222 – 240 Roots of white hate – Regarding the pain of others (old book no)

Vincents text Norsk oversættelse Ny dansk bog

Understanding the roots of white hate 4 : Regarding the pain of serial murderers While driving one night in 1991, I saw an older white woman in the darkness under the freeway pillars and picked her up. She’d been attacked by black hoodlums and was bleeding so profusely I had to take her to a hospital. An hour later I spotted a man on the side of the road. Angry and tense, he’d been fired without pay from a shrimp boat in the Gulf and had been waiting three days for a ride. Considering the desperation in Woody’s eyes, I easily could’ve triggered the violence in him by sending out vibrations of fear and distrust. When I told him about the white woman who’d just been left for dead by her black attackers, Woody began to open up. (I had no idea at the time how deeply involved in his family I’d become.) He said he’d never been attacked by blacks because he “always attacked them first.” Little by little he told me how he and his two brothers had killed so many “niggers that I can’t count them on my fingers and toes.” Now I was wide awake. At first I’d thought he was just bragging, but there were too many descriptive details and locations in his stories. So when he also talked about his own mistreatment as a child, I made a deal with him: I’d bring him home, four hours out of my way, if he’d tell his stories and let me tape record them. “But I won’t tell you where I live. Just let me off somewhere in my town.” He knew I could go straight to the police with my tape. In my show, updated to include Woody and his family, his voice shocked university students. Some years after I’d met him, having listened to his nightmarish voice night after night, I was curious to find out how he was doing. When I finally had the chance on a tour in spring of 1996, I invited a Norwegian publisher of Toni Morrison’s books, Eli Saeter, to be my witness. What especially scared her was that everyone we met had been in prison for murder and rape. “They remind me of those men in the movie Deliverance,” she said. When we arrived, a dense fog hung over the place. It gave our hunt for a serial murderer in this swampy area, where we couldn’t see even six feet ahead of us, an eerie unreal aura. After three days we found his cousin. “It’s true, as you say, Woody came here five years ago,” he said. “He and his friend Bobby broke into a house, and Woody stabbed a 16-year-old girl while she was sleeping. He got 25 years in prison. He was an idiot during the trial. Made noise, laughed at the judge, and made fun of everyone. I tried to calm him down, but to no avail. He destroyed everything for himself.” We found Woody’s victim, Sarah, who told us about that horrible night. She’d been forced out of bed by Woody, who ripped open her stomach and lungs with a long knife. She survived thanks to several expensive hospital stays, but no one had given this poor family help processing their pain. It had happened only a couple of days after I’d dropped Woody off. This was depressing—I’d really believed during our night together I’d helped him get in touch with the deep pain and anger he felt. I tried to tell Sarah that Woody was my friend, but my voice broke against guilt and regret when I saw the terror in her eyes. She was unable to see him as anything but a bloodthirsty monster and talked about how he’d behaved like an “animal” during the trial, shouting “I’m gonna get you one day!” before he was dragged out of the courtroom in chains. She’d had nightmares about his returning ever since. It was important to see and understand Sarah, the victim of the would-be executioner, since for so many years I’d dealt mostly with the victim inside the executioner. When we went to Woody’s home, a woman opened the screen door and said, “I know who you are. Woody came home five years ago feeling uplifted. He said he’d been picked up by a strange man who’d gotten him to tell him everything about himself. I wondered who that could be since Woody is the most secretive person I know.” Adeline was the mother of Bobby, Woody’s accomplice, and lived with Rose, the mother of Woody’s two older brothers, Sammy and John. “Oh yes, it’s horrible. It’s not like Woody to do such a thing, but he was desperate when you brought him home fired with no pay after working for months in the Gulf. He and Bobby had both been drinking and had taken a lot of drugs, and I believe it was Bobby who did it. They came running home, knocking on the door at 2 a.m., shouting, ‘Mom! Mom! We did something terrible!’ Then they fainted and collapsed right there on the lawn, where they were asleep when the police picked them up.” I was relieved hearing there’d been nothing deliberate about his bloodlust in Sarah’s house, just the deep pain and anger I’d sensed in him. High on dope, they’d stolen a bike in front of Sarah’s house then started fighting over it. Woody suddenly broke into the house to grab a kitchen knife to use against his half-brother, who fled. In a frenzy of bloodlust, Woody then kicked in all the doors and tried to stab the sleeping family. As for Woody’s “animal” behavior during the trial, Adeline now recounted that “he’d been frightened out of his wits and his legs shook under him at the feeling that his life was suddenly over.” The poor are incessantly harming themselves, I thought, since Woody’s behavior had convinced everyone in the courtroom that he should never come out again, and he’d been given an additional 10 years in prison. What immediately forged strong bonds between Adeline and me was the love we both felt for Woody. I was amazed at her understanding of how the injuries he’d suffered in childhood had led to his violence. Woody’s brothers, then? He said they took him out on their killing sprees when they killed blacks for no reason. Trusting the intimacy I’d established with Adeline, I asked whether it could be true. “Oh, yeah,” said Adeline, who’d often overheard them mention such killings, but added that the father, Vincent, had been even worse. Not to mention the grandfather! “We just did things like that down here in the past!” It was as if she was apologizing for them. “Sammy is like his father. A horrible man. It was an organization that stopped him in the end. Life in prison. He’s not coming out, ever.” Slightly annoyed, she said the reason Woody’s eldest brother had been jailed for his latest murder was that the NAACP had called the killing “a hate crime” (in the past nothing happened to them after their murders). She added that Sammy continued to murder blacks in prison. A black prisoner told him that he’d soon be released. “No, you ain’t!” Sammy replied, and the night before his release, Sammy poured gasoline over him and set him on fire, reducing him to a charred corpse. Woody had previously told me that Sammy was the leader of the prison’s “Aryan gang.” In the absence of a real mother, Woody called Adeline “Mom” and at least once a week called her from prison. It was all further complicated by the fact that Woody had been dating Adeline’s junkie daughter, Dawn, for whom she, like her son Bobby, apparently didn’t have any great feelings. And what about the middle brother, John? Did he also participate in the killings? “I don’t know how many, but I know for sure that John killed a man at least once. He only got three years in prison for it.” We later drove out to visit John in the swamps despite Adeline’s having warned us sternly against it. “Don’t you realize he’s the worst of them all! He’s tough, cold, and he will in no way talk to you.” She drew such a frightening portrait that Eli, who’d heard more than enough about violence by now, insisted we move on, especially since, if we wanted to get there before dark, we were running out of time. But now that I’d finally found the man who could corroborate what Woody had said to me in his interview, I wasn’t going to give up. As we drove through the endless swamp, where bare trees stood like skeletal fingers overhung with cobwebs of ghostly Spanish moss, Eli looked more and more pale. “Didn’t you come along to experience America?” I was trying to cheer her up, amused that reality had borrowed the worst Hollywood visual effects (on top of the heavy fog still lying over the black crocodile-infested waters). “Why do people sit through such movies when reality is far more exciting,” I asked Eli. Deep in the swamp too close to dark, I managed to find a rotten trailer with plastic over the windows. The usual rubbish of old car wrecks and rusty boats lay scattered around. And when I saw two dirty little white girls, shaggy and barefoot, their noses snotty, I knew instantly these were John’s children. Eli was so scared she locked all the car doors and refused to get out. The scene she saw in front of her was right out of Deliverance (in Norway the film was called “Excursion with Death”). She feared that if John came out and shot us no one would ever find our corpses in those swamps. I recalled Woody’s detailed description of how their faces had stiffened when they caught one of their own dissolving corpses in the crawfish net. Yet I displayed neither courage nor naïvete in seeking out John, for in the middle of this dark wetland I felt I was on completely solid ground. I was in an almost euphoric state of being, basking in the light of the transformation one perceives when one of the great questions of life is at last being clarified. It’s important to note the ecstatic state of mind I arrived in because when John ended up, as I’d predicted, behaving in a way diametrically opposed to what one would expect of a terrifying psychopath, as his family had insisted he was, it was precisely because I’d mentally built up this desperate man to be the one holding the answer to the riddle of life. Thus, I could give him the unimaginable powers people gain when you show them trust and deep human interest: he felt accepted and loved. Certainly, he was isolated, hostile, and, yes, awe-inspiring. His came to the door armed with a gun, his beard wild and symbols of violence tattooed on body. Yet rarely have I met a man who was so quick to open up when I told him I was a friend of Woody’s. Immediately the gun was put away and replaced by cups of fresh-brewed coffee. I soon felt such an exuberant warmth from John and his wife, Connie, that I went out and persuaded Eli to join us. He was indeed the same blood-dripping “monster” that Woody had talked about in his interview and hammered into my consciousness for five years. But at the same time—and Eli agreed—he was a small cowed child whom one could hardly help but embrace. When you bear in mind that I could easily have been a shrewd police informer, it’s amazing how little it takes to open such people up and how eager they are to talk about themselves. And in that very conversation, with its gradual processing of pain, lies the answer to all violence. Yet governments the world over go blind with their antiquated eye-for-an-eye rhetoric and recidivist repressive reflexes right out of Lucifer’s right-wing fortress. The rest of the day, John and Connie recounted the violence that ran through their whole family. “Just look at Angel here.” Connie lifted up the abused the two-and-half-year-old. “She’s full of violence against her sister. She’s the bad one!” And both Eli and I thought that that’s how she would end up if told from childhood that she was “bad” and “not good enough.” The mother gave her several proper spankings, but we almost never saw her cry. Instead, her red-eyed face carried a permanent mortified look of resentment. Both parents talked openly about how it was only when they were drunk that they exploded in violence, and we quickly formed a picture of how horrible the conditions must be for the two children. They gave endless examples of all the violence they’d been involved in. I didn’t even need to ask about the murders of blacks; their bloody side comments about them were a perfect fit with Woody’s descriptions. When I asked to see the weapons used in the various murders, John brought out seven rifles and three pistols, which he’d already taught the little girls to use. He even demonstrated with his knife how he’d stabbed a black father in front of his family. I tried to frame my photos of him under a picture of his own father, the one who’d passed all that violence on to them. It hung on the wall in a gold frame, radiating an eerie evilness that couldn’t be covered up by the photographer’s neat studio setup or Sunday dress. John wanted us to stay the night and go alligator hunting with him the next day. (He made a living illegally poaching alligators and had filled the fridge with alligator meat.) I was willing, but Eli objected to “going on an alligator hunt in the swamps with a serial murderer in dense fog.” So after a warm farewell, we set off in the dark. We were petrified on the drive back and could hardly talk about anything else. 226 1996 Fall trip In the fall I invited the Danish TV-reporter Helle Vibeke Risgaard to record the traumatized family for TV. John was working “offshore,” so Connie could talk more openly about him. For several days we heard about one murder after another—this time for an open Betacam video. Since it all came in a raving stream or in side remarks, it didn’t take long before