Page 8 of Into These Eyes

Jamie

A s everyone files out of the courtroom for the lunch break, I rise and grab my laptop from the bar table, place it in its leather satchel, and leave.

Finding a table in the corner of my regular café on the next street over, I take out my phone and power it up while I wait for someone to take my order.

The trial I’m working on is going well, putting me in a good enough mood to treat myself to a cupcake for dessert.

Though lately, the career I’ve worked and sacrificed so hard for appears to be losing its glossy sheen.

Recently, one of the partners in the firm I’ve been with for the past seven years has brought his ick-factor son into the fold.

The sleaze has tried to crack onto me more than once, so now my days in the office are spent avoiding the creep.

Because, apparently, he doesn’t take no for an answer, even though I’ve politely made it clear I’m not interested.

But that’s only added to the real reason I’m doubting my chosen career.

Having to see the photographic evidence and read about the depraved things people do to each other, in detail, day after day, no longer sparks a fire inside me.

It extinguishes it. I’m beginning to consciously acknowledge the unwelcome fact that I might be burning out, that being bombarded with the worst aspects of human nature may very well be darkening my life in a way that borders on unhealthy.

Looking up, jealousy punches me in the gut as the bright, happy waitress practically bounces over to my table. Lucky her. I’d like to feel that carefree and joyful again. Last time I remember that sort of happiness was before Mum’s death.

After the waitress takes my order, I check my phone.

There’s one missed call from a number I don’t recognise—no doubt scammers—and one message from Anika telling me she won’t be home for dinner tonight.

Now that she’s eighteen, this is becoming a regular occurrence.

For the most part, I don’t mind. Why should she stay home with me and Dad?

I’ll be working and he’ll watch TV all night and ignore her like he always does.

If I had the chance to relive my teenage years without the weight of all this responsibility, I’d be out every chance I got.

Anika’s quite the party girl, and she’s tested my limits to no end while raising her.

She’s never been the type to willingly bend to authority.

Which is why it came as quite the shock when she announced she wanted to become a police officer.

After she finished her higher school certificate last year, she snagged a job at a local pizza restaurant with no idea what she wanted to do with her life.

University wasn’t for her, apparently. I suppose witnessing the amount of time I had to put into my studies while raising her, and forsaking a social life, may have put her off.

These days, she’s at the gym every chance she gets, training for Session Two at the Police Academy.

She hasn’t even started Session One yet, which involves sixteen weeks of study via an online course.

It’s the most committed I’ve seen her about anything.

Not that I particularly like the idea of her being a cop.

As a criminal lawyer, I see the horrors the police are hit with daily.

I’d prefer she wasn’t exposed to that sort of trauma.

But she’s an adult now, so there’s nothing I can do to stop her.

Despite my misgivings, I’m incredibly proud of her.

Letting out a long sigh, I switch from messages to my personal emails.

And my heart stops.

Waiting for me in bold lettering, is an email from the State Parole Authority.

I don’t want to open it, don’t want to deal with it in any way. I already know what it’ll say. There’s only one reason they’re contacting me.

Heart hammering against my ribs, I press my finger to the email and keep it held to the screen, as if removing it will set off a landmine.

But, like stepping on a landmine, I’m already screwed.

Mouth dry, I remove my finger. The email opens and my eyes fly over the familiar words.

Sure enough, just like last year, Gavin Lake is applying for parole.

His sentence for murdering my mother came to twenty years. With an eighteen-year non-parole period. Problem is, as I learnt last year, prisons are full to overflowing, so a lot of convicted criminals are able to apply for parole earlier than their initial mandatory sentence.

My mood plummets as the waitress places a black coffee to the side of my laptop. Hands shaking, that familiar rush of rage bubbles to the surface. Why do I have to go through this again?

Last year, I opposed the killer’s application, and it worked. He’d failed and remained locked away. My mother isn’t walking around free, so why should he?

And now he’s trying again? Will this be my life for the next few years?

For the last decade and a half, I’ve had no reason to think about him, so I didn’t.

Well, maybe sometimes his face flashes into my mind, along with the last words he ever said to me.

But I banish such thoughts almost the instant I recognise them.

“Hey,” a deep, gentle voice says from beside me.

I look up to find Peter Pritchard, an Internal Affairs officer, close friend and mentor, peering down at me.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks, his usually friendly face creased with worry. He doesn’t wait for a reply before he slips onto the chair opposite.

Giving him a forced smile, I take a sip of my coffee in an effort to compose myself. I met Pete on my very first case as a lawyer for the prosecution. He’d been a detective back then and his help with nailing the accused had been invaluable. Since then, we always take time to stay in touch.

The wrinkles in his forehead deepen as he gazes at me with those friendly, curious eyes.

At around sixty-five or so, he’s probably well overdue for retirement, but seems in no hurry to get there.

He also hasn’t been taking care of his health since his wife died a few years ago, evidenced by his belly rubbing against the edge of the table.

