by Paul Elam

Created on: May 12, 2009

The following is based on a true story. Actually, it's based on many of them.

Tobi Pitts leaned forward in her seat, clasping her hands together with forearms resting on her knees. She looked at Howard with tired green eyes that were sunken into a patchwork of premature wrinkles and thin make-up. Her hair was a mass of bleached, neglected curls that hung to the sides like twists of tattered rope.

"I can't make you say a word, Mr. Franks," she said. "but the court did order you to come here, and I do think it's in your best interest to talk about why that happened."

Howard scanned the room. There were eight other men in the circle, some watching him, others with eyes to the floor. All of them silent, waiting. He looked back at Tobi and found her unblinking gaze still on him, patient as alabaster.

"I see," he said. "My best interest." And the room sank into silence again. Tobi remained fixed.

A man to Howard's left, three seats down cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. He had the meticulous look of a newscaster, complete with handsome profile. His hair was a highly styled crown of silver-gray perfection. He regarded Howard with deep azure eyes resting behind glasses that sparkled as though hand polished by a personal assistant.

"Howard", he said, in the practiced tone of an announcer, "Tom Watson here, and believe you me I feel for you. I didn't want to talk when I got here either. But once I got over that I learned a great deal. Tonight's my last night."

Tom glanced over to Tobi to see if she was watching and was disappointed to find her still looking at Howard.

"Anyway. I don't mind telling you I used to be a real bastard. I gave my wife so many beatings I couldn't even begin to count them. In here I learned where it was coming from. Power man, and I am just flat addicted to it. It gave me a rush, a sick rush, to do what I did to her. I'll bet you can identify with that a little."

Howard studied the other men in the group. He noted some smirks and the look of disgust on the faces of others that seemed to deepen the more Tom spoke. Suddenly, without warning, he had to steady himself against a wrenching wave of grief that rose through his gut toward his chest.

"So I hope you open up a little, buddy. Remember, we're all the same here," Tom concluded. He then pointed at Howard with his hand formed into a mock pistol, winked and clicked his tongue.

"Forget that a-hole," said a heavyset man. He had a cheerless face, shadows of stubble cast across the cheeks like a dark

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