Chapter 19 - The Virtual ReckoningNovember 14th arrived with a biting, sub-zero wind that shook the bare branches of the oak trees outside our house.
Inside my home office, the lighting was clean and professional. A high-definition webcam was mounted on my monitor, connected directly to the secure video conferencing portal of the Illinois Prisoner Review Board.
On my screen, the virtual hearing room appeared in grid view.
Three parole board commissioners sat behind a polished wooden bench in Springfield, looking through digital case files. In a separate split-screen box, sitting at a metal table inside the bleak, fluorescent-lit visiting room of Stateville Correctional Center, was Preston Vance.
He looked drastically older than he had during his trial five years ago. His hair was completely white, his skin pale and sunken from years inside concrete boxes, and his orange jumpsuit hung loosely over a frame that had lost all its former arrogance. He looked like a man hollowed out by time and regret.
As the clerk called the docket number—State v. Preston Vance, Docket #8849-CR—the presiding commissioner looked directly into her camera.
"We have received and reviewed the formal opposition filing and victim impact statement submitted by the primary victim, Evelyn Vance," the commissioner announced clearly. "Mrs. Vance, are you present via video link?"
"I am present, Commissioner," I answered. My voice was clear, calm, and projected effortlessly through the speakers.
Preston jerked his head up so fast his neck cracked audibly. His eyes locked onto the monitor on the wall of his prison room. When he saw my face—calm, composed, wearing a sharp blazer, sitting in my own sunlit home—his breath hitched. A look of sheer, helpless despair washed over his face.
"Mrs. Vance," the commissioner continued. "You have five minutes to present your statement regarding the inmate's petition for early discretionary parole."
I looked past the camera, straight into the virtual eyes of my brother.
"Thank you, Commissioners," I began, my voice steady.
For the next five minutes, I didn't raise my voice. I didn't yell, and I didn't plead. I simply recited the reality of what Preston had done, reminding the board of the premeditated framing of a child, the violence of the assault, the lack of remorse shown during his jailhouse intimidation calls, and the danger he still posed to society if released.
"Preston Vance is not rehabilitated," I concluded, looking directly into the lens. "He is simply adjusting to the confinement he earned. Granting him parole would send a dangerous message that privilege and clever legal manipulation can wash away violent crimes against children. I respectfully, and firmly, request that this board deny his petition in its entirety."
Silence hung over the virtual conference room for three long seconds.
The presiding commissioner nodded slowly. "Thank you, Mrs. Vance. Your statement has been entered into the permanent record."
She turned her attention to Preston’s tiny square on the screen. "Inmate Vance, do you have any final remarks before the board renders its decision?"
Preston’s hands trembled as he gripped the microphone on his prison table. Tears welled in his red-rimmed eyes.
"Evelyn... please," he choked out, his voice cracking through the audio speakers, pathetic and broken. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I’ve spent five years in hell. Please... give me another chance. We're family..."
The commissioner cut him off with a firm wave of her hand. "The board has reviewed your file, your disciplinary record, and the victim's impact statement."
She paused, looking down at her notes.
"Motion to grant early discretionary parole is denied unanimously. The inmate will serve out the remainder of his sentence without future review for a minimum of five additional years."
Click.
The parole board members immediately disconnected from the virtual link.
On the screen, Preston’s video box went dark, replaced by a static system message. A prison guard stepped into his frame, tapped him on the shoulder, and led him away in handcuffs, his head bowed in absolute defeat.
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I sat back in my leather chair, exhaled a long, steady breath, and closed the laptop lid.
It was over. The chapter was permanently sealed.
