WATCHING BRAD
Part 125
The kids were eating breakfast when Terry arrived at seven on that Tuesday morning in June. Bernice arrived soon afterward, just before Brad and I left for Kitchener and the parole hearing, to help Terry with the kids until Lindsay went to school.
Kitchener is less than a two hour drive from where we live, but most of that time is taken up simply driving through Toronto, and that time extends significantly during the early-morning rush hour traffic. Believe me, the extra time is very necessary. Rush hour traffic begins at the Thirty-Five/One-Fifteen highway out of Peterborough to the east of us and usually doesn't let up until at least the Four Twenty-Seven on the west side of Toronto. In the early morning hours, the traffic is often bumper-to-bumper and very slow. There is no way to avoid it except to allow yourself the extra time to get through it.
I hated having to leave the kids again so soon. They looked so sad that we were going away once more, and wanted to come with us, but I had little choice. It wasn't necessary that I be at the parole hearing, but, for my own sanity, it
absolutely necessary.
We took the kids away from their breakfast so that we could give them as many hugs and kisses as we could before we left.
It was another cool morning and Brad and I pulled on our jackets as we headed out the door. It was most unusual for June to be so cool. Perhaps a mild Summer was in our forecast after all, despite what the weather forecasters kept telling us.
Our first stop was to pick up Al, my attorney, at his home. He wanted to be at the hearing as well. With Al in the back seat, I headed for the Four-Oh-One and then west toward Toronto. As expected, the traffic was heavy, but moving relatively well. Things slowed down when we reached the Express Lanes. They were at a virtual stand-still, so I kept to the right and drove the Collectors until we got past the slowdown - a tractor trailer and car collision with the tractor trailer almost horizontal across the lanes and blocking them. There didn't look to be much left of the car.
Of course, the rubber-neckers caused a slowdown in the Collector Lanes as well, but that lessened as soon as we were past the accident.
"I'm glad you're driving, Ted," Al commented.
"So am I," Brad added. "I hate driving in this stuff."
As soon as I could, I pulled into the Express Lanes. It was still slow-going, but it was faster than the Collectors. There wasn't much conversation, especially not to me, at least not until the traffic cleared and became more manageable. All three of us were too busy watching for idiot lane hoppers like that idiot who got himself creamed awhile back.
I've never understood that practice. I've seen a lot of lane hoppers over the years and rarely do they make any more progress than I do. All they succeed in doing is raising the ire of fellow drivers and leaving a line of fender benders in their wake when they try to squeeze themselves into a spot much too small for them and the people they cut off must brake to avoid getting clipped, which only causes the car behind them to bump them from the rear.
As I had predicted, by the time we made it through Toronto and the traffic, we were right on schedule. We would be in Kitchener in plenty of time for Al to direct us to the prison. Conversation picked up after that.
"You really don't have to worry about Lindsay," Al told me from the back seat. He'd told me often enough since the call came in that Connie was going for parole, but it didn't hurt to hear it again. "Even if she decided to go for custody, it would take a pretty cold and callous judge to ignore the medical reports and grant it to her."
"But she can still make our lives miserable."
"Oh, yes. Of course she can," Al continued. "But she would be walking on thin ice if she did. If she succeeds in getting parole today, she will undoubtedly be put on probation and she could easily find herself back in prison if she tries anything stupid. Still, I would keep a close watch and, if necessary, apply for Orders of Protection again."
Brad turned to face the back seat. "Could he apply tomorrow if she gets out?"
"First of all," Al explained, "if she gets parole today, she won't get out today. That wouldn't happen for a few weeks or maybe even months. Secondly, you can't get OPs on conjecture. There must be evidence of her wrong-doing."
Brad nodded and looked at me. "So, we'll just have to keep our eyes peeled."
"Yup."
"Maybe we should start walking Lindsay to school again," Brad suggested.
"I don't think that's necessary," I told him. "I doubt if Lindsay would go with her, and she knows not to go with anyone she doesn't know, no matter what they tell her."
