Temporary housing? But they don’t have any money.
Red Cross? But they weren’t victims of a fire or natural disaster.
Shelters? Maybe that could work.
I called a local women’s shelter that catered to domestic abuse victims but didn’t identify myself as a reporter, so the lady thought I was interested in staying there myself. She was nice but informed me the beds were full and there was a long waiting list. She suggested I try another shelter and read me the number. Deep down, I knew the girls wouldn’t be able to handle sleeping under the same roof with a bunch of strangers, so I didn’t make the other call.
Instead, I searched the Internet for something, anything that would lead me in the right direction, but came up empty. I called Elizabeth to break the bad news, and she said she was grateful I had looked into it for them.
“I wish I could help my family,” she cried. “I really do. We need somewhere to go.”
I wondered if I’d given up my search too easily. Fresno was full of nice people and dozens of charities. There had to be somewhere they could stay.
My apartment was big enough for three more women. I joked to myself that they could always sleep there a night or two.
Yeah, right, as if I could get involved like that! I pushed the thought out of my mind.
Six
I threw a party that Saturday night to distract me from the case. Being a huge fan of the Rat Pack, I made them the theme for the evening and went shopping for all of the essentials, including decks of cards and poker chips, gin, vodka, vermouth, and big green olives for martinis. I invited about twenty local media types, many of whom had never been to my apartment before.
“Wow, it’s pretty big in here, Alysia. It’s just you who lives here?” one of the newbies asked.
My second-floor apartment was more than a thousand square feet, with two bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, and a wooden deck overlooking a parking lot. I hadn’t brought much with me when I’d moved from Lansing, so the apartment appeared larger than it really was. Rent in Fresno was less expensive, and I was earning more money, so I could afford luxuries like parties.
“It’s just me and Cosmo,” I replied.
I’d brought Cosmo with me when I moved, only to find out that ferrets were illegal in California.
Oops.
Everyone at my station referred to him as the “illegal alien.” He was somewhat of a local celebrity and deservedly had his own bedroom, with a mini-closet where I kept his dress-up outfits.
My guests and I played poker and blackjack, sipped dirty martinis, and listened to Frank, Sammy, and Dean until the wee hours of the morning. After saying my last good-bye on the doorstep, I looked around at the empty martini glasses and the sea of poker chips spilled all over the floor and tables. The crooner music was still playing, but all I could hear was Elizabeth’s trembling voice and her persistent mournful crying in my head.
We have nowhere to go, Alysia.
As my martini buzz wore off, I couldn’t help wondering where the Wesson women were staying that night. The sad possibility that they might be sleeping in their car kept me awake. I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until I figured out somewhere safe for them to go, so I tossed off my covers and headed toward Cosmo’s room. Meanwhile, the thoughts I’d been pushing away kept coming back.
If I weren’t a reporter, they could just crash here for a couple of weeks.
But I was a reporter, so ethically, that was out of the question. A journalist’s ethical standards are higher than most people might realize. One of my college professors had practically made us memorize the Society of Professional Journalists’ strict ethics code, which stated that journalists should “remain free of associations and activities that may compromise integrity or damage credibility.”
Which meant I couldn’t help the Wessons.
Then again, the code also said that journalists should “show compassion for those who may be affected adversely by news coverage. Use special sensitivity when dealing with children and inexperienced sources or subjects.”
However, I knew they didn’t mean the kind of compassion I was feeling.
I walked back into my bedroom, sat on the bed, and flashed on a photo that had haunted me since I’d seen it in my journalism ethics class at Michigan State. It pictured two dueling images: a little Sudanese girl, shriveled by starvation and crawling weakly to a food camp, and a vulture patiently waiting for the girl to die so he could devour her flesh.
Turned out that the photojournalist Kevin Carter had been patiently waiting there, too, and snapped the shot.
A little more than a year later, in April 1994, he won the coveted Pulitzer Prize for the image, which had been published in the New York Times and other newspapers around the world. Carter’s ethical dilemma became a volatile topic of debate in my class that semester: Should he have saved the little girl from the vulture or taken the award-winning photo?
A majority of my classmates said Carter should have taken the picture and never looked back. As journalists, after all, we were supposed to observe and record events, not change or get involved in them. Still, I was shocked at my classmates’ callousness. It was a little girl, for God’s sake. If the picture was so important, why not take it and then rescue her?
I was appalled that my professor seemed to agree with the students who said Carter did the right thing.
“So, this Carter guy,” I said. “Does he think he did the right thing?”
“I don’t know,” my teacher answered. “He killed himself three months after getting the Pulitzer.”
The classroom echoed with the gasps of my fellow students—as well as my own. That answered my question.
I promised myself I would never be like Kevin Carter.
HERE I WAS, a decade later, facing what I saw as a similar dilemma. Every instinct I had told me I needed to help the Wessons. But I’d always put my professional ethics before my human urges. I had separated myself from emotion on every story I’d worked so far—from car accidents with dead babies lying in the road to murder scenes with hysterical parents screaming and hovering over their children’s bloody bodies.
