The Paris Chronicles
The phone rings.
When I pick up, an automated voice greets me.
“This is a free call from Paris Lee Bennett; an offender at Ferguson Unit. To accept this free call press 1.”
I press 1.
“Thank you for using Century Link. You may start your conversation now.”
“Good Morning Paris.”
A young sounding voice that still cracks at times, like a boy going through puberty, responds.
“Hello Regina. How are you today?”
I have grown used to Paris’ manner of speech. He is thoughtful, enunciates clearly, and somewhat slowly, with only a slight hint of a Texas accent. His voice sounds younger than that of a 25-year-old man and regardless of the topic we are discussing, his tone most often remains flat.
This is a familiar ritual. Or it has become familiar three, sometimes four times a week, over the last ten months or so. Paris and I have been writing for over 18 months, and at some point he asked me to join his phone list. I was hesitant at first, concerned our calls would be filled with awkward silences. What does one say to a man who has been in prison for half his life, since he was a child, for killing his 4-year-old sister?
Letters are different, easier in many ways in a situation like this. Letters remove spontaneity. There is no being caught off guard, or speechless. Letters allow greater time for reflection; questions asked can be mulled over for days, and responses can be rewritten until they suit the writer perfectly. Each word can be considered and considered again. Paris is a brilliant writer. I had come to look forward to his letters which were sometimes accompanied by his drawings. Though he was incarcerated while he was still in the 7th grade, he is a voracious reader and his intelligence is clearly evident in his writing.
Phone calls feel more intimate and vulnerable. Exposing.
“Have you ever read Infinite Jest?” he asks me.
There is a great deal of noise in the background. Clearly the dayroom is busy and at least one of the televisions is on.
“Honestly, I have never finished it. I couldn’t get through it. I think it should have been Finite Jest.”
Paris laughs. “I have read it three times.”
“Then you are my hero because I don’t know anyone else who has finished it.”
Paris is genuinely surprised.
“So is it the kind of book hipsters have on their bookshelf but they never crack the spine?”
“I don’t know about hipsters but it is prominently displayed in my bookcase in almost pristine condition.”
He laughs again.
My fears regarding phone calls were unfounded. Conversations seems to flow easily between Paris and I. That can seem unnerving to me sometimes. Why do we connect so well? We frequently talk for well over an hour (in 30 minute increments as dictated by the Texas Department of Criminal Justice) on the days we speak. One of us will often be mid-sentence when we get a recorded one-minute warning that our time is almost up which is often followed by Paris asking “Call you back?” If time allows I usually say yes.
I don’t revere murderers or consider them celebrities. I am neither fascinated by nor drawn to serial killers, or those who commit heinous crimes. I am not a fan of crime shows or books. True Detective never interested me. I am not seeking a prison boyfriend or husband. Prior to Paris, I had never reached out to someone who was in prison, aside from those I have worked with over the years as a social worker. So why now? Why Paris?
“Have you seen Antichrist by Lars von Trier?” he asks.
Paris has systematically been working his way through a comprehensive book compendium of modern movies, which provides movie synopsis and ratings by critics. Paris is highlighting those he wants to see upon his release. His tastes lean mostly toward the horror genre.
“I haven’t seen it but did you know it was mostly written while von Trier was psychiatrically hospitalized for depression and anxiety? I did see Melancholia and liked that quite a bit. Von Trier described those movies as the first of his ‘Depression Trilogy’. In interviews, von Trier described the making of Antichrist as therapeutic.”
Paris finds this information fascinating. Anxiety and dread are the two emotions he has told me he feels most deeply and most frequently. The dread can feel bottomless, he has said, and the anxiety paralyzing. I recalled the opening of a letter he had written to me a few months prior about those demons:
“For the past half-hour I’ve been staring at this page — this page that, until a moment ago, was blank. Intimidatingly blank. And it nearly remained that way. This letter nearly went unwritten.
