In a matter of weeks I started visiting him inside the prison during Thursday visiting hours. He was lonely and bored and said he looked forward to our conversations. He even sent me a Valentine’s Day card. The front cover had a single red rose. I emailed a photo of the card to my family.
Just in case I ever “go missing” you know where to look.
Erin
My dad’s response? “I’m happy for the look into your world.”
I remember getting that email and feeling a powerful sense of excitement. I had a world at which my dad was thrilled to get a glimpse! Most parents upon receiving an email like this would immediately press the “call my kid” button to put an end to this misguided quest, but not my dad, not this family. To move toward the darkness was a win, and it was something I would look to do again and again.
Months went by, and Gil and I kept talking on the phone. On my third visit to the prison, I stood in line, nervous, though not nearly as nervous as I was that first time. “Erin Carr?”
I stepped forward. “Yes?”
“You have been put on the denied list. Please exit the waiting room immediately. If you have an issue with your refusal you can call the Bureau of Prisons at this number.” And just like that I was ushered outside.
I was never allowed back into the prison. No one ever told me this outright, but I could put two and two together. Someone saw that I was visiting an inmate that the BOP felt conflicted about, and so they restricted his access to press, most likely to hurt him and his mental state, or to keep something under wraps. I guessed that it was the prosecutor in Gil’s case who pushed the reject button, though I haven’t been able to confirm that. Gil had told me that he’d started to depend on me and our calls. This felt like more than a journalist-source relationship, and the Valentine’s Day card confirmed that. The romantic inclination was one-sided, but I was anxious about how to handle the situation.
So I continued talking on the phone with Gil, trying to appeal to the warden to let me get a camera inside the prison. Each request was met with a refusal, and soon I was awake every night wondering if my project would fail and once again cursing myself for leaving VICE.
And then something pretty unbelievable happened. The same judge who’d presided over the trial decided there was insufficient evidence, and he overturned the conviction. This never, ever happens. After nineteen months—seven of which Gil spent in solitary confinement—he was out. Against my journalistic objectivity and better instincts, I was elated for him, his family, and his legal team. Clearly I was far from impartial, but I truly believed after viewing the evidence that he did not belong in prison. My film would reflect this perspective.
Once Gil was out, he started texting me constantly. He would ask about the specifics of making our film, but he also wanted to know more about me, where I lived, how I spent my time, if I had a boyfriend. I did. One day, I tweeted “my boyfriend sends me documentary ideas, swoooon.” Within three minutes of the post, Gil texted me: “You have a boyfriend???” I knew then and there that he was watching my every move, online and in real life. To others, I reconciled the attention he paid to me by mumbling that it was because he’d had few friends since his arrest.
Multiple news outlets were targeting him for his “big” interview. I knew that if he consented to do even one of those, my project would be a goner. So far, he hadn’t agreed to anything. I wondered if I had an opening. I texted him, asking if I could come over and film informally. He told me he didn’t think it was a good idea and that he just wanted to focus on spending quality time with his mom and dad. I was disappointed, but I understood that he wanted privacy.
I was uncertain how to proceed. This was a delicate and dangerous dance. I called my dad. He picked up immediately and started asking questions.
“Hey, Dolly, so did you ask him?”
“Yeah, I did,” I answered. “He says he’ll do it but he needs space.”
“Here’s the thing: If you don’t get that interview in the next couple days, you’ll be fucked.”
Blunt truth-telling is how he communicated with me and others. I hated that I knew he was right. I called Gil and convinced him that we needed to tape now.
I brought the camera, and Coffman, our editor-turned-shooter, began filming short handheld-camera interviews in which Gil and I talked about what it felt like to be set free. He was guarded yet playful. He invited me to his upcoming party he’d dubbed “Freedom Fest.” He then asked me not to bring my camera. Okay, I thought, still a worthwhile way to solidify my standing with his family and legal team as he had other TV networks vying for his “exclusive.”
I told my dad I was going, and he told me to be sure I took someone. I hadn’t really planned on that, but it made sense. I asked my producing partner Andrew if he could go, and he said he could. I texted Gil and he responded seconds later: “I don’t think that is going to work. I want it to be close friends only.” He did not consider me a reporter, but a friend. I had two options before me: 1. Cancel, send a clear message, but possibly lose my in for the story, or 2. Go, and try to be clear about my boundaries.
I called my dad to have him weigh in. “Your call, hoss”—a moniker he gave people when he was pleased with them. He knew I had a conundrum but didn’t want to influence me, as I was the one who would have to live with the consequences.
I chose to go. It was the wrong choice.