we were falling-down dizzy. After a few hours, we could neither remember nor even care about all the murders we’d heard about. Connie was a strange concoction. She appeared to be a rational woman of exalted composure, and yet we knew from Rose and Adeline that she was even more violent than John, whom they actually saw as her victim. Several times she said that if it hadn’t been for her religion and the children, she’d long ago have left him. Yet we soon began to doubt that; without her children, whom would she be able to beat? With John away, we had the courage to drink with Connie, usually until 4 in the morning, and we had ample opportunity to see her relationship with the two abused children. She was loving one moment but the next would fly into an uncontrollable rage, whipping 3-year-old Angel with a leather belt. This developed into a momentary conflict between Helle and me. Helle impulsively tried to reach out and protect the child, which drove me crazy since that prevented me from photographing the abuse. “What an evil man you are!” she shouted, along with similar accusations (understandably I might add). “If you had traveled a little more in black ghettos,” I snapped, “and seen that kind of abuse every single day, you’d know it’s not your job to save every single child in a moment of sentimentality. No, your job, through your empowering presence, is to give these parents the love for themselves that’s necessary for them to express love for their children. Yet to avoid the very sight of violence and abused children, we do the opposite and all flee the ghetto. And that’s how we ultimately become the direct cause of its abused children.” I also knew that I didn’t have to lecture Connie about how it’s wrong to discipline her “evil children” with violence, for all people know deep down that it’s wrong to beat children. If I’d started in with moralizing sermons, however, she’d just have felt even worse about herself. Also, my “higher common sense” told me that it wasn’t necessary to intervene because the child so obviously expected the beatings. She didn’t even cry. Instead, out of spite she continued the behavior that had made her mother crazy. While I knew that this was an extraordinary chance for me to get some pictures for one of the most central and educational sections of my show about poor whites, photographing this abuse was certainly not something I enjoyed. Often I asked myself what the limit was—when would I actually step in? Contrary to the unrestrained violence common among poor blacks, the presence of a stranger generally quelled the aggression of poor white parents. My photography was itself what told Connie that her behavior was unacceptable but in a way that was gentler than if we’d reprimanded her or accused her of being “a bad person.” Indeed, that would’ve been a replay of what she was doing with the child. I’ve probably offended a lot of readers at this point (although the same offended readers never complain about the violence in my show). When my show had a renaissance in the 90’es, I think it portrayed the growing violence in us as reflected in increasing child abuse. This led to a growing interest in the pedagogy of oppression. Raising the collective awareness of the roots of oppression will be the true salvation of the child. Nevertheless, I would also readily defend the opposite view, which claims that it’s critical to stop the around-the-clock violence against children (and women), however briefly, even if it means destroying key photographic proof of it. For if the few of us who seek out these outcasts—solely to document and thus exploit them—don’t step in, then who should? No matter what the reason for being in such a situation, the Good Samaritan doesn’t close his eyes, open his lens … and pass by! The worst thing in this whole situation wasn’t the conflict of these Dostoevskian ethical views, but what both Helle and I soon felt toward the abused child. When we first stepped into this waterlogged hornet’s nest, our immediate sympathy had been for the two battered children with black circles under their eyes. We’d soon feel how “we” always end up helping to force such victims into the oppressor’s role—the vicious circle. Never have I seen it so clearly as in the three-year-old Angel; every single reaction of hers was out of spite. We all know how the abused often bite the outstretched hand and how they destroy everything around them to get attention. At first you feel like picking up the child and caressing her, but the child rapidly obliterates all the surplus affection and love we can muster. And when, from 8 in the evening till 4 in the morning, that “evil” little “Angel” ended up destroying almost all our cameras, microphones, cords, and tapes, then, yes, we gradually felt violence in ourselves build up—all the way to the point where we too had an unspeakable desire to heap verbal abuse on her, beat her up, and kick her across the floor. This is how all over the world we hurt the injured. And when year after year you’ve been teaching this to students, it’s indeed a good pedagogical lesson to suddenly “feel” how quickly you yourself can become part of the vicious circle of oppression. How quickly we became Connie’s coalition of the willing! Slowly sinking with her out there in the swamps. Most appalling for both of us was experiencing the close connection between abuse and racism. When we asked three-year-old Angel what she thought of blacks, she became utterly confused. “What do you mean by ‘blacks’? Niggers? We shoot niggers, don’t we, Mom?” When the camera was running and her mother was sober, we could occasionally experience Connie becoming so self-conscious that she said “black” and sporadically tried to use that word in front of the child. This was interesting because it showed that the argument of Gunnar Myrdal’s An American Dilemma was valid in even the lowest strata of society, that is, there is a conflict between society’s higher ideals—“e.g., we are all equal”—and the completely different messages parents nurture in their “gut” about “subhumans,” which end up trickling into the child’s unconscious. 228 We saw this even more clearly in Connie’s relationship with 7-year-old Natasha. Connie thought it was okay that Natasha had caused some trouble in school because, Natasha explained, “The nigger sitting in front of me smelled.” But Connie scolded Natasha because the school had just kicked her out for starting a gang with four other girls. I sensed something more going on and asked Natasha, “Was the gang to confront the blacks?” This was a difficult question because in itself the term black told Natasha I was on the side of “the niggers.” So her answer wasn’t quite as easy for her as when she’d theatrically repeated “Niggers smell!” A little later she became herself (rather than the well-behaved girl society wanted to see). She admitted that the four girls had lured a black boy into the woods and smashed his head with a rock until he was pouring blood. She visibly enjoyed describing this horrifying assault in graphic splatter language. Why had she done it? Because one day her mother, apparently in a moment of political correctness, had told her that “niggers bleed red just like us.” It was Connie’s way of telling her (when she was sober) that “we are all equal, so talk nice about your school friends.” Natasha didn’t believe this message, which contradicted all the other messages she’d gotten from her parents about “killing niggers” (usually when they were drunk). So she’d started a gang and wounded a boy to find out whether it was true. To this Connie simply replied, “It wasn’t a nice thing to do, Natasha.” But we’d all been drinking, and Connie said it with a big smile. She was obviously proud. So Natasha got the message that it was all right to smash a boy’s head open with a rock to find out whether “niggers bleed red”! Rarely have I seen such a classic lecture in the pedagogy of racism: This was the crushing “double-edged” killer’s sword, the double message as it’s practiced by the vast majority—that is, by us, the more ordinary “liberal” right-thinking people—constantly hammering “we are all equal,” the American creed, and “Christian love” into our children. And yet, when the issue comes to people in “the inner city,” blacks, homosexuals, Jews, Muslims, etc., we lift our eyebrows or change our voices a bit, without even being aware of it, and send the opposite message to the child, somebody is “not as equal.” The child can’t process such a double message with its hidden oppression and out of hurt and in confusion acts out in various racist patterns while growing up. Connie somehow gave me hope for humanity, for she underscored what I’d always experienced among vicious criminals and even Ku Klux Klan members: One doesn’t have to teach an adult like Connie about right and wrong (as Ivan insists in The Brothers Karamazov regarding living without a God). No, everyone knows that it’s wrong to kill, to hate, to inflict pain. While being imprisoned in their own excruciating pain, however, they can’t always live up to their higher ideals. Since Connie better than anyone expressed our deeper common humanity, I couldn’t help but feel a greater and greater affection toward (and joy around) her. She was this huge lump of explosive violence and hatred, with a peculiar mix of common sense, tenderness, and love, yet she held a deeply entombed desire to express the best of ideals. I was happy to feel this violent attraction to her since it somehow reminded me of the feelings I’d always nurtured for poor blacks as victims. That she herself was a victim became clear when we met Connie’s desperately alcoholic and insane father (although Connie claimed there’d never been a directly incestuous relationship between them). At some point the extent to which moral concepts had slipped from us after only a few days with Connie out in the swamps dawned on us. During the summer, John had caught a raccoon, which became a family pet. The children constantly rolled around in bed with their new toy and fed it crackers. I enjoyed taking baths in the insane mess of their “bathroom,” because the raccoon—a “washing bear” in Danish—with its big tail helped wash me in the tub. It was so cute that Helle got the idea she could make a wonderful children’s TV program about how it played with the mistreated children (at home she usually produced children’s programs), but she’d run out of video tapes. That was my fault. Before our arrival I’d warned her, “This is a family so distraught that you can’t directly interview them about their violence. Just let your camera run the whole time, especially when they’re drunk, and you’ll get the most shocking footage—they’ll casually remark on all of their murders.” When we ran out of tapes during the nights of “our drinking and killing sprees,” Helle suggested erasing some of the previous tapes. And since murder and violence had after just a few days become the boring everyday “banality of evil,” I told Helle that it was okay even though the reason I’d invited her in the first place was to record it all. Only when we were out on the highway did it dawn on us that she’d erased much of the evidence of a—even by American standards—shocking serial-murder story in favor of a trivial children’s program. This was a dreadful example of how quickly we’d been brainwashed into Connie’s perverse logic of violence, which she herself best expressed when at one point she asked, “Tell me, are you writing a book about us?” I got defensive but replied honestly: “Perhaps someday, but I’ll make sure to protect you all (from legal action).” “No, you don’t have to worry about that,” Connie said. “The only thing I wouldn’t be happy for you to write about is that night when I broke into a restaurant with Woody and stole seafood out of hunger.” She knew very well that burglary was illegal and had strong opinions about it since one of the “niggers” in the neighborhood had once stolen her chickens. But she didn’t think of killing “niggers” in droves as illegal or wrong (when she was drunk)! After a short time, apparently neither did we. This was another valuable lesson she taught me: Violent killers aren’t created only by beating them in childhood. No, even the best and most righteous of us can be brainwashed into these roles in a short time as we know from soldiers and torturers all over the world – not to forget American police such as George Floyd’s killer. 