"I'll keep my eyes peeled anyway," Brad concluded.
I was sure he would.
* * * * *
With Al's directions, we found the Grand Valley Institution easily enough and were soon going through the security process of getting inside. Fortunately, Al had told us what it would be like, so we weren't entirely surprised. Still, it was a rather lengthy process. We were all scanned with metal detectors and given a pat-down search. The small, manilla envelope I carried, the one containing the photo of Lindsay I'd promised to bring, was searched and returned to me.
We were led into the room where the hearing would take place and ushered inside. The Assistant Crown Attorney who had put Connie here in the first place was already there. We reintroduced ourselves to each other and sat together to talk before the hearing began - the CA sitting to my right and Brad to my left. Al sat in the next chair.
"Do you plan on contesting the parole?" the CA asked me.
"I don't know yet," I replied. "She phoned me a few weeks back to talk to me. She said she'd changed a lot in here. I think I'll have to wait until I see and hear her before I make that decision. I can pretty-much tell when she's playing games with everyone."
The CA nodded. He was a pleasant man, dark-haired and greying at the temples."You understand that it's my duty to contest the parole."
"Yes," I replied as I smiled at him, "I understand. It's nice to see my tax dollars doing something more than filling potholes."
He laughed, and Brad and Al joined him.
"By the way," the CA said with a little smirk, "thank you for buying my lunch."
We chatted idly after that, waiting. Soon enough, the parole panel arrived and took their seats behind the long table in front of us. Set in front of that table was a single chair. There were three members in the panel - two men and one woman. Al had told us it would be an odd number in order to avoid tie votes. It would take two votes either way to grant or to deny parole. The vote didn't have to be unanimous.
Each member set a file folder onto the table in front of them and opened it, perusing the pages inside as they, too, waited. We were the only people in the room. A minute or so later, the door opened behind us and our heads turned to see Connie being ushered in, a female guard holding her by the arm and leading her. She was dressed in a simple pair of light-beige slacks and a plain, white blouse. I had expected some sort of prison garb.
Connie's eyes immediately caught mine and she looked at me intently as she passed the row of chairs in which we were sitting. I saw something in her face that I hadn't thought I would ever see when she looked at me. I saw fear. I hadn't seen that look in her eyes since she began to change when we were still married. The look was back now, but her fear wasn't for herself. Her fear was of me.
She turned her face away quickly and allowed herself to be taken to the single chair in front of the table where she sat down. She had certainly changed in appearance. She had gained quite a bit of weight and her hair was much shorter for one thing. For another, all of her fancy jewelry and makeup was missing, including her beloved earings. That was to be expected, I suppose, what with her being in prison.
Still, when Connie had become The Bitch, she had begun taking enormous care to look her absolute best at all times. Weekly trips to the hair dresser, spa treatments, manicures, pedicures, facials. The whole nine yards, as they say.
There was none of that there that day. There was no haughty behaviour, no hoity-toity swagger, no ‘I'm better than you are' attitude. No expensive clothes or fancy hair-dos or layers of makeup. She looked decidedly plain and natural. She looked pretty. Her shoulders slumped slightly and her head tilted forward, her eyes looking at the floor as if in shame. She appeared to be a lesser woman than I knew her to be. Either she was putting on one helluva show for us, or she had, indeed, changed.
Connie sat in her chair, her hands clasped in her lap, and stared straight ahead at the people sitting at the table in front of her. I settled in to watch and to listen with greatest of care and attention. I knew both the real and the false Connie very well. I would know which was sitting in front of me.
The man in the middle, the eldest of the three and, apparently, the spokesperson of the group, glanced once more at his folder, then looked up at Connie and said, "Constance Pratt?"
