“Sydney?”
“I’m sorry. I have to go.” She heard her mother crying just before she disconnected, then left the phone on the car seat beside her, wracked with guilt, but knowing she couldn’t go through with this and not tell her. She’d never lied to her mother. Never. But the truth was that the emotions of all this were overwhelming her, and when it came right down to it, she wanted to know that her mother, even Jake, cared as deeply as she did about her father, that they understood why she could not stand by and allow the man who had killed him to forget what day it was, or to escape justice by conning his misguided attorneys into believing he was innocent. But it was more than that, she realized. So much more. This was the chance her mother had denied her, the chance to face the man who had killed her father.
He had exhausted all his appeals and was supposed to be put to death for the murder, but the wheels of justice turn slowly, too slowly in his case. And though no one else might care, Sydney knew just why she’d made the trip. She wanted, needed to know what, if anything, this man had thought about during these past two decades.
She wanted to know if he was sorry.
That thought fled the moment she took her first real look at the entrance of San Quentin. She had never been there before. Had no wish to go. But she was there now, and what came to her mind was the absurd and surreal thought that the prison appeared to be a gothic fortress set on the shores of a windswept coastline. The picturesque effect was ruined, however, by the guard towers and fourteen-foot-high razorwire fences-and the fact she had to stop just inside the first gate and place her gun in a gun locker before driving through the second gate.
Sydney parked in a lot adjacent to the bay, where the cold wind whipped the water into a froth of whitecaps and the waves pounded the retaining wall, sending white spray over the top and misting the air with salt. She pulled her blazer tightly about her and glanced up at the dark sky, hoping the rain would hold off until after she finished with her interview and was back in her car.
Inside the building, after passing all security checkpoints, she ran her fingers through her windblown hair, in hopes of looking a bit more professional for the prison official who had agreed to help her when she’d called that morning. He was waiting in a conference room that smelled of coffee that had been percolating too long. He stood when she entered, his uniform neatly pressed, his shoes shined to perfection. “Thomas Sullivan?” she asked. “I’m Special Agent Sydney Fitzpatrick. I appreciate you seeing me through this.” “Not a problem.” He nodded at an empty pink bakery box on the table. “You just missed the last of the donuts. Or do Feds eat donuts?”
“This Fed does. But after my late night, what I really need is coffee,” she said, anxious to get the interview started, yet willing to stall at all costs.
“That we got plenty of,” he replied, and walked over to the counter. He poured coffee into two Styrofoam cups, then brought them to the table, indicating she should sit. “You ever been here before?”
“Other prisons, not this one.” Not until today.
“California’s oldest prison. I’m thinking if they had a crystal ball when they built the place back in 1852, they might’ve held out for condos. Think of the money they would’ve made. Four hundred thirty-two acres of priceless bay-side real estate, right here beneath our feet, not that the prisoners give a rat’s ass.”
She smiled, then sipped at the sharp coffee, nervous. He must have sensed it, because he asked, “How do you want to do this?”
“I’d like to interview him face-to-face with no partition.” “Anything else?”
“What’re the chances of not giving him my name? I’m… not here officially.”
“Don’t see a problem, long as we know who you are and log it. Not like you’re interrogating him or anything.”
Not in the real sense, she thought, and before she knew it, she was being led into another interview room in a secured part of the prison. Their footsteps echoed down the long hallway, and she thought that if she were smart, she’d turn back, ignore the temptation to ask this man why he’d done what he’d done. What did it matter? It was not going to bring her father back. It was stupid on her part. He wasn’t worth the effort, and after what Scotty had dropped in her lap, she didn’t need the emotional turmoil. But then they led him in, shackled at his hands and his feet, and her heart started pounding.
Johnnie Wheeler.
This was the man who had changed her life forever.
5
The guards seated Johnnie Wheeler at the table across from Sydney. When they turned to leave, she stood, desperate, wanting them to stop. She’d changed her mind. She did not want to be alone, not with this man, this murderer, and she was about to call out, tell them to wait. But her throat went dry, her voice failed her. Suddenly she was thirteen again, finding her father dead, and his pizza parlor burning down around her.
And now she was locked in the same room as the man who had killed him, and her lungs constricted. She sat, weakkneed, told herself to breathe normally.
Just breathe.
Slow and steady. Don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing his presence affected her.
With considerable effort, she willed herself to calm, then truly looked at him. Even though she had seen his photograph in that newspaper article, she was surprised by the man before her. Dressed in prison blues, he was average height, early forties, thin face, dark skin, one dark eye that seemed to take in everything, the other eye clouded, bluishwhite; she wasn’t even sure he could see through it. One more thing she didn’t recall from the photograph. That and his tightly curled hair, short and peppered with gray. All she had apparently committed to memory from the photo was the scar she’d seen that ran across his right cheek. She’d pictured someone much bigger, but figured it had something to do with being only thirteen at the time the crime occurred.
“You from the Innocence Project?” he asked when the guards left.
She couldn’t believe she’d heard correctly. His cloudy eye seemed to focus on her, as though it could see right into her, know that his words struck directly at her heart. The Innocence Project. Reading in the newspaper that he was getting new attorneys was one thing. Nothing in the article had mentioned the Innocence Project, very selective attorneys and staff who took on cases that were practically sure things…
Why the hell had she come here? She was only torturing herself, torturing her mother. But then she saw his hands scarred from the fire that he’d set to cover up the murder. The hands that had held the gun that had killed her father. Anger burned through her. She stood, forced her gaze to his, made sure he was looking right at her, and said, “I’m Sydney Fitzpatrick. The daughter of the man you murdered.” And when she knew she had his attention, knew that her name meant something, she continued. “My mother got her chance to speak her mind at your sentencing, but I wasn’t allowed to. And now I’m here to make sure you take my words to your grave.”
“What the fuck? I’m gonna call the-”
“Shut up!” She crashed her fist onto the metal table. He jerked back, his eyes going wide, his jaw dropping. “It’s my turn, and by God, I’m taking it, because you need to know what you stole from me, and for what? A few dollars?” She let that sink in, then leaned in closer, to make sure he heard every word. “Two months after you killed my father, I was the only girl on my soccer team who went to the fatherdaughter dinner with her mother. My father taught me how to ride a motorcycle and drive a car, even though I wasn’t old enough, but he wasn’t there to see me get my license. He didn’t get to see me graduate from high school, or accept an athletic scholarship to college. Or watch me graduate with honors and go to the police academy, and then the FBI academy. Because of you, he can’t walk me down the aisle if I get married. And now-now my mother and I fight every year because of you…” She pushed away from the table, but kept her gaze pinned on him. “ Yo u did that to me. You killed him, and you stole a huge part of my life. My mother’s life. We have never been the same. And it’s not fair that my father’s dead, and you’re sitting here, and that’s what I came to tell you.”