230 After warm hugs, we said goodbye to her and the kids in front of the dilapidated trailer with its plastic-covered windows. I knew I’d miss her—or at least the contact with the violent side of myself she’d exposed for me. A good reason to leave now was the presence of Connie’s raving-mad father, who ruined every conversation with his sex-crazy fantasies about Helle. “Can you really sleep in the car with such a sexy blonde without having sex?” he kept asking. You often hear the truth from those who are drunk or insane (he was both). He expressed openly what Americans usually imagine when I invite Danish women on my trips—that if nothing else it’s to avoid falling in love with my photographic victims, such as his daughter, Connie. Later in 1996 I’d been writing to Woody for several years and got permission from the prison to visit him. After almost 20 hours of driving, I arrived. As per usual in America, the high-security prison was located in a remote area few families could afford to drive to. Woody hadn’t had a visit for five years and looked forward to our reunion as much as I did. But it was a shocking experience. After we both went through all sorts of security measures, Woody entered the visiting room chained hand and foot, his body looped with still more (and still thicker) chains. Trying to reach around this iron man felt like embracing a space alien. The beautiful “innocent” look I remembered, of a young boy with long bright locks, had been blown away. With his short hair, tattoos, his missing teeth (they’d been knocked out), and wounds on his arms, he was a creepy replica of Sean Penn in Dead Man Walking—but far, far worse. While I had a hard time believing in his mass murder stories that night five years ago, I was now able to believe everything about him. He’d been ferociously brutalized in this prison, which seemed far worse than Angola despite the latter’s reputation for being the worst. And he’d spent half his time in the darkness of solitary confinement because of perpetual disciplinary offenses. How many fights, I asked. He counted twelve with black prisoners and three with whites—all life-or-death struggles. His 25-year sentence had been extended each time. But having ended up almost exclusively with blacks, he’d gained more respect for them. They could also fight back! He told me about how angry he’d been when he’d first—before I’d picked him up in 1991—shared a jail cell with a black man. He’d had a gun smuggled in and shot the “nigger.” Not to kill him (years would’ve been added to his sentence). He’d shot him in the leg to get him moved from his cell. That wasn’t possible in this “high-tech” prison, and he’d learned to live with his black cellmate. “He does not fuck with me and I do not fuck with him.” They never talked about race relations. Neither even knew what the other was in for. Sarah was the only one of his victims I knew, so I felt a special responsibility as her messenger. Since Woody had no recollection whatsoever of the night he’d stabbed her, he asked me to tell him in detail what had happened. “That poor girl,” he said several times during our talk. About his “animal-like” behavior in the courtroom, when he’d threatened her, he could only remember that he’d been “an asshole” without even knowing that Sarah was present. I told him how important it had been for Sarah to see Woody’s letter to me in which he asked for her forgiveness, and I asked whether he was ready for a victim-offender meeting to heal the wounds. After much deliberation, he replied that he wasn’t ready for it. Then I made a terrible mistake. I said that Sarah had been more understanding than I’d expected because her own brother was in prison. Woody’s efforts to think in compassionate terms were immediately crushed, and the killer in him emerged. “You have to give me the name of Sarah’s brother,” he demanded. “I’ve heard from inmates transferred from Angola that there’s a prisoner here who’s out to kill me. Here you have to kill or be killed.” I knew the prisoner was probably Sarah’s brother since, during my conversations with her, her other brother kept saying angrily, “If only I could get my hands on that guy!” So now I was suddenly involved in a life-and-death struggle and realized that being a messenger, bridge builder, or man of reconciliation might not be as easy as I’d imagined. Like Our Lord Himself, I had to decide which of them was going to die! If I didn’t reveal the name, it would be Woody, my friend, who’d one day probably have his throat cut from behind. I knew I wouldn’t say the name to Woody, but I also knew that if I kept refusing I’d push him away. Overall, meeting Woody again was a shocking experience. There were a number of reasons for this, one of which was that I had to review much of what I’d said about him in my slideshow. I could still glimpse the wounded child in Woody, but it was harder and harder not to see him with the judgmental eyes of society. I knew that I wouldn’t have the courage to set this man free in his present state, but I also knew—as I kept reminding myself—that this condition was caused by this very same judgmental disposable society, not to mention the additional brutalization prison had subjected him to. As difficult as it was to withhold Sarah’s brother’s name, it was almost as difficult not to tell Woody about Dawn, the only love of his life. That very morning I’d called Dawn’s mother, Adeline; she was in shock. Dawn had attempted suicide the night before. She’d been found half-dead in a gas oven. Adeline had asked me not to tell Woody, but Woody kept asking me about her. And there was other news: Dawn had had a child with Woody’s best friend. I knew Woody would want to kill him along with Sarah’s brother. In this brief account, I’ve merely hinted at some of the problems I’d run into in my attempt to be friends with all parties in an underworld of violence that has its own confusing rules. During the three-day drive back to New York through a depressing rain that lasted all three days, I didn’t think of much more than this: MY American dilemma. 1998 Almost two years after I visited Woody, I received a surprising Christmas letter. It was from the worst of the three serial murderers—Woody’s oldest brother, Sammy, whom I’d tried to visit in prison (also in 1996). As the leader of an Aryan gang, he continued murdering blacks in prison, e.g., by pouring gasoline on them and setting them on fire while they slept. Now he was apologizing that he hadn’t replied to my letter. He was legally prevented, he said, since he’d spent two years in the “hole” for stabbing a black prisoner to death. Now, however, he wanted to do something more creative and asked me whether some of my friends would be his pen pals. Several of my black friends in the area were his prison guards. After using them as references and waiting for many years, I finally got permission to visit Sammy. (The warden was a Christian who believed in forgiveness.) Unfortunately, after driving almost a week to get there, I found the prison under lockdown because of a swine flu contagion. With a Black Woman in 2003 In 2003 I decided to take a black woman with me to see how the family would react. “I want to see whether they’ll kill you too,” I joked to Rikke Marott, a model from Denmark. “Jacob,” she said nervously, “I’m a young black woman. You’re a middle-aged white man. Half the men in these areas are in jail for killing or raping blacks.” I replied, “They also kill whites.” “That doesn’t make it any better.” We first went to see Sammy’s and John’s mother, Rose. I wanted to hear more about her background. Rose said she came from an extremely poor family: “I grew up far out in the swamps, inhabited by almost no one but our family. Our house had only one room, where all nine of us slept. We were so poor we all had to stay home and help Mom and Dad work. Like most other poor people, we helped to work in the swamps as shrimp fishers. Really hard work. Not until I was 13 did the authorities find us and send us to school, but I stopped after 5th grade because Mom and Dad needed us for work. So I never learned to read and write then.” Rikke pointed to her adorable young daughter on the wall. “Yes, my daughter there disappeared back in ’67. She was 16. I got an anonymous call—a voice said she’d drowned in a harbor.” Rikke asked, “Who was calling?” “Maybe the killer, because no one else knew where she was. She was never found. That’s the worst part.” Her voice trembled and her eyes brimmed with tears. “It’s 35 years ago, but I’ve never let go of the hope that she’ll come back one day.” “What about your other children?” “Our family is cursed. There’ve been so many murders and accidents—we are cursed. My stepson is in jail for attempted murder—he cut up a young girl’s belly. She survived, but she’ll never be able to have children.” When I interviewed Rose about how Woody’s father had ripped out her uterus, she broke down in tears, embarrassed that I knew about it. After it had happened, she’d been so ashamed to be without a womb that she didn’t go to the hospital for a month. Even then she only went because the bleeding was so severe. In the moments leading up to the tragedy, Vincent, who’d been drinking heavily, shouted, “I’ll make sure you can never have children with another man!” Rose said she’d wanted to leave him, but before I turned off the camera, she went on to confess that she’d killed her husband with an axe. He hadn’t “fallen out of bed” as everyone had told me. Becoming even more emotional, she talked about the murder of Woody’s eldest sister. Adeline had told me in the spring that she’d committed suicide at the age of 16, after a long incestuous relationship with her father. Now Rose said that her daughter had, in fact, been murdered. Numb from hearing about all the murders we forgot to ask if it was also by the father, when she quickly continued. “I have another son in prison for murdering negroes,” Rose continued. “He killed people at random.” She described in detail (and on video) all the killings but failed to mention the victims were all black. Rikke said later, “She’s trying to protect me because I’m black, but she didn’t have to. I felt comfortable with Rose. I could feel that she didn’t care what color I am. What was important to her was that there was another human being who was trying to understand where she was coming from.” As we were getting ready to leave, I said, “Well, Rose, we’re on our way out to visit John.” “John’s wife is dead,” Rose said. “Connie was killed last year in one of their drunken fights when she drove off in the car and crashed it. John’s no longer a shrimp fisherman. He works on a boat and is away for days at a time. He’s not in town right now.” “What about the kids?” I asked. “They were taken by the authorities,” Rose said. “My Christian daughter has the two youngest. The eldest, who’s 17, lives with John and his new girlfriend.” I was shocked but not surprised. Connie’s violent death was caused by a dangerous mix of cocaine, endless alcohol, and unhealed anger. I’d longed to see her again and was in tears as I made the long drive to visit her children. Would they even remember me after seven years? I was relieved when we drove up to their new home, “with a good Christian family,” and, as if I were a dear uncle, Angel came running out and leapt into my arms with uncontrollable joy. 233 It’s said that children can’t remember anything from before the age of 2 or 3, but clearly she’d remembered me, arriving with my shame for having wanted to beat her when she was a toddler. Fortunately, this was not her lasting memory of me. Apparently, she’d experienced me in childhood as the only “sane” outsider to witness how deeply she’d been traumatized. Hers was a family that both whites and blacks had fled from out there in the swamps. Although I’d only been with the 2 and half-year-old Angel for one day in spring 1996 and for a few days in the fall when she was 3, I could now see how much our short visit at the time had meant for her as a 9-year-old. She dragged me by the hand to meet her new family, to show me the younger sister she’d acquired and a love letter she’d written to her mother, now dead, promising to be “a good kid.” 234 The 17-year-old Natasha, who’d nearly killed a black boy with rocks and had since spent two years in prison for other crimes, was equally enthusiastic about our reunion. She was also thrilled to meet Rikke, with whom she wanted to be photographed incessantly. They may have been brought up to “kill niggers,” but their pain didn’t discriminate against the color of the woman offering them love and the hope of soothing that pain. Rikke, who was adopted into a loving Danish middle-class family, came with all the surplus love these affection-deprived children were craving. On my subsequent visits over the years, they kept asking why I hadn’t brought that “lovely colored woman” with me. 2009 Yet, the family curse continued to haunt the children—John managed to get them back. He worked offshore, so I didn’t see him again until 2009, now in another trailer with a little land around it. I came to expect surprises when visiting a serial murderer and figured I was in for another when I asked him why his lawn was red with blood. He answered with the rusty voice of a hardened older man: “Well, Jacob, you know we always did crazy things when we got drunk. Last night I was so drunk I went out target shooting at my only cow. The cow got so frightened that it jumped the fence and ran off. I ran inside to get my rifle and got on my horse to chase it down. And after a wild midnight ride through town, I killed the damn bastard about five miles on the other side of town. And this morning I went with my 15-year-old stepson out to get it in the pick-up truck. We’ve just been butchering it here on the bloody lawn.” I replied, “Well, at least you’re not killing blacks anymore.” “No, we all mellow out when we get older. I think I stopped that around the time I met you.” I was so relieved his youthful (and lethal) anger had subsided that this time I went shrimping with him deep in the swamps, where for the first time we had time to really talk about his life and his violent fights with Connie, which in the end had cost her her life. What saddened me was that both of his daughters, whom I’d come to see, had disappeared. Natasha had fled from him around the time I saw her last and now had two children, whom she’d dumped with John. He didn’t know where she was; “probably in jail again,” he guessed. And Angel was now in prison. Woody had, after 16 years, been released on parole and moved in with John. He’d raped 13-year-old Angel and made her into a drug addict. John was so furious that he put his own brother back in prison—this time for life—for breaking parole. Angel was no saint either. At 13 she’d stolen a car to take some of her friends to a McDonald’s and was sentenced to a juvenile facility. She escaped a year later by stealing one of their yellow school buses. I have no idea how she, small as she was, could even have reached the foot pedals. Perhaps she couldn’t since she crashed the bus, totaling it. She was now serving a sentence of several years in a prison so far away John couldn’t afford to go there. John, I observed, along with his new wife, was trying do a better job of bringing up his two granddaughters than he’d done with his daughters. One had been named Connie after their dead grandmother. I felt that John was now on the right track and was more worried about Natasha and Angel. 