I hadn't been aware that she went back to her maiden name. She had kept the de Villiers name even after the divorce simply because it sounded much more exotic and was a great ice breaker at parties. She had, in fact, studied everything she could find on South Africa and the Afrikaaner history and way of life until she knew more about it than I did. She was proud of her proclaimed heritage and used it to enormous advantage whilst climbing the social ladder, despite the fact that it was no more her heritage than I was Irish.
"I prefer ‘Connie', Sir," Connie replied, her voice uncustomarily soft and unassuming. "If you don't mind."
"Not at all," the man said. "Do you understand that we are here to assess your eligibility for parole?"
"Yes, Sir."
"There is a message here that you would like to make a statement before we begin," he added as he looked once more at the folder.
"Yes, please," Connie replied. "If I may."
The man nodded and Connie began to rise to her feet. "Please, remain seated," the man said.
Connie sat again. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "Thank you."
She had already been more polite these past few minutes than she had been during the past two years of our marriage. This was the Connie I remembered dating back in university.
"I almost refused to come to this hearing today," she began.
"Why would you do that?" the woman behind the table asked.
Connie's head turned slightly to look at the woman. "I believe I am where I belong. I believe I should endure the full punishment for my crime. What I did to my daughter was both deplorable and inexcusable. My punishment should not be less than hers."
Connie did not tilt her head to the side.
"Then why are you here?" the woman asked. "You had the right to decline this hearing."
"I'm here because Mr. de Villiers, my ex-husband and father of my child, promised me that he would bring a photograph of my daughter and his adopted family for me."
The older man looked past Connie toward us. "Is one of you Mr. de Villiers?"
I stood up. "I am."
"Do you have the photo?"
"Yes, Sir," I replied as I held up the manilla envelope. I took a step forward, but Al grabbed my arm and stopped me. Apparently, I had broken protocol. I stepped back to the chair, but remained standing.
At a nod from the man in the middle, the guard who had ushered Connie into the room came to me and retrieved the envelope, carrying it back to the man as I sat down again. He opened the envelope, extracted the photo, and examined both sides, even holding it up to the light. Satisfied that there were no hidden messages or anything, he handed the photo to the guard, but held onto the envelope. The guard gave the photo, a five by seven of Lindsay's latest school photo, to Connie, who took it almost hesitantly. She looked at it for a very long moment
Connie held it in her palms as she looked at it, then bent her elbows, pressing the photo to her chest. She twisted around in her chair so she could see me. Tears ran down her cheeks. Her mouth said the words, "Thank you," but there was no sound. She quickly turned back to the panel and looked at the photo again.
I sucked a deep breath into my lungs and made my decision. "It's not an act," I whispered to Brad. "This is real."
"This little girl is why I deserve to be here," Connie continued, her voice full of sadness, breaking and cracking with each syllable. She did not look up from the photo. "I hurt my daughter in way I could never have dreamed. I deserve to be here."
"Could you tell us how you hurt her?" the younger man asked.
Connie finally looked up at the panel."I broke her arm, but I'm afraid I don't know the details. Ted. . . Mr. de Villiers. . . could explain it much better. No-one has ever explained it to me."
The younger man looked at me. "Mr. de Villiers?"
Al motioned that I should stand. I did so and began the explanation. "It was a compound spiral fracture of the ulna and radius," I said. "The two bones in the forearm."
"What's a spiral fracture?" the woman asked.
"It's an oblique fracture of the arm caused by twisting it," I explained. Indicating with my index finger on my own forearm, I continued. "In Lindsay's case, the fractures ran up the arm instead of across. They weren't complete fractures, but they were bad enough that they would have broken entirely if she bumped her arm the wrong way or fell on it. The doctor decided it was best to put her arm in a cast."
The woman stared at Connie, a look of horror and disbelief on her face. I sat down again. "How did this happen?" she asked my ex-wife.
I thought Connie might downplay her role in the incident and lay all the blame on Lindsay, but I was mistaken.
"I was angry," she began. "I caught her looking at my makeup and I became angry. I grabbed her wrist and spun her around and when I did, Lindsay fell. I yanked her back to her feet. I suppose that is when it happened."
