You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.
The Jail House Interview.
Getting 1 is enough for most reporters.
Today I did two.
I did two and will only air one.
Some people are gluttons.
Some people are pigs, who cannot refuse a 2nd helping of chocolate cake.
They are addicted to excess.
Nothing exceeds like excess.
I’m this way with jail house interviews.
I didn’t need two, but I couldn’t push away from the broadcasting table.
“Just one more bite,” I thought.
“The girl who tied up the naked man and then had him beaten wants to talk to you too.”
I look at the corrections officer.
His face is solemn and purposeful. He is not kidding.
I cast a quick glance at my photographer.
“OK, bring her up after I talk with the other guy,” I say with a shrug.
Who am I to say no to seconds.
He nods affirmatively.
I am already in the jail awaiting a 19-year-old accused of stealing a pick up truck, using it to break down a country market door, burglarizing the store, then torching the pick up truck in the woods.
I aired the footage of two masked perps committing the crime last week.
The moment the footage aired, people called the detective and said, that’s so and so.
And within 2 days; a man and woman were arrested.
So the woman declined my interview. I don’t think she’s smart, but it’s a sagacious move not to talk to the news man about pending criminal proceedings.
The 19-year-old is not so bright.
I already know detectives have spoken to her. I already know she has implicated herself in the crime and his name has figured prominently in her cooperation with law officers.
He enters the holding area.
He is one part Shepard, one part wolf man.
His hair is bush like, unkempt. He has scratches on his chubby white face.
I was walking in the woods, he will later tell me.
He was running from police is the truth.
I don’t waste any time. I pin the mic to his orange and white jump suit and begin asking him questions.
I show him pictures of the bad guy leaping over the counter.
“They say this is you. It’s not you?”
“No sir.”
“The crime happened Thanksgiving morning around 3:30 am. Where were you then?”
“Thanksgiving morning?” he says rolling his eyes searching the ceiling for an answer.
This ain’t the Sistine Chapel and divine intervention is not to be found.
“I was walking the Natchez Trace from Waterloo Alabama.”
I look at the man in the orange and white jump suit.
That answer catches me off guard.
“Walking the Natchez Trace in Waterloo Alabama?”
“I was trying to get to my momma’s house for Thanksgiving,” he says, his puppy dog brown eyes blinking ever so slightly.
Just one problem.
I have those puppy dog brown eyes on tape. They look exactly like the eyes of the teenager lying to me right now.
“trying to get to momma’s house, huh?”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say I was an extra in a Leave it to Beaver re-run. How so very touching. Boy walks trail of tears to get to Momma on Thanksgiving.
What a Hallmark moment.
Too bad, it’s all lies.
He denies everything, and leaves with a smile, telling me “whoever is trying to get me charged, needs to stop.”
I laugh.
Amazing how some people can bare their souls and tell you nothing that is honest.
Then the girl enters.
She is frail and nervous, and tears are welling in her eyes.
She is 18 and charged with attempted robbery.
The police put out her picture when she was a wanted felon.
Her FaceBook photo is attractive.
The woman, the young girl, before me is weathered, sorry, sad.
The police report says she met with a man to have sex. She got him naked and tied his hands. Then she had an accomplice come upstairs and beat the naked man.
I’m staring at this waif of a girl. She is barely old enough to be out of high school.
She begins telling me her story. She says that she was high on drugs and the alleged victim sexually assaulted her.
Immediately her story is messy.
She tells me that she tricked him into thinking she was going to be kinky and when he was securely bound, she texted her male friend who entered the room and beat the man.
“It wasn’t robbery,” she tells me. “It was retaliation.”
I am looking at this girl, and like the teenager before her, I don’t know if I believe a single thing coming out of her mouth.
At one point she asks who we are.
I am looking at my photographer standing behind a big news camera.
“Who are we? Didn’t they tell you who we were?”
I don’t want my rape broadcast on the news, she will say, tears flooding her eyes.
I stare at my photographer.
This 2nd helping tastes terrible. I am feeling nauseated and want to purge myself of this soiled 2nd jailhouse interview.
“OK, let’s call it a day,” I say my voice low and without emotion.
She leaves the room.
I have two jail house interviews, two distinctly different crimes, two different lies, and only one interview will air.
“Let’s get out of this F***ing place,” my photographer says in a disgusted tone.
He’s just back from vacation.
He had his fill of family and friends and big sloppy hamburgers.
Nobody lied. Nobody smelled like jailhouse soap.
Coming back to news after a real vacation is like trying to beer bong a bottle of tequila after throwing up all night.
It tastes bad and turns your stomach.
News is ugly.
Today is ugly, full of lies.
I feel sorry for both inmates, both of whom could be my own children.
What the hell went wrong in their homes, I think to myself.
Drugs, and theft, and rape and lies.
Wow.
My photographer is right.
We gotta leave. We both feel dirty and not even a shower will cleanse us from this stench of humanity.
“Wanna get a coffee?” I ask.
“In this county?” he says sharply. “No.”
I am quiet. I understand.
Time to go.
We’ve consumed too much already.
Life’s Crazy™