The Buck Stops Here (13 page)

“Callie Webber?” he said, reading from the license. “Is this your correct address?”

I waited as he logged me into the computer, and I gave Sparks’ name when asked whom I was here to visit.

“James Sparks,” the man repeated, typing on the keyboard. “Since this is an attorney visit, you do have the right to request a private conference room, you know.”

“Private?” I asked, pulse surging. Despite the need for privacy, I didn’t think I wanted to be completely alone with the man who had killed my husband.

“You might not need it,” he added. “It’s not a visiting day, so you’ll probably have plenty of privacy in the common room.”

“That will be fine, I’m sure,” I said.

“Okay, go through the door to your left. You get your license back on the way out.”

Just like when you rent a canoe
, I thought absurdly as I followed his directions.

The door buzzed and I stepped through to find the same man coming around the desk to process me. He took my purse and put it into a small locker, had me sign my name on a piece of paper next to the locker number, and then he asked me to step through a metal detector.

“All right, you have a nice visit,” he said, gesturing toward another door. I opened it to find a large, industrial-looking room with tables and chairs and a row of vending machines along one wall.

All along I had imagined speaking to Sparks on a phone and looking at him through thick Plexiglas. Instead, I realized, he would be right here in the room with me, with nothing between us but a table. I guess that was how minimum security worked, especially when it was an attorney visit.

The room was empty, and I chose a spot in a corner and sat, my hands folded in my lap. I was glad to have a bit of time before he came because my heart was pounding away in my chest like a jackhammer.

Closing my eyes, I thought back to the months following Bryan’s death, when the legal system ground along in its quest for justice against James Sparks. Though I had given depositions and visited with attorneys and followed the progress of the man’s case through legal channels, there had never come a point where Sparks and I were in the same place at the same time. I had seen newspaper pictures of him, of course, and a few film clips on TV. I could have even gone to his preliminary hearing if I had wanted to, but there was no reason for me to be there, so I chose not to go. In the end he pled guilty, and we were spared the agony of a trial. Today, for the first time, I would look into his eyes—the eyes of the man who killed my husband.

Oh, God
, I prayed silently,
I need You right now like I have never needed You before. Calm my heart. Guard my tongue. Give me strength. Help me to remember that I have forgiven this man.

When my prayer was over, I thought back to the day I learned that Sparks’ sentence had been handed down. Procuring justice for my dead husband had been my driving force since the accident, and when I learned that, indeed, justice had been served, my heart was filled with a mix of relief and great desperation. Once I knew that Sparks would pay for what he had done, I was left with no focus for my hurt, no target for my rage.

My pastor had been trying to counsel me about forgiveness, but I had turned a deaf ear until that point. Once Sparks was sentenced, I knew it was time to hand the whole matter over to God.

According to what I understood, “forgiveness” of the unforgivable didn’t mean retribution nor restitution nor reconciliation. It simply meant that I let go of my claim toward the anger and hurt, no matter how justified. In forgiving, I would grant a pass, so to speak, releasing this man to my heavenly Father, who alone was in a position to judge.

It hadn’t been easy, but there came a point late one night where I knelt on the floor in the middle of my silent, empty living room, sobbing, repeating a prayer over and over: “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespassed against us. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespassed against us.”

Somehow, the healing hand of God had touched my soul and let those words soak into my heart. The next morning, I got up feeling as though a weight had been lifted just a tiny bit from the core of my being. I decided then to move away, to leave behind the home my husband and I had shared and start a new life in a completely different place, out on the shores of Chesapeake Bay. Despite making the move, it ended up being many more months before I recovered from the dark depression that enshrouded me. But at least I had given forgiveness. That much was done and over with. Today would be a test of how genuine my heart had really been.

I looked up at the sound of voices to see two guards coming in from the visitor processing area. They didn’t even glance my way but instead bought some drinks from the soda machine and exited through a door on the other side of the room. Soon, the door they had gone through opened up again, and this time a different guard entered, escorting a man dressed all in khaki, the prison uniform. It was James Sparks. I recognized him from his pictures.

I stood. Sparks saw me and then took a step back in reaction.

“Hello, James,” I said loudly. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

The guard positioned himself near the door, hands folded in front of him. Slowly, Sparks walked toward me, a suspicious squint on his face.

“I know who you are,” he said in a slow Southern drawl. “When they said your name I wasn’t sure if it would be you, but it is. I recognize you from the newspapers.”

“Yes,” I said, feeling suddenly tongue-tied. The man across from me was about my age, with sandy blond hair and dark brown eyes. He wore glasses, which he pushed nervously into place.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

I gestured to the table between us.

“Why don’t we sit down?” I said, feeling oddly detached from my voice. I took a seat and then watched as he pulled out a chair on the other side of the table and perched on the very edge.

“What do you want?” he repeated.

“I want to talk to you,” I said, sounding much calmer than I felt. “I’ve been trying to piece some things together, and I have questions I think only you can answer.”

“What questions?”

He looked ready to bolt, and I tried to gather my wits about me. I was quaking on the inside, as the situation had really thrown me for a loop.

“First of all, why are you here, in this prison? I thought you were in a state penitentiary in Virginia.”

“Long story and none of your business. Why did you
come
here?”

He grew agitated, bouncing his knees up and down frantically.

“How do you know Tom Bennett?” I asked.

