Chapter 11 - The Last Sunset Behind Iron Bars
The transition back across the country was as cold and sterile as Roman had anticipated. Exactly forty-eight hours after stepping onto the sun-drenched shores of Northern California, Roman Vascari walked voluntarily back into the intake gates of the maximum-security federal penitentiary in Illinois. Director Harrison was waiting for him in a small, private conference room just off the processing area, flanked by two armed guards.
"You're a foolish man, Vascari," Harrison said, tossing a manila folder onto the metal table. "You had a window to disappear into the witness protection margins or slip across the border. Nobody would have looked too hard for a dead man."
Roman sat down slowly, resting his cuffed hands on the table. He didn't look tired; surprisingly, for the first time in four years, his posture was upright, his shoulders unburdened by the crushing weight of hypocrisy. "I'm not a coward anymore, Harrison. Running from my past is what got me here. Facing it is the only way I earn the right to look my daughter in the eye."
Harrison studied him for a long moment, a faint, grudging flicker of respect touching the corners of the older officer's eyes. He slid a second, slimmer file across the table. "Viktor Vance is locked away in a federal holding facility facing multiple counts of attempted murder and domestic terrorism. He'll never see daylight again. And your file... well, your voluntary surrender and cooperation in eliminating an active domestic security threat have been noted for the record."
Roman frowned slightly, looking up at the director. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Harrison said quietly, closing his briefcase, "the parole board reviews cases every ten years for inmates who demonstrate exceptional rehabilitation and complete institutional compliance. Your forty-year sentence just acquired a very realistic possibility of a commutation in year seven."
A profound wave of shock and gratitude washed over Roman. Seven years. It was still a lifetime behind bars, but it was a finite number. It meant walking out while he was still strong enough to hold his daughter's hand and walk her down a boardwalk without a guard standing behind him.
May you like
"Thank you, Director," Roman whispered.
That evening, as the heavy steel door of his cell slammed shut, Roman didn't feel the suffocating despair that had defined his first years of incarceration. He pulled out the Polaroid photograph of Maya from his Bible, pinned it carefully to the cinderblock wall where the last rays of sunset filtered through the high security bars, and whispered into the quiet dark, "I'll be home, my loves. Just wait for me."