2012 I didn’t locate Natasha until 2012. She contacted me because she wanted my help in sending her father to prison. She’d learned from Rose, her grandmother, that it was actually John who’d committed the murder in the marketplace for which her uncle Sammy was serving a life sentence. Although Natasha had never met Sammy, she felt it was unconscionable for him to be locked up when she knew that her own father had killed far more blacks. I’d never understood why Sammy had gotten life for murdering a black father in front of his family when Woody clearly says on my tape that it was John who committed the crime. (Sammy’s conviction had been the reason I’d often doubted Woody’s story.) John had even shown me how he’d twisted the knife in his victim’s heart. Since there were so many witnesses to the crime, Sammy and John knew that one of them would be going to prison. According to Natasha, the brothers made a deal on the spot. Sammy offered to take the rap “because you, John, are trying to raise a family. I have no children and am wanted for so many other things that I’ll end up in prison anyway.” Wow, I thought. Because of this bizarrely honorable deal, struck to prevent Natasha from being fatherless, Natasha wanted her own father in prison. She was now 23 and I felt this was the time to ask her how much she could remember of the murders that had occurred in her childhood. I set a video camera up in front of us in a noisy backyard behind the shack she lived in. She insisted that we first buy a bottle of whisky: “I have so much to tell you.” At first it seemed as if she had for so long suppressed the memories that they reemerged only with difficulty, but after a couple of hours, I got the idea to play a sound clip from the digitalized show I’d made 20 years earlier with her uncle Woody. When I played this tape, she broke down in tears and began shaking violently while I held her. It was like it opened deep wounds from her childhood, and she told me how often she’d helped cleanse the car of blood after John had been out “killing niggers” and about some of the killings she herself her witnessed. “We were on the road, and this black guy in a little Honda cut dad off. Dad chased him down and clipped him. I watched this nigger fucking tumble out in the ditch—Dad literally clipped him at 50 miles per hour. Dad was just sitting there laughing, saying that this motherfucking bitch is not going to cut anybody else off. So a day later it came on the radio, that if there were any witnesses to come forward. There was a reward and everything.” “So, you heard it on the radio, and you knew it was your father.” “Yes, I was there with him.” “And then you felt remorse. Was that the first time you felt something was wrong?” “Yes, about the only time I ever thought anything was wrong—because I saw it with my own eyes.” “Only because he was wanted for it?” “I don’t know if it was because he was wanted for it, but I was there and saw it all. I am not a violent, violent person. Don’t get me wrong. I have a lot of anger issues, and if somebody pisses me off, they will see the worst of me, but I am not a cold-blooded killer. Dad will fucking look you in the eye and stab you—just for standing there. He has no guilt, no remorse.” “But didn’t you know it was wrong to kill people?” “No, we were fucking raised to kill niggers, so how could I? Not until I was around 14 and heard that on the radio did I start turning against my dad. And shortly after I saw you and the nice colored lady last time, I ran away from home.” I was in shock because she now wanted to use my tape of Woody as evidence in court against her own father. She loved him but now saw him as a remorseless killer. And yet John had over the years become my trusted friend. He would tell me anything, but I somehow always thought or hoped that he was just bragging. Also, I always saw him as a victim. The whisky and the horrific bloody details got us both increasingly excited. Sitting next to me in front of the camera, she began to kiss and hug me (eagerly photographed by her new boyfriend - the father soon after of her third child). She did this more and more—a reaction to the joy of lifting from her heart something she’d repressed for so long. As she talked about her father, she kept justifying his actions with phrases like “My dad didn’t want to be fucked over by the niggers.” I picked up a few more clues about John’s past in her language, but it was she herself who casually mentioned his rape. “Your dad was raped? By whom, his father?” “Yes, he was raped as a child. Before he was thirteen. And Sammy too. All the time.” “How do you know that?” “Because my dad told me when he was drunk.” “How did he tell you?” “We talked about a lot of things, and he said he’d been taken advantage of as a child. I said, ‘What do you mean, taken advantage of?’ One time he said, ‘Baby, the reason I was so overprotective of you when you were young was because of what happened to me when I was a child.’ He wouldn’t go into detail—why would he? He’s a grown man. So, I didn’t ask for more. Certain things guilt me and him. As father and daughter, we can curse each other out, but when it comes down to it, we will stand back to back and fight through such things without showing emotions.” Later that night I would see that such feelings are acted out in different ways. We were both emotionally devastated after these day-long revelations, during which she, as an eyewitness, had confirmed the gruesome murders of blacks Woody had told me about 20 years earlier. More importantly, she’d also given me the deeper explanation for it all: it was rooted in deep unhealed anger, itself stemming from the constant rape of two small children or young boys. We were completely exhausted at the end of the day, but Natasha now insisted that I take her to the liquor store. After that, she wanted to take me “into the hole,” which I knew was the worst place in America. Down in the hole (hang out for criminal addicts), we were joined by her friends—the wildest scariest crack heads and meth-cookers I’d ever seen. With Natasha now clearly out of her mind, one of them forced us into my rental car (me in the back seat and Natasha in the front). The wildest ride of my life was about to begin. We drove 100 miles an hour through the streets—against the traffic on one-way streets and through dark alleys, often with garbage cans flying around us just like a Hollywood chase scene. Several times Natasha tried kill herself by throwing herself out the door. At first, I thought, “Damn! Why didn’t I take out insurance on the rental car at the airport in Atlanta?” A little later, I thought, “Why didn’t I get life insurance?” I was absolutely certain that with such a drunk and doped-up driver my life was about to end exactly the same way it had for Natasha’s mother. Late at night, after a high-speed chase over many rivers and swamps, we ended up in an empty bar where Natasha woke up. Taking out her knife, she demanded shots for all of us and insisted I drink them from a glass squeezed between her breasts. Local tradition, I think they said. I felt safer among their knives than I did driving with them, so I postponed the ride home until Natasha had passed out. She seemed so “dead” we thought she’d had a heart attack. We carried her out to the car and drove home, where, at 5 in the morning, we carried her enormously heavy body—it resembled her mother’s with all the weight she had now gained —into the living room. I then fled the crime scene, relieved that I was alive but fearing that the police would show up and compare the dents in my car with the things we’d wrecked that night. Natasha, as it happened, was pregnant and soon after gave birth. When she landed in prison again, this child was also taken from her. Later the same day, luck was with me and I found Angel in a distant town. I hadn’t seen her for almost 10 years (she’d been in prison) and was again surprised that she came running out to embrace me in the same way she had when she was 9. Now 19, she was pregnant. Her husband was a rough Hell’s Angel type resembling the young prison-brutalized Woody. Natasha hadn’t announced my arrival since they no longer stayed in touch. When I mentioned Natasha wanted their father in prison, Angel couldn’t understand why, but then she’d been too young to witness all the killings. At 2 she’d only learned the words she’d remember as her first—“We kill niggers”—without understanding what they meant. After years of acting out the rage of her parents, dooming her to be “the bad one,”she’d been released from prison and wanted to start a family. Sitting there interviewing her, I was again struck by how small she was. She was hopeful about the future, and before I left, she asked me to take some pictures of her with the man she’d married in John’s house. Although she lived in relative comfort with her husband’s parents, she clearly didn’t want me to leave. For the next eight years, Angel sent me one desperate letter after another despite the fact that she was barely able to write. First about the birth of their two children, with the exact size and weight of each, then about how her husband had left her and how she’d ended up in a trailer as rundown as the one she’d been born in—dirt poor and alone with her two children. Then came one cry for help after another from various prisons after her children had been forcibly removed. When I asked about Natasha, all she knew was that she was also in prison. More recently, having served out her sentence, Angel found a new husband, had a baby with him, and seemed fairly happy. Now she sends me cries for help when John, her father, has been hospitalized—a result of years of heavy drinking. “Dad wants to see you. Please come back, Jacob. I’ll pay the airfare.” It’s obvious that she has no idea how far away Denmark is or how expensive such a ticket is. During the last few years, their last desperate hope has been President Trump, and Angel’s new husband writes long posts on Facebook about “the unfair treatment Trump got after all he has done for us poor people.” While I feel that this traumatized family has been treated unfairly by all of us winners in society, one thing my 30-year friendship with them has taught me is the importance—no matter how little time we have left over from our busy careers—to intervene as saving angels on behalf of the abused and neglected children around us. For even though I only spent a few days with Angel when she was 2-3 years old, she never forgot me, as she made clear one day when she was 9 and one afternoon when she was 19. To this day she constantly writes and calls me, and now even has my name tattooed on her breast (as seen here).

