The amazing part was that Roland Hannah had been an inmate in the State Correctional Facility at Graterford for the past five years.
THREE
Who is worthy to open the book,
and to loose the seals thereof?
FORTY-TWO
Detectives Jessica Balzano and Kevin Byrne sat in a department-issue Taurus on the rise overlooking Graterford State Correctional Facility.
In her years on the Philadelphia Police force Jessica had only been here a handful of times. The realm of correctional facilities — their inner workings, their politics, the very world they occupied — was beyond the experience of most city detectives. The majority of a homicide detective’s work took place at a different part of the continuum which began the moment one person lifted his or her hand in anger at another, and ended when a convicted suspect was led from a courtroom in shackles.
The Pennsylvania State Correctional Institution at Graterford was located in Skippack Township, Montgomery County, about thirty miles west of the city of Philadelphia. Built in 1929, it was Pennsylvania’s largest maximum-security prison, housing more than 3,500 inmates. In addition to its five major cell blocks, and small mental-health unit, the facility was surrounded by 1,700 acres of farmland.
There were nine manned towers sticking out above its high walls, ringed with concertina wire.
Overcrowding was a problem in many US prisons, and in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania it was no different. The prison population was currently at over 50,000 inmates, occupying space meant for just over 43,000.
In 2010 an inmate serving a ten-year sentence was released and went on to murder a Philadelphia police officer. A moratorium on paroles was instituted and, although that had eased, overcrowding was still an issue.
The crumbling facility was due to be mothballed when two new prisons opened near Philadelphia. Meanwhile Graterford was bursting at the seams.
The process by which a city detective arranged an interview with an inmate incarcerated at Graterford was a fairly complicated one, a process which had been smoothed over by the captain of the Homicide Unit and the district attorney’s office.
Roland Hannah had confessed to three homicides, but waived his right to allocution — the process by which an individual stands before the court and explains his actions. To this day the reasons for those crimes remained a mystery, but only in the legal sense. It was clear to everyone, especially police investigators, why Roland Hannah did what he did. As a result of his confession Hannah was spared the death penalty, and was sentenced to three life sentences, without the possibility of parole.
But all of that now had the potential to change. Jessica and Byrne had been briefed before visiting the prison that Hannah’s lawyer had already petitioned the court for his client’s release, pending a new trial, all on the basis that Hannah had been framed then, as he was now. The reason for his prior confession, it was now being alleged, was diminished capacity, and no small measure of police coercion.
There were many questions, not the least of which was who was bankrolling Roland Hannah’s new lawyer, James H. Tolliver, one of the priciest defense attorneys in Philadelphia.
They met James Tolliver just outside the meeting room. He was about fifty, well-tanned and well-dressed. He carried an expensive charcoal gray overcoat over one arm, and held a black leather Ferragamo briefcase.
Just where was Roland Hannah getting the funds? Jessica wondered. While it was true that many lawyers at white-shoe firms did pro bono work, this case didn’t seem to line up, politically speaking. Unless, of course, the ultimate strategy was that an overzealous police department and district attorney’s office had railroaded Roland Hannah’s conviction to close out a terrible run of unsolved murders.
They all introduced themselves. Polite, but stone cold.
‘Against my advice, Reverend Hannah has requested that I not be present in the room when you speak with him.’
Good, Jessica thought.
‘But rest assured that I will be listening to everything said in that room, detectives,’ Tolliver added. ‘If I feel you are moving into an area I think it unwise for my client to enter, I will be inside in a flash and this interview will be over.’
The room was painted an institutional green. It measured ten by fifteen feet. There were three small barred windows, set high on the wall, letting in enough light to see what sort of day it was outside, but not allowing inmates to see much else.
At the center of the room was a table bolted to the floor. On one side was a dented metal chair, also secured. The other side held a pair of folding chairs that did not look much more comfortable.
At just after 2 p.m. the door opened, and the prisoner was led in. Both his feet and his hands were shackled.
Jessica had not seen Roland Hannah in years, their last meeting occuring at the hearing during which he confessed to murder. In the intervening years his hair, which he now wore nearly to his shoulders, had turned a fog white. He had lost weight, and the orange jumpsuit hung loosely on what had already been a slender frame. His face looked as if it were carved from alabaster.
The corrections officer sat Roland Hannah down on the metal chair. He took the cuffs from his hands then stood behind the prisoner, looking to Jessica and Byrne for his cue. Jessica nodded and the officer left the room, shutting and bolting the door behind him.
The fresh silence was deep and protracted. For almost a full minute no one spoke. It was Roland Hannah who broke the calm.
‘Good afternoon, detectives,’ he said. ‘It has been a while. I hope you are well.’
In addition to his orange jumpsuit the man wore dark amber-tinted aviator glasses.
Roland Hannah was blind.
Jessica wondered how much Hannah had been told. She knew that he had met, at great length, with his lawyer, so she had to assume he knew everything — details of the current spate of murders, as well as the church connection.
‘Mr Hannah,’ Jessica said.
She saw the reaction on his face, the small tic of displeasure. He said nothing. Roland Hannah, at the time of the murders that put him in SCI Graterford, was an ordained minister. There was no way Jessica was going to call him Reverend Hannah. Not unless she needed to. Not unless there was fruit to be picked from this encounter.
‘I would say “It’s nice to see you again,” but I am not a fan of irony,’ Roland said.
‘Do you know why we’re here?’ Byrne asked.
Roland Hannah remained silent for a few moments. It was impossible to read his expression behind the tinted glasses. ‘Have you both come to accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior?’
‘Why do you ask that?’ Jessica asked.
‘Well, I like to think of myself as one of His more evangelical minions, but this seems like quite an effort on your part. If you wanted to be baptized there are plenty of churches you could have gone to.’
‘I’ve been baptized, Mr Hannah,’ Jessica said.
‘Praise His name. What is your chosen path?’
Jessica had the feeling he would try to engage her in this discussion. As little as she wanted to accommodate him, she knew it was necessary. ‘I’m Catholic.’
Roland nodded. He turned his face to the meager gray light sifting through the high windows, then back toward Jessica and Byrne. ‘I have a special affinity for the Catholics, you know.’
‘Is that right?’ Jessica asked.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Roland said. ‘From the time I was twelve or thirteen I had the notion I was going to become a Catholic priest. Mama was a Baptist, of course, but every chance I got I would sneak off to a Catholic mass. Took to hanging around the rectories, helping out at the CYO functions, generally being a nuisance. Even made myself a Roman collar once out of my mama’s sewing basket.’