For Barbara Boardman, the beginning of the end of life as she knew it began with a kiss.
Jesse Lenz
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In the spring of 2006, Boardman, then 55, was a pretty Southern blonde slowly recovering from a recent divorce. Childless and so devoted to a nursing career that making and keeping friends often felt like more trouble than it was worth, she found herself talking through the pain of a second failed marriage with an unlikely confidante: Lawrence Williams, a 47-year-old convicted rapist and custodian at the medical clinic where she worked at McNeil Island’s Special Commitment Center.
Despite seeing each other nearly every day for two and a half years, the sum of their interactions to that point added up to nothing more than pleasantries, with "How you doin' today, Ms. Boardman?" being about as deep as they'd ever gotten.
Then one day, prompted by watching Boardman eat a lunch of red beans and rice, Williams went somewhere more personal.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
When she said she was born in Louisiana, he replied "Hey, me too."
From that point on, mostly in secret, they talked about everything, including the steps they'd taken to find themselves together in this clinic, where the worst of the worst of Washington's sexual predators did routine things like get their teeth cleaned and medications filled.
Built in 2004 on a pristine, sneaker-shaped island in south Puget Sound, the Special Commitment Center (SCC) operates less like a prison than a heavily fortified dormitory. Behind coils of serpentine razor wire, civilly committed residents at the five-acre facility wear their own clothes rather than orange jumpsuits, have their own rooms instead of shared cells, and can reach the outside world at nearly all hours of the day from pay phones in supervised common areas.
Despite these relative freedoms, there are rules against getting too chummy with residents. And Boardman liked following the rules. A major in the U.S. Army Reserves, she still thought of herself as the dedicated Kroger checkout girl whose till was never off, not even by a penny. And though this was the first time in 25 years of nursing that she'd dealt with criminals, she had no problem enforcing the rules—like the time one guy tried to hold her hand and she'd yelled "No, Michael!" so loudly she even surprised herself.
But Williams was different. For one thing, he was always around; the other clinicians joked that he put in more hours than they did. For another, he seemed to have a good side. Williams had more privileges than most of the 283 men and two women interned at McNeil, including nearly unlimited, mostly unsupervised access to the phones, a freedom resulting from his progress in treatment. He also seemed to work harder than anyone pulling a salary.
At only 5'9'', but with a presence far bigger than his stature would suggest, Williams usually got to the office early and left late. He swept floors, shampooed the scuzz out of chairs, and even vacuumed the air vents above the nurses' desks, reaching high enough to expose a potbelly hanging over his jeans.
He may not have been the world's handsomest man, thought Boardman, but Williams had an easy smile and charm to burn. Technically, he wasn't even allowed to be in a room alone with her. But because he kept their office spotless, everyone in the clinic treated Williams differently, as if he were their hungry little mascot, sneaking him home-cooked meals and Burger King Whoppers—even though giving residents food was also verboten.
Word even went around that Williams was close—maybe too close—with the clinic's dental assistant. But that was just a rumor, so Boardman didn't suspect anything when Williams walked up to her desk that night in March.
"Come here," he said. "I want to show you something."
Boardman trailed Williams as he walked to the break room. "Look up there," he said, pointing to a puddle on the ceiling where water had turned the acoustical tile a soggy gray.
Boardman did as she was told, taking her gaze off of Williams long enough for him to put his lips on hers, his soul patch scratching her chin.
"What are you doing?" she said as she stormed out of the room. "You're gonna get me fired up in here!"
Later that night, sitting on the ferry that took her from work at McNeil to her apartment in Steilacoom, Boardman thought of her job and how much she wanted to keep it. Despite mixed emotions—it was clear she had feelings for this man, but there must have been a reason he was locked up—she thought to herself that, for the good of her career, this would be the last time she would ever kiss Lawrence Williams.
She thought wrong.
In fact, over the next four years, Boardman's relationship with Williams would only grow stronger. It would also cost her not only her job, as she'd first feared, but also her family, her self-respect, nearly everything she'd ever owned, and for a short while her freedom.
