His joints ached as they always had when he'd gotten too little sleep. The dull pain in his sixty-four-year-old knees was becoming the norm, and the Chicago winter wasn't helping. Being on sabbatical this semester only made his work habits less structured, and he couldn't help himself from working past 2 a.m. most nights. He thought coming to the office without having teaching duties was enjoyable, but being on campus had its disadvantages. Today, it was an early-morning committee meeting. He was supposed to be exempt from such things, but he was sighted, and then "invited" to join the meeting by the Dean himself. Now he was obligated. He decided that it was okay, just this once, since it forced him to get an early start on his work.
His involvement in the DNA Project had been a boost for his already successful career in law: it had led to him being offered the directorship of the DNA Foundation. But now he thought he might be starting to spread himself too thin. It wasn't easy to teach law and run the Foundation, although the conflict would be delayed for the time being. But sabbatical would end before he knew it, and he would need help.
The real impact of the Foundation was on his ambition; he now had the means to affect true, positive change in the legal system. His early efforts with the DNA Project contributed to the moratorium on the death penalty, and that was certainly something of which he could be proud. But the next thing, and his central goal as the leader of the DNA Foundation, was to expose the Compressed Punishment program.
Two CP facilities were already active; one in Detroit, and another on Long Island—but a third was under construction in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. So it was clear that they—whoever ran the shadowed government program—had the plans, and funds, to expand ... What bothered Jonathan deeply was that he couldn't find anyone who fully understood what happened in these places—or at least no one who would tell him. There was some publicly disclosed information, but it was completely useless.
He'd been able to get some basic statistical data from one of his former law students who had worked at the Long Island facility for a short time. However, all Jonathan had been able to extract from it was that the program suffered from an unusually large number of inmate suicides, and murders—and even this information was outdated, and unreliable.
He'd located a few of the former inmates, but they had all refused to talk. He knew of others who were confined to mental institutions after being released from the program, but he'd not been granted access to them.
Being a renowned expert on the subject of corrections, Jonathan knew that his public opposition to the CP facilities, or at least to their secrecy, carried some weight with both the media and the public. He'd debated on many of the major television networks, including CNN, but the topic never gained traction. His reputation, and the public exposure, had probably helped their effort, but he did not have the power to change anything directly—that is, until the DNA Foundation had blossomed. It was a mechanism of action, a resource that he could now employ to attack the system, or at least to force them to open up to the public.
The circumstances of William Thompson's case—his refusal of a plea bargain in the face of a twenty-five year prison sentence, asserting his innocence to the last—had peaked Jonathan's interest immediately. A man with no prior criminal record, a professor no less, decides to rape a fourteen year old girl on a whim in a highly public setting? It didn't sit right, and Jonathan desperately hoped the case would prove useful. After many months of research, it was the only potential chink he had found in the Compressed Punishment System's armor of secrecy.
A knock on the door disrupted his thoughts. "Come in," he said loudly.
The door opened and a slim woman with long, dark hair walked in and closed the door behind her. It was Jonathan's intern, Denise Walker—a promising young law student. Over the past few months, Jonathan and his wife, Julia, had grown very fond of Denise. She was warm and intelligent, but it was probably her resemblance to their daughter, Laura, that had drawn them closer. At five-six, she was a full two inches shorter than Laura, and she had a darker complexion, but her mannerisms and willowy body were a perfect match, as was her smile.
"Good morning," Jonathan said. "I suppose you're here for the case file. It's out for delivery—should be here by 10 a.m." He held up a carafe. "Coffee?"
"No thanks," she replied and held up her travel mug.
He topped off his own cup and stirred in some cream. "I dug up some background info on the witnesses in the Thompson case. Turns out his ex-fiancee is here in Chicago."
"Really? It would be useful to talk to her."
"I agree," Jonathan replied. "I've heard her testimony didn't help his case very much, but we'll have to see the transcripts to know exactly what went down during the trial. Anyway, I'd like you to contact her and see if she'll talk to us. I want to know if we're wasting our time on this case."
"Where is she?"
"She's in the MBA program at Loyola. She transferred from Southern Illinois after the conviction."
"I'll get on the computer and search for her right now," Denise said as she put her knapsack over her shoulder.
"No need," Jonathan said. "I know a good way to find her information quickly. I'll let you know when the files arrive, and we'll dig up her info after we've had a look at them."
"Sounds good," Denise replied.
Jonathan heard the door close as she left for her office down the hall, and he turned once more to the rising sun beaming through his eastern window.
*
The orderlies brought Will to a door with a sign that read: A-Level: Rm. 2 Psychology. The larger orderly lifted his arm to knock, then looked at Will and said, "Better behave."
Will shrugged. He knew he couldn't guarantee anything.
The orderly rapped loudly on the metal door. A moment later it opened, and a tall man with a brown, well-groomed beard stepped out. He pulled on a tweed jacket with elbow patches, and reached behind his neck with one hand to free his gray-streaked ponytail from under the collar.
The quintessential pseudo-academic, Will thought.
