ms. haldeman: before we know a, our three-hour visit is over. the air is cooler, fog is starting to creep across the patio. along with the other families, we follow bob to the edge of the lawn. this is as far as i can go, he says, coming to an abrupt halt at the white line on the road. i'm not allowed to step over that. bob's words tell it like it is, and the line is a blunt, visual reminder of where he is. we tried to put up a good front and kiss him goodbye, but it is difficult. rejoining straggly possession of mostly women and children on the way back to the parking lot. behind us, bob stands with his feet firmly planted on his side of the white line. ends on december 20, 1978. the day that bob was released from prison. i will conclude today with an excerpt from a epilogue. -- summer, 1994, i have a small sailboat. there is just enough room in it for one person. my legs are cramped as i grab the pillar and push away from the dock. it is summer. i am back at bay island were nothing never seems to change. this year, everything is different. eig