Om at forstå rødderne til det hvide had 4: Om seriemorderes smerte Mens jeg kørte en nat i 1991, så jeg en ældre hvid kvinde i mørket under motorvejssøjlerne og samlede hende op. Hun var blevet overfaldet af sorte bøller og blødte så voldsomt, at jeg var nødt til at køre hende på hospitalet. En time senere fik jeg øje på en mand i vejkanten. Han var vred og anspændt, han var blevet fyret uden løn fra en rejekutter i Golfen og havde ventet i tre dage på et lift. I betragtning af desperationen i Woodys øjne kunne jeg let have udløst volden i ham ved at sende vibrationer af frygt og mistillid. Da jeg fortalte ham om den hvide kvinde, der netop var blevet efterladt som død af sine sorte overfaldsmænd, begyndte Woody at åbne sig. (Jeg havde på det tidspunkt ingen anelse om, hvor dybt involveret i hans familie jeg skulle blive.) Han sagde, at han aldrig var blevet overfaldet af sorte, fordi han "altid angreb dem først". Lidt efter lidt fortalte han mig, hvordan han og hans to brødre havde dræbt så mange "niggere, at jeg ikke kan tælle dem på mine fingre og tæer". Nu var jeg helt vågen. Først havde jeg troet, at han bare pralede, men der var for mange beskrivende detaljer og steder i hans historier. Så da han også talte om sin egen mishandling som barn, lavede jeg en aftale med ham: Jeg ville køre ham hjem, fire timer væk fra mit mål, hvis han ville fortælle sine historier og lade mig optage dem på bånd. "Men jeg vil ikke fortælle dig, hvor jeg bor. Bare lad mig stige af et sted i min by." Han vidste, at jeg kunne gå direkte til politiet med mit bånd. I mit show, der snart blev opdateret til at omfatte Woody og hans familie, chokerede hans stemme universitetsstuderende. Nogle år efter at jeg havde mødt ham, efter at have lyttet til hans mareridtsagtige stemme aften efter aften, var jeg nysgerrig efter at finde ud af, hvordan han havde det. Da jeg endelig fik chancen på en turné i foråret 1996, inviterede jeg en norsk forlægger af Toni Morrisons bøger, Eli Saeter, til at være mit vidne. Det, der især skræmte hende, var, at alle de mennesker, vi mødte, havde siddet i fængsel for mord og voldtægt. "De minder mig om mændene i filmen På udflugt med døden," sagde hun. Da vi ankom, hang der en tæt tåge over stedet. Den gav vores jagt på en seriemorder i dette sumpede område, hvor vi ikke engang kunne se seks fod foran os, en uhyggelig uvirkelig aura. Efter tre dage fandt vi hans fætter. "Det er sandt, som du siger, Woody kom her for fem år siden," sagde han. "Han og hans ven Bobby brød ind i et hus, og Woody stak en 16-årig pige ned, mens hun lå og sov. Han fik 25 år i fængsel. Han var en idiot under retssagen. Lavede larm, grinede af dommeren og gjorde grin med alle. Jeg forsøgte at berolige ham, men uden held. Han ødelagde alt for sig selv." Vi fandt Woodys offer, Sarah, som fortalte os om den frygtelige nat. Hun var blevet tvunget ud af sengen af Woody, som flåede hendes mave og lunger op med en lang kniv. Hun overlevede takket være flere dyre hospitalsophold, men ingen havde givet denne stakkels familie hjælp til at bearbejde smerten. Det var sket kun et par dage efter, at jeg havde sat Woody af. Det var deprimerende - jeg havde virkelig troet, at jeg i løbet af vores nat sammen havde hjulpet ham med at komme i kontakt med den dybe smerte og vrede, han følte. Jeg forsøgte at fortælle Sarah, at Woody var min ven, men min stemme knækkede mod skyldfølelse og fortrydelse, da jeg så forskrækkelsen i hendes øjne. Hun var ude af stand til at se ham som andet end et blodtørstigt monster og talte om, hvordan han havde opført sig som et "dyr" under retssagen og råbte "Jeg skal nok få ram på dig en dag!", inden han blev slæbt ud af retssalen i lænker. Hun havde haft mareridt om hans tilbagevenden lige siden. Det var vigtigt at se og forstå Sarah, offeret for den potentielle bøddel, da jeg i så mange år mest havde beskæftiget mig med offeret inden i bødlen. Da vi tog hen til Woodys hjem, åbnede en kvinde døren og sagde: "Jeg ved, hvem du er. Woody kom hjem for fem år siden og følte sig opløftet. Han fortalte, at han var blevet samlet op af en mærkelig mand, som havde fået ham til at fortælle alt om sig selv. Jeg undrede mig over hvem det kunne være, da Woody er den mest hemmelighedsfulde person, jeg kender." Adeline var mor til Bobby, Woodys medskyldige, og boede sammen med Rose, mor til Woodys to ældre brødre, Sammy og John. "Åh ja, det er forfærdeligt. Det ligner ikke Woody at gøre sådan noget, men han var desperat, da du bragte ham hjem, fyret uden løn efter at have arbejdet i månedsvis i Golfen. Han og Bobby havde begge drukket og taget en masse stoffer, og jeg tror, det var Bobby, der gjorde det. De kom løbende hjem og bankede på døren kl. 2 om natten og råbte: "Mor! Mor! Vi har gjort noget forfærdeligt! Så besvimede de og faldt om lige der på græsplænen, hvor de sov, da politiet hentede dem." Jeg var lettet over at høre, at der ikke havde været noget overlagt med hans blodtørst i Sarahs hus, kun den dybe smerte og vrede, som jeg havde fornemmet i ham. De var høje på stoffer, havde stjålet en cykel foran Sarahs hus og var så begyndt at skændes om den. Woody brød pludselig ind i huset for at hente en køkkenkniv, som han kunne bruge mod sin halvbror, som flygtede. I en vanviddets blodrus sparkede Woody derefter alle døre ind og forsøgte at stikke den sovende familie ned. Med hensyn til Woodys "dyriske" opførsel under retssagen fortalte Adeline nu, at "han havde været skræmt fra vid og sans, og hans ben rystede under ham ved følelsen af, at hans liv pludselig var forbi". De fattige skader ustandseligt sig selv, tænkte jeg, eftersom Woodys opførsel havde overbevist alle i retssalen om, at han aldrig skulle komme ud igen, og han havde fået yderligere 10 års fængsel. Det, der straks knyttede stærke bånd mellem Adeline og mig, var den kærlighed, vi begge følte for Woody. Jeg var forbløffet over hendes forståelse af, hvordan de skader, han havde fået i barndommen, havde ført til hans voldsomhed. Woody's brødre, så? Han sagde, at de tog ham med ud på deres drabsudskejelser, når de myrdede sorte uden grund. I tillid til den fortrolighed, jeg havde etableret med Adeline, spurgte jeg, om det kunne være sandt. "Åh ja," sagde Adeline, som ofte havde hørt dem tale om sådanne mord, men tilføjede, at faderen, Vincent, havde været endnu værre. For ikke at tale om bedstefaren! "Vi gjorde bare den slags ting hernede i fortiden!" Det var som om hun undskyldte for dem. "Sammy er ligesom sin far. En forfærdelig mand. Det var en organisation, der stoppede ham til sidst. Livstid i fængsel. Han kommer ikke ud, aldrig." Lidt irriteret sagde hun, at grunden til, at Woodys ældste bror var blevet fængslet for sit seneste mord, var, at NAACP havde kaldt mordet for "en hadforbrydelse" (tidligere skete der ikke noget med dem efter deres mord). Hun tilføjede, at Sammy fortsatte med at myrde sorte i fængslet. En sort fange fortalte ham, at han snart ville blive løsladt. "Nej, det bli’r du ikke!" svarede Sammy, og natten før hans løsladelse hældte Sammy benzin over ham og satte ild til ham, så han blev reduceret til et forkullet lig. Woody havde tidligere fortalt mig, at Sammy var leder af fængslets "ariske bande". I mangel af en rigtig mor kaldte Woody Adeline for "mor" og ringede mindst en gang om ugen til hende fra fængslet. Det hele blev yderligere kompliceret af, at Woody havde været sammen med Adelines junkiedatter Dawn, som hun, ligesom hendes søn Bobby, tilsyneladende ikke havde nogen store følelser for. Og hvad med den mellemste bror, John? Var han også med i mordene? "Jeg ved ikke hvor mange, men jeg ved med sikkerhed, at John har dræbt en mand mindst én gang. Han fik kun tre år i fængsel for det." Senere kørte vi ud for at besøge John i sumpen på trods af Adelines strenge advarsel mod det. "Er I ikke klar over, at han er den værste af dem alle sammen! Han er hård, kold, og han vil på ingen måde tale med jer." Hun tegnede et så skræmmende portræt, at Eli, der efterhånden havde hørt mere end nok om vold, insisterede på, at vi skulle fortsætte, især fordi tiden var ved at løbe fra os, hvis vi ville nå frem inden mørket faldt på. Men nu, hvor jeg endelig havde fundet den mand, der kunne bekræfte det, Woody havde sagt til mig i sit interview, havde jeg ikke tænkt mig at give op. Mens vi kørte gennem den endeløse sump, hvor de nøgne træer stod som skeletfingre overhængt med spindelvæv af spøgelsesagtigt spansk mos, så Eli mere og mere bleg ud. "Er du ikke kommet med for at opleve Amerika?" Jeg forsøgte at opmuntre hende, og morede mig over at virkeligheden havde lånt de værste visuelle Hollywood-effekter (oven i den tunge tåge, der stadig lå over det sorte krokodilleinficerede vand). "Hvorfor sidder folk og ser på sådanne film, når virkeligheden er langt mere spændende," spurgte jeg Eli. Dybt inde i sumpen alt for tæt på mørkets frembrud lykkedes det mig at finde en rådden trailer med plastik over vinduerne. Det sædvanlige affald af gamle bilvrag og rustne både lå spredt rundt omkring. Og da jeg så to små beskidte hvide piger, lurvede og barfodede, med snottede næser, vidste jeg med det samme, at det var Johns børn. Eli var så bange, at hun låste alle bildørene og nægtede at stige ud. Den scene, hun så for sig, var som taget lige ud af Deliverance (i Norge hed filmen "På udflugt med døden"). Hun frygtede, at hvis John kom ud og skød os, ville ingen nogensinde finde vores lig i disse sumpe. Jeg mindedes Woodys detaljerede beskrivelse af, hvordan deres ansigter var stivnet, da de havde fanget et af deres egne opløste lig i krebsegarnene. Alligevel udviste jeg hverken mod eller naivitet ved at opsøge John, for midt i dette mørke vådområde følte jeg, at jeg befandt mig på helt fast grund. Jeg befandt mig i en næsten euforisk tilstand, hvor jeg solede mig i lyset af den forvandling, man oplever, når et af livets store spørgsmål endelig bliver afklaret. Det er vigtigt at bemærke den ekstatiske sindstilstand, jeg ankom i, for når John endte med, som jeg havde forudset at opføre sig på en måde, der var diametralt modsat af, hvad man kunne forvente af den frygtindgydende psykopat, som hans familie havde insisteret på, at han var, var det netop fordi jeg mentalt havde opbygget denne desperate mand som den, der havde svaret på livets gåde i hånden. På den måde kunne jeg give ham de ufattelige kræfter, som mennesker får, når man viser dem tillid og dyb menneskelig interesse: Han følte sig accepteret og elsket. Ganske vist var han indesluttet, fjendtlig og, ja, ærefrygtindgydende. Hans kom til døren bevæbnet med en pistol, hans skæg var vildtvoksende og symboler på vold tatoveret på kroppen. Alligevel har jeg sjældent mødt en mand, der var så hurtig til at åbne sig, da jeg fortalte ham, at jeg var en af Woodys venner. Straks blev pistolen lagt væk og erstattet af kopper af friskbrygget kaffe. Jeg følte snart en så overstrømmende varme fra John og hans kone Connie, at jeg gik ud og overtalte Eli til at slutte sig til os. Han var ganske vidst det samme bloddryppende "monster", som Woody havde talt om i sit interview og hamret ind i min bevidsthed i fem år. Men samtidig - og Eli var enig - var han et lille kuet barn, som man næsten ikke kunne andet end at omfavne. Når man tænker på, at jeg sagtens kunne have været en udspekuleret politiagent, er det utroligt, hvor lidt der skal til for at åbne sådanne mennesker, og hvor ivrige de er til at fortælle om sig selv. Og netop i den samtale, med dens gradvise bearbejdning af smerte, ligger svaret på al vold. Alligevel gør regeringer verden over sig blinde med deres forældede øje-for-øje-retorik og tilbagebagefald til repressive reflekser hentet lige ud af Lucifers reaktionære fæstning. Resten af dagen fortalte John og Connie om den vold, der gik gennem hele deres familie. "Se bare på Angel her." Connie løftede den mishandlede pige på to og et halvt år op. "Hun er fuld af vold mod sin søster. Det er hende, der er den slemme!" Og både Eli og jeg tænkte, at det var sådan hun ville ende, hvis hun fra barnsben fik at vide, at hun var "dårlig" og "ikke god nok". Moderen gav hende adskillige ordentlige tæsk, men vi så hende næsten aldrig græde. I stedet havde hun røde øjne i ansigtet og et permanent ydmyget udtryk af bitterhed. Begge forældre talte åbent om, at det kun var, når de var fulde, at de eksploderede i vold, og vi fik hurtigt et billede af, hvor forfærdelige forholdene måtte være for de to børn. De gav endeløse eksempler på al den vold, de havde været involveret i. Jeg behøvede ikke engang at spørge om mordene på de sorte; deres blodige sidekommentarer om dem passede perfekt til Woodys beskrivelser. Da jeg bad om at se de våben, der var blevet brugt i de forskellige mord, tog John syv rifler og tre pistoler frem, som han allerede havde lært de små piger at bruge. Han demonstrerede endda med sin kniv, hvordan han havde stukket en sort far ned foran sin familie. Jeg forsøgte at indramme mine billeder af ham under et billede af hans egen far, ham, der havde givet al den vold videre til dem. Det hang på væggen i en guldramme og udstrålede en uhyggelig ondskab, som ikke kunne dækkes af fotografens pæne studieopsætning i søndagstøj. John ville have os til at overnatte og tage på alligatorjagt med ham næste dag. (Han levede af ulovligt krybskytteri af alligatorer og havde fyldt køleskabet med alligatorkød). Jeg var villig, men Eli protesterede mod at "gå på alligatorjagt i sumpen med en seriemorder i tæt tåge". Så efter et varmt farvel begav vi os af sted i mørket. Vi var som forstenede på turen tilbage og kunne næsten ikke tale om andet. 