The man looked at his wrist-watch. "7:15. You're early, but I suppose we can get started. Put him on the couch." There was a tone of irritation in his voice. "Have his file?"
"No, sorry Dr. Cole, it's in Room One—I'll go get it," the smaller orderly said and scurried away.
The larger escort directed Will to a couch and told him to sit, then stood next to him as they waited for the smaller orderly to return with the file. A half-minute later, the little man returned, and both orderlies walked to the exit.
"Come back at 11:45," Dr. Cole said, and closed the door behind them.
The room was well-lit and comfortable. The leather couch and three leather chairs surrounded an oval coffee table that stood in the center of the room. The furniture was of higher quality than the institutional-style furnishings to which Will had become accustomed over the past year.
Cole sat down on a chair directly across the coffee table from Will, opened the file-folder and a notebook, and pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket. He then retrieved a cylindrical case from the breast pocket of his jacket, and popped open the top. He slid out a pair of half-rimmed reading glasses, placing them on his face such that the rims were halfway down the bridge of his nose.
"Let's see here ... William Thompson, number 523, I'm Dr. Cole," he said as he read the first page of the file. "I'm actually a psychiatrist—even though the sign on the door reads psychology. I'll cover a lot of ground with you in the next few hours, and your job is to answer my questions the best you can. Understand?" He looked over his glasses for a response.
Will nodded.
"First, you need to know this is not going to be a cake-walk," Cole said in a serious tone. "People are usually concerned about the physical discomforts of the treatment—and they're not going to be pleasant, let me assure you. But there are numerous uncomfortable things to which you'll be subjected—psychologically, emotionally, etcetera ... "
Will felt his heart pick up
pace.
"What the hell are you going to do to me?"
"Please," Cole said as he took off his glasses and rubbed them with a cloth. "Be calm ... What happens to you after you leave this meeting is out of my hands, and I certainly don't have the full picture." He put his glasses back on and put the cloth in his pocket. "But I do know the program has many purposes. To start, our prisons are overcrowded, and this is one way to expedite the corrections process. Second, the program has very few, if any, repeat offenders, which is another goal of our penal system. Finally, this facility is full of inmates—patients—who are here by their own choice. And you are one of them: you volunteered for this."
Will's temples pounded. Of course he'd chosen this option, and he assumed it wasn't going to be a boatful of laughs, but now the unknown was starting to become unbearable. "It was this or twenty-five years of my life being burned away. I didn't have much of a choice; I would've been killed in the general prison population for the nature of the crimes of which I was convicted."
The psychiatrist popped his pen and grabbed his notebook. "Good—that brings us to our first question: do you know why you are here?"
Annoyed, Will shook his head and replied, "Of course."
Cole nodded for him to continue.
"I was convicted of rape and attempted murder." His annoyance grew but he maintained composure.
"Don't you mean that you committed those crimes?" Cole asked in a corrective tone.
"No. I was convicted of those heinous acts, but I did not commit them."
"I see, still in denial then," Cole said, and scribbled something on the file.
"I am not in denial," Will retorted. The last year had been hell, and now he was reliving it, yet again. He'd probably have to tell the story many more times—even though no one would believe him.
"Okay ... okay," Cole replied. "Can you explain to me how you were convicted—I mean, what exactly happened that led up to it? It's here in the file, but I need to hear your perspective."
"This is not my perspective—it's what happened," Will said. He took a deep breath and began. "It was a Friday night. I was driving near a local high school and saw the stadium lights. I hadn't seen a live football game in fifteen years, so on a whim I decided to go. I drove towards the lights, found a parking spot about a quarter-mile away, and walked to the stadium. I found the entrance gate where some students were tending a cash box, paid the entrance fee and got my hand stamped-"
"That's right, the stamp was evidence," Cole said, seemingly proud that he'd remembered a detail from the file.
"Sure, that was evidence," Will replied with sarcasm. "I admitted to being at the game. They didn't need evidence of that, but they made a big deal about it during the trial. It was a ridiculous-"
"Please move on," Cole interrupted.
Will changed his position on the leather couch, producing a skin-on-leather squeak. "There were no seats left in the stands. Evidently it was a big game, so I had to stand on the east side of the field—on the south twenty-yard-line. There's a hill there that slopes up from the sideline to the parking lot, and into a patch of pine trees about fifty yards further south. The hill was a nice place to watch the game—a good view of the field, and the trees blocked the wind. It was a cool night for August."
Will adjusted his hospital gown and repositioned himself, again making the leather squeak. The clothes, topic of conversation, and extreme anxiety made it difficult for him to keep his line of thought, but he continued. "At halftime I bought a large coke and went back to the same spot where I had watched the first half. After a while, I started to get a little chilled—the cool weather was getting to me by the end of the third quarter—and I had to go to the bathroom badly about halfway through the fourth. They only had three outdoor toilets, and there was a line about a mile long at each one. Three bathrooms for a crowd of two thousand people ... so I went to that grove of trees, instead. I walked away from the crowd, snuck into the pines about fifteen feet, and relieved myself."