Up until this point, I’d always been good at compartmentalizing work from the rest of my life. But the Wesson case had changed all that.
We have nowhere to go, Alysia.
As a journalist, I knew I would be committing an enormous ethical violation, but as a regular citizen, I felt that I ought to be able to be a reporter and a human being at the same time. I felt I could still be objective about the story even if I helped the Wesson family. It wasn’t as if I were sleeping with a politician or something. They would feel more comfortable with me during interviews. Their family had been murdered, and no one was taking care of them. They needed to feel safe.
I started wondering, What would be so bad if I let them stay with me for just a few nights and see how it went? No one would even have to know. I’d keep helping them search for a place to stay, and if I felt it was affecting my journalistic judgment, I’d move them out. What was the harm in that?
IT WAS 6:00 A.M. when I made the decision, and for a minute, I felt as if a weight had been lifted. Then I thought about what my friends and family would think, and the heaviness came back.
My worry-prone and protective parents weren’t going to like this at all. Although I was 99 percent sure I would move the Wessons in with me, I still wanted to run it by my mom, dad, and boyfriend. Maybe they could reason with me. The three of them lived in Michigan, where it was already 9:00 A.M.
Here goes nothing.
The phone rang longer than usual before my mom picked up.
“Hi, Mom,” I said assertively.
“What are you doing up so early, Alysia? Is everything okay?”
“Mom, I’ve made a decision. Please don’t interrupt me or give me advice because I’m calling to tell you what I’ve decided. I’m not calling for advice.”
“Alysia, you’re scaring me.”
&nbs
p; “You know the man with the dreadlocks who killed his family here in Fresno?”
“Yes,” she said cautiously.
My parents had seen the national coverage early on. It terrified them that I lived in the same state as Marcus Wesson, let alone the same city. I hadn’t told them how closely I’d been pursuing the story because I knew they’d be too worried.
“Well, there are some family members who are still brainwashed, and they still support the father.”
“Those poor kids.”
“Well, it’s his wife, too.”
“It’s such a tragedy.”
“I know. And it’s worse because these people have no place to go.”
“Aren’t the police taking care of them?”
“It’s complicated. They don’t want to testify for the prosecution, so—”
“Because they are so brainwashed.”
“Anyway, they need help, and I don’t think they’re going to get it anywhere else,” I said, walking into the kitchen with the phone to get a drink of water. “Mom?”
“What, honey?”
“I’ve decided to move them in with me.”
Silence.
“Mom?”
More silence.
I knew her big green eyes were growing larger by the second. I could see her with one hand on the high kitchen countertop, bracing herself so she wouldn’t fall over from shock.
“Mom, are you there?”
“Dear God, please tell me you’re not serious,” she finally responded, her voice shaky.
“I have to do it,” I said. “I have to.”
“It’s not safe. Oh my God.” Her voice was louder now, and she was rushing through her sentences, asking me how I knew it would be safe to bring them home.
“I just have a feeling about this,” I said, trying to reassure her. “It’s the right thing to do.”
But that wasn’t enough for my mom. “It is not your responsibility,” she said. “That’s why we pay taxes. That’s why you pay taxes. Can’t the government help these people?”
“It will only be temporary. Just until I figure out who can help them. These people lost everything. Hell, Cosmo has his own room and they have nowhere to go. I just feel bad.”
“Alysia, I admire what you’re saying and how you’re feeling. But this just cannot happen. What about your job?”
“Reporters have personal relationships with sources all the time, whether they admit it or not. It will help my stories. I’ll have more perspective about the case. Anyway, this is larger than my job. I want to do this. I’m going to do this.”
“Do you need us to fly out there?”
“Mom, it will be fine. Trust me.”
“We’re flying out there.”
“No you’re not.”
“But you don’t have enough room.”
“They had, like, twenty people living in that house where it happened,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. My mom called in my dad for backup.
“Chuck, your daughter wants to live with the family of that serial killer from TV,” she yelled.
“He’s a mass murderer, Mom, not a serial killer,” I said.
“Oh, excuse me,” she said sarcastically. “Chuck, your daughter wants to live with a mass murderer’s family. And they are still brainwashed.”
My dad grabbed the phone. “Who are you talking about?” he asked worriedly. “That man with the dreadlocks who had kids with his daughters?”
“Dad, the family has nowhere to go. And I thought they could stay with me until they find a place. Listen, I’m not asking you guys for permission. I didn’t even have to tell you. I’m doing it.”
My mom took the phone back, and I could tell she’d calmed down. “Alysia, we just want to make sure you’re safe.”
“Mom, once you meet them, you’ll understand. I promise.”
I hung up, thinking it had gone pretty well. The fact that my parents weren’t on the first flight to Fresno told me that they didn’t think I was completely insane. My boyfriend, Juan, would be another story.