1996 Efterårsrejse Om efteråret inviterede jeg den danske tv-reporter Helle Vibeke Risgaard til at optage den traumatiserede familie til tv. John arbejdede nu "offshore", så Connie kunne tale mere åbent om ham. I flere dage hørte vi om det ene mord efter det andet - denne gang på en åben Betacam-video. Da det hele kom i en rablende strøm eller i sidebemærkninger, tog det ikke lang tid, før det begyndte at svimle for os. Efter et par timer kunne vi hverken huske eller var ligeglade med alle de mord, vi havde hørt om. Connie var en mærkelig sammenblanding. Hun fremstod som en rationel kvinde med ophøjet ro, og alligevel vidste vi fra Rose og Adeline, at hun var endnu mere voldelig end John, som de faktisk så som hendes offer. Flere gange sagde hun, at hvis det ikke havde været for hendes religion og børnene, ville hun for længst have forladt ham. Men vi begyndte hurtigt at tvivle på det; uden sine børn, hvem ville hun så kunne slå? Da John var væk, havde vi mod på at drikke sammen med Connie, som regel til kl. 4 om morgenen, og vi fik rig lejlighed til at se hendes forhold til de to mishandlede børn. Det ene øjeblik var hun kærlig, men i det næste øjeblik kunne hun slå ud i et ukontrollabelt raseri og piske den treårige Angel med et læderbælte. Dette udviklede sig til en kortvarig konflikt mellem Helle og mig. Helle forsøgte impulsivt at række ud efter barnet og beskytte det, hvilket gjorde mig vanvittig, da det forhindrede mig i at fotografere mishandlingen. "Sikke en ond mand du er!" råbte hun sammen med lignende beskyldninger (forståeligt nok, vil jeg tilføje). "Hvis du havde rejst lidt mere i sorte ghettoer," snerrede jeg, "og set den slags overgreb hver eneste dag, ville du vide, at det ikke er din opgave at redde hvert eneste barn i et øjeblik af sentimentalitet. Nej, din opgave er gennem din bestyrkende tilstedeværelse at give disse forældre den kærlighed til sig selv, som er nødvendig for, at de kan udtrykke kærlighed til deres børn. Men for at undgå selve synet af vold og misbrugte børn gør vi det modsatte og flygter alle sammen ud af ghettoen. Og det er sådan, vi i sidste ende bliver den direkte årsag til dens mishandlede børn." Jeg vidste også, at jeg ikke behøvede at belære Connie om, at det er forkert at disciplinere hendes "onde børn" med vold, for alle mennesker ved inderst inde godt, at det er forkert at slå børn. Hvis jeg var begyndt med moraliserende prædikener, ville hun blot have fået det endnu værre med sig selv. Desuden sagde min "højere sunde fornuft" mig, at det ikke var nødvendigt at gribe ind, fordi barnet så tydeligt forventede tæskene. Hun græd ikke engang. I stedet fortsatte hun i trods den adfærd, som havde gjort hendes mor vanvittig. Selv om jeg vidste, at dette var en ekstraordinær chance for mig for at få nogle billeder til et af de mest centrale og lærerige afsnit i min undervisning om fattige hvide, nød jeg bestemt ikke nød at fotografere denne mishandling. Ofte spurgte jeg mig selv, hvor grænsen gik - hvornår ville jeg egentlig gribe ind? I modsætning til den uhæmmede vold, der var almindelig blandt fattige sorte, dæmpede en fremmed persons tilstedeværelse som regel de fattige hvide forældres aggressioner. Min fotografering var i sig selv det, der fortalte Connie, at hendes opførsel var uacceptabel, men på en måde, der var blidere, end hvis vi havde irettesat hende eller beskyldt hende for at være "et dårligt menneske". Det ville nemlig være en gentagelse af det, hun gjorde med barnet. Jeg har sikkert fornærmet mange læsere på dette punkt (selv om de samme fornærmede læsere aldrig klager over volden i mit diasshow). At mit show fik en renæssance i 90'erne, tror jeg var fordi det skildrede den stigende vold i os som afspejledes i en stigende børnemishandling. Det førte til en voksende interesse for undertrykkelsens pædagogik. At øge den kollektive bevidsthed om undertrykkelsens rødder vil være den sande redning for barnet. Alligevel vil jeg også gerne forsvare det modsatte synspunkt, som hævder, at det er afgørende at stoppe den vold mod børn (og kvinder), der foregår døgnet rundt, om end kortvarigt, selv om det betyder, at man må ødelægge vigtige fotografiske beviser for den. For hvis de få af os, der opsøger disse udstødte - udelukkende for at dokumentere og dermed udnytte dem - ikke griber ind, hvem skal så gøre det? Uanset årsagen til, at man befinder sig i en sådan situation, lukker den barmhjertige samaritaner ikke øjnene, åbner sit objektiv ... og går forbi! Det værste i hele denne situation var ikke konflikten mellem disse Dostojevskiske etiske synspunkter, men det, som både Helle og jeg snart følte over for det misrøgtede barn. Da vi første gang trådte ind i denne forsumpede hvepserede rede, havde vores umiddelbare medfølelse været for de to mishandlede børn med sorte rande under øjnene. Vi ville snart mærke, hvordan "vi" altid ender med at være med til at tvinge sådanne ofre ind i undertrykkerens rolle - den onde cirkel. Aldrig har jeg set det så tydeligt som hos den treårige Angel; hver eneste af hendes reaktioner var af ond vilje. Vi ved alle, hvordan de vanrøgtede typisk bider den udstrakte hånd, og hvordan de ødelægger alt omkring sig for at få opmærksomhed. I begyndelsen har man lyst til at tage barnet op og kærtegne det, men barnet ødelægger hurtigt alt det overskud af hengivenhed og kærlighed, som vi kan opmønstre. Og da den "onde" lille "engel" fra kl. 8 om aftenen til kl. 4 om morgenen endte med at ødelægge næsten alle vores kameraer, mikrofoner, ledninger og bånd, ja, så følte vi efterhånden, at volden i os selv blev ophobet - helt til det punkt, hvor vi også fik et ubeskriveligt ønske om at overfuse hende verbalt, tæve hende og sparke hende hen ad gulvet. Det er sådan, at vi overalt i verden skader de skadede. Og når man år efter år har undervist eleverne i dette, er det virkelig en god pædagogisk lektion pludselig at "mærke", hvor hurtigt man selv kan blive en del af undertrykkelsens onde cirkel. Hvor hurtigt blev vi ikke Connies koalition af villige! Langsomt synkende sammen med hende derude i sumpen. Det mest forfærdelige for os begge var at opleve den tætte sammenhæng mellem mishandling og racisme. Da vi spurgte den treårige Angel, hvad hun syntes om sorte, blev hun fuldstændig forvirret. "Hvad mener du med 'sorte'? Niggere? Vi skyder niggere, ikke sandt, mor?" Når kameraet kørte, og hendes mor var ædru, kunne vi af og til opleve Connie blive så selvbevidst, at hun sagde "sort" og sporadisk forsøgte at bruge det ord foran barnet. Det var interessant, fordi det viste, at argumentet i Gunnar Myrdals An American Dilemma var gyldigt i selv de laveste samfundslag, dvs. at der er en konflikt mellem samfundets højere idealer - f.eks. at ”vi alle er lige" - og de helt modsatte budskaber, som forældrene nærer i deres indre om "undermennesker", og som ender med at sive ind i barnets ubevidste. 228 Vi så dette endnu tydeligere i Connies forhold til den 7-årige Natasha. Connie syntes, at det var i orden, at Natasha havde lavet nogle problemer i skolen, fordi, forklarede Natasha, "Niggeren, der sad foran mig, lugtede". Men Connie skældte Natasha ud, fordi skolen lige havde smidt hende ud for at have startet en bande med fire andre piger. Jeg fornemmede, at der var mere på færde, og spurgte Natasha: "Skulle banden konfrontere de sorte?" Det var et svært spørgsmål, for alene betegnelsen ”sort” fortalte Natasha, at jeg var på "niggernes" side. Så hendes svar var ikke helt så let for hende, som da hun retorisk havde gentaget "Niggers smell!" Lidt senere blev hun sig selv (snarere end den velopdragne pige, som samfundet gerne ville se). Hun indrømmede, at de fire piger havde lokket en sort dreng ind i skoven og smadret hans hoved med en sten, indtil han væltede blod ud. Hun nød synligt at beskrive dette forfærdelige overfald i et grafisk splattersprog. Hvorfor havde hun gjort det? Fordi hendes mor en dag, tilsyneladende i et øjeblik af politisk korrekthed, havde fortalt hende, at "niggerne bløder rødt ligesom os". Det var Connies måde at fortælle hende på (når hun var ædru), at "vi er alle lige, så tal pænt om dine skolekammerater". Natasha troede ikke på dette budskab, som modsagde alle de andre informationer, hun havde fået fra sine forældre om at "slå niggere ihjel" (som regel når de var fulde). Så hun havde startet en bande og overfaldet en dreng for at finde ud af, om det var sandt. Hertil svarede Connie blot: "Det var ikke pænt af dig at gøre, Natasha". Men vi havde alle drukket, og Connie sagde det med et stort smil. Hun var tydeligvis stolt. Natasha fik altså at vide, at det var i orden at smadre en drengs hoved med en sten for at finde ud af, om "niggere bløder rødt"! Sjældent har jeg set en så klassisk lektion om racismens pædagogik: Det var det knusende "tveæggede" dræbersværd, det dobbelte budskab, som det praktiseres af det store flertal - dvs. af os, de mere almindelige "liberale" rettænkende mennesker - som konstant hamrer "vi er alle lige", den amerikanske trosbekendelse og "kristen kærlighed" ind i vores børn. Og alligevel, når det drejer sig om folk i "den indre by", sorte, homoseksuelle, jøder, muslimer osv., løfter vi øjenbrynene eller ændrer vores stemme en smule, uden at vi overhovedet er klar over det, og sender det modsatte budskab til barnet, at nogen er "ikke lige så lige". Barnet kan ikke bearbejde et sådant dobbeltbudskab med dets skjulte undertrykkelse og ud af smerte og i forvirring afreagerer det i forskellige racistiske mønstre under opvæksten. Connie gav mig på en eller anden måde håb for menneskeheden, for hun understregede det, som jeg altid havde oplevet blandt voldelige kriminelle og endda Ku Klux Klan-medlemmer: Man behøver ikke at lære en voksen som Connie om rigtigt og forkert (som Ivan insisterer på i Brødrene Karamazov om at leve uden en Gud). Nej, alle ved, at det er forkert at dræbe, at hade, at påføre smerte. Mens de er fanget i deres egen ulidelige smerte, kan de blot ikke altid leve op til deres højere idealer. Da Connie bedre end nogen anden udtrykte vores dybere fælles menneskelighed, kunne jeg ikke undgå at føle en større og større hengivenhed over for (og glæde omkring) hende. Hun var denne enorme klump af eksplosiv vold og had, med en ejendommelig blanding af sund fornuft, ømhed og kærlighed, men indeholdt alligevel et dybt indgroet ønske om at udtrykke de bedste idealer. Jeg var glad for at føle denne voldsomme tiltrækning til hende, da det på en eller anden måde mindede mig om de følelser, jeg altid havde næret for fattige sorte som ofre. At hun selv var et offer, blev klart, da vi mødte Connies desperat alkoholiserede og vanvittige far (selv om Connie hævdede, at der aldrig havde været et direkte incestuøst forhold mellem dem). På et tidspunkt gik det op for os, i hvor høj grad moralske begreber var gledet os af hænde efter kun få dage med Connie ude i sumpen. I løbet af sommeren havde John fanget en vaskebjørn, som blev familiens kæledyr. Børnene rullede sig konstant rundt i sengen med deres nye legetøj og fodrede den med kiks. Jeg nød at tage bad i det vanvittige rod i deres "badeværelse", fordi vaskebjørnen med sin store hale hjalp med at vaske mig i badekarret. Det var så sødt, at Helle fik den idé, at hun kunne lave et vidunderligt børne-tv-program om, hvordan den legede med de mishandlede børn (derhjemme plejede hun at producere børneprogrammer), men hun var løbet tør for videobånd. Det var min skyld. Inden vores ankomst havde jeg advaret hende: "Dette er en familie, der er så dysfunktionel, at du ikke kan interviewe dem direkte om deres vold. Bare lad dit kamera køre hele tiden, især når de er fulde, og du vil få de mest chokerende optagelser hvor de henkastet omtaler alle deres mord." Da vi løb tør for bånd i løbet af de nætter, hvor vi gik på "druk og drabsudflugter", foreslog Helle at slette nogle af de tidligere bånd. Og da mord og vold efter få dage var blevet til den kedelige hverdags "ondskabens banalitet", sagde jeg til Helle, at det var i orden, selv om grunden til, at jeg havde inviteret hende med, var for at optage det hele. Først da vi var ude på landevejen igen, gik det op for os, at hun havde slettet mange af beviserne for en - selv efter amerikanske standarder - chokerende seriemordshistorie til fordel for et trivielt børneprogram. Dette var et forfærdeligt eksempel på, hvor hurtigt vi var blevet hjernevasket ind i Connies perverse voldslogik, som hun selv bedst udtrykte, da hun på et tidspunkt spurgte: "Sig mig, skriver du en bog om os?" Jeg blev defensiv, men svarede ærligt: "Måske en dag, men jeg vil sørge for at beskytte jer alle (mod retslige tiltag)." "Nej, det behøver du ikke at bekymre dig om," sagde Connie. "Det eneste, jeg ikke ville være glad for, at du skriver om, er den aften, hvor jeg brød ind på en restaurant sammen med Woody og stjal skaldyr af sult." Hun vidste udmærket godt, at indbrud var ulovligt, og hun havde stærke meninger om det, da en af "niggerne" i nabolaget engang havde stjålet hendes høns. Men hun følte ikke, at det var ulovligt eller forkert at dræbe "niggere" i massevis (når hun var fuld)! Efter kort tid gjorde vi det åbenbart heller ikke. Det var endnu en værdifuld lektion, som hun lærte mig: Voldelige mordere skabes ikke kun ved at slå dem i barndommen. Nej, selv de bedste og mest retfærdige af os kan hjernevaskes ind i disse roller på kort tid, som vi ved fra soldater og torturbødler over hele verden - for ikke at glemme amerikansk politi såsom George Floyds morder. 