housed in a Soviet prison.
Or a refrigerator. The air conditioning is always amped up. They could store meat as well as inmates. And some of the deputy
sheriffs, who run the place, don’t really care to know the difference.
At the end of the corridor I came to the elevators, got in, and went up to the fourth floor. I turned right and went through
the heavy metal doors and toward the attorney booth at the end. I walked by the bank of phones where the public talks to their
inmates on the other side of the Plexiglas. You can see through the glass into the day room, where blue-clad inmates wander
or sit, some looking at nothing, some playing cards. Some thinking, no doubt, about who they are going to hurt when they get
out.
Across from the phone bank I punched the intercom button and announced my presence. Then I went into the open attorney booth,
which is about twice the size of a phone booth, and sat down on my side of the Plexiglas.
There are no handsets in the attorney booth. A little microphone picks up everything on each side. On the inmates’ side there
is a round bolt, the “doughnut,” in the middle of the table, to which they are shackled.
On the shelf in front of me some goober had left an empty Skittles bag and Juicy Fruit wrapper. This could have come from
a slob attorney or even a member of the public. They leave the door of the attorney room open, and sometimes a person ducks
in for a look.
The deputies don’t seem to care about that, and it shows.
A minute or two later, Eric, dressed in jail blues, was brought in by a deputy.
47
E RIC’S EYES WERE bleary, like he’d been crying.
“You okay?” I said.
“Do I look okay?” he said. “What is going on?”
“You tell me.”
“They’re saying I killed my own brother! Get me out of here!”
“Keep your voice low. Just talk to me, and answer my questions directly. And don’t lie, okay?”
“Why should I lie? Oh God…” He put his head down and into his cuffed hands.
“Easy,” I said.
“I can’t believe this is happening. Mom…” He looked up. “Where’s Mom?”
“She’s at home, resting. I told her I’d come see her after this.”
Down went his head again.
“Eric, we need to talk about this. And I mentioned lying because almost all people in custody think they can do themselves
some good if they cook the truth a little. You can’t. Are we clear on that?”
He looked at me and nodded.
“Did they ask you any questions?” I said.
“They asked me about a fight I had with Carl.”
“You had a fight with Carl?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“I don’t know, a couple of nights before he shot himself.”
“Can you be a little more precise, please? When
exactly
was this fight?”
He thought a moment. “Okay, maybe it was the night before.”
I closed my eyes. “Think before you answer, okay?”
“Sorry.”
“Having a fight the night before your brother is shot is a pretty significant detail, don’t you think?”
“It’s just a coincidence. We had fights before. Brothers have fights.”
“Did they ask you any other questions?”
“I stopped them and said I wanted a lawyer. Then I called my mom.”
“That was your first good move,” I said. “Tell me about this fight. Where’d it happen?”
“In a bar.”
“Did it get physical?”
“Almost. Mostly it was just yelling.”
“What bar was this?”
“A place in West Hollywood.”
“What’s the name of the place?”
“I can’t remember.”
“You said that a little too fast,” I said. “You start throwing out
I can’t remembers
like that, no jury is going to believe you. Or your lawyer, either.”
“I mean I can’t remember,” he said. “It was a funny-sounding name. I didn’t want us to go there, but Carl wouldn’t take no
for an answer.”
“All right, we’ll get the name later. What was the fight about?”
“It was about his drinking. And what it was doing to Mom. And about the people he was hanging
Or a refrigerator. The air conditioning is always amped up. They could store meat as well as inmates. And some of the deputy
sheriffs, who run the place, don’t really care to know the difference.
At the end of the corridor I came to the elevators, got in, and went up to the fourth floor. I turned right and went through
the heavy metal doors and toward the attorney booth at the end. I walked by the bank of phones where the public talks to their
inmates on the other side of the Plexiglas. You can see through the glass into the day room, where blue-clad inmates wander
or sit, some looking at nothing, some playing cards. Some thinking, no doubt, about who they are going to hurt when they get
out.
Across from the phone bank I punched the intercom button and announced my presence. Then I went into the open attorney booth,
which is about twice the size of a phone booth, and sat down on my side of the Plexiglas.
There are no handsets in the attorney booth. A little microphone picks up everything on each side. On the inmates’ side there
is a round bolt, the “doughnut,” in the middle of the table, to which they are shackled.
On the shelf in front of me some goober had left an empty Skittles bag and Juicy Fruit wrapper. This could have come from
a slob attorney or even a member of the public. They leave the door of the attorney room open, and sometimes a person ducks
in for a look.
The deputies don’t seem to care about that, and it shows.
A minute or two later, Eric, dressed in jail blues, was brought in by a deputy.
47
E RIC’S EYES WERE bleary, like he’d been crying.
“You okay?” I said.
“Do I look okay?” he said. “What is going on?”
“You tell me.”
“They’re saying I killed my own brother! Get me out of here!”
“Keep your voice low. Just talk to me, and answer my questions directly. And don’t lie, okay?”
“Why should I lie? Oh God…” He put his head down and into his cuffed hands.
“Easy,” I said.
“I can’t believe this is happening. Mom…” He looked up. “Where’s Mom?”
“She’s at home, resting. I told her I’d come see her after this.”
Down went his head again.
“Eric, we need to talk about this. And I mentioned lying because almost all people in custody think they can do themselves
some good if they cook the truth a little. You can’t. Are we clear on that?”
He looked at me and nodded.
“Did they ask you any questions?” I said.
“They asked me about a fight I had with Carl.”
“You had a fight with Carl?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“I don’t know, a couple of nights before he shot himself.”
“Can you be a little more precise, please? When
exactly
was this fight?”
He thought a moment. “Okay, maybe it was the night before.”
I closed my eyes. “Think before you answer, okay?”
“Sorry.”
“Having a fight the night before your brother is shot is a pretty significant detail, don’t you think?”
“It’s just a coincidence. We had fights before. Brothers have fights.”
“Did they ask you any other questions?”
“I stopped them and said I wanted a lawyer. Then I called my mom.”
“That was your first good move,” I said. “Tell me about this fight. Where’d it happen?”
“In a bar.”
“Did it get physical?”
“Almost. Mostly it was just yelling.”
“What bar was this?”
“A place in West Hollywood.”
“What’s the name of the place?”
“I can’t remember.”
“You said that a little too fast,” I said. “You start throwing out
I can’t remembers
like that, no jury is going to believe you. Or your lawyer, either.”
“I mean I can’t remember,” he said. “It was a funny-sounding name. I didn’t want us to go there, but Carl wouldn’t take no
for an answer.”
“All right, we’ll get the name later. What was the fight about?”
“It was about his drinking. And what it was doing to Mom. And about the people he was hanging
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