"You were all alone at this game?" Cole asked.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Do I need a reason?" Will responded defensively. "My fiancee was visiting her family during that time, but she probably would've passed on going to the game, anyway." Will's mind conjured up an image of Pam, and he was instantly reminded of the betrayal.
"Her testimony worked against you," Cole said and waited for a reaction.
Will made eye contact with Cole and nodded.
"What was it about?" Cole asked.
"Our relationship, and our so-called sex life," Will replied. He clenched his jaw and ground his teeth together before continuing. "She took the side of the prosecution when she learned about the nature of the case. Never gave me a chance-"
"Please, we have limited time," Cole said, cutting him off. He motioned with his hands to get going.
Will squeezed his fists in frustration. By now he should have been used to people not listening to him; it had been that way since he had been arrested. He opened his fists and loosened up his hands by wiggling his fingers. "On my way out of the trees, a student saw me and reported me to one of the cops standing near the crowd. He must've thought that I was sneaking in from the parking lot without paying. It was already the middle of the fourth quarter, so I don't know why they were so worried about it. The cop approached me and asked to see my hand, so I showed him the stamp. He asked me what I was doing, and I told him I was stretching my legs—taking a walk. I really didn't need a citation for urinating-in-public, getting written up in the paper for the people in my department to see."
"That's right, you were a college professor."
"Yes, an untenured professor, and I didn't need any negative publicity. It's hard enough to get tenure as it is," Will said.
"And what were you a professor of, Mr. Thompson?"
Cole's head tilted slightly to one side as he asked, and Will noticed a hint of a condescension in his expression, a smugness in his voice. "Actually, if you're going to be formal, you should call me Dr. Thompson. To answer your question, I was a physics professor."
"Well ... I think I'll just refer to you as 523 from here on out."
Cole's look became distant, and there was a moment of awkward silence. Will watched the man's face, but Cole didn't make eye contact, and gestured for Will to continue without looking at him.
"The cop asked for my ID," Will went on, "and then told me to stay out of the trees. I'm sure he knew what I did, although his later testimony was embellished. I went back to the game, the home team was winning big, so I left early to avoid traffic. After that I went to a local cafe to warm up. That was at 10:00 p.m., and the place closed at eleven." Will shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing more to say about that.
"What happened after you left the cafe?" Cole asked.
Will shifted in his seat again. This was a part of the story that truly bothered him. "It was about 11 p.m. when I drove home—about ten minutes away," he explained. "When I got to my house, there were four squad cars there—three parked on the street and one in my driveway. Two cops were on my front porch, knocking on my door, and I saw three or four more walking around the back. Two more were standing by their cars—one was on the radio. I pulled up behind one of the squads parked on the street, got out, and walked over to one of the officers."
"What did you think was happening?" Cole asked.
"I thought someone must've broken into my house," Will replied. "When I approached the cop, she told me to get back in my car. So I asked her what was going on, and explained they were at my house. Her eyes about popped out of her head, and she asked me if I was William Thompson. I said ‘yes,' and she immediately got on her walkie-talkie to summon the other officers. I had no idea what was about to happen." Will shook his head and looked down at his trembling hands. Thinking about being violated in such a way always brought him to a nearly uncontrollable rage—it was something he had to fight against endlessly.
"Continue," Cole sa
id, halting Will's digressive thoughts.
"The other cops showed up, and the one I talked to told the rest of them who I was. Next thing I knew, I was being tackled to the ground. I took a boot to the head and to the face—I should've had a few stitches under my right eye." Will turned his head so that Cole could see the scar.
Cole glanced at the scar, seemingly as a courtesy. "Did they tell you why you were being arrested?"
"Sexual assault of a minor, indecent exposure, and something else—I don't remember." Will shook his head. "They took me to the police station, and then to a more secure facility the next day."
Cole looked up from his notebook. "The charges changed to rape and attempted murder later, and you were convicted of those charges."
"Yes."
"So let me see if I have some of these details summed up correctly: a fourteen-year-old girl, Cindy Worthington, was raped, and nearly killed—beaten into a coma—in the very grove of trees in which you went to relieve yourself that night. A cop placed you there—and even looked at your ID." Cole waited for an affirmative response.
"Yes."
"The cop testified that you looked a little flustered after coming out of the trees, and that you were adjusting your clothing."
Will nodded.
"So then," Cole paused to look down at the file, "the barista at the café said she noticed the stamp on your hand, and that you'd arrived at the café just after 10 p.m.—which was before the game was even over." Cole looked up from his notebook.
"Again, I admitted I was there, and that I had left early." Will tightened his fists and released them. "I have been through this a thousand times already ... "
"Please, I need to know what you know. Let's see ... they asked you why you were at the game. The prosecution made the argument that you had no reason to be there: you didn't have kids at the school, you weren't invited by anyone, and you didn't know anyone who was playing, etcetera ... and your fiancee was out of town. The argument was that you were there as a sexual predator."
EXOSKELETON - A Novel Page 3