30.

Anne looked thoughtfully at Dawson. He avoided eye contact and slowly massaged one hand with the other. It seemed to soothe him. He looked at his wristwatch and massaged again.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” said Dawson. “…that ‘I might have hit her.’”

“Why?” asked Anne.

“I don’t believe it. I don’t believe I killed her.”

“You had serious mental and alcohol problems. You had blank spots. You can’t be sure of your state of mind. What makes you think that?”

“Like I said, it’s just a feeling.”

“Something to hang on to anyway. I suppose you’re lucky. It could very easily have gone the other way…first-degree murder and a life sentence…instead of ten to twenty.”

Dawson loosed a hard glare. Muscles in his jaw flexed.

“Lucky? It’s not the word I’d choose.” Despite the lingering glare, his words were calm and controlled.

“How would you look at it?”

“How do I look at it? You’re right, it could have been worse. But it wasn’t luck. Luck would have been getting a full psych evaluation before the trial. Luck would have been having a lawyer with the resources and experience to prepare a solid defence. Luck would have been some grounds for appeal before the deadline.”

“What I’m trying to say is that the judge must have seen the weaknesses in the case. And he did cut you a break. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

“It does…yes…it does.”

“But you’re still bitter.”

“It comes and goes.” Dawson reached up and clutched the crucifix on the chain around his neck. “This helps.”

“How so?”

“We’ve got things in common. Christ was considered dangerous and a lunatic, and he got railroaded. So did I.”

Anne let that thought sink in for a moment or two, but she wanted to keep Dawson calm and on track, so she moved the topic along.

“Would you feel comfortable filling me in on the last ten years, Jacob?”

“Sure. I guess. Where do I begin? Oh yes, it all started at Springhill Prison…spent a month-and-a-half at their Intake Assessment Unit. They dug around in my background…figured out I was a drunk and a druggie and a social misfit. Then I was shipped off to the Atlantic Institution…sounds like a college campus, doesn’t it… That’s the fancy name for a maximum security prison in Renous. A notorious place. I was there for two years. Then they decided I wasn’t very dangerous or an escape risk. So they shipped me to Dorchester Pen. After five years in Dorchester, they thought I was turning into a real nice fellow and transferred me to the “farm” at Westmorland…a minimum-security facility. I was released three years later. That’s the Reader’s Digest version of my coming-of-age story.”

Dawson looked at his watch, looked up at Anne, and smiled. She didn’t return one.

“So you did ten years of a twenty-year sentence. The minimum. That’s pretty impressive. They must have felt that you were rehabilitated. How did that come about?”

The glibness and irony of Dawson’s recollections suddenly fell away as he began talking about his addictions, and Anne sensed that she was drawing closer to the real John J. Dawson.

“As I said, I was a drunk and a junkie and a social outcast when I was young. At Renous, they had the results from my original intake assessment, and they had programs to help me get my head above water. A twelve-step program led me off the booze. Coincidentally, it also led me to Christ again. He had always been there…somewhere,” he said pointing to his heart, “but I couldn’t hear him anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t turn into a full-blown Bible-thumper…but it put me on a different road. Counselling helped, too.”

“New heart, new eyes, new man,” said Anne.

“Except that that’s about the time I found out that I was crazy.”

“How do you mean?”

“I had been a bit odd before my great plunge into the abyss, but after my addiction rehab I turned a bit strange again. I felt energized…thought I could conquer the world. Funny idea to have in prison, eh? I decided that I wanted to get an education. So I signed up for a GED. I got the books and dug into them. I was so excited I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep at all. I was sure I could complete the coursework in a week or two. Started preaching, too…at the same time…testifying in the yard…and proclaiming the Bible so everyone could hear it from my cell…saw myself as Christ’s apostle in jail. I got thumped a few times for my trouble, but that just made me feel like a martyr. So I got beat up again and that landed me in the infirmary. Looking back, I guess I was driving everyone else crazy.”

“How did you deal with that?”

“I didn’t. I got pretty down about it. I felt like a loser…a fraud. I felt like my life had lost all meaning again. Then a nurse at the infirmary spoke to a doctor there. They checked me over and ran some tests. It turns out that I have bipolar.”

“Did you get treatment?”

“Psychotherapy and drugs. It took a few months to get the right mix of meds, but I’m fairly stable now. After that, I kept up the education. I still read the Bible…to myself. It’s a matter of balance, apparently.”

“So you’re on parole now?”

“I was released in Nova Scotia last year. Now I’m on full parole, but maybe that letter you have might lead to a statutory release.” He glanced at his watch.

“Thanks, Jacob. I really appreciate your taking the time to talk with me. I won’t keep you any longer. You obviously have an appointment.”

“An evening class.”

“For your GED.”

“No, Sociology. I’m finishing my third year.”

“University?”

“Yes,” he grinned. “You can get through a lot of courses in ten years…with no place to go.”