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Authors: Bruce Wagner
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a clue what was going on. Then a friendly soul at the ACLU called to say their argument was a constitutional slam-dunk and the warden had capitulated.
Kelly told everyone she didnât want to know the manâs crime or even his last name. âHalf are probably innocent, anywayâ was what she said to me. The prisoner was brought to a special room with a glass partition. (In her usual jail class, there were sometimes half a dozen inmates, and a guard but no barriers.) She described the condemned charge as âbig and rough, sort of handsome, darty paranoid eyes, bookish glasses, big head of grayish Brillo pad hair, biker moustache.â His name was Ricky. The first thing he wanted to learn about was the Noble Truths. When he pronounced ânobleâ
as in Nobel Prize, Kelly was touched. She said his nervousness was poignant; itâd probably been a while since heâd seen a woman, let alone spoken to one. Kelly was certain this kind of teaching would strengthen her own practice.
They met a handful of times. He was an eager studentâmeditation is popular on Death Row because it dangles the popular out-of-body-experience carrot of astral projection. Kelly began keeping a journal with an eye to writing something for one of the Buddhist magazines,
Tricycle
or
Shambhala Sun.
The subscription dharma rags
love
that shit; growing the sangha in Sing Sing is a perennial. Then she got more ambitious and set her sights on a book. A memoir (dual memoir, actually), part about her, part about Little Ricky. Well, mostly about her, but still, a kind of weâre-all-on-Death-Row type of thing. I thought the framework was immensely compelling: a condemned convict and a middle-aged Berkeley Buddhist engaged in the olâ impermanence dialogue.
Very
cool.
I knew it was only a matter of time before she found out the nature of his crimeâhis crimes. She was making it too much of a thing
not
to know, which never works. The
No!
thing never works. I think she was being somewhat naïve. She
was
naïve, which happens to be her nature. But if she were really serious about writing a book, sheâd eventually need to learn. Sheâd eventually have to ask.
Their evolving intimacy alone, so to speak, would force the issue.
As it happened, her caged songbird was a child killer.
Do you remember Polly Klaas, the girl from Petaluma who was kidnapped? Well, Little Ricky was the monster who snatched her. Richard Allen Davis . . . remember him? If youâre from around here, you probably do. Youâre certainly old enough.
Can I remind you of the case? Polly Klaas was having a slumber party. Twelve-year-olds. Around eleven at night, Little Ricky waltzes in with a knife and ties up the girls. Pollyâs parents were home when it happened, howâs
that
for survivor guilt? If youâre a mom or a dad, youâve got to be saying
Kill me now
. Swoops in and swoops out, Polly under his arm. Classic unthinkable bogeyman shit. Mrs. Klaas didnât know anything was wrong until the morning, when she came in to see who wanted pancakes.
The weird thing is (in terms of the Winona connection) that
Winona Ryder went up there after the murderâI want to say it was â93âshe went up to raise money for a reward. Because thatâs where sheâs from. Winonaâs from Petaluma. And she did, she raised a lot. I want to say the final tally was $350,000. I donât know the numbers, maybe fifty from the community, three hundred from Winona. Winona was awesome. A very kind thing to do, everyone appreciated it, you know, local girl made good, she didnât come with a movie star vibe. None whatsoever. It hit her hard, hit
everybody
hard.
Little Ricky was of that genus of killers who begin their careers by torturing animals. Now imagine what the man-version of that boy would do to a lamb like Polly, a lamb who barely has its fur. A little lamb can certainly bring out the worst in a Little
Kelly told everyone she didnât want to know the manâs crime or even his last name. âHalf are probably innocent, anywayâ was what she said to me. The prisoner was brought to a special room with a glass partition. (In her usual jail class, there were sometimes half a dozen inmates, and a guard but no barriers.) She described the condemned charge as âbig and rough, sort of handsome, darty paranoid eyes, bookish glasses, big head of grayish Brillo pad hair, biker moustache.â His name was Ricky. The first thing he wanted to learn about was the Noble Truths. When he pronounced ânobleâ
as in Nobel Prize, Kelly was touched. She said his nervousness was poignant; itâd probably been a while since heâd seen a woman, let alone spoken to one. Kelly was certain this kind of teaching would strengthen her own practice.
They met a handful of times. He was an eager studentâmeditation is popular on Death Row because it dangles the popular out-of-body-experience carrot of astral projection. Kelly began keeping a journal with an eye to writing something for one of the Buddhist magazines,
Tricycle
or
Shambhala Sun.
The subscription dharma rags
love
that shit; growing the sangha in Sing Sing is a perennial. Then she got more ambitious and set her sights on a book. A memoir (dual memoir, actually), part about her, part about Little Ricky. Well, mostly about her, but still, a kind of weâre-all-on-Death-Row type of thing. I thought the framework was immensely compelling: a condemned convict and a middle-aged Berkeley Buddhist engaged in the olâ impermanence dialogue.
Very
cool.
I knew it was only a matter of time before she found out the nature of his crimeâhis crimes. She was making it too much of a thing
not
to know, which never works. The
No!
thing never works. I think she was being somewhat naïve. She
was
naïve, which happens to be her nature. But if she were really serious about writing a book, sheâd eventually need to learn. Sheâd eventually have to ask.
Their evolving intimacy alone, so to speak, would force the issue.
As it happened, her caged songbird was a child killer.
Do you remember Polly Klaas, the girl from Petaluma who was kidnapped? Well, Little Ricky was the monster who snatched her. Richard Allen Davis . . . remember him? If youâre from around here, you probably do. Youâre certainly old enough.
Can I remind you of the case? Polly Klaas was having a slumber party. Twelve-year-olds. Around eleven at night, Little Ricky waltzes in with a knife and ties up the girls. Pollyâs parents were home when it happened, howâs
that
for survivor guilt? If youâre a mom or a dad, youâve got to be saying
Kill me now
. Swoops in and swoops out, Polly under his arm. Classic unthinkable bogeyman shit. Mrs. Klaas didnât know anything was wrong until the morning, when she came in to see who wanted pancakes.
The weird thing is (in terms of the Winona connection) that
Winona Ryder went up there after the murderâI want to say it was â93âshe went up to raise money for a reward. Because thatâs where sheâs from. Winonaâs from Petaluma. And she did, she raised a lot. I want to say the final tally was $350,000. I donât know the numbers, maybe fifty from the community, three hundred from Winona. Winona was awesome. A very kind thing to do, everyone appreciated it, you know, local girl made good, she didnât come with a movie star vibe. None whatsoever. It hit her hard, hit
everybody
hard.
Little Ricky was of that genus of killers who begin their careers by torturing animals. Now imagine what the man-version of that boy would do to a lamb like Polly, a lamb who barely has its fur. A little lamb can certainly bring out the worst in a Little
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