{"id":157411,"date":"2022-03-07T10:15:32","date_gmt":"2022-03-07T15:15:32","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=157411"},"modified":"2022-03-07T13:20:32","modified_gmt":"2022-03-07T18:20:32","slug":"to-the-son-of-the-victim","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2022\/03\/07\/to-the-son-of-the-victim\/","title":{"rendered":"To the Son of the Victim"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Santa Rosa\u2013Tagatay Road in Don Jose, Santa Rosa, California. Photograph via Wikimedia Commons<\/a>.<\/p><\/div>\n

Santa Rosa, California<\/p>\n

I met you the day your father was shot and killed. I\u2019d been in Oakland for a pink sunrise, watching police sweep a homeless encampment, gathering what we called \u201cstring\u201d from residents who had nowhere\u2014yet again\u2014to go. I felt more outraged than usual and also maybe more useful. This was journalism, I suppose I was thinking, making sure the world knew what was happening right here. I wrote three hundred words for my newspaper\u2019s website in a caf\u00e9 and was preparing to drive back across the Bay Bridge in brilliant golden morning light. Then I got a call. <\/p>\n

An editor back at the office on Mission Street was listening to the police scanner and heard something unusual going on near Santa Rosa, about sixty miles northeast. Since I was already out, could I go? I could. I drove north, generalized dread already flushing cold through my veins, though I had no sense of what I was going toward. This is what the days were like, back then: waiting for something to happen, hoping it wouldn\u2019t, getting the call, driving, always driving, toward disaster.<\/p>\n

There were black SWAT<\/small> helicopters flying overhead and mixed reports from my editors: a robbery at two different addresses in Santa Rosa, three dead. Or maybe only one person was dead? Maybe they were related; maybe they weren\u2019t. Someone seemed to think that it had something to do with marijuana. I kept driving north into the brilliant sunlight, in a direction that\u2014on other days or for other people\u2014might have led to wine country or skiing in Tahoe.<\/p>\n

Then the road turned into a vast sprawl of neon signs. I stopped at a gas station to buy a water bottle and a phone charger, a little shaky from hunger. I was listening to a song on repeat: \u201cHeard you were rolling in the good times out West, went to the desert to find your destiny and place . . .<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u2019d moved to San Francisco just a few months before to become a \u201cbreaking-news reporter.\u201d The romance of breaking news was that you were just thrown out there, learning on your feet, somehow transforming into a real reporter in the process. I had wanted this badly, all of it: the crime scenes and fires, the early-morning wake-ups and late-night phone calls. But it turned out I hated showing up on people\u2019s doorsteps in the wake of disaster and death. One Friday, there had been reports of a hostage situation many miles north. While the details emerged online and over the radio, I did something unforgivable in the profession: I went to the bathroom, took deep breaths, and waited a few minutes until someone else was sent instead.<\/p>\n

The first Santa Rosa address was a bust. Or, rather, it wasn\u2019t really an address at all\u2014it described a long stretch of halfway highway between two traffic lights. There were a few houses and I knocked on their doors but, to my relief, got no answer. I drove on, down a road that cut through farmland, where the distance between mailboxes grew longer. There were horses and shocks of green, as though drought had never struck here. This was the kind of place where neighbors could be relied upon to say, I can\u2019t believe that something like this would happen here of all places. Then I saw the Sonoma County Sheriff\u2019s truck hulking beside one of the mailboxes. This must be the place.<\/p>\n

There were large cactuses and there was yellow tape. Even as I flashed my press pass, it was clear I wasn\u2019t going to get very close to the scene\u2014to your house, a low, white ranch house I could see from the driveway behind the kind of padlock gate that would keep horses in. A grizzled deputy with a red beard and sunglasses looked at me with disgust. \u201cThe family\u2019s not interested in talking, ma\u2019am,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan you tell me what\u2019s going on?\u201d I asked. Reporting under conditions like this was always full of roadblocks, and the primary obstacle was usually someone in uniform.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve got to call the press line,\u201d he said. He was disgusted by me, and I by him. Sometimes the only thing that motivated me in my reporting was the stoic \u201cNo\u201d of police officers and sheriff\u2019s deputies and flacks on the phone. I pulled up nearby to wait. I fiddled with my phone, checked for new statements from the different law enforcement agencies, texted friends in New York\u2014a boy I loved was there\u2014and then looked up to see you, leaning on a gate and looking straight at me through the windshield.<\/p>\n

I grabbed my notebook and scrambled to get out of the car, up to the gate. We stood for a minute in the dusty early-afternoon heat and didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n

