Three Weeks to Say Goodbye

TWENTY-SIX

I WAS CONVICTED OF AGGRAVATED Assault with a Deadly Weapon for shooting Wyatt Henkel and was sentenced to one to three years in the Colorado State Penitentiary in, of all places, Canon City. The original charge had been for a class two felony, which could have been eight to twenty-four years, but the DA was sympathetic and knocked it down to a class five. The judge, also sympathetic, had no problem with that. When he sentenced me I said, “Thank you, Your Honor,” but not because of the reduction. I said thank you because I deserved to go to prison, and I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself for the things I’d done unless I did. I was also thankful that the worst of my actions were never discovered by the DA.

The judge said he’d write a letter to the parole board urging early release, but he said I should be prepared to serve a year. How does one prepare for that?

SO NOW I WEAR an orange jumpsuit and laceless boat shoes and every article of clothing I have is stenciled with CDOC- COLORADO DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS.

The food is tolerable, but the scenery outside-when I can see it-is pretty nice. My Rocky Mountains are still there, although they’re the southern Colorado version, and they aren’t snowcapped. But they’re with me, always, to the west, framing my days and nights and stretching all the way to Montana.

I’m in the general population. The guards protect me because they, like the judge and DA, are sympathetic. I’ve never asked them for favors, but they give them. I have my own cell with a bed, a washstand and a toilet, books, and this laptop computer. There are books in the library and decent medical care. I’m pleasant but not friendly with all the rest of the population. The only time I see the truly dangerous inmates is across the room at mealtimes.

YES, I’VE SEEN JOHN Moreland. Five times, to be exact. He saw me too, even though he pretended he didn’t. Moreland wears a white jumpsuit, meaning he’s on death row. All of us avoid the guys in white, and the corrections officers segregate them from us.

The judge was convicted in the trial some of you followed on truTV and the cable channels. Despite his investment in house hold names like Bertram Ludik as his defense attorneys and his earnest testimony-where he claimed both Aubrey Coates and his son Garrett were murdered in cold blood during a botched raid on the pedophile’s residence that he mistakenly blundered into while looking for a perfect Christmas tree-the jury convicted him for murder in the first degree for killing Dorrie. Those four photos I first saw in my living room are among the most recognized images in America among those who follow murder trials, I’ve read. They were even printed in People magazine. Despite the photos and Henkel’s testimony, John Moreland has never admitted to either the murder of his parents or of his wife. He claims he was railroaded by rogue cops. He also insists it was he who shot Aubrey Coates, not the police.

During the trial, all of the officers who were there in Desolation Canyon that morning contradicted his allegation. One by one they told a version of events different from Moreland’s. Why?

Because Cody, perhaps inspired by the judge himself, was thinking ahead. He knew that in prison, the lowest of the low was a child molester-considered even worse than a snitch. It was open season on child molesters, and even the guards looked the other way. In this case, the inmate was a judge who tried to aid a molester by letting him walk. Moreland is an ADSEG-Administrative Segregation. Despite that designation, I’ve heard he’s been attacked several times, beaten, raped, and stabbed. I wonder if Dorrie’s ghost approves. Maybe she has enough faith to forgive him. But I don’t.

I sent him a note, via the guards. It read: I’M GETTING OUT IN A YEAR. HOW ABOUT YOU? MELISSA SENDS HER REGARDS.

There was no reply.

KELLIE MORELAND WAS INVESTIGATED and quickly cleared of being an accessory to her husband and her evil stepson’s crimes. She claimed she was shocked and angry when John showed up that Sunday with a nine-month-old and announced she was now a part of their family. Kellie told police she accused him of ruining her life and in a quote compared to Butterfly McQueen in Gone with the Wind, said, “I know nothing about toddlers. Nothing.” She said she fed Angelina grapes and toast and cried. When the police showed up the next morning with Melissa, she opened the door with Angelina in her arms and enthusiastically handed the baby to her mother.

MELISSA AND ANGELINA come to see me every Saturday. Angelina is a chatterbox. She’s still beautiful and charismatic. I must admit that each time I see her, I look for anything in her behavior or demeanor that would suggest what Garrett said or Cody inadvertently hinted about her was true. I’ve never told Melissa what either said, and I never will. But when I look at Angelina and play with her, I find a bright, loving, busy little girl. I see nothing that suggests Garrett was right. Nothing.

