A/N – Hello everyone, I'm back with the first day of the interview. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this, it means a lot to me because I know this is a bit different than my usual story.

A big thank you to VJGM, GinnyW, Pomme_de_Terre, Tiggrmommi, Who Knows and everyone who has supported this idea!

I do not own!

Monday - San Quentin Prison

The sound of the heavy metal door closing behind me echoed in the small room. The only furniture in the room consisted of a table and two chairs. One of the chairs was already occupied and I tried to appear confident as I made my way to the other side of the table. The first thing I noticed was the oppressive heat. I wasn't sure if it was always so warm in here, it seemed inhumane. I suppose that given who I was about to talk to I shouldn't be concerned about whether or not he was adequately cooled down. I could feel a trickle of sweat make its way down my back as I pulled the chair away from the table and sat down.

He sat across from me, not acknowledging my presence at the table. I opened up the briefcase that I had set on the floor and removed a pad of paper and pen. I also placed my recorder on the table before I flipped to my list of questions so that I could begin.

I tried not to stare as I sat across from him. I had seen his image hundreds of times, in newspapers, on television, magazines, etc but nothing did justice to the actual man sitting here in front of me. His eyes were a piercing green that no film could capture and his hands were long and elegant. It was hard to imagine them causing harm to anyone. The facts didn't lie though and I wasn't here to write a human interest piece on the man. I was here to write the interview of a man about to die.

"Good afternoon Mr. Cullen." I waited for him to respond and got nothing. "Mr. Cullen." I tried again and waited a few more minutes. A war was raging within me. I couldn't decide what I should do, did I stay in the hopes that he might decide to talk or did I go and risk being seen as a quitter. I had been sent here to do a job and I intended to do it. "," I said again. My voice rose and he finally looked up and acknowledged me.

"What do you want?" he growled at me. "Here to ask me more questions? To figure out why I did what I did? To make sure that I confessed properly? The courts are done with me Mrs…"

"Ms. Swan, Bella Swan." I couldn't screw this up. This was my first big assignment and I had a lot riding on getting this conducted properly and I couldn't allow him to taunt me. If nothing else I was professional.

"Your lawyer agreed to this interview Mr. Cullen, if you want me to leave just say the word." I hoped that he wouldn't send me out the door, my boss would kill me but I had to show him that I wasn't a pushover. If I didn't stand my ground in the beginning I would allow him to walk all over me. I started to pack up my things all the while praying that he wouldn't send me away.

He said nothing as I put everything back in my briefcase slowly and deliberately. Just as the last item was placed inside and I was closing the latch he spoke.

"You can stay." He looked at the corner of the room and I hesitated before I sat down again. I was almost convinced that this entire assignment would be a waste of my time. There was no way he would answer any of my questions but I came here to do a job and one way or another I would be writing this article. Even if it was my observations of a man who wouldn't utter a single word as he awaited death.

I removed everything once again from my briefcase and looked down at the list of questions in front of me.

"Mr. Cullen I am here at the request of your lawyer. He wanted to give you the chance to tell your side of the story before Friday night." I trailed off there, not wanting to remind him of what was scheduled to happen on Friday night.

"Why? If I had wanted to tell my story I would have. I confessed, I got sentenced and here I am. I'm ready for Friday. I don't understand or appreciate the interest and I don't understand why everything must take so long." It was the most words that he had ever said to anyone since his confession. He had been separated from the general population at his own request and spent all his time alone in a cell.

"Why did you confess? The police weren't even close to catching you, why give yourself up?" I asked the one question I had always been dying to ask. I ignored the questions that were in front of me, the questions that my boss and I had spent hours preparing.

"Because I was becoming one of them, the very person I was trying to protect society from. I found myself looking forward to it, enjoying it and that was when it needed to end. It wasn't a job so much as a necessity." He looked up at me. His green eyes searching out mine and I didn't doubt the truth of what he said. He had killed 9 people, each one of them deserving in their own way but still he was no better than they were.

When the first murder took place it was news instantly. James Preston had just been released from prison that morning. He was a man free through a loop hole in the legal system. He had killed 5 women, had never expressed any regret and if he had remained free he would have continued his spree ruthlessly and without remorse. He was found the morning after his release dead in an alley behind a bar in Sacramento. It was automatically assumed that one of the families of the victims had sought retribution but each family when interviewed by police lead to a dead end. A few days later a woman came forward and admitted to having talked to him in the bar and going into the alley with him. He had had his fingers wrapped around her neck when someone came by and sent her away. She didn't see him. She took off immediately so the police had nothing to go on.

As the years went by more and more of these stories emerged, close calls ended by a mysterious man who was never seen. His victims were always the same, men who were free when they most likely shouldn't be, men who were continuing their ways despite being given a second chance. The press nicknamed him the Angel of Death and it was mixed as to whether people admired or despised him. The only ones who were truly outraged were the families of his victims. They didn't condone the behavior of their sons, fathers, brothers but they didn't want to see them murdered.

The police had no leads. They weren't about to protect every person who had gotten away with murder. The murders took place all over the state, at various times of day. The only connecting factor was the type of victim.