230 Efter varme knus sagde vi farvel til hende og børnene foran den forfaldne trailer med plastikdækkede vinduer. Jeg vidste, at jeg ville savne hende - eller i det mindste kontakten med den voldelige side af mig selv, som hun havde udstillet for mig. En god grund til at tage af sted nu var tilstedeværelsen af Connies rablende gale far, som ødelagde enhver samtale med sine sexgale fantasier om Helle. "Kan du virkelig sove i bilen med sådan en sexet blondine uden at have sex?" blev han ved med at spørge. Man hører ofte sandheden fra dem, der er fulde eller vanvittige (han var begge dele). Han udtrykte åbent hvad amerikanerne normalt forestiller sig, når jeg inviterer danske kvinder med på mine rejser - om ikke andet for at undgå at forelske mig i mine fotografiske ofre, som f.eks. hans datter Connie. Senere i 1996 Jeg havde skrevet til Woody i flere år og fik tilladelse fra fængslet til at besøge ham. Efter næsten 20 timers kørsel ankom jeg. Som sædvanligt i Amerika lå højsikkerhedsfængslet i et afsidesliggende område, som kun få familier havde råd til at køre til. Woody havde ikke haft besøg i fem år og så lige så meget frem til vores gensyn som jeg. Men det var en chokerende oplevelse. Efter at vi begge havde gennemgået alle mulige sikkerhedsforanstaltninger, trådte Woody ind i besøgsrummet lænket på hænder og fødder, hans krop omviklet med endnu flere (og endnu tykkere) kæder. At forsøge at nå rundt om denne jernmand føltes som at omfavne et rumvæsen. Det smukke "uskyldige" udseende, som jeg huskede, af en ung fyr med lange lyse lokker, var blevet blæst væk. Med sit korte hår, sine tatoveringer, sine manglende tænder (de var blevet slået ud) og sårene på armene var han en uhyggelig kopi af Sean Penn i Dead Man Walking - blot langt, langt værre. Mens jeg havde svært ved at tro på hans historier om massemord den aften for fem år siden, var jeg nu i stand til at tro på alt om ham. Han var blevet voldsomt brutaliseret i dette fængsel, som virkede langt værre end Angola på trods af sidstnævntes ry for at være det værste. Og han havde tilbragt halvdelen af sin tid i mørke i isolation på grund af evindelige disciplinære forseelser. Hvor mange slagsmål, spurgte jeg. Han talte tolv med sorte fanger og tre med hvide - alle kampe på liv eller død. Hans 25-årige straf var blevet forlænget hver gang. Men efter at være endt næsten udelukkende med sorte, havde han fået mere respekt for dem. De kunne også kæmpe tilbage! Han fortalte mig om, hvor vred han havde været, da han første gang - før jeg samlede ham op i 1991 - havde delt en byfængsel med en sort mand. Han havde fået smuglet en pistol ind og skudt "niggeren". Ikke for at dræbe ham (det ville have givet ham flere år i tillæg til hans straf). Han havde skudt ham i benet for at få ham flyttet fra sin celle. Det var ikke muligt i dette "højteknologiske" fængsel, og han havde lært at leve med sin sorte cellekammerat. "Han ”fucker” ikke med mig, og jeg ”fucker” ikke med ham." De talte aldrig om raceforhold. Ingen af dem vidste, hvad den anden sad inde for. Sarah var det eneste af hans ofre, jeg kendte, så jeg følte et særligt ansvar som hendes budbringer. Da Woody ikke havde nogen som helst erindring om den aften, han havde dolket hende ned, bad han mig fortælle i detaljer, hvad der var sket. "Den stakkels pige", sagde han flere gange under vores samtale. Om sin "dyriske" opførsel i retssalen, da han havde truet hende, kunne han kun huske, at han havde været "et røvhul" uden at vide, at Sarah var til stede. Jeg fortalte ham, hvor vigtigt det havde været for Sarah at se Woodys brev til mig, hvori han bad om hendes tilgivelse, og jeg spurgte ham, om han var klar til et møde mellem offer og gerningsmand for at hele sårene. Efter lang tids overvejelse svarede han, at han ikke var klar til det. Så begik jeg en frygtelig fejl. Jeg sagde, at Sarah havde været mere forstående, end jeg havde forventet, fordi hendes egen bror sad i fængsel. Woodys bestræbelser på at tænke i medfølende termer blev straks knust, og morderen i ham kom frem. "Du er nødt til at give mig navnet på Sarahs bror," krævede han. "Jeg har hørt fra indsatte, der er overført fra Angola, at der er en fange her, som er ude på at slå mig ihjel. Her skal man dræbe eller blive dræbt." Jeg vidste, at fangen sandsynligvis var Sarahs bror, da hendes anden bror under mine samtaler med hende hele tiden sagde vredt: "Hvis bare jeg kunne få fat i den fyr!" Så nu var jeg pludselig involveret i en kamp på liv og død og indså, at det måske ikke var så let at være budbringer, brobygger eller forsoningsmand, som jeg havde forestillet mig. Ligesom Vorherre selv måtte jeg beslutte, hvem af dem der skulle dø! Hvis jeg ikke afslørede navnet, ville det blive Woody, min ven, som en dag sandsynligvis ville få halsen skåret over bagfra. Jeg vidste, at jeg ikke ville sige navnet til Woody, men jeg vidste også, at hvis jeg blev ved med at nægte, ville jeg støde ham fra mig. I det hele taget var det en chokerende oplevelse at møde Woody igen. Det var der flere grunde til, hvoraf en af dem var, at jeg måtte revidere meget af det, jeg havde sagt om ham i mit diasshow. Jeg kunne stadig skimte det sårede barn i Woody, men det var sværere og sværere ikke at se ham med samfundets fordømmende øjne. Jeg vidste, at jeg ikke ville have modet til at sætte denne mand fri i hans nuværende tilstand, men jeg vidste også - som jeg blev ved med at minde mig selv om - at denne tilstand var forårsaget af netop dette dømmende smid-væk-samfund, for ikke at nævne den yderligere brutalisering, som fængslet havde udsat ham for. Lige så svært som det var at tilbageholde Sarahs brors navn, lige så svært var det at undlade at fortælle Woody om Dawn, den eneste kærlighed i hans liv. Samme morgen havde jeg ringet til Dawns mor, Adeline; hun var i chok. Dawn havde forsøgt at begå selvmord aftenen før. Hun var blevet fundet halvdød i en gasovn. Adeline havde bedt mig om ikke at fortælle det til Woody, men Woody blev ved med at spørge mig om hende. Og der var andre nyheder: Dawn havde fået et barn med Woodys bedste ven. Jeg vidste, at Woody ville slå ham ihjel sammen med Sarahs bror. I denne korte beretning har jeg blot antydet nogle af de problemer, jeg var stødt på i mit forsøg på at være venner med alle parter i en voldelig underverden, der har sine egne forvirrende regler. Under den tre dage lange køretur tilbage til New York gennem en deprimerende regn, der varede alle tre dage, tænkte jeg ikke på meget mere end dette: MIT amerikanske dilemma. 1998 Næsten to år efter at jeg havde besøgt Woody, modtog jeg et overraskende julebrev. Det var fra den værste af de tre seriemordere - Woodys ældste bror, Sammy, som jeg havde forsøgt at besøge i fængslet (også i 1996). Som leder af en arisk bande fortsatte han med at myrde sorte i fængslet, f.eks. ved at hælde benzin på dem og sætte ild til dem, mens de sov. Nu undskyldte han, at han ikke havde svaret på mit brev. Han var lovligt forhindret, sagde han, da han havde tilbragt to år i "hullet" for at have stukket en sort fange ihjel. Nu ville han imidlertid gøre noget mere kreativt og spurgte mig, om nogle af mine venner ville være hans pennevenner. Flere af mine sorte venner i området var hans fængselsbetjente. Efter at have brugt dem som referencer og ventet i mange år fik jeg endelig tilladelse til at besøge Sammy. (Fængselsinspektøren var kristen og troede på tilgivelse.) Desværre fandt jeg, efter at have kørt næsten en uge for at komme dertil, at fængslet var lukket ned på grund af en svineinfluenza-smitte. Med en sort kvinde i 2003 I 2003 besluttede jeg mig for at tage en sort kvinde med mig for at se, hvordan familien ville reagere. "Jeg vil se, om de også vil slå dig ihjel," spøgte jeg til Rikke Marott, en fotomodel fra Danmark. "Jacob," sagde hun nervøst, "jeg er en ung sort kvinde. Du er en midaldrende hvid mand. Halvdelen af mændene i disse områder er i fængsel for at have dræbt eller voldtaget sorte." Jeg svarede: "De dræber også hvide." "Det gør det ikke bedre." Vi besøgte først Sammys og Johns mor, Rose. Jeg ville gerne høre mere om hendes baggrund. Rose fortalte, at hun kom fra en ekstremt fattig familie: "Jeg voksede op langt ude i sumpen, hvor der næsten ikke boede andre end vores familie. Vores hus havde kun ét værelse, hvor alle ni af os sov. Vi var så fattige, at vi alle var nødt til at blive hjemme og hjælpe mor og far med at arbejde. Som de fleste andre fattige mennesker hjalp vi med at arbejde i sumpen som rejefiskere. Virkelig hårdt arbejde. Først da jeg var 13 år, fandt myndighederne os og sendte os i skole, men jeg stoppede efter 5. klasse, fordi mor og far havde brug for os til arbejdet. Så jeg lærte aldrig at læse og skrive dengang." Rikke pegede på hendes bedårende lille datter på væggen. "Ja, min datter der forsvandt tilbage i '67. Hun var 16 år. Jeg fik et anonymt opkald - en stemme sagde, at hun var druknet i en havn." Rikke spurgte: "Hvem var det, der ringede?" "Måske morderen, for der var ingen andre, der vidste, hvor hun var. Hun blev aldrig fundet. Det er det værste." Hendes stemme rystede, og hendes øjne fyldtes med tårer. "Det er 35 år siden, men jeg har aldrig givet slip på håbet om, at hun en dag kommer tilbage." "Hvad med dine andre børn?" "Vores familie er forbandet. Der har været så mange mord og ulykker - vi er forbandet. Min stedsøn er i fængsel for mordforsøg - han skar en ung piges mave op. Hun overlevede, men hun vil aldrig kunne få børn." Da jeg interviewede Rose om, hvordan Woodys far havde revet hendes livmoder ud, brød hun sammen i tårer, i skam over at jeg vidste det. Efter at det var sket, havde hun været så flov over at være uden livmoder, at hun ikke gik på hospitalet i en måned. Selv da tog hun kun derhen, fordi blødningen var så voldsom. I tiden op til tragedien råbte Vincent, som havde drukket meget, "Jeg skal sørge for, at du aldrig kan få børn med en anden mand!" Rose sagde, at hun havde ønsket at forlade ham, men inden jeg slukkede for kameraet, fortsatte hun med at tilstå, at hun havde dræbt sin mand med en økse. Han var ikke "faldet ud af sengen", som alle havde fortalt mig. Hun blev endnu mere følelsesladet og fortalte om mordet på Woodys ældste søster. Adeline havde i foråret fortalt mig, at hun havde begået selvmord som 16-årig efter et langvarigt incestuøst forhold til sin far. Nu sagde Rose, at hendes datter rent faktisk var blevet myrdet. Bedøvet af at høre om alle mordene glemte vi at spørge, om det også var af faderen, da hun hurtigt fortsatte. "Jeg har endnu en søn i fængsel for mord på negre," fortsatte Rose. "Han dræbte folk tilfældigt." Hun beskrev i detaljer (og på min video) alle mordene, men undlod at nævne, at ofrene alle var sorte. Rikke sagde senere: "Hun prøver at beskytte mig, fordi jeg er sort, men det behøvede hun ikke. Jeg følte mig tryg ved Rose. Jeg kunne mærke, at hun var ligeglad med, hvilken farve jeg har. Det, der var vigtigt for hende, var, at der var et andet menneske, som prøvede at forstå, hvor hun kom fra." Da vi var ved at gøre os klar til at gå, sagde jeg: "Nå, Rose, vi er på vej ud for at besøge John." "Johns kone er død," sagde Rose. "Connie blev dræbt sidste år i et af deres fulde skænderier, da hun flygtede væk i bilen og kørte galt i den. John er ikke længere rejefisker. Han arbejder på et skib og er væk i flere dage ad gangen. Han er ikke i byen lige nu." "Hvad med børnene?" spurgte jeg. "De blev taget af myndighederne," sagde Rose. "Min kristne datter har de to yngste. Den ældste, som er 17 år, bor hos John og hans nye kæreste." Jeg var chokeret, men ikke overrasket. Connies voldelige død var forårsaget af en farlig blanding af kokain, endeløs alkohol og ubearbejdet vrede. Jeg havde længtes efter at se hende igen og var i tårer, da jeg tog den lange køretur for at besøge hendes børn. Ville de overhovedet kunne huske mig efter syv år? Jeg var lettet, da vi kørte op til deres nye hjem, "hos en god kristen familie", og som om jeg var en kær onkel, kom Angel løbende ud og sprang op i mine arme med en ukontrollabel glæde. 233 Man siger, at børn ikke kan huske noget fra før 2 eller 3-årsalderen, men hun kunne tydeligvis huske mig. Skønt jeg ankom med min skam over at have villet slå hende, da hun var et lille barn var det heldigvis ikke hendes varige erindring om mig. Tilsyneladende havde hun oplevet mig i barndommen som den eneste "sunde" udenforstående, der var vidne til, hvor dybt hun var blevet traumatiseret. Hendes familie var en familie, som både hvide og sorte var flygtet fra derude i sumpen. Selv om jeg kun havde været sammen med den 2½-årige Angel én dag i foråret 1996 og i et par dage i efteråret, da hun var 3 år, kunne jeg nu se, hvor meget vores korte besøg dengang havde betydet for hende som 9-årig. Hun trak mig i hånden inde for at møde sin nye familie, for at vise mig den lillesøster, hun havde fået, og et kærlighedsbrev, som hun havde skrevet til sin nu afdøde mor, hvori hun lovede at være "et godt barn". 