It appears on this site with the gracious permission of the magazine’s editors. This essay appears in the Jissue of Sports Illustrated. Read more On Newspapering and Journalism I have been on the playground, playing strikeout with Firestone and Bjellos. line in suburban Maryland, where everything is perfectly Proustian, perfectly preserved in memory. It is 1971, and I am new to the fifth grade at Rock Creek Forest Elementary School, a few hundred yards north of the D.C. And the godawful smell of the secondary wing boys’ room. Just as I recall the heat from the water in the hallway fountain, its cooling mechanism never quite functional. * * * THE STATIC of the broadcast, the AM-band crackle that the cheap transistor spit up every time it swung or bounced-even this I remember. So, hey, when Judgment Day comes, they at least have this going for them. It is reprinted here by the kind permission of those who not only commissioned the article, but helped with the logistics of getting Mike Epstein back to Washington so as to wash the sin from my hands. The following article was published in the Sports Illustrated of October 12, 2015. On the Orioles The frauds of memory, the limits of penitence.In this instance, the wagon man actually told other prisoners not to step on the prone victim, because, he said, the man had AIDS. In this case, the wagon man rode the victim around Baltimore not for 45 minutes without medical assistance, but for a full hour. In this instance, the prisoner was also clearly in distress and ignored. In this instance, now nearly a quarter century old, the sustained injuries were not to the victim’s spinal cord, but to his spleen and his ribs. Written by veteran police reporter Roger Twigg and myself, it is an account of another Baltimorean who died in the back of a police wagon, and the early stages of an investigation that went nowhere once prosecutors, a city grand jury and police union lawyers did their business. In light of the frustration that many feel in the wake of this week’s mistrial in the first Freddy Gray prosecution, I thought I’d dig out an old newspaper clip. * * * Nightcops Behold, a prince of my city, or so I imagine myself, resting next to Ettlin and before the algae-green glow of the Harris terminal, dialing through the long-call list of Maryland State Police barracks and city districts, hunting down the brutalities and miscalculations of a reckless, teeming metropolis. This essay is reprinted here with permission of Steve, Fred and the publishing house. Available to purchase online. Hill, Stephens Broening and is being released by Rowman and Littlefield Publishers. “The Life of Kings” is edited by my former colleagues Frederic B. Read more On Newspapering and Journalism Nightcopsįollowing is an excerpt from a new compendium of essays about the life and history of my alma mater, the old Baltimore Sun. At the point of dying, Booth could not have serviced history more perfectly than to reflect on his own vile act and pronounce it failure, encompassing. Useless.” Or so the gathered Union soldiers all heard. There, upon viewing the mitts that had killed the greatest American president, the assassin declared, just before expiring, “Useless. The task at hand was a miniseries on the assassination of Abraham Lincoln – it didn’t get greenlit, alas – and the moment involved the last words of John Wilkes Booth, dying outside a burning Virginia barn, shot by a Union cavalryman, paralyzed, asking to have his hands raised and shown to him. Years ago, when saddled with the task of scripting a specific historical moment, I was confronted by the reality that film narrative is not the medium for open debate, that the camera must in the end be in one place at one time, that the actors must say their lines, and that a singular version of every moment will be delivered. From that moment, I came to know and love Michael. Specifically, I met Michael in 2002 as a writer and producer, when I first cast him in a role in an HBO Production that broadcast for five seasons and chronicled the tragic American diaspora that is the drug war. Williams, I write to urge you to consider leniency. And as a close friend and professional colleague of Mr. The Honorable Judge Ronnie Abrams Your Honor: I write to you in regard to the sentencing of Carlos Macci, who has entered a plea of guilty to narcotics offenses in conjunction with the overdose death of Michael K. Macci’s defense attorney, but what follows will make fully clear why I felt compelled to undertake the task in no small part to honor Michael’s memory. This is the full text of a letter written on behalf of one of the defendants charged with narcotics violations in conjunction with the death of my friend and collaborator Michael K.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |