Chapter 47 Knox #2
“I’m afraid prison can be a dangerous place,” I said finally. “When fights break out, failing to defend yourself can land you in the hospital. Or the morgue.”
“I’d like the record to reflect,” Ryker interjected, “that Mr. Blackwood was recently hospitalized at Mercy Harbor following a violent assault. An assault in which he was the victim.”
The thin man’s gaze didn’t waver from mine. “Yes. Let’s discuss that incident.” He picked up a sheet of paper. “One of the inmates involved claims you started the fight intentionally.”
“That’s not true,” I replied.
“I’d like to point out,” Ryker cut in, “that when those inmates were examined afterward, none of them had a single injury. Knox never threw a punch. He was not the aggressor.”
The thin man acknowledged Ryker with a dismissive nod, then turned back to me. His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“That may be true for that particular incident,” he said, “but it certainly wasn’t the case on February 5, was it?”
My stomach dropped.
He lifted another document, scanning it with theatrical slowness. “According to a medical report filed by the prison nurse, one Harper Mitchell, you and another inmate presented to the infirmary with significant injuries that day.”
Shit.
“According to these notes, the other inmate, Merrick Doyle, suffered injuries so severe, he nearly required transfer to an outside hospital. Contusions to the face and torso.” He looked up, pinning me with those cold eyes.
“And according to the nurse’s notes, your knuckles were bruised and swollen.
Your clothing was stained with blood that wasn’t your own. ”
Silence.
“The nurse’s documentation makes it explicitly clear that you were the aggressor in an extremely violent confrontation.” He set the paper down. “True or false?”
I couldn’t look at her.
I couldn’t turn around and see Harper’s face, see the guilt and devastation I knew would be written there. She’d filed that report back when I was just another violent inmate in a prison full of them. Back before she knew anything about who I really was.
She was doing the right thing, and she didn’t deserve to feel an ounce of remorse. Even if it was the final straw that cost me my freedom today.
My hands curled into fists on my thighs. Not from anger. From the effort of keeping myself together.
“True,” I said quietly.
The thin man’s eyebrows rose. “Care to elaborate?”
Ryker stepped forward. “I’d like the record to show that the altercation began as an act of protection.
The inmate in question, Doyle, was making explicit threats of sexual violence against the new nurse.
He stated his intention to rape her. Mr. Blackwood intervened to protect a staff member from imminent harm. ”
Silence. For ten seconds.
“Be that as it may”—the thin man waved a hand like he was swatting a fly—“there are other ways to handle a threat, Mr. Blackwood. You could have reported it through proper channels. Alerted other staff. Are you claiming you had no other choice?”
I considered the question. Really considered it.
And for the first time in fourteen years, I gave an honest answer.
“No, sir. I’m not claiming that.”
The man stilled.
“I should have reported Doyle through proper channels,” I continued. “I should have called for guards. I should have done a lot of things differently.” I paused. “But I didn’t.”
The silence stretched. The thin man studied me like I was a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.
I could tell my answer had thrown him. Maybe he’d come in here, hoping for a slam-dunk denial. An unrepentant convict who’d make his decision easy. Instead, I was making him work for it.
Not that it mattered. He still had plenty of ammunition to deny me. That report was a smoking gun, and we both knew it.
But Ryker would make him go through the motions.
The sausage-fingered man shuffled through more papers, then leaned forward.
“Speaking of regrets, I see in your file that you’ve repeatedly refused to accept responsibility for the crime that brought you here.
Fourteen years, and not once have you expressed remorse for taking a man’s life.
” The words hung in the air like a verdict.
“Why don’t you tell us, in your own words, what happened that night? ”
This was it. The question they always asked. The one I always refused to answer.
In my previous hearings, this was the moment I’d essentially told the parole board to go to hell. I’d stared them down with dead eyes and refused to discuss the details. Refused to apologize. Refused to give them the satisfaction of watching me grovel for a forgiveness I didn’t think I needed.
I’d killed a monster. What was there to regret?