"Was she playing with the makeup?" the woman asked.
"No, she was just looking at it, but I was very possessive back then, and very protective of my things. I valued my makeup case more than I valued my own daughter."
"Did you know you had broken her arm?" the older man asked.
"No," Connie replied. "I didn't even look to see. Lindsay was crying and holding her arm, but I sent her to her room and told her to stop acting like a little baby. When she didn't stop crying, I spanked her until she did."
"With your hand?" the man asked.
"That time, yes."
"What do you mean, ‘that time'?" the younger man asked.
"About a week before," Connie explained honestly, "I caught her watching television when she wasn't supposed to be watching it. I used the back of the remote control to spank her." Her head tilted forward, avoiding the accusing eyes of the panel. "I used to be a good mother," she continued. "I was a good mother. But things changed.
I changed. After our separation and divorce, I suffered migraines and I began gaining weight. I got was on pain pills and diet pills. I used pills to put me to sleep at night and pills to wake me up in the morning. I used Lindsay's child support to help buy them. My little girl wore old clothes so I could look more beautiful."
She looked up again. "I was a different person before, and I'm a different person now. I was a good mother." She paused and then said very quietly. "But I became a monster to her. I was so messed up, so obsessed with my looks and being popular, that I didn't care if she was hurt or went to bed hungry. I was more concerned with keeping my makeup kit full. I used my daughter to get back at her father and I don't blame either of them for despising me so much."
Connie wiped at her eyes with the back of one hand. "That's all I wanted to say."
The younger man said, "Your report says that you had two behavioural incidents during the first week you were here, but none since. Could you explain that, please?"
"Yes," Connie said. "As I said a moment ago, I was angry and strung out on pills when I injured my daughter. When I was brought here, I was still angry and going through withdrawal. I hit one girl across the back with my food tray just because she took the piece of pie I wanted. The second occurred in the shower when another girl borrowed my shampoo without asking me."
"So, you're blaming the pills for your actions?" the young man asked accusingly.
"Oh, no," Connie replied. "Not at all. I take full responsibility for it. You see, I was so angry at Mr. de Villiers. I blamed him for everything. I blamed him for not providing me with the lifestyle I wanted. I blamed him for our divorce. I blamed him for taking my pills away from me, and I blamed him for taking away my daughter and putting me in here where people steal my pie and borrow my shampoo without permission." Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "But then I suddenly realized that he had nothing to do with it. I was angry at the wrong person. I had done it all to myself with my greed and my obsession with being someone I was never intended to be. That day, I signed up for detox and took anger management classes. I haven't had any incidents since then. In fact, after I apologized to the girls, the who took the pie is one of my best friends here now."
"If we grant you parole," the woman asked, "will you try to reconcile with your family?"
"No," Connie said, her voice full of sadness and despair as she looked down at the photo she still clasped tightly in her fingers. "They are lost to me now. Even my own parents don't want anything to do with me. My daughter is happy living with her father and she has two new adopted brothers, and my ex-husband is happily engaged to be married soon. I won't interfere with their new lives together. I can't be part of it anymore."
"What will you do?" the older man in the middle asked.
Connie looked up from the photo. "If you're kind enough to grant me parole, I'd like to make arrangements to move out west, if that's possible, to serve my probation. No-one knows me out there and I can start my life over and begin supporting my daughter the way I should have when she was with me. I taught some women in here how to read and I enjoyed it. I'm trained as a teacher, but I think I'd like to try to find a job teaching illiterate adults how to read."
I noticed the woman on the panel nodding slightly.
"Thank you," the older man said, showing a small smile which hid any decisions he might have made at the time. "I have no more questions." He looked at the other man and the woman beside him. They both shook their heads ‘no'. He looked, then, at the Crown Attorney and nodded.
