Chapter 8 – Beth
He looks a bit older and thinner, and his head is practically shaved, but other than that, Andrew hasn’t changed much from the young medical school student I knew.
He’d come so many times to the Special Collections room at the library where I worked as a reference librarian.
I spent a lot of time with him, helping him find sources for his research assignments.
He was always a polite, softly spoken young man who never gave me any reason to fear him.
And then, one day, without warning, he pushed his way into the secured Special Collections room and began to attack me with a viciousness I’d never imagined.
I ended up in the emergency room at the hospital, and then I spent months recuperating at Shane’s secluded estate in Kenilworth, north of Chicago.
At the time of the attack, Andrew admitted he was doing it to get revenge on Shane. He chose me because I was the easier target, and because he didn’t dare attack Shane directly. He was afraid of Shane.
And now, here I am, five years later, finally facing my attacker. I never got a chance to face him in court, as the judge declared him mentally incompetent and ordered that he be incarcerated in a mental hospital instead of standing trial.
My stomach is in knots, and I feel flushed all over. I can feel my anxiety skyrocketing as my body prepares to go into flight or fight mode.
When I feel his eyes on me, I glance over at him, and we make eye contact for the first time since the assault. He stares right at me, and I find myself looking into a pair of cold, lifeless eyes.
He’s not the same young man I remember.
A shiver runs down my spine, chilling me to the bone.
Shane’s hand tightens on mine, and I notice he’s watching me closely, his concern palpable.
You okay?
I nod.
But it’s not true. I’m not okay. Far from it. I feel sick to my stomach, and my body is telling me to run.
The woman seated at the center of the table in front of us begins to speak, but I struggle to make out her words. There’s a roaring in my head, and I feel dizzy.
Shane lays his arm across the back of my chair, and his hand grips my shoulder firmly as if grounding me.
Andrew’s psychiatrist walks over to the podium and begins to speak.
“Andrew’s done very well in both individual and group therapy.
The medications he’s taking are proving to be quite effective.
At this point in his treatment, I feel confident in saying that Andrew no longer poses a threat to society.
He, and his parents, are asking the panel to grant his release into his parents’ custody.
Under the conditions proposed, Andrew will be confined to his parents’ home in Lincoln Park, allowed to leave only for work or to attend a medical appointment.
“His parents have agreed to take personal responsibility for Andrew’s compliance with the proposed release conditions.
Andrew deeply regrets his past actions toward Mrs. McIntyre.
He has expressed sincere remorse, and now he wants only to rebuild his life so that he can be a productive member of society. ”
As I listen to the psychiatrist paint a picture of a newly reformed Andrew, I grow even sicker to my stomach because I don’t believe a word she’s saying. When I catch Andrew’s eye, he smirks at me.
After she completes her prepared remarks, Dr. Masterson resumes her seat, and Troy takes his place at the podium.
He reminds the panel, in gruesome detail, about the day Andrew physically assaulted me.
He lists my injuries—a broken arm, cracked ribs, multiple contusions, a concussion—and explains how I had to be hospitalized after being beaten unconscious.
“If Mrs. McIntyre’s office colleague, Mary Reynolds, hadn’t intervened when she did,” Troy says, “Andrew might very well have killed her. Mrs. McIntyre, along with her husband, feels strongly that releasing Andrew would present a risk to her safety and to the safety of her family. Therefore, we request that the panel deny Andrew’s petition to be released. ”
I’m surprised when Andrew’s father, Dr. Morton, stands at the podium and testifies about how painful the loss of their son’s company has been for himself and his wife. He’s their only child, and losing his company has been devastating. Blah blah blah.
Images flash through my mind of the attack. Andrew kicking my breasts. Andrew kicking my belly. He tried to kick my face, but I used my arms to protect myself. Instead, he kicked my arm and broke a bone.
I remember feeling the bone snap. I remember hearing it crack.
When Andrew is called to the podium, the room begins spinning, and the roaring sound is back in my head. He stands there listening to the parole board’s questions.
“Yes,” Andrew finally says in a flat, monotone voice. “I’m sorry for what I did. I shouldn’t have done it. It was wrong.” His responses are so robotic.
Andrew returns to his seat, and the African-American woman makes some closing remarks and brings the hearing to an end.
Shane stands and helps me to my feet. He walks me out of the room and down the hallway to the exit. Once we’re outside and I can breathe fresh air, my head begins to clear.
I notice our friends gathering around us.
“I don’t believe a single word that witch said,” Sam says.
Soon, Troy joins us. “The panel will meet in private to deliberate. We should hear something next week.” He looks at me. “How are you holding up, Beth?”
“Not well. Did you see the way he stared at me? It sent chills down my spine. He’s not well.”
“I agree,” Troy says. His gaze meets Shane’s and holds it for a long moment. “If the panel does approve Andrew’s release, I’ll start the appeal process immediately.”
“Thanks, Troy,” Shane says, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Let us know as soon as you hear something.”
The drive home is deafeningly quiet. Everyone in the vehicle seems locked in their own thoughts, probably reliving the hearing word by word, like me.
I don’t know what I’ll do if he’s released. I won’t feel safe. I’ll worry about my kids’ safety as well. We’ll essentially become prisoners in our own home, through no fault of our own, and that’s no way to live.