In the Name of Victims

There is a part of me that wishes they’d simply go away, these celebrity victims who haunt the debate over crime and punishment. There is a part of me that has come to resent their anguished courthouse press conferences, their relentless petitions in the corridors of politics for reform, for systematic vengeance.

There is a part of me that wonders what drives them. It is this part of me that will search their eyes for flickers of enjoyment as the cameras converge. It is this part of me that will mark how quickly they learn to polish their public performances, how the wardrobes improve along with the sound bites, how Larry King becomes for them just “Larry,” an equal in the media ether, a pal.

There is a part of me that prefers they would pursue their peace in a more private way. In the Simpson trial, it was not pleasant to watch Fred Goldman raging each night on the news. It was unsettling to see how easily Mike Reynolds could bully his way through the Statehouse, demanding a three-strikes law in the name of his slain daughter. Marc Klaas’ promotion from manager of a car rental franchise to national authority on child protection has been almost startling to behold.

There is a another part of me, however, that sees all this in an opposite way: Stung by similar atrocity, would my response be any different? It is easy to presume that it might, that I would be one to attend to my wounds alone or, conversely, to settle the score in the brutal but altogether personal method of a gun-toting Ellie Nesler. Yet, how can I say? There is a part of me, the largest part, that understands what a blessing it is to be able to address this question in the abstract.

*

Perhaps the closest I’ve come to one of these situations--and admittedly it is, by comparison, not close at all--was through the murder of Ara Arax, the father of a boyhood friend and eventual newspaper colleague. Mark Arax was 15 years old when his dad was killed. It was a sensational homicide in Fresno then, and one that today, a quarter-century later, has yet to be solved by the police.

Over time I came to appreciate how thoroughly the murder took hold of Mark, shaped him, made him at times seem almost crazy. He trained as a journalist to develop investigative skills to track down the killers. He became a bodybuilder, preparing for confrontation. He shook down friends, family members, anyone, for clues as to why his father might have been slain. Finally, he put it all down in a book: “In My Father’s Name.”

In the past year, Mark has appeared on interview shows across the nation: “Almost,” he says with discomfort, “as a spokesperson for the children of the murdered.” He understands the exploitation can cut both ways. He wants publicity for his book; yes, to drive up sales but also--the lingering obsession--to shake loose fresh clues. Tom Snyder and the rest want a provocative interview with a “victim.”

The arrangement has raised anew a question that has shadowed Mark for a long time, one he addressed at the outset of his book: I asked myself, was this a hunt for justice? Or was there something more base that stirred me? The murder and my fight with it had elevated my life, drawn attention to me, marked me different from the rest. My brother and sister would say the same. What we endured must not be profaned to satisfy some lust in me. It was not mine alone to do what I saw fit, not mine to turn into some peep show.

*

There is a part of me that sees the public campaigns of these victims as just that, a morbid peep show into their pain. There is no question, however, about the power of the performance. Would there be a three-strikes law without Reynolds, handgun controls without the Bradys, and on and on?

A couple years ago I watched Reynolds, a commercial photographer by trade, dominate a legislative hearing into three strikes. Committee members were dubious about both the legality and effectiveness of the sweeping reform. They asked questions as lawmakers would. Reynolds answered as the father of a young woman murdered by a parolee. It was no contest.

“I just can’t beat this guy,” one exasperated lawmaker fumed in the halls. “He’s an untouchable.”

There is a part of me that is bothered by the elevation of victims to the level of political untouchables. In the name of victims, and their need for “closure,” the execution chambers are put to work. In the name of victims, prisons are filling to the break point. In the name of victims, drastic rearranging of the jury system is now open for debate.

There is a part of me that resents how they can manipulate the media and bend the system to their will. Yet again, there is the crucial distinction: What has happened to them has not happened to me. What has happened to them has not happened to me. . . .