Chapter 5 Willow
Willow
“You can’t be serious.”
I frown at my father from across the table. Now that I’ve moved out of my parents’ house, the three of us meet once a week for dinner, and tonight is that night. I always look forward to these dinners, but I knew this one would be tense.
“Of course, I can,” I reply before taking a bite of my filet mignon.
“What I think your father is trying to say,” Mother begins. “Is that there are so many charities that could use volunteers, and this one is just…”
“Just what?”
“It’s not a good use of your time,” Father snaps. “Why not help out at the local hospital or one of the churches?”
I sigh. I knew they wouldn’t understand my desire to volunteer with the Pennsylvania Wrongful Conviction Center. They gave me a hard time when I audited college courses related to criminal justice and law, so I don’t know why I hoped this would be different.
“Everyone volunteers at those places,” I say. “Besides, I’ve done that for years, and I feel like my time is better spent differently.”
“By helping criminals?” Father snaps. “Willow, I applaud you for wanting to help those less fortunate than you, but this is too much. You’re better than this.”
Anger heats my blood. I was raised with a silver spoon in my mouth.
Everything I could ever need or want was handed to me, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like my childhood.
But I’m not a child anymore. Despite being taught that women and children are to be seen and not heard, I have a passion for helping people who have no other options beyond one last-ditch effort to prove they were wrongly convicted.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” I comment quietly. “Let’s just finish our dinner. I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”
The rest of the meal passes in tense silence, and by the time the check is delivered to the table, my jaw hurts from clenching my teeth to prevent myself from saying something I’ll regret. After Dad pays the bill, the three of us walk outside.
“There’s nothing we can do or say to change your mind?” he asks as we wait for the valets to bring our vehicles to us.
Inhaling deeply, I turn to face him. “No, there’s not. I’m excited about this,” I say, and as the words leave my mouth, the all too familiar butterflies flutter in my stomach. “I can really do some good.”
My mom grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Of course, you can. Just promise us that you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.”
I kiss both my parents on the cheek before climbing into my car and driving home. As soon as I enter my small two-bedroom ranch-style home, I drop my purse onto the entry table and make my way to the kitchen. I pour myself a glass of wine and lean on the island.
My mind wanders back to the interview I had with the director of PWCC earlier today.
“We could always use the help, Miss Crane,” Gordon Humphrey states as he scans my resumé. “But you are aware that this is a volunteer opportunity, correct? I can’t pay you.”
I smile brightly. “I understand, and I’m not here because I want a paycheck. Volunteering my time and being able to help is more than enough compensation.”
He lifts his head and stares at me for a brief moment. “Does your father know you’re here?” he finally asks.
It takes every ounce of my self-control not to rear back. “You know my father?”
The corner of his mouth tilts up. “He’s an Assistant District Attorney. Of course, I know him.”
“I can assure you, my father’s position will not impact my ability to be an asset here. In fact, he and I have very different views where the justice system is concerned, much to his chagrin.”
“Good to know.” Mr. Humphrey stands. “Can you start tomorrow?”
I practically jump to my feet. “Absolutely.”
He reaches across his desk to shake my hand. “We start at nine. And welcome aboard, Miss Crane.”
My cell rings, pulling me out of my thoughts. I hurry across the house to snag it from my purse and grin when I see the name flashing on the screen.
“Hey,” I say when I answer.
“How’d it go?” Cammie, my best friend, asks.
I heave a sigh. “I’m sure you can guess. Both of them think it’s a mistake for me to volunteer there.”
Cammie snorts. “You knew that was gonna happen.”
But I hoped it wouldn’t.
“I know.”
“So, you ready for tomorrow?” she asks.
Putting the call on speakerphone, I head to my bedroom and then into the adjoining bath. “Yeah, as ready as I can be.”
“Good.” She chuckles when she hears me turn on the water. “Go relax and enjoy your bath.”
“Thanks, Cam.”
“Call me tomorrow when you get home, okay? I wanna hear all about your first day.”
I promise her that I will, and then I strip out of my dress before stepping into the large tub and sink into the warm water. By the time my fingers turn into prunes, my eyes are getting heavy.
Pulling the plug from the drain, I rise to my feet and wrap a large, fluffy towel around my body. Striding back into my bedroom, I move to the walk-in closet. I drop to my knees and reach for the shoebox at the back.
When I take off the lid and set it aside, a rush of air escapes past my lips.
I drag my fingernails across the top of the envelopes, each quiet tick like a shot of adrenaline to my system.
For the past ten years, I’ve written these letters in the hopes of providing some comfort to a complete stranger, and for the past ten years, every single one was sent back.
He read the letters, that much I know because each envelope has been ripped open and taped shut again with ‘Return to sender’ scrawled on it. My fingers reach the most recent one I wrote, and I tug it from the box to read it for what has to be the hundredth time.
Dear Mr. Hunter,
I got my last letter back in the mail today.
I hope that you’ll actually write me back one day.
But if not, that’s okay, too. I’ll keep writing to you.
I’ve heard through the grapevine that you only have one appeal left.
I’m sorry that they keep getting denied.
I can’t imagine how hard it is to be in prison for a crime you didn’t commit. Anyway…
Oh, I wanted to tell you… I saw that the Pennsylvania Wrongful Conviction Center is looking for volunteers. I’d love to work there (paycheck or not). Have you tried writing to them about your case? Maybe they could help.
Well, I guess I’ll leave it at that for now. Keep your head up, Mr. Hunter. The truth will ultimately come out, and you’ll be free. I just know it.
Sincerely,
W.G.
I wrote those words a few weeks ago, and I almost broke down and wrote him again to tell him about the interview with PWCC when it was scheduled, but I resisted. Craig Hunter clearly doesn’t care about what I have to say. Which begs the question…
How will he react if I’m able to convince Gordon Humphrey to take on his case? How will he feel if we actually get to meet face-to-face?
Shit. How will I feel?