Perhaps it took a few more phone calls for Pat Hall to realize that she was no longer negotiating from a position of strength.
Her parental rights had been terminated. She had little money. And she no longer had Alicia. The Denton County district attorney intended to seek a high bond to keep her in jail. And federal officials were contemplating filing federal kidnapping charges against her.
By the time she phoned Jean Connell, Pete's mother, Pat was bordering on hysterics: "Mrs. Connell, Mrs. Connell!" She was crying into the phone: "I am so sorry, sorry, very sorry. Please tell Pete to forgive me! Tell Mr. Connell to forgive me! Ask Kathy to forgive me!"
"I finally told her," recalls Alicia's grandmother, "that it was not within my power to forgive her. That would be entirely up to Pete."
Although Pete Connell is not a vindictive man, he believes that justice for Pat Hall, Mark Hall, and even Faye Yager is long overdue. He has suffered the scorn of being branded a child molester, felt ostracized by a community that hasn't taken the time to understand his case, and spent 10 years and a quarter of a million dollars for a single purpose that other men take for granted: to have a normal relationship with his little girl.
Faye Yager, of course, sees matters from her own myopic perspective.
"All these years, he's been out to win a game against Pat Hall," Yager insists. It's Pete who's responsible for depriving Alicia of a loving parent, she declares. "You can bet your bottom dollar that when the girl turns 18, she won't have anything to do with him. She'll never forgive him for taking her away from mom."
Alicia Connell, now 10 years old, sits astride her horse, Tonto, on a windy Sunday afternoon in late February, a bit suspicious of a stranger asking questions. Ten days after her return to Texas, she seems sharp, happy, and alert--ready to ride all day long if her stepmother, Kathy, will let her. Alicia doesn't mention her own mother--other than to say that her mom was wrong to take her away from people who love her.
Pete realizes that Alicia will have to deal with her past in therapy: to separate fact from fiction, mom's reality from dad's, unconditional love from unconditional hate. He can't take his eyes off his daughter, as if constantly needing to make certain she is still there.
He is proud of what he can provide her: 16 acres of rolling farmland in Denton where he plans to build a new home this summer among the tall oak trees, a loving stepmother, two caring older sisters, and doting grandparents who would like nothing better than to spoil their youngest grandchild.
A mile from the farm is the elementary school Alicia attends--just a bicycle ride away on a warm spring day.
Pete worries that all this freedom will be lost to Alicia if Pat Hall doesn't stay behind bars. And on February 23, 1996, at 6:30 a.m., his worst fears were realized. A TV reporter woke him from a sound sleep with the news: Pat and Mark Hall had just been released from the Denton jail on bonds of $3,500 each.
Two days earlier, a Denton County judge had set bond on the pair--reasonably viewed as a flight risk--at $100,000 each. Citing a paperwork foul-up, the Denton County sheriff would claim no knowledge of these higher bonds on his infamous prisoners. The embarrassed sheriff reissued arrest warrants for Mark and Pat, and dispatched four officers to find them.
Within minutes of her release, Pat Hall had phoned Pete Connell at his home. "Hi Pete, how are you today?" she asked glibly, as though a decade of bitter conflict didn't exist. "We need to talk."
"There's nothing to talk about," shouted Pete, before slamming down the phone.
With Pat on the loose, Pete kept Alicia home from school. Pat and Mark would be re-arrested later that day at a friend's home in Carrollton.
Once again, Pete had been forced to consider his options. Would he need a protective order? An adult to supervise Alicia at all times? An armed guard?
"It makes me sick to think about," says Pete Connell. "But if Pat doesn't stay in prison, then Alicia may feel like she's in one.
