Priest t-shirt is holding a small microphone toward me.
"I just want to get people's opinions on what's happening," he explains earnestly. "You know, cut through the bullshit and get to the truth."
"You want the truth?" I ask.
He moves the microphone closer, and I can't help but note the look of earnest expectation in his eyes. The kid means well, even if he doesn't have a damn clue.
"The truth is, there is no truth. There's just opinion, and facts, but in a situation like this, there's no such thing as truth. Not a universal truth, anyway. Instead of trying to cut through the bullshit, as you put it, you should focus on navigating that same bullshit in a more intelligent way. See it for what it is. Analyze it. Unpick it. Look at it from every angle. Just don't make the mistake of thinking there's any kind of truth, because there isn't. There's nothing here but chaos."
"Sure," he replies, "but, I mean, there's got to be, like... some kind of truth, hasn't there? I mean, do you think it's right for the state, for the American people, to execute a man?"
"I don't think it's right or wrong," I tell him. "I think it's what they want to do, so let them get on with it. The governor's not going to do anything to damage his re-election chances. Sam Gazade has long been established as a kind of bogeyman in this part of the state. People will sleep better once he's dead, even though he's posed no danger whatsoever to anyone for more than a decade."
He stares at me for a moment. "Okay, but -"
"Interview's over," I reply, turning and walking away.
"Can I get your name for the podcast?" he calls after me. "Do you want me to give you the link?"
Ignoring him, I make my way through the sea of people, which becomes denser as I get closer to the section of parkland that runs directly opposite the prison gates. It's strange to think that somewhere in that distant, gray building, Sam Gazade is preparing for his final hours of life. I can't even begin to imagine what it must be like in his position. Since the prison made a well-publicized bid to cut costs, condemned prisoners don't even receive a free choice when it comes to their last meal. All Sam Gazade has to look forward to is a visit from a priest, a reasonably priced tray of food, and then the long walk to the execution chamber. He's had the best part of twelve years to get used to the idea, but I doubt he's prepared. I doubt anyone could ever be prepared for such a fate.
Checking my watch, I see that it's almost 10am. Fourteen hours to go...
"This is nothing but state-sponsored murder," says a woman nearby. I turn to see that she's being interviewed for that kid's podcast, and whereas I was probably a little too calm for his liking, he's now getting both barrels of this woman's anger. "If we stoop to this level, we're barbarians!"
"He deserves it!" another woman calls out. "He tortured those poor girls! Why shouldn't he get what's coming to him?"
Realizing that I have nothing to add to this debate, I turn and start walking back toward my car. Before I get more than a few paces, however, I come face to face with none other than Paula Clarke, the pupil who caused me so much consternation yesterday. She stares blankly at me, as if she never expected to bump into anyone who might recognize her.
"We meet again," I say, taken aback by the sudden encounter. Hearing some shouting nearby, I see that two women have begun to fight, while the podcast guy is trying to pull his microphone clear. "Talk about a high pressure situation," I continue, turning back to Paula. "I think some of the pro-death penalty people might end up killing some of the anti-death penalty people, or the other way around. The irony, huh?"
Paula smiles meekly, but it's clear that she's uncomfortable. After a moment, her gaze falls upon the Sam Gazade mug I'm clutching in my hands.
"Oh," I say, feeling a little embarrassed. "Yeah, this is... I wanted to buy an item that represents the full cultural storm that has
"I just want to get people's opinions on what's happening," he explains earnestly. "You know, cut through the bullshit and get to the truth."
"You want the truth?" I ask.
He moves the microphone closer, and I can't help but note the look of earnest expectation in his eyes. The kid means well, even if he doesn't have a damn clue.
"The truth is, there is no truth. There's just opinion, and facts, but in a situation like this, there's no such thing as truth. Not a universal truth, anyway. Instead of trying to cut through the bullshit, as you put it, you should focus on navigating that same bullshit in a more intelligent way. See it for what it is. Analyze it. Unpick it. Look at it from every angle. Just don't make the mistake of thinking there's any kind of truth, because there isn't. There's nothing here but chaos."
"Sure," he replies, "but, I mean, there's got to be, like... some kind of truth, hasn't there? I mean, do you think it's right for the state, for the American people, to execute a man?"
"I don't think it's right or wrong," I tell him. "I think it's what they want to do, so let them get on with it. The governor's not going to do anything to damage his re-election chances. Sam Gazade has long been established as a kind of bogeyman in this part of the state. People will sleep better once he's dead, even though he's posed no danger whatsoever to anyone for more than a decade."
He stares at me for a moment. "Okay, but -"
"Interview's over," I reply, turning and walking away.
"Can I get your name for the podcast?" he calls after me. "Do you want me to give you the link?"
Ignoring him, I make my way through the sea of people, which becomes denser as I get closer to the section of parkland that runs directly opposite the prison gates. It's strange to think that somewhere in that distant, gray building, Sam Gazade is preparing for his final hours of life. I can't even begin to imagine what it must be like in his position. Since the prison made a well-publicized bid to cut costs, condemned prisoners don't even receive a free choice when it comes to their last meal. All Sam Gazade has to look forward to is a visit from a priest, a reasonably priced tray of food, and then the long walk to the execution chamber. He's had the best part of twelve years to get used to the idea, but I doubt he's prepared. I doubt anyone could ever be prepared for such a fate.
Checking my watch, I see that it's almost 10am. Fourteen hours to go...
"This is nothing but state-sponsored murder," says a woman nearby. I turn to see that she's being interviewed for that kid's podcast, and whereas I was probably a little too calm for his liking, he's now getting both barrels of this woman's anger. "If we stoop to this level, we're barbarians!"
"He deserves it!" another woman calls out. "He tortured those poor girls! Why shouldn't he get what's coming to him?"
Realizing that I have nothing to add to this debate, I turn and start walking back toward my car. Before I get more than a few paces, however, I come face to face with none other than Paula Clarke, the pupil who caused me so much consternation yesterday. She stares blankly at me, as if she never expected to bump into anyone who might recognize her.
"We meet again," I say, taken aback by the sudden encounter. Hearing some shouting nearby, I see that two women have begun to fight, while the podcast guy is trying to pull his microphone clear. "Talk about a high pressure situation," I continue, turning back to Paula. "I think some of the pro-death penalty people might end up killing some of the anti-death penalty people, or the other way around. The irony, huh?"
Paula smiles meekly, but it's clear that she's uncomfortable. After a moment, her gaze falls upon the Sam Gazade mug I'm clutching in my hands.
"Oh," I say, feeling a little embarrassed. "Yeah, this is... I wanted to buy an item that represents the full cultural storm that has
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