Edwards suggested O'Reilly give it a try. Down the road, if it felt OK, Edwards said they might take another step -- toward a meeting with Albertson.
O'Reilly agreed. Perhaps, she thought, this was a way to do something positive with her husband's death -- and acknowledge her daughter's questions.
"When I went to San Quentin," she said, "I really didn't know what to expect. I knew my assignment: to tell my story. But I was totally unprepared for what happened."
The eight men in prison blues thought they were ready. After 15 weeks in class with Edwards, they had covered a lot of ground. They had written essays about shame and guilt. They had mapped out how many victims their acts had truly claimed -- not just the person they harmed, but that person's children and parents and siblings and colleagues, and on and on.
But none of the men knew how deeply they'd be touched by O'Reilly's words. Patrick Mims, 43, cradled his head in his hands as O'Reilly -- her voice just above a whisper -- recounted the empty house, her sense of dread, her wailing when the deputy broke the news.
"I just think of her daughters, without a father, and I think of what a deep, loving relationship they had," said Mims, who has two children of his own. "It's right there in your face.... It's devastating."
Mims represents the other side of the restorative justice equation. Convicted of second-degree murder in 1989, he is serving 15 years to life, with the possibility of parole.
His crime capped years as a user and seller of crack cocaine, a life that began when he ran away from his Berkeley home at age 13. One night in San Diego, trying to buy dope with a buddy, he wound up in a fight, stabbed a man named Kevin Anderson and fled. Four days later, Mims learned that Anderson had died. He turned himself in.
In prison, he has become a certified electrician and plumber and obtained his associate of arts degree. Narcotics Anonymous and Alcoholics Anonymous have been a constant in his life. The parole board tells him he's on the right track.
After spending long hours in the restorative justice class, Mims wrote a letter to his victim's parents, apologizing for taking their son from them. He sent it to the San Diego County district attorney last January, hoping it might be forwarded. He has not received a response.