Juan and I had been dating for about a year. He was a week away from finishing his master’s degree at Michigan State—in social work, ironically. After that, he was moving to California to be closer to me. I shuddered at the thought of a serious commitment; I loved the freedom that came with a long-distance relationship. He hoped I would change my mind once he moved, but I knew differently. Although it was in his nature to help everyone and he often told me I was “too insensitive,” I knew even he would think I was going too far by doing this.
My conversation with him was a lot like the one with my parents. He was worried about my safety and wished I would reconsider. But after ten minutes of listening to my rationale, he said he supported my decision and told me I was being uncharacteristically sensitive.
No one had talked me out of it.
I felt like a giddy child whose parents had given her permission to have a slumber party, so I called Elizabeth on her cell phone, barely able to keep the excitement out of my voice.
“I found a place for you, Kiani, and Rosie to stay,” I said proudly.
Her sad voice perked up. She almost sounded cheerful. “Oh, thank you, Alysia,” she said breathlessly. “Thank you so much. Where?”
“At my place,” I said. “You guys can stay with me until we figure out a permanent solution. Okay?”
Elizabeth started crying with relief. “Oh, thank you, Alysia,” she said. Then, pausing for a moment, she asked hesitantly, “Are you sure? I mean, can you do that?”
For a minute, I questioned my decision. Even Elizabeth could tell the situation was a bit sketchy. But I held to my resolve. Kind of.
“Of course I’m sure,” I said half-truthfully. “Just let me worry about it.”
“Thank you, Alysia,” she said again. She said she would tell the girls the good news and call back to arrange a time to come over later that day.
By the time I hung up, I felt sure once again that I was doing the right thing.
I walked around my apartment, surveying the space like a real estate agent. I stopped inside Cosmo’s room, which would soon be the Wessons’, and took stock of its minimal contents: Cosmo’s four-story cage, his mini-closet, and toy chest. There was plenty of room for the inflatable mattress I had stowed in the closet for visitors. It slept only two people, though, so I realized I needed to buy another one for my third roommate.
Luckily, Target was just a few blocks away. I jumped in my car and, moments later, was pulling into the parking lot. As I was walking into the crowded store, Elizabeth called. I assumed she was ready to come over, so I almost turned around and headed back toward my car, but I kept going. I really needed that second mattress.
“Would it be okay if we came over now?” Elizabeth asked.
“Sure,” I said, rushing through Target’s automatic doors. “I live in northwest Fresno. I’m at the store, but I can be home in two minutes. Where are you coming from? I’ll give you directions.”
“We’re at Target right now on Shaw Avenue.”
I couldn’t believe the coincidence. I chalked it up as another sign that supported my decision.
“Are you serious?” I asked, looking around for them. “I’m here, too.”
They probably thought I was stalking them.
Elizabeth explained that they were in the women’s clothing section at the front, left side of the store. I saw them immediately and started walking toward them.
Elizabeth caught my eye first. She was Latina and appeared to be about forty, with light brown skin; wavy, shoulder-length black hair; a heart-shaped face; and full lips, painted with burgundy lipstick. She had on a long-sleeved black blouse and a long, flowing black skirt, with strappy black heels. She looked so much younger than I imagined and so normal. I must have been staring because her face turned red and she looked down.
I held out my hand to greet her. “Hi, I’m Alysia.”
She reached out with a hand with painted nails
that matched her lips and laid four fingers loosely in my palm. I lifted the deadweight of her hand twice, then turned my attention to the two girls, who were each standing with one hand on a rack of T-shirts.
“Nice to see you again, Kiani and Rosie,” I said.
Both of them gave me half smiles. Rosie, who was unable to look me in the eye, seemed more shy than her cousin.
We stood there awkwardly, wondering what to do next. It had been so much easier when I was chasing them down after court and yelling questions at them. Now that we were face-to-face, I had no clue what to say.
“Well, I was just picking up a few things,” I said finally. “Do you want to wait here and I’ll go grab them?”
I didn’t want them to feel like they were imposing on me, so I didn’t tell them I was there to buy them a new bed. I found the right section, yanked a box off the shelf, then covered it with a greeting card and package of magnets so they couldn’t tell what was inside.
I found them again, standing empty-handed between the women’s clothes and the mini–food court. They seemed surprised when I pulled a personal pizza from the Pizza Hut heated display case and headed toward the checkout line.
“Oh, did you guys want one?”
They answered quickly and in unison. “No, no, we’re fine.”
I could see by the way they looked at the pizza that they hadn’t eaten, but I didn’t push.
The checkout girl looked first at me, then at the three women in black, then back at me again. She didn’t say anything as she rang up my items, but it seemed as if she was about to. I wondered if she recognized Kiani or Rosie from the news—or me, for that matter. I didn’t want to stick around to find out.
As we approached the parking lot, I realized the trio was walking three or four steps behind me, exactly the way I pictured them following Marcus all those years. I slowed down and waited for them to catch up so we could walk in a horizontal line together.
ON THE SHORT trek back to my apartment, I kept glancing in my rearview mirror at their small silver car following me. I could see them talking and wished I could hear their conversation.
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