniform shirt. His badge identified him as Lt. R. Mark. Alex couldn't guess at the man's first name and he would probably never find out. Men like Lt. Mark, whose expression conveyed the opinion that everyone else on earth was put there just to irritate him, rarely offered personal information to someone unless it benefited him. The other man, looking strangely out of place in his gray slacks, blue shirt, and gray tie, was Chaplain Joseph O'Brien. Alex knew this not only by his I.D. badge, but by the large Catholic Bible under his right arm, his obviously Irish features, including a mop of bright red hair, and the look on his face. He was the first person Alex had seen since entering the facility who looked like he actually cared for the inmates held there. In all the times Alex had visited prisons and jails he quickly learned that look was usually reserved for Chaplains or other religious workers and volunteers. The C.O.'s, wardens, and other employees couldn't give a rip for their charges, especially those in this particular branch of the system where the inmates had been deemed unworthy to live.
The bored C.O. dropped Alex off outside the door and went about his business.
"Reverend Woods, I presume," Lt. Mark said gruffly.
"That's right," he said, extending his hand. "Call me 'Alex.'"
Mark took the hand and gave it a shake that wasn't meant as a greeting, but as a challenge. Alex could almost feel his finger bones cracking and tried not to wince. He then shook O'Brien's hand and found it warm and friendly, a handshake to match his aged face.
"Reverend Woods," Mark said, "I've been told to inform you of the dangers involved with meeting with Hynes."
"I'm well aware of the dangers, sir."
"Yes, Reverend Woods, I'm sure that you are." Mark cleared his throat. "You will be alone with him, as you requested, but there will be two guards posted outside the door. Should the inmate at any time make you feel threatened, call to these guards and they will restrain the inmate. The meeting will end immediately. If either guard or another officer senses that you are in danger, they will end the meeting. This will be at their discretion, not yours!"
There was an implied question in the officer's tone which Alex answered with a quiet, "I understand."
"Good," Mark went on. "The inmate will be in both hand cuffs and leg shackles at all times. You will sit at opposite ends of the table and remain seated at all times. You will have exactly two hours, not a second more. You will be informed when you have fifteen minutes remaining. Is all of this clear, Reverend Woods?"
"Perfectly, Lieutenant," Alex replied.
"Good," Mark said. "I'll leave you to talk with the Chaplain while I retrieve the inmate. We will return in less than fifteen minutes."
"Thank you, Lieutenant."
Mark simply nodded and went down the hallway. He disappeared around the next corner.
"I'm sorry about him," O'Brien said.
"Is he always like that?” Alex asked.
"Today's a good day," O'Brien said with a smile that made the sixty-year-old look ten years younger.
The Chaplain took a key chain from his belt and opened the large metal door with it. The door led to the small private visitation room where Alex would sit and meet with his daughter's killer. Normally, inmates kept in solitary confinement, especially dangerous ones, would only be allowed to meet with a visitor over a short telephone connection separated by wire mesh glass, but this was a special religious visit and they had been granted the room reserved for such visits. There was one table, bolted to the concrete floor, and two plastic green chairs. Besides the camera mounted in the corner, that was it. The cinderblock walls were painted a pale, institutional blue.
"Let's have a seat, shall we, Alex?" O'Brien suggested. "I think we would talk before they bring Hynes in."
They each sat in one of the green chairs, Alex facing the door through which they had come. He could tell that the chair would be comfortable for all of thirty seconds. Furniture in correctional facilities was not chosen for comfort any more than the food was chosen for taste.
"I must admit," O'Brien began, "I'm surprised that you actually came here today. I mean, considering the circumstances..."
"Mark 11:25 and 26, Chaplain," Alex replied. "Are you familiar with the passage?"
"Not off hand."
"'And whenever you stand praying, if you have anything against anyone, forgive him, that you Father in heaven may also forgive your trespasses. But, if you do not forgive, neither will your Father in heaven forgive your trespasses.'"
"So you're telling me that you've forgiven your daughter's killer?" Alex couldn't tell if O'Brien sounded surprised or impressed.
"Not exactly," Alex said. "In fact, I'm here because that's what I need to do. I've been praying at the altar with this in the way for far too long.”
"Well," O'Brien said, "in any case, you may find it a difficult afternoon, and not just because of Mr. Hynes' history with you. When he was first transferred here a year ago I tried meeting with him. I try meeting with all the new inmates. Something about coming to death row makes a person really look at their spiritual state."
"I can imagine."
"Hynes was... hostile, to put it mildly," the Chaplain went on. "I've had hostile inmates before, but few like this. He's a very angry person, and a lot of that anger is directed at God. Suffice it to say, one meeting was all we had and all that came of it was a black eye on my part."
"He hit you?"
"Yep. He told me to get the 'F' out of there. God hated him and I was wasting my time."
"But he requested this meeting," Alex reminded him.
"Something else which surprised me," O'Brien said. "I've been praying for him. Well, Saint Jude and I."
"The Patron Saint of Lost Causes?" Alex said smiling.
"It seemed appropriate," O'Brien replied. "I'm surprised that you know that. I thought you were Methodist."
"Free Methodist," Alex said, making a correction that had become habit. "But I do know a bit about my Catholic brothers."
"Well, just be prepared for hostility," O'Brien said, "and be prepared to duck."
"Thank you, Chaplain."
"Call me Joe," O'Brien said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some work to do. I hate to leave you alone right now-"
"That's okay," Alex said. "I need a few minutes to pray. And to calm my nerves."
O'Brien stood and turned for the door.
"Hey, Joe," Alex called. O'Brien turned back. "If you find time during your busy day, say a prayer for me, would ya'?"
"Of course."
O'Brien left the room with a smile and Alex was alone. Vincent J. Hynes would not arrive for another ten minutes. It would turn out to be a very long ten minutes.