You were about my age, give or take. I was twenty-two. You had been crying, though you made a good attempt at hiding it, red rims around your eyes.<\/p>\n

I can\u2019t remember what I started to say, maybe something like, Hi, I\u2019m a reporter, I know today must be a hard day, but I was wondering if you could tell me a little more about<\/em>\u2014<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re not talking to anybody right now,\u201d you said quietly, looking down. I looked down, too, and saw you were wearing dark leather cowboy boots.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m really sorry to bother you, it\u2019s just that\u201d\u2014I was trying to figure out what to do with my hands, gesturing too much, probably\u2014\u201cwe\u2019re hearing reports that someone was killed here last night and I wanted to know if you could tell me if that\u2019s true?\u201d<\/p>\n

To that, you said nothing; you looked at me and turned away, walking back toward the house. The cop was watching me from the car with the window rolled down. Maybe he shook his head, or maybe that\u2019s something I\u2019ve imagined since then.<\/p>\n

I drove away, back to the first set of addresses, and fielded calls from frustrated editors. Someone from the family\u2014perhaps you?\u2014had spoken earlier to the Press Democrat <\/em>and confirmed that a man had been tied up, tortured, and shot dead in the middle of the night. The suspects were a group of men who had mistaken the property for a cannabis farming operation\u2014or perhaps it actually was one? Could I go back and find out? I could.<\/p>\n

When I got there, I stayed in the car, engine on, watching the clock and hoping you wouldn\u2019t return. But you did, this time flanked by two men\u2014boys?\u2014who looked about your age. Maybe cousins or brothers or just friends. You recognized me and you looked my way almost imploring, as if to say, \u201cI already told <\/em>you: I need some time.\u201d The three of you walked toward a parked truck. I wish I\u2019d given up then, but I instead followed numbly.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou need to leave right now,\u201d said one of the other boys. I liked him for that.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan I just give you my phone number, in case you\u2019d want to talk later?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d you said, surprising me. But as I tried to write my number down, my pen ran dry. We stood awkwardly facing each other as I tried to sketch it, us just standing there in the brutal heat, your red-rimmed eyes behind sunglasses. Finally, I was ready to quit; I even shrugged. But then you pulled a pen out of your pocket, and you let me use it.<\/p>\n

I have thought so often of this day\u2014of my cruelty and your pain, of how powerful I was and how powerless I felt, of the pen you lent me, right in the moment of my defeat. What you must have felt that day remains impenetrable to me, even as I know more of the story, or at least as I know the bits of it that were reported in the following days, before everyone looked away. Your father was shot ten times while you and your mother were bound to chairs, with duct tape in your mouths. Four men and one woman were eventually arrested. More than a year later, a murder trial was ordered. It has yet to happen. That\u2019s one version of the story, but the ripple effects of that night are, I am sure, a much longer and more complicated story than could ever be written. No one has even tried, least of all me.<\/p>\n

That day in Santa Rosa, I imagined that you hated me, but I now suspect you didn\u2019t think much of me at all. Probably I was part of the collateral of your grief, the random details\u2014chipped nail polish, oddly shaped clouds, the color of someone\u2019s hat\u2014that one notices in the moments before or after catastrophe. If you remember me at all, I imagine that it\u2019s like that: a girl standing improbably in the glare of sunlight and rising dust, borrowing your pen after hers runs dry, the sound of gunshot still fresh in your ears. Regardless, you were generous to me on a day when you had no reason to be. I wish I\u2019d been kinder in return.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Sophie Haigney has written for\u00a0the<\/em> New York Times,<\/em>\u00a0The New Yorker,<\/em>\u00a0New York Magazine,<\/em>\u00a0the<\/em> Economist,\u00a0<\/em>The Atlantic,<\/em>\u00a0Slate,<\/em>\u00a0The Nation, and the<\/em> Boston Globe. She was\u00a0<\/em>Off Assignment\u2019s\u00a0first managing editor and helped get the Letter to a Stranger column off the ground.<\/em><\/p>\n

From\u00a0Letter to a Stranger<\/em>\u00a0\u00a9 2022 by Colleen Kinder. Reprinted by permission of Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cYou were generous to me on a day when you had no reason to be. I wish I\u2019d been kinder in return.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1345,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[21277,7583,13682,67827,8032,188,10505,68373],"class_list":["post-157411","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-bay-area","tag-crime","tag-crime-scenes","tag-featured","tag-first-person-2","tag-journalism","tag-journalists","tag-sophie-haigney"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nTo the Son of the Victim by Sophie Haigney<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"March 7, 2022 \u2013 \u201cYou were generous to me on a day when you had no reason to be. 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