The CA pulled a sub-folder from his lap and rose to his feet. He took off his glasses and tucked them into his suit pocket, then held the folder out to the guard who took it and placed it on the table in front of the three panelists. As they opened the folder, he began to speak. "Miss Pratt may be sincere in her apologies, but I would like to remind the esteemed panel that this woman brutalized a nine-year-old child, and that child was her own daughter. The photos you see there were taken by a nurse and the police after the child's father took her to hospital for treatment."
"Excuse me," the woman said, "what is this mark on her back?"
"I believe," the CA replied, "that is where the child's babysitter threw a shoe and hit her."
The woman looked up at Connie. "Did you know about this?"
"Yes," Connie replied, her voice full of shame, "but I didn't do anything about it."
"You didn't even fire the babysitter?" the younger man asked.
"No." And then Connie lowered her head and began to sob. Through her whimpers, I could hear her saying, "I'm so sorry, Lindsay. Please forgive me."
The older man ignored her and nodded to the CA to continue.
"Miss Pratt may be repentant," the CA said, "but the fact remains that her own selfish desires caused horrible injury to her daughter. Anyone who can do that without any compassion toward the child whatsoever, either before or after, doesn't deserve the freedoms that parole would allow to her. Whatever good she may have done whilst in prison cannot make up for the horrors she has caused her family. Therefore, I respectfully request that you deny parole at this time. Thank you."
The CA sat down beside me. The eyes of the panel turned to me.
"Mr. de Villiers," the man in the middle said, "would you like to speak?"
I took a deep breath and rose to my feet. "Yes, please," I said. I took another deep breath and began. "Miss Pratt told the truth. For the first time in many years, she told the truth. She
was a good mother. Lindsay was everything to her. Even I didn't have the same priority our daughter had. But then she changed, and her priorities changed when she did. Lindsay became nothing more than a tool to be used to further her priorities."
Connie still hung her head low. I could still hear her sobs and I could see her shoulders heaving with each one. I gulped at the lump in my throat. It had been a long time since I had seen Connie acting so human.
"Lindsay is happy now," I continued. "She has two new brothers who I have adopted, and she has two new grandparents who she adores, and they adore her. I think Lindsay would move in with them permanently if I let her." The woman panelist smiled at me. "Her grades have risen and she has made a lot of new friends. She rarely speaks of her mother, though, and doesn't even keep photos of her. Lindsay's biggest fear is that she will have to go back to live with Connie."
Connie broke down then, bending over and hugging the picture of Lindsay close to her and crying uncontrollably. I stared at her back for a very long moment before I concluded my little speech. "No amount of prison time could punish her more than she is punishing herself. Perhaps, someday, Lindsay will want to see her again, but I certainly won't encourage her to do so. Neither will I try to prevent it. That will be her decision to make at another time."
My eyes rose to the panel of judges before me, seeing them through bleary, tear-filled eyes. "I have no objection to Connie being granted early parole. She has been punished enough."
I sat down again and Brad instinctively grabbed my hand and squeezed. I could feel him looking at me, but I ignored him and stared straight ahead. I didn't pull my hand away, though. I needed to know he was there and I held onto him to make sure he wouldn't let go.
* * * * *
We decided to stay in Kitchener until we could return to hear the decision at three o'clock that afternoon. We didn't talk about the hearing. After lunch and Brad and I went shopping for the kids. I found some nice Summer outfits for all three and bought them with hopes that Summer would actually arrive this year.
Al spent the time waiting by sitting outside the mall and talking to his office on his cell phone. We returned to the prison in plenty of time for the panel's.
Connie was ultimately granted parole. Her behaviour and her accomplishments throughout her imprisonment swayed all three panelists to vote in her favour.
Her release date would be Thursday, July 13, 2006 - two days before our wedding.
To Be Continued
Well done, Neil. I'm sure it won't be long before you have us on the edge of our seats again, but I can relax for now with such a fine chapter that just made me feel good all over.
. well I better get going. Have a nice day!