The press had a field day with the story. Every time a new man got released from prison the papers speculated if he would be the next victim, the next one to find justice by alternate means. There was almost a sense of disappointment when they were still alive and well weeks later. I began working at the paper right after the sixth murder had taken place and speculation was rampant. I read everything I could on the case and when he turned himself in I helped to cover the story and became obsessed with him. I read everything I could on the murders and on Edward Cullen and hoped that one day I might get a chance to interview him. He didn't have a trial though and refused all requests for interviews. That was why this opportunity was such a surprise. His lawyer called our office and requested to set up the interview with me personally. Edward didn't read any press coverage on himself but his lawyer was partial to the coverage that I had assisted with so far and apparently thought that I would do the best job of writing an impartial view of the last few days of his life. So here I was, sitting across from this man I had read about for years and I tried my best to appear professional and not look as intimidated as I felt.

I looked at the page in front of me even though I could have recited every word on the paper in my sleep but it helped to ground me.

"Where did you grow up?" This was all background that had been covered numerous times but I wanted to hear his answers and inflections to the questions.

"Surely you know all this. Is this what you came here for? To rehash every newspaper article that has ever been written about me. I should ask you these questions, see how prepared you are for coming here today. Where did I grow up?" He raised his eyebrows and watched me as I debated on how to react. If I answered his question I would lose all control and credibility. I was in charge of this interview, not him.

"I'm asking the questions here. If you aren't willing to answer then we are done here." I didn't pack up my briefcase; instead I looked him straight in the eye and waited for his response. This was my time to assert my strength. I felt as though he wouldn't respect me otherwise.

"Let's see, I was born Edward Anthony Masen on a blustery day in Chicago on June 20th, 1976. I had your normal everyday upbringing. I was happy and healthy. Only child until my parents died in a car crash when I was seven. I was adopted by my Aunt Esme and Uncle Carlisle, hence the last name Cullen. They had two children so it was an instant family for me and I had to get used to that dynamic. It was a hard adjustment for me in the beginning but they were some of my closest friends." He was looking off into the corner of the room, his eyes unfocused.

"Were?" That was the one aspect that there hadn't been a lot of information on. His basic background information was easily obtained but the current relationship with his family was something of an enigma. They had been in the courtroom every day sitting stoically behind Edward but had never granted an interview or even made a single comment on their daily trek to the courtroom.

"They didn't approve of my extra-curricular activities." He looked down at his hands, joined together by two bands of steel. "Really though, could you blame them?"

I decided to ignore that comment for now and changed the subject. "You went to college in England at Oxford. What brought on that decision?"

He didn't flinch at my change of subject. "My father spent his college career there and I wanted to do something that would honor my parents and make them proud."

"Would your current situation make them proud?" Once again the words were out before I could censor myself. There was something about him that made me act before I thought.

"I stopped worrying about making anyone proud a long time ago," his fingers clenched on the table. "My parents were killed by a drunk driver when I was seven years old. He went to prison for two years. Two years for taking the lives of two people who meant the world to me. Three days after he was released he killed an entire family after he spent an afternoon at the bar. The world is full of such stories. Time and time again innocent people die," he slammed his hand down on the table startling me.

"Is that why you did it, why you felt the need to stop these people?" My questions had gone out the window. If he was willing to talk I would follow his lead.

"There needed to be justice, an eye for an eye. I'm not saying that what I did was right but I do believe that what I did was necessary. They had to be stopped because they weren't going to stop themselves. Here they were with a second chance, a chance to redeem themselves and they squandered it." His eyes were burning with intensity and I was momentarily silenced.

"Was this something that you had planned in advance? Did you follow these people to watch them and make sure that they weren't harming anyone?" No one had ever figured out his methodology. Other than the obvious freed from prison no one was sure why he chose some over others.

"It was a matter of being in the right time at the right place. I travel a lot for work and I happened to time some of my trips accordingly so I suppose there was some planning involved." He traced a pattern with his finger on the table over and over again. "Most of the time it just sort of happened. I would go to a bar and they would be there. I would watch and they would drink and go to drive, they would take some girl to the alley, they would do the same things that they had just promised they wouldn't. It was frustrating and I had to stop them."

"Why you?"

"Why not? Why does someone chose one path over another. Life gives you many options, it's all in what you chose. The first time it wasn't a conscience decision…" Suddenly there was a slam on the door and I jumped.

"Time's up." A guard came into the room and went to Edward's side to lead him out of the room. I was disappointed, he was finally opening up and it didn't seem like an hour had gone by already.

"Same time tomorrow?" He just nodded and shuffled his way out of the room. I hadn't noticed the chains around his ankles earlier. I watched him walk out and even though he had only four days to live he still held his head up high as he moved down the hallway.

I packed my things into my briefcase and closed it. I couldn't wait to get back to the office and listen to the interview again. There were so many things that I wanted to cover tomorrow and I hoped that it wouldn't take too long for him to open up again. As I drove out through the gates and took one last look at the prison I couldn't help but wonder where he was inside and what he was doing at this very moment.

Thank you again, more coming next Friday!

Jaime