Five names. But the only inmate in the Sussex facility was John K. Chadwick. Ryan quickly pulled up several newspaper stories mentioning the man’s name, which reported that John Keith Chadwick was serving a life sentence. He’d been convicted in the nineties of murdering a college classmate, his girlfriend. She’d been raped and suffered a fatal blow to the head. Like Abby.
CHAPTER 38
By late afternoon they were on I-95 South en route to Sussex prison. Traffic was heavy, and Sean trailed a large semi that was muscling its way to an exit. Sean had called the prison to try to speak with John Chadwick, but was told that prisoners could only make, not accept, calls. They could, however, receive personal visits. In what had been a number of impulsive moves by Sean of late, here they were. Driving to a prison out in the middle of nowhere.
“Turn. Right. On. Route. Six. Twenty-five,” the navigation system directed. It had been more than three hours on the road, but Sean and Ryan had used the time to talk. About rock bands. About how Jack didn’t fully understand that Abby was gone. About how Mom was doing. Sean realized it had been a long time since he and Ryan had really talked. Somehow Sean had become one of those parents. The “Washingtonians” he rolled his eyes at: competitive, achievement-obsessed, more interested in talking at Ryan about how to get into Harvard than hearing about his son’s thoughts and dreams. He’d always considered himself an involved parent, and in superficial ways he was. He showed up at the parent-teacher conferences and soccer games and plays. He helped with homework. But one eye was always on the clock or his phone. He didn’t have time for the little things. The board games Emily played with the kids on Sunday nights, Taco Tuesday, or her Thursday reading hour.
They rolled onto Musslewhite Drive in Waverly, Virginia, following the signs to the prison’s visitor lot. The facility was a foreboding campus of tall fences and concrete structures on hundreds of acres in the vast open land of rural Virginia.
Ryan gazed up at the guard tower. “Do you think we’ll be able to get in?” He seemed fascinated with the idea of going inside a prison.
“I was told that if we got here before five o’clock, we’d have a shot.” Sean had called an associate at his law firm and asked her to set up a visit with Chadwick. To his surprise, the associate managed to arrange a same-day visit. The efficiency of the private sector. He picked up the phone and a twenty-five-year-old with an Ivy League degree made calls, faxed in the necessary forms, and he was in. It would have taken weeks to arrange such a visit when he was in the government.
“Do you think we’ll see any scary prisoners?” Ryan asked. He had a gleam in his eyes.
“You’re going to have to hang out in the waiting area, I’m afraid.” Sean didn’t know what he was walking into and didn’t want to risk Ryan dealing with a convicted murderer. God knows what the guy might say or do when approached by strangers. Ryan frowned, but he didn’t debate the point.
Sussex II, as it turned out, ran an efficient operation and Sean was through the checkpoints, scanners, and searches in less than ten minutes. A burly man in a tight-fitting corrections uniform escorted Sean to a visitor’s room. In all his years at the Justice Department and as a lawyer, Sean had never been inside a prison. He expected to be separated from John Keith Chadwick by a sheet of glass with each of them talking into telephones, but Sean was ushered into a tidy conference room painted institutional beige. The man sitting at the table in the room likewise was not what Sean had expected. No prison muscles. No face tattoos. No scarred veteran of the penal system. Just a doughy man with blond hair and a baby face, despite being in his forties. He wore a blue short-sleeved collared shirt and plastic-framed glasses. Under the glasses, kind eyes.
The correctional officer gestured for Sean to sit down across from the prisoner and said he’d be right outside if Sean needed anything. The click of the door’s lock was unsettling, and Sean was surprised to be left alone with the man. But he relaxed when he saw that the prisoner was cuffed and had chains dangling from his wrists that were attached to anchors on the table.
“You’re Abby’s father?” John Chadwick asked.
“That’s right.”
“I recognized you from the newspapers. I’m really sorry for your loss. She was a great girl.” Chadwick had a hint of a Southern accent. Not country bumpkin, more Southern gentleman.
“Can I ask how you knew her?”
Chadwick wrinkled his brow. “My case. I thought that’s why you’re here. To take over my case.” He shifted in his chair.