“What do you mean, how do I know Tom Bennett? He’s my brother-in-law.”

If he had punched me in the stomach, my reaction wouldn’t have been more profound.

“Your brother-in-law?” I managed to gasp.

“Yeah, my wife’s brother. Well, ex-wife.”

My mind reeled. Tom’s sister had been married to James Sparks? Everything in me yearned to stand up right there and start screaming. Instead, I forced myself to remain calm.

“How was Tom connected to my husband’s death?”

“What?”

“Tom. Was he there in that house on vacation with you? Did he rent the house, the boat? What was his connection?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“You killed my husband, James. Is a little information too much for me to ask?”

Sparks turned pale and his breathing grew ragged. He started digging frantically in his pocket. He produced a small yellow asthma inhaler, which he immediately put to his mouth, squirting it out and inhaling deeply. Once he caught his breath, he surprised me by reaching out with his other hand and gripping me tightly on the wrist.

“Don’t come here asking questions like this,” he rasped sharply. “That time is over. Done.”

The guard called out a warning and James let go of me.

“You were wrong to come here,” he whispered. “You’ve got to go.”

He stood, and as he did I could feel a sort of blackness closing in on me. He had to tell me more—I would make him tell me more!

“Are you allowed to make phone calls from here?” I demanded, wishing they hadn’t taken my purse, wishing I had a business card to hand him.

“Collect,” he said suspiciously.

“Then please call me,” I implored him. “I need some answers.”

He started to walk away, and I called out my cell phone number after him.

“Please,” I called. “Write it down.”

He stopped and looked at me.

“I don’t have to write it down,” he said derisively. “I have a head for numbers.”

Thirteen

Somehow, I was able to find the mental resources to make the next logical move. Tucking my emotions carefully away for the moment, I forced myself to breathe normally and decide on a rational course of action. Rather than leaving the prison straightaway, I claimed my purse and license and asked the man at the window how I might be able to meet with the warden. Perhaps he would be able to give me a little background information on Sparks—not to mention explain to me why a man who was supposed to be doing hard time in a state prison in Virginia was sitting in a cushy minimum security prison in Georgia. I wasn’t sure if I had a right to any of that information, but I should—as an attorney, as an interested party, and as the widow of the man Sparks killed.

While I waited, the fellow behind the glass made a few phone calls, and then he told me the warden could see me in about an hour, if I felt like hanging around.

“Where should I wait?” I asked.

“You can go on over there,” he said. “Out that door and then the third trailer on your left.”

I did as he said, passing two large temporary aluminum structures—what I assumed the man had been referring to as “trailers.” Sure enough, the sign on the third one said “Warden.” I knocked on the door and then stepped inside.

“Yeah?” a man asked from behind a desk. He was also in khakis, and I realized that perhaps he was a trustee, doing a little secretarial work.

“I’m here to see the warden,” I said. “He agreed to meet with me in about an hour.”

“Yeah, he’s busy right now,” he said. “You wanna wait here till he gets back?”

“If I may.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, gesturing toward two chairs that were in a corner, with a small end table between them. On the table was a tacky ceramic lamp and a small pile of magazines.

I sat, forcing myself to flip through the magazines, not surprised at the titles:
Field & Stream, American Hunter, Car and Driver
. The man returned to what he had been doing, typing slowly on a keyboard and staring at a computer screen in front of him. He seemed frustrated, and between grunts and curses, he would say, “Pardon me, ma’am.” Then he would curse again.

Knowing I needed to stay focused, I tried flipping through one of the magazines, but the words and pictures blurred together on the page. What was I going to do with what I had learned? If I answered no other questions in this investigation, one thing was astoundingly clear: I could never, ever trust Tom Bennett again.

“You know anything about Microsoft Word?” the man asked suddenly.

I looked up, surprised that he was talking to me.

“A little,” I said. “Problem?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what I clicked on, but all of a sudden these dots and symbols popped up on the page.”

“Can I take a look?”

“Yeah.”

I walked to the desk and leaned forward, knowing immediately what the problem was, that he had accidentally turned on the function that showed spaces between words and carriage returns. I showed him how to turn it back off, and when he did everything disappeared from the screen except his words. From what I saw of the text, it looked to be a requisition letter, something about frozen peas for the cafeteria.

“You smell nice,” he said suddenly, his voice husky.

I backed away, aware that the two of us were alone.

“Thank you,” I replied curtly.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be forward,” he said. “We just don’t have a lot of sweet-smelling women around here.”

He was blushing, and for some reason I didn’t take him as much of a threat. Balding and stocky, I had a feeling he was a white collar criminal, probably convicted of insider trading or something. This was minimum security, after all.

“May I ask you a question?” I asked, going back to my chair and thinking I just might use my “appeal” to this guy to my advantage.

“Sure,” he said, focusing on me and giving me what I’m sure he thought was a charming smile.

“Do you know James Sparks?”

“Who, Crunch? Yeah. He’s a decent fellow.”

“Crunch?”

“That’s his nickname. He’s some kind of math whiz, a number cruncher. We call him Crunch.”

“A math whiz?”

“Yeah, he’s always talking about ‘algorithms’ and stuff like that. Way over my head. He’s a computer geek.

“Wow,” I said. “Is that what James—uh, Crunch—did before he went to prison?” I asked. “Computer work?”

The man shrugged and turned his attention back to the screen. I think I offended him by using the word “prison.”