Ironically, the boys were all trying to look and act tougher than they actually were. I heard one boy say, “You weren’t in my life before, why should I listen to you now?” But the fathers were trying to show a softer side.

Sampson and I hadn’t made the run to Lorton before. It was our first time, but I was already sure I’d do it again. There was so much raw emotion and hope in the room, so much potential for something good and decent. Even if some of it would never be realized, it showed that an effort was being made, and something positive could come from it.

What struck me most was the bond that still existed between some of the fathers and their young sons. I thought about my own boy, Damon, and how lucky we were. The thing about most of the prisoners in Lorton was that they knew what they had done was wrong; they just didn’t know how to stop doing it.

For most of the hour and a half, I just walked around and listened. I was occasionally needed as a psychologist, and I did the best I could on short notice. At one little group, I heard a father say, “Please tell your mother I love her and I miss her like crazy.” Then both the prisoner and his son broke into tears and hugged each other fiercely.

Sampson came up to me after we’d been in the prison for an hour or so. He was grinning broadly. His smile, when it comes, is a killer. “Man, I love this. Do-gooder shit is the best.”

“Yeah, I’m hooked myself. I’ll drive the big orange bus again.”

“Think it’ll help? Fathers and sons meeting like this?” he asked me.

I looked around the room. “I think today, right now, this is a success for these men and their sons. That’s good enough.”

Sampson nodded. “The old one-day-at-a-time approach. Works for me, too. I am flying, Alex.”

So was I, so was I. I’m a sucker for this kind of stuff.

As I drove the young boys home that afternoon, I could see by their faces that they’d had positive experiences with their fathers. The boys weren’t nearly as noisy and rambunctious on the way back to D.C. They weren’t trying to be so tough. They were just acting like kids.

Almost every one of the boys thanked Sampson and me as he got off the big orange bus. It wasn’t necessary. It sure was a lot better than chasing after homicidal maniacs.

The last boy we dropped off was the eight-year-old from Benning Terrace. He hugged both John and me, and then he started to cry. “I miss my dad,” he said before running home.

Chapter 2