“I know for a fact, that look on your face has nothing to do with your current case. Word is, you’re annihilating the defence.”

I shrug as I move my laptop to the seat beside me to give the waitress room to set down my salad and cupcake.

“How’s your father doing?” Pete asks when I glance his way.

“He’s fine.” I don’t tell him that I’ve noticed Dad going to bed a lot earlier than usual lately.

He’s not eating much either, which probably explains why he’s so tired.

I’ve also noticed the whites of his eyes are a strange, faint mustard colour.

Of course, I’ve questioned him about it, but he says he’s been to the doctor and everything’s fine.

I’m not quite sure I believe him, but all I can do is keep an eye on him.

“Well? What’s up?” Pete asks.

I let out a sigh. “He’s up for parole. Again.” I don’t need to elaborate. Pete knows who I’m talking about.

He rubs his chin and leans forward. “It’s been a year already?”

I nod as I pick up a fork and move cherry tomatoes around amongst the lettuce and cucumber. “Feels like yesterday,” I mumble.

He nods with sympathy. “You going to oppose it again?”

“What I want is to forget about him.” I let the fork clang against the bowl. “It’s funny … when you think it’s all gone away, it’s really just lurking around the edges, waiting to stab you in the heart again.”

Pete nods, plucks a cherry tomato from my bowl and pops it in his mouth.

“Hey!”

He shrugs. “We both know you hate raw tomatoes.” After he finishes chewing, he says, “Maybe the only way to put Gavin Lake behind you is to confront him head on.”

“Don’t go getting all old and wise on me.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Unfortunately, and fortunately, both of those things are true.”

“What’re you thinking?” I ask, curious.

“Have you heard of Restorative Justice? It’s a program the government developed a while back.”

“Sounds familiar, but I’ve never looked into it.”

He steals a slice of cucumber this time. If he goes for my cupcake, he’s a dead man.

“Well,” he says as he swallows, “it’s for people like you who’ve been affected by a criminal offence. And it’s for the offender. You can correspond through letters or meet face-to-face.”

I screw up my nose at the thought of seeing Gavin Lake again. I want to wipe him from my memory, not bring him to life.

“I don’t see the point,” I tell him, all too aware that he just eyed my cupcake. With the mood I’m in, salad might not be what I want, but that cupcake is definitely what I need.

“The point is, while it’s not for everyone, it does have a great track record of helping both the victim and the offender understand each other’s perspective.”

Anger flashes through me. Even Pete doesn’t get it. “I don’t care what his perspective is.”

“Fair enough, but he might be able to give you more than you realise, Jamie.”

I stare down at my salad, then push it across the table at him. “Elaborate.”

Instead of digging in, he keeps talking.

“He’ll have a chance to express his remorse, and hopefully, give you a sincere apology.

I know you don’t think it’ll mean anything, but I’ve seen it happen.

Giving the offender a chance to make amends for the harm he’s caused you and your family might mean more than you think. ”

Picking up a fork, Pete jabs at the salad and takes a mouthful. As he chews, I let his words simmer while I imagine looking at Gavin Lake when he finally admits what he did.

“What if he still maintains he’s innocent?” I ask.

Pete considers my question for a moment. “Then I guess you’ve lost nothing. You’ll just be where you are now. But if it goes the other way … it might help you move on. You’re an intelligent woman, Jamie. I believe it’s worth a shot. Have a think about it. If you’re interested, I can help.”

I nod, then eye my cupcake before glancing at my watch.

“Okay,” I barely manage above a whisper. Grabbing the cupcake, I take a bite, letting the icing ooze between my teeth and coat my tongue in an effort to dislodge the discomfort that always accompanies thoughts of Gavin Lake.

“Damn,” Pete mutters. “I was hoping I’d put you off that little treat.”

“Nice try.”

“Worth a shot.” He winks and digs into my salad.

That night, while I eat Chinese take away and try unsuccessfully to concentrate on another brief, I give Pete’s words serious consideration.

My stomach twists at the thought of facing Gavin Lake after all this time.

But if I oppose his release again, I’ll be right back here in a year. That thought makes me nauseous.

I suppose I could do the Restorative Justice program via letters, but I don’t like the idea.

One, it’ll draw out the whole process, and I’ll probably develop an ulcer waiting for a reply.

Two, if he writes something I don’t like, I want to be able to look him in the eye and tell him exactly what I think right there and then, not in a letter that’ll take time to get to him and drive me insane while I wait for a reply.

Best to rip the Band-Aid off fast.

Suddenly fired up, I decide that if my mother’s killer wants parole, he can damn well look me in the eye and witness the ripple effect of his choices right up close.

Slamming the chopsticks down with resolve, I grab my phone and head out the front door and down the street where Dad can’t hear me. Then I ring Pete and ask what I need to do.

He’s pleased with my decision, but I’m not so sure it’ll do what he thinks it will.