I’ve come to realize something that for three weeks of my life I’d begun to doubt: There are good people in the world. Good people, kind people. I think of Cody, Brian, Torkleson, Sanders, Morales, the SWAT team, my lawyers, the guards, the judge who sentenced me. They all could have chosen to be cold, cruel, indifferent. That would have been easy. Brutality, I think, comes naturally to human beings. But they chose to be good, even if what they did could be questioned within the strict confines of the law. I am not cynical.

But I am pragmatic. I know anyone is capable of anything, including me. It’s a fine line between good and evil and, given the situation, the line moves. Oh, how it moves. It moved for me, but I still managed to cross it- repeatedly. And I’ve learned that once you cross it, bad acts become more effortless to commit because the moral restraints have loosened, and justifications cushion the implications of the crime. It becomes effortless to set things in motion, then stand by and let them happen, which is what I did. Effortless.

Which is why I’m here and why I should be.

And this is what I’ll teach my daughter.

MELISSA IS WORKING FOR the Adam’s Mark Hotel as general manager. They live in a condo on the fringe of downtown Denver because we had to sell the house without my income. Melissa insists the condo is perfect and she’s shown me photos of it and it looks nice. The only thing she regrets, she insists, is that I’m in here and Angelina is in day care every day.

I guess we both have our keepers.

MY PARENTS DROVE all the way down from Montana to see me. I could tell by the way they entered the room they were as embarrassed as hell. I was embarrassed for them because I knew the security procedures probably set them back. I don’t think my dad has ever walked a step in his life without his Leatherman tool, and my mother had to confess she had wire in her bra. As they sat at the table in the genpop visiting room, they held hands-the first time I’d ever seen them do that. I became fixated on their hands because they were so rough and knobby-the hands of hard workers- in a place where the supposedly tough guys had soft and smooth hands. My dad joked that he always thought I’d wind up in a place like this once I left the ranch, and my mom scolded him for saying that but didn’t disagree.

“That was nice when you stopped by,” she said. “I hope you’ll do that more often.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Dad said to her. “He’s in prison!”

“But he won’t always be,” she said, turning red.

I promised to come visit. I told them it wouldn’t be that long.

My dad said, “Good, I got fence to fix.”

My mom said, “And I’ve got pies!”

CODY IS BACK in Montana, splitting his time between working as a detective in the Helena Police Department and helping my dad out on the ranch. He says he’s happy, and I believe him. He has a steady girl and says he wants to bring her to Colorado to meet us. He’s come to see me a few times when he drives south to visit his son, Justin. He urges me to move back to Montana when I’m released. I’m considering it, although there are no Adam’s Mark Hotels in Montana.

Obviously, I’ve a lot of time on my hands to think about everything that happened during those three weeks. Some things became clearer in retrospect. I confirmed them during a conversation with Cody when he visited.

“You never really told Jeter to back off when we were in Montana, did you?” I asked.

He hesitated, looked around, struck a match to light a cigarette under a sign that read ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING. “No.”

“Why did you mislead us?”

“Had to. You and Melissa got cold feet, Jack. You couldn’t pull the trigger because you’ve got scruples. I don’t have that problem. I knew we needed Jeter to force the issue and maybe take out Garrett. So when I went back into Jeter’s, I asked him if I could use the bathroom and wished him good luck in Denver.”

“That’s why you were on the scene so fast after the incident in the Appaloosa,” I said.

He nodded. “I was down the street. I wished I could have prevented you from following Jeter into that place. I had no idea you’d be that stupid.”

Then he winked.

OH, AND ONE MORE thing. An amazing thing, a miracle. Melissa is seven months pregnant. The night of conception was our last night together before I went to prison. For once, I guess I had a live round in the chamber.

When I get out, we will have a daughter and a son. I wonder what our son will be like. I can’t wait to find out. We’ve already decided his name, a long one. Cody Brian Torkleson Sanders Morales McGuane. After his uncles.