I took the subway out to Forest Hills, Queens, sweating due to the heat but also my nerves. Gil had first had to clear the party with his probation officer. It was just his family, his legal team, and, oh yeah, me. We ate in Gil’s backyard; hot dogs sizzled in the July heat and were pretty unappetizing given the bizarre circumstances. There was enough food for twenty people, which made the fact that there were six attendees that much more conspicuous. About an hour in, Gil made a speech thanking each person for what they did for him while he was on the inside. I was second to last; he stated how crucial my presence was for him in his darkest times. The whole thing was next-level uncomfortable.
His lawyers’ concern was clear: Was this girl going to be the liability that made all of their work go to hell? I am sure they worried about Gil getting confused and revealing something that they didn’t want leaked to the press. That, or acting like a weirdo and crossing a boundary. I tried to leave early, but he cornered me for a hug and held on too tight.
Gil now started to amp up the creepy behavior, and I knew I would soon be at a crossroads with him and our relationship. One day while filming, I saw his eyes trail my cameraman as he went out the front door to get some exterior shots of the house. Gil walked over to me and started rubbing my shoulders, telling me how tense I seemed. My body seized at his touch, and I knew something bad was happening. I had practiced for this moment.
“Gil, you shouldn’t touch me like this.”
He replied quickly: “Don’t worry, I touch my dog like this.”
My brain and body froze and I prayed that our cameraman would come in and relieve me from this moment. He let go as soon as he heard footsteps approaching. This is when the alarm bells kicked in. Within ten minutes a car arrived to take me back to Brooklyn. I sent an email to my twin and called my dad and got his voicemail. I got home and cried in the shower.
Five minutes later my dad called me back. He had never been physically intimidated by a source, so he couldn’t really advise in that capacity. Instead he used his network to connect me with Andrew Jarecki, a filmmaker he knew who had dealt with these issues specifically. Andrew had directed Capturing the Friedmans, a film from my early career must-watch list. Andrew also had something new cooking—a docuseries centered around a man named Robert Durst. That show would end up becoming HBO’s hugely popular documentary The Jinx.
I called Andrew immediately. After some backstory, he told me it was about establishing a protocol. After our phone call, I came up with the following rules
for myself:
Don’t answer the phone or a text after 9 P.M.
If I see him, it is only during filming, and nothing that could be perceived as social.
Make it clear that I do not live alone.
If problems arise, have Gil’s probation officer’s number in my phone.
I look at this chaotic and, frankly, scary time in my life and think about how my dad reacted to it all. Was he scared or uncomfortable about the subject matter or the relationship?
you are such a pro. what a great result. you are being paid. as a filmmaker. um. wow.
No, he was proud. Proud that he’d raised a kid who could go after these stories. Proud to jump in and help, either with some serious journo advice or a dark joke to lighten the mood—whatever was required at the time.
I continued making the film despite lingering tension between Gil and me. My dad urged me to be careful; the ego of such a man is a fragile thing. Gil had his freedom to lose but he had lost it once before, which made his actions unpredictable. That said, I needed to press him on parts of the story that felt deeply uncomfortable for both of us. That is what journalism is. It’s what’s lurking between convenient and uncomfortable.
The prosecution appealed the overturned conviction, but the judge’s ruling held firm. Gil remained a free man.
22
Jelly Beans
“You are a rocking presence wherever you are, including in the center of my heart.”
I typed in “Fahja,” on November 16, 2014, and pressed the green button to call him. My dad had invited me to speak at Boston University, where he taught a weekly journalism course on media criticism.
I’d emailed him my presentation notes for the class and was met with a chuckle on the other end of the phone.
“You are way overpreparing for this.”
“Better than under, right?” I countered.
He gave me very specific instructions on how best to get to his office from the Boston airport. I followed them to a T, but showed up to an empty office.
I threw down a heavy black messenger bag, jam-packed with underwear and cables of all sorts. It was the first time that I’d stood in an office that my father could call his own. His cube at the Times was a mess of books and papers. At home, he preferred to be outside on that screened-in porch that he often shared with the dog. I gazed at a couple of notes taped to the wall and wondered about their significance. I saw an ad for his upcoming class, and something colorful jumped out at me in the corner of my eye: a vat of jelly beans near the front of his desk. He never struck me as a candy sort of professor. Later on, after he died, I asked Madeline what that was all about:
Me: Do you remember why Dad had candy on his desk? Kind of a Willy Wonka move, no?
MC: Hmm, he had it on his desk because he wanted to seem approachable.
Me: Approachable?
MC: I tried to inform him that jelly beans were the wrong move.
Me: What would have been the right move?
I heard his footsteps and tried to look busy. “There you are!” I got up to hug him, and in that moment, I felt a distance between us. I tried to quickly swat it away as I looked at him and asked for the Wi-Fi password.
We ambled over to his classroom. The desks were arranged in a hospitable square that made it clear everyone was welcome to participate. The students looked like me, if not older, and I felt the imposter syndrome creeping in. Why am I here?
After some chitchat, he introduced me. He outlined my résumé, and even mentioned my secret, that I had just finished directing my first feature documentary for HBO: “I like her but I’m a bit biased; she is my kid.”