234 Den 17-årige Natasha, som næsten havde dræbt en sort dreng med sten og siden havde tilbragt to år i fængsel for andre forbrydelser, var lige så begejstret for vores gensyn. Hun var også begejstret for at møde Rikke, som hun ville fotograferes med uafbrudt. De var måske nok blevet opdraget til at "dræbe niggere", men deres smerte var ikke diskriminerende i forhold til farven på den kvinde, der tilbød dem kærlighed og håb om at lindre denne smerte. Rikke, som blev adopteret ind i en kærlig dansk middelklassefamilie, kom med alt det overskud af kærlighed, som disse kærlighedsfattige børn higede efter. Ved mine efterfølgende besøg i årenes løb blev de ved med at spørge, hvorfor jeg ikke havde taget den "dejlige farvede kvinde" med mig. 2009 Alligevel fortsatte familiens forbandelse med at hjemsøge børnene - John formåede at få dem tilbage. Han arbejdede offshore, så jeg så ham ikke igen før 2009, nu i en anden trailer med lidt jord omkring sig. Jeg var vant til at forvente overraskelser, når jeg besøgte en seriemorder, og jeg regnede med at få endnu en, da jeg spurgte ham, hvorfor hans græsplæne var rød af blod. Han svarede med den rustne stemme fra en hærdet ældre mand: "Well, Jacob, du ved, at vi altid gjorde skøre ting, når vi var fulde. I går aftes var jeg så fuld, at jeg gik ud og skød på min eneste ko. Koen blev så bange, at den sprang over hegnet og løb væk. Jeg løb ind og hentede min riffel og satte mig op på min hest for at indhente den. Og efter et vildt midnatsridt gennem byen dræbte jeg det forbandede svin omkring otte kilometer på den anden side af byen. Og i morges tog jeg sammen med min 15-årige stedsøn ud for at hente den i pickup-bilen. Vi har lige slagtet den her på den blodige græsplæne." Jeg svarede: "I det mindste dræber du ikke sorte mere." "Nej, vi bliver alle sammen blødere, når vi bliver ældre. Jeg tror, jeg holdt op med det omkring dengang, jeg mødte dig." Jeg var så lettet over, at hans ungdommelige (og dødbringende) vrede havde lagt sig, at jeg denne gang tog ud og fiskede rejer med ham dybt inde i sumpen, hvor vi for første gang havde tid til virkelig at tale om hans liv og hans voldsomme slagsmål med Connie, som til sidst havde kostet hende livet. Det, der gjorde mig ked af det, var, at begge hans døtre, som jeg var kommet for at se, var forsvundet. Natasha var flygtet fra ham omkring det tidspunkt, hvor jeg så hende sidst, og nu havde hun to børn, som hun havde efterladt hos John. Han vidste ikke, hvor hun var; "sikkert i fængsel igen", gættede han. Og Angel var nu i fængsel. Woody var efter 16 år blevet prøveløsladt og var flyttet ind hos John. Han havde voldtaget den 13-årige Angel og gjort hende til narkoman. John var så rasende, at han satte sin egen bror i fængsel igen - denne gang på livstid - fordi han havde brudt sin prøveløsladelse. Angel var heller ikke nogen helgen. Som 13-årig havde hun stjålet en bil for at køre nogle af sine venner til en McDonald's og blev dømt til en ungdomsinstitution. Hun undslap et år senere ved at stjæle en af deres gule skolebusser. Jeg har ingen anelse om, hvordan hun, lille som hun var, overhovedet kunne nå fodpedalerne. Måske kunne hun ikke, da hun kørte galt i bussen, så den blev totalskadet. Hun afsonede nu en dom på flere år i et fængsel så langt væk, at John ikke havde råd til at tage derhen. John, bemærkede jeg, forsøgte sammen med sin nye kone at opdrage sine to børnebørn bedre, end han havde gjort med sine døtre. Det ene havde fået navnet Connie efter deres døde bedstemor. Jeg følte, at John nu var på rette vej og var mere bekymret for Natasha og Angel. 2012 Jeg fandt ikke Natasha før 2012. Hun kontaktede mig, fordi hun ville have min hjælp til at sende sin far i fængsel. Hun havde fra Rose, hendes bedstemor, fået at vide, at det faktisk var John, der havde begået mordet på markedspladsen, som hendes onkel Sammy fik en livstidsdom for. Selv om Natasha aldrig havde mødt Sammy, syntes hun, at det var urimeligt, at han skulle spærres inde, når hun vidste, at hendes egen far havde dræbt langt flere sorte. Jeg havde aldrig forstået, hvorfor Sammy havde fået livstid for at myrde en sort far foran sin familie, når Woody på mit bånd klart siger, at det var John, der begik forbrydelsen. (Sammys dom havde været grunden til, at jeg ofte havde tvivlet på Woodys historie.) John havde endda vist mig, hvordan han havde vredet kniven i sit offers hjerte. Da der var så mange vidner til forbrydelsen, vidste Sammy og John, at en af dem ville komme i fængsel. Ifølge Natasha indgik brødrene en aftale på stedet. Sammy tilbød at tage skylden, "fordi du, John, forsøger at stifte familie. Jeg har ingen børn og er efterlyst for så mange andre ting, at jeg alligevel ender i fængsel." Wow, tænkte jeg. På grund af denne bizart ærefulde aftale, der blev indgået for at forhindre Natasha i at blive faderløs, ville Natasha have sin egen far i fængsel. Hun var nu 23 år, og jeg følte, at dette var tidspunktet til at spørge hende, hvor meget hun kunne huske om de mord, der havde fundet sted i hendes barndom. Jeg satte et videokamera op foran os i en støjende baggård bag den hytte, hun boede i. Hun insisterede på, at vi først skulle købe en flaske whisky: "Jeg har så meget at fortælle dig". I begyndelsen virkede det, som om hun havde fortrængt minderne så længe, at de kun med besvær kom frem igen, men efter et par timer fik jeg den idé at afspille et lydklip fra det digitaliserede show, som jeg 20 år tidligere havde lavet med hendes onkel Woody. Da jeg afspillede dette bånd, brød hun sammen i gråd og begyndte at ryste voldsomt, mens jeg holdt om hende. Det var som om det åbnede dybe sår fra hendes barndom, og hun fortalte mig, hvor ofte hun havde hjulpet med at rense bilen for blod, efter at John havde været ude og "dræbe niggere", og om nogle af de mord, hun selv havde været vidne til. "Vi var på vejen, og en sort fyr i en lille Honda skar far af vejen. Far jagtede ham og klippede ham. Jeg så denne nigger fucking tumle ud i grøften - far klippede ham bogstaveligt talt med 80 kilometer i timen. Far sad bare og grinede og sagde, at den skide nigger ikke ville skære andre af vejen nu. Så en dag senere kom det i radioen, at hvis der var nogen vidner, skulle de melde sig. Der var en belønning og det hele." "Så du hørte det i radioen, og du vidste, at det var din far." "Ja, jeg var jo sammen med ham." "Og så følte du anger. Var det første gang, du følte, at der var noget galt?" "Ja, det var den eneste gang, jeg nogensinde følte, at noget var forkert - fordi jeg så det med mine egne øjne." "Kun fordi han blev efterlyst for det?" "Jeg ved ikke, om det var, fordi han var eftersøgt, men jeg var der og så det hele. Jeg er ikke en voldelig, voldelig person. Misforstå mig ikke. Jeg har en masse vredesproblemer, og hvis nogen gør mig sur, vil de se det værste af mig, men jeg er ikke en koldblodig morder. Far vil sgu se dig i øjnene og stikke dig ned - bare fordi du står der. Han har ingen skyldfølelse, ingen anger." "Men vidste du ikke, at det var forkert at slå folk ihjel?" "Nej, vi blev fucking opdraget til at dræbe niggere, så hvordan skulle jeg kunne det? Først da jeg var omkring 14 år og hørte det i radioen, begyndte jeg at vende mig mod min far. Og kort efter jeg så dig og den søde farvede dame sidste gang, løb jeg hjemmefra." Jeg var i chok, fordi hun nu ville bruge mit bånd med Woody som bevismateriale i retten mod sin egen far. Hun elskede ham, men så ham nu som en ubarmhjertig morder. Og alligevel var John i årenes løb blevet min fortrolige ven. Han ville fortælle mig alt, men på en eller anden måde troede eller håbede jeg altid, at han bare pralede. Jeg så ham også altid som et offer. Whiskyen og de forfærdelige blodige detaljer fik os begge til at blive mere og mere ophidsede. Hun sad ved siden af mig foran kameraet og begyndte at kysse og kramme mig (ivrigt filmet af sin nye kæreste - som kort efter blev far til hendes tredje barn). Det gjorde hun mere og mere - en reaktion på glæden ved at løfte noget fra sit hjerte, som hun havde fortrængt så længe. Mens hun talte om sin far, blev hun ved med at retfærdiggøre hans handlinger med sætninger som "Min far ville ikke lade sig fucke af niggerne". Jeg opfangede nogle flere spor om Johns fortid i hele hendes sprog, men det var hende selv, der pludselig nævnte hans voldtægt. "Så din far blev voldtaget? Af hvem, hans far?" "Ja, han blev voldtaget som barn. Før han var tretten år. Og Sammy også. Hele tiden." "Hvordan ved du det?" "Fordi min far fortalte mig det, da han var fuld." "Hvordan fortalte han dig det?" "Vi talte om en masse ting, og han sagde, at han var blevet udnyttet som barn. Jeg sagde: 'Hvad mener du med at blive udnyttet?' En gang sagde han: 'Skat, grunden til, at jeg var så overbeskyttende over for dig, da du var ung, var på grund af det, der skete med mig, da jeg var barn.' Han ville ikke gå i detaljer - hvorfor skulle han det? Han er en voksen mand. Så jeg spurgte ikke om mere. Visse ting giver mig og ham skam. Som far og datter kan vi forbande hinanden, men når det kommer til stykket, vil vi stå ryg mod ryg og kæmpe os igennem sådanne ting uden at vise følelser." Senere den aften fik jeg at se, at sådanne følelser udleves på forskellige måder. Vi var begge emotionelt smadrede efter disse daglange afsløringer, hvor hun som øjenvidne havde bekræftet de grusomme mord på sorte, som Woody havde fortalt mig om 20 år tidligere. Vigtigere endnu, hun havde også givet mig den dybere forklaring på det hele: det hele havde rod i en dyb ubearbejdet vrede, der i sig selv stammede fra den konstante voldtægt af to små børn eller drenge. Vi var fuldstændig udmattede ved dagens slutning, men Natasha insisterede nu på, at jeg skulle tage hende med til spiritusforretningen. Derefter ville hun tage mig med "ned i hullet", som jeg vidste var det værste sted i Amerika. Nede i "the hole" (et sted hvor kriminelle misbrugere holdt til) fik vi selskab af hendes venner - de vildeste og mest skræmmende crackhoveder og meth-kogere, jeg nogensinde havde set. Da Natasha nu tydeligvis var blevet vanvittig, tvang en af dem os ind i min lejebil (mig på bagsædet og Natasha foran). Mit livs vildeste tur var ved at begynde. Vi kørte 160 km/t gennem gaderne - mod trafikken på ensrettede gader og gennem mørke gyder, ofte med skraldespande, der fløj rundt om os som i en Hollywood-jagtscene. Flere gange forsøgte Natasha at begå selvmord ved at kaste sig ud ad døren. I første omgang tænkte jeg: "Pokkers osse! Hvorfor tegnede jeg ikke en forsikring på lejebilen i lufthavnen i Atlanta?" Lidt senere tænkte jeg: "Hvorfor har jeg ikke tegnet en livsforsikring?" Jeg var helt sikker på, at mit liv med en så beruset og dopet bilist ville ende præcis på samme måde som det havde gjort for Natashas mor. Sent om aftenen, efter en højhastighedsjagt over mange floder og sumpe, endte vi i en tom bar, hvor Natasha vågnede op. Hun tog sin kniv frem og krævede shots til os alle og insisterede på, at jeg skulle drikke dem fra et glas, der var klemt mellem hendes bryster. Lokal tradition, tror jeg, de sagde. Jeg følte mig mere sikker blandt deres knive, end jeg gjorde ved at køre med dem, så jeg udsatte turen hjem, indtil Natasha var besvimet. Hun virkede så "død", at vi troede, at hun havde fået et hjerteanfald. Vi bar hende ud til bilen og kørte hjem, hvor vi kl. 5 om morgenen bar hendes enormt tunge krop - den lignede hendes mors med al den vægt, hun nu havde taget på - ind i stuen. Derefter flygtede jeg fra gerningsstedet, lettet over at jeg var i live, men bange for at politiet ville dukke op og sammenligne bulerne i min bil med de ting, vi havde smadret den nat. Natasha var tilfældigvis gravid og fødte kort efter. Da hun landede i fængsel igen, blev også dette barn taget fra hende. Senere samme dag var heldet med mig, og jeg fandt Angel i en fjerntliggende by. Jeg havde ikke set hende i næsten 10 år (mens hun havde siddet i fængsel) og blev igen overrasket over, at hun kom løbende ud for at omfavne mig på samme måde som da hun var 9. Nu var hun 19 år og gravid. Hendes mand var en rå Hells Angel-type, der lignede den unge fængselsbrutaliserede Woody. Natasha havde ikke annonceret min ankomst, da de ikke længere havde kontakt med hinanden. Da jeg nævnte, at Natasha ville have deres far i fængsel, kunne Angel ikke forstå hvorfor, men hun havde jo været for ung til at være vidne til alle mordene. Som toårig havde hun kun lært de ord, som hun husker som sine første: "Vi dræber niggere" - uden at forstå, hvad de betød. Efter i årevis at have udlevet sine forældres vrede, som fordømte hende til at være "the bad one", var hun blevet løsladt fra fængslet og ønskede at stifte familie. Da jeg sad der og interviewede hende, blev jeg igen slået af, hvor lille hun var. Hun havde håb for fremtiden, og inden jeg gik, bad hun mig om at tage nogle billeder af hende sammen med den mand, hun havde giftet sig med i Johns hus. Selv om hun boede relativt komfortabelt hos sin mands forældre, ønskede hun tydeligvis ikke, at jeg skulle rejse. I de næste otte år sendte Angel mig det ene desperate brev efter det andet på trods af, at hun knap nok var i stand til at skrive. Først om fødslen af deres to børn, med nøjagtig angivelse af størrelse og vægt på hvert af dem, derefter om hvordan hendes mand havde forladt hende, og hvordan hun var endt i en trailer, der var lige så nedslidt som den, hun var født i - fattig og alene med sine to børn. Så kom det ene råb om hjælp efter det andet fra forskellige fængsler, efter at hendes børn var blevet tvangsfjernet. Da jeg spurgte til Natasha, vidste hun kun, at hun også var i fængsel. På det seneste, efter at hun havde afsonet sin straf, fandt Angel en ny mand, fik et barn med ham og virkede ret lykkelig. Nu sender hun mig nødråb om hjælp, når John, hendes far, er blevet indlagt på hospitalet - et resultat af mange års druk. "Far vil gerne se dig. Vær sød at komme tilbage, Jacob. Jeg skal nok betale flybilletten." Det er tydeligt, at hun ikke aner, hvor langt væk Danmark er, eller hvor dyr sådan en billet er. I de sidste par år har deres sidste desperate håb været præsident Trump, og Angels nye mand skriver lange indlæg på Facebook om "den uretfærdige behandling Trump fik efter alt det, han har gjort for os fattige mennesker". Selv om jeg føler, at denne traumatiserede familie er blevet uretfærdigt behandlet af alle os vindere i samfundet, er der én ting, som mit 30-årige venskab med dem har lært mig, nemlig vigtigheden af - uanset hvor lidt tid vi har tilbage fra vores travle karrierer - at gribe ind som frelsende engle på vegne af de misbrugte og forsømte børn omkring os. For selv om jeg kun tilbragte et par dage med Angel, da hun var 2-3 år gammel, glemte hun mig aldrig, hvilket hun gjorde klart en dag, da hun var 9 år, og en eftermiddag, da hun var 19 år. Den dag i dag skriver og ringer hun konstant til mig, og nu har hun endda fået mit navn tatoveret på sit bryst (som det ses her).