But that was the old Knox. The one who’d convinced himself that righteous violence absolved him of consequences. The one who’d been so certain he was right that he couldn’t see all the ways he’d been wrong.
I looked over my shoulder.
Harper sat with her hands clasped in her lap, green eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She gave me a small nod.
Behind her, Gwen watched me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Hopeful maybe. Scared. Waiting to see who her father really was.
She deserved the truth.
They both did.
“That night,” I began, and my voice came out rougher than I intended, “I was home with my girlfriend and my four-year-old daughter. It was around one in the morning when I heard a sound.”
The room had gone completely quiet.
“I went to check on my daughter. When I opened her bedroom door, I found a man standing over her bed.”
The woman with the pointed glasses leaned forward. “Standing over your daughter.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I told them everything.
I told them about the news reports I’d seen.
The child predator terrorizing our neighborhood that the police couldn’t seem to catch.
I told them about the cold terror that had flooded my veins when I saw him in my daughter’s room.
The way rational thought had evaporated, replaced by something primal and savage.
I told them how I’d chased him through the house. Out the back door. Into the yard and beyond. I told them I hadn’t thought far enough ahead to have a plan, only that I couldn’t let him escape to hurt my daughter again, or someone else’s daughter tomorrow.
“When I tackled him,” I said, “he fought back. And I fought back harder. The fight escalated until he was dead.”
The three panel members exchanged glances.
The woman spoke next, her voice slightly softer than before. “And now, Mr. Blackwood? After fourteen years to reflect, what do you think about what happened that night?”
Here it was. The question that might determine everything.
I looked at Harper. At the way she was leaning forward in her seat, hands pressed to her heart.
I looked at Gwen. At the shock and confusion in her eyes, having heard the truth for the first time.
And I thought about all the years I’d wasted convincing myself I had nothing to apologize for.
“For a long time,” I said slowly, “I convinced myself that what I did was justified. That any father would have done the same. That the outcome was inevitable, and I was just the instrument of a justice the legal system had failed to deliver.”
I swallowed.
“But I was lying to myself.”
The words hung there, raw and exposed.
“I could have handled that night a million different ways. I could have called the police. Could have restrained him until they arrived. Could have done anything other than what I chose to do.” My voice cracked.
I didn’t bother trying to hide it. “And my choice that night didn’t just end one man’s life.
It destroyed my family’s lives as well.”
I looked directly at Gwen.
“My daughter grew up without a father. Her mother had to raise her alone. My little girl spent her entire childhood wondering why her dad chose violence over her. Wondering if she wasn’t worth staying for.
” I had to stop. Had to breathe through the tightness in my chest. “That man should have been turned over to the police. The justice system isn’t perfect, but it wasn’t my place to become judge, jury, and executioner.
And I’m not the one who paid the biggest price for that choice. ”
The thin man studied me. “Do you understand the harm you caused beyond your own family? The harm to the victim’s family?”
I nodded. “His family isn’t to blame for his actions. They’re victims too. And for what I took from them, I am deeply sorry.”
Silence hung in the air for a solid minute.
“Mr. Blackwood”—the sausage-fingered man folded his hands on the table—“in your previous hearings, you refused to accept any responsibility for the crime you committed. Why should we believe you’re different now?”
It was a fair question.
And it deserved an honest answer.
“Because I am different.” I scrubbed a hand over my face, feeling the rough drag of stubble against my palm. “For years, I’ve been existing like a ghost in this place. Going through the motions. Convincing myself that what happened was unavoidable, so why bother feeling anything about it?”
I thought about Harper. About the way she’d looked at me that first day in the infirmary, so full of suspicion and judgment. About how she’d slowly, impossibly, started to see the man underneath the monster.
“Then I started letting people in,” I said quietly. “People who cared about me. People I grew to care about.” I glanced at Harper, then away. “And somewhere in that process, I stopped being numb. I started feeling again. And once I could feel again, I could finally see the truth of what I’d done.”
The room was silent.