Murder

Articles

Chris Falcon

Murder
Dec 29, 2003

Echoes. Heat. The intermittant buzzing noises of distant locked doors opening. Very stale air.

All are a part of my days' visit to a prisoner to hear his account of a murder I have to write about for the newspaper.

It was my first such visit. The jail itself was intimidating enough.

"Place all personal belongings in the locker, please," I was told.Then I was handed a giant, plastic, number "80."

I waited 20 nervous minutes in the lobby next to my locker with my number in my pocket.

"You can't take in those pens with you, Miss," a guard said to me.

"They're my pens... How else am I going to write? I am a reporter.It's what I am here for...to interview someone for an article about the murder...."

'Oooooh," said the guard. "Just a moment."

Another clank of a door shutting. A few minutes later a head warden appeared in a blue outfit, with his hands in his pockets and a tough look.

"Reporter? You called...I heard."

"I did. I got the okay. I spoke with everyone I had to."

I was silent a moment. He said nothing more. Then I somehow went against all my own judgement and blurted out to the warden..."I'm scared."

His look changed instantly to a kind look.

"I haven't done this before. I am not even sure I want to speak to him. I do want to know, though..what is the room going to look like?"

The warden squinted at me, having no idea what I was getting at.

"I think my heart would be less racing if I just knew...am I sitting with a policeman in the room? Is there anything between us? Is anyone listening? I mean, I am actually similar to the woman he murdered. Am I safe? My heart is racing and I'm sweating. I don't want to do this."

"I'll be right back," he said.

A few minutes later, he returned. "You're staying behind glass. Not going to the room for conferences."

"Are you sure?"

He simply indicated yes and to follow him.

Another guard escorted me to the visiting area. The floor guards apparently thought I was there simply to visit the inmate. There was an awfull moment when the prisoner was brought in and a guard actually shouted at the prisoner, "What town is she from?"

The prisoner said he didn't know and the guard yelled at him for not giving up the information. The prisoner insisted he didn't know me. When the prisioner wasn't looking at me, I quickly motioned to the guard with a finger over my lips...shhhhhh...That I didn't want him to know.

As the guard came over to the door where he could speak to me through the opening...he asked me directly and I whispered,"I'm a reporter."

"Ooooooooooh, she's a reporter," he shouted into the hallway.

I winced. I didn't want to be introduced exactly in that way.

"She doesn't want him to know anything about her cause she's a reporter."

"Thanks, guys," I thought.

I turned to speak to him. Where in the world do you begin, though, in asking someone why they made the biggest mistake a person can make.

I picked up the phone to speak to him.

"I'm from the newspaper," I said.

I'd like to tell you more.... but I have a serious deadline right now... tell you more about it another time.

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About the author: Chrissa Falcon is a newspaper reporter in the New York Metropolitan Area. Chrissa may be reached at ChrisFalconColumn@hotmail.com

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