Chapter 18 - Shadows in the YardIn the winter of the fourth year, I made a single, private trip to the State Correctional Institution in southern Illinois.
I didn't go out of anger, or revenge, or a need for closure. I went because James informed me that Evan’s legal team had filed an emergency petition for early parole on medical grounds, claiming severe depression and hardship.
As the major victim and primary restitution holder, I had the legal right to present an impact statement directly to the prison review panel.
I sat behind the glass window in the visitor's room.
When the heavy steel door opened, two guards led Evan inside.
I barely recognized him.
The once-handsome, arrogant man who used to strut through luxury galas in bespoke tuxedos was completely gone. His hair was thin and prematurely gray. His posture was stooped, his shoulders rounded, and his pale eyes were hollow, rimmed with dark circles. He wore the coarse, faded denim uniform of a maximum-security inmate.
When he saw me sitting across the glass—dressed in a crisp, bespoke winter white suit, looking radiant and powerful—he froze.
He picked up the phone with trembling, calloused hands.
"Claire..." he whispered into the receiver, his voice hoarse and cracking. "Claire... please. You came."
I picked up my receiver, looking at him with cool, measured detachment.
"I didn't come for you, Evan," I said calmly. "I came for the parole board."
Tears welled up in his tired eyes. "Claire, I’m dying in here. My dad is in a federal medical facility with heart failure. My mother won't even accept my collect calls because she blames me for losing everything. I have nothing left. Please... drop your objection to my parole. I’ve served four years. I’ve paid my price."
I looked at him, remembering the marble foyer, the cold smile on his face, the sound of the oak cane, and the relentless cruel attempt to steal everything I had worked for.
"You haven't paid anything yet, Evan," I replied softly. "You thought my silence was weakness. You thought breaking my bone would break my mind. But all you did was strip away the only thing that was holding you up: me."
"Claire... please..." he begged, pressing his forehead against the glass, weeping bitterly. "I'm sorry! I swear to God I'm sorry!"
"I know you're sorry," I said quietly. "You're sorry you got caught. You're sorry you lost the money. And you're sorry I survived."
May you like
I set the receiver back on its cradle, stood up, and turned my back on him.
An hour later, the parole board officially denied his petition. Evan Mercer would serve every single day of his eighteen-year sentence.