I blushed at this intro. I knew he meant for it to come off as charming, but it made me feel small. Like a kid. I shook it off and launched into how to find and execute stories for the Web and network. I found my groove, keeping an eye on him to sense how he felt about what I was saying. We argued about the pros and cons of using an iPhone to tell a story. His students jumped in, and we tried not to talk over them. I do not believe an iPhone is a substitute for a camera. He disagreed vehemently, saying that an iPhone is a tool many people have access to, and that I was being a snob.
When the class and banter were over, the kids lined up to ask me more questions. I fished business cards out of my messenger bag, careful to keep the Hanes underwear out of sight, though perhaps those were the perfect counterpoints to the snobbery charge. We headed to my dad’s form of organized religion, the coffeehouse.
As we walked, I listened to his ragged breathing. When will he stop smoking? He looked different, older. Something welled up inside me. My superhero looked a bit worse for wear. He looked suddenly mortal.
I sat down and waited for him to begin. Being quiet was new for me. My dad sensed the change.
“What’s up with you?”
“Nothing,” I mumbled.
He had a cold so he headed back to the Buck (his nickname for the Hotel Buckminster in Kenmore Square), and I wandered the streets by myself. Later I crept back into the hotel and to my bed in the suite; it felt weird that we had to sleep in the same room. I heard him cough over and over again and wished I could put on Gilmore Girls to help me sleep.
The next morning, as was typical for us, the pendulum had swung again, and we talked easily. We rose early, around 5:45, to catch the Acela back to New York. We sat next to each other. I felt how I felt when I was a kid, excited to spend time with him and his fascinating brain.
* * *
—
Looking back, I get lost in these moments. Is the push-pull normal in any parent-kid relationship? I want to grab and shake my former self for being angry with my dad. I felt the tension of being both his kid and his mentee, one relationship always in conflict with the other. I saw his ambition and competitiveness up close and was disturbed by what they both did to his body. I was concerned by his appearance, the cigarette breaks he took…and now I’m haunted by my inability to say, just once, “Those will kill you. Please stop.”
Digital communication was great, but nothing beat the real thing that traveling together allowed us.
I could never say anything like that to him. He didn’t allow for it. Now, all I am left with are photos and emails. But what do they say?
23
The Experiment
In the weeks after my trip to Boston, I felt a shift within me taking place. I had managed to pull off nine months of sobriety, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to stick with it. Was I really an alcoholic?
I had finished up production on Thought Crimes, my Cannibal Cop film, and no longer had a frantic schedule to structure my sobriety around. For months, I had been in hustle mode. Wake up, drink coffee, type for ten hours, watch a film, pass out. That fall, in an effort to educate myself, I made a list of all the documentary films I needed to watch in order to assist with the edit of my first feature. I became obsessive, always saying no to hanging out with friends because I had “work to do.”
Truthfully, being around other people made me feel jealous. I hated going to dinner and watching those around me casually order wine. I would stare at the beads of sweat that formed around the wine glass and feel my mouth water. I despised that moment just before they decided whether to order one more, looking to me for approval, “Of course, have another!” During dinner, my friends’ eyes would get a little darker and their laughter a little louder. A couple of times, they would repeat themselves. And all the while I am thinking, When the fuck can I get out of here?
So rather than put myself in that position and act like a jerk, I excused myself with “Sorry, on a shoot; let’s touch base in a month”—as code for “not gonna happen.” I spent night after night scribbling in a notebook about “structuring devices,” and/or points in the movie that bored me.
This is the time when I began to steal my roommate�
��s Adderall, popping it for “emergencies,” as in when I was too anxious to be stone cold sober at something. While it was true I wasn’t drinking, this had essentially blown my sobriety. I was too ashamed to tell anyone, most of all my dad.
I had lost interest in the anonymous rooms where alcoholics go to find their people, their community, thinking that my relationship with alcohol was now different from theirs. Sure, I had lost a job and on occasion been asked politely to leave an apartment or party due to my antics, but I was just a middle-class white girl who enjoyed white wine and the occasional line.
All falsehoods I told myself. In reality, my identity was very much tied up with being the life of the party. After six months, I limited my AA time to one meeting a week, and then I stopped going altogether. I strongly believed that I could handle my alcoholism; I didn’t need a room of cultists to tell me how to live my life. Instead of going to basements I read recovery memoir after recovery memoir, looking for easy answers. I was certain words would save me.
That was when I first read Drinking, A Love Story by Caroline Knapp. Finally, a girl who got it. Caroline was a high-functioning alcoholic who managed to hold on to a successful career in journalism and two misguided relationships all while drinking herself close to oblivion for fifteen years. The book’s description of wine made my heart beat faster, and suddenly and without warning a craving would develop.
All That You Leave Behind Page 13