As I sat here, fingers poised over the keys, my chest began to tighten in a peculiar way. The elusive anxieties against which I struggle every day creep up on me like a sweating, leering, stinking child-nabber. They slip arms over my shoulders and put clammy hands over my mouth. I am suffocated by my amorphous, untraceable fears.”
Paris’ voice brings me back.
“I am surprised you haven’t seen Antichrist in that case. You are a therapist after all. What’s the third movie?”
“Nymphomaniac” I answered.
“Oh yeah. I definitely want to see that.”
When we first began writing Paris referred to me jokingly as a “psychoterrorist”. He acknowledged that he did not hold my profession in the highest regard and had not had good experiences with professionals in the mental health field in the past, though most of his interactions with mental health professionals had occurred after his arrest.
“Well, no worries, because I am not your therapist.” I assured him during one of our earlier phone calls.
“Actually, you kind of are,” he countered. “I appreciate your opinion, what you have to say. You’re smart. I enjoy talking to you. You don’t know how rare that is for me”
By now Paris had described himself to me with numerous labels including psychopath, sociopath, narcissistic, manipulative, misogynist, and anti-social. Most of these labels came from others, but he wore them with comfort and it seemed at times, pride. These were identities he seemed to accept and even embrace. Considering his history and crime, I couldn’t help wondering if some of the compliments he threw my way had a purpose, though it was unclear to me what the purpose would be. Paris did not need money. He paid for our phone calls. He was not at a loss for attractive women seeking his attention. He never tried to convince me that he was “innocent.” He denied that his crime was the result of a mental illness. It was hard for me to accept that he simply craved friendship but I, who had a motive, could identify no motive for him.
“My mother refers to me as Ted Bundy, Jr.”
“Wow. Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“I don’t think it’s meant as a compliment or an insult. It’s just something she said.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“I kind of get him.”
When I first contacted Paris by letter, I had explained to him that after seeing a documentary on his family and his crime, I had been left with so many questions. I didn’t know if my contacting him would lead anywhere or if he would even respond to me at all, but I felt compelled to at least try. I told Paris I had thoughts about writing about him if he was amenable. I also wanted Paris to know I was not a “murder groupie.” I wanted him to understand where I was coming from.
Now many months have passed, and Paris calls me a friend. We converse regularly about topics ranging from music (he leans toward black metal), books, sex, prison, his crime, his family, his “demons,” politics, friends inside and out of prison, his obsessions, and religion. In some ways, I had come to know Paris better than some of those I considered friends “in real life.” I had even begun to trust him somewhat, though I was not always honest with him. Was this manipulation?
“You can ask me anything you want and I will answer you as honestly as I can. Also it is impossible to offend me” Paris told me.
“Well, you know I have questions for you. Many of them you have been asked countless times before. Many of them I don’t believe you have the answer to.”
“I have no short, easy explanations if that’s what you mean. I don’t have a simple answer to the question ’Why?’ which I know is one of your questions.”
That did not surprise me. The question that plagued me after seeing the documentary of course was “Why?” Why would a child commit such a horrible crime? There were various theories thrown around, in articles and in the documentary itself, but none really answered the question. And I kept asking myself, why do I feel drawn to this case, this person? Is it his age? His intelligence and articulateness? Why did that adorable little boy in those gritty home movies do what he did? What causes any person to kill without provocation?
“How is your day going?”
“Great!”
I was surprised a bit by his enthusiasm, he’s consistently quite charming.
“What makes today great?” I asked.
“I am drinking crappy instant coffee and talking to my best friend in New York City.”
“I am your only friend in New York City.”
We both laughed.
“I knew you were going to say that.”
Paris and I have developed a fairly easy rapport. I stopped interviewing him soon after we began our phone conversations. I had exhausted my litany of questions; the same questions he had been asked so many times before. Though he responded in truly thoughtful ways and offered me some insight into his mind and his history, we were evolving into friends and I no longer felt comfortable coming at him with a list of prepared questions each time he called.
“How would you like to be added to my visitors list?” I was a bit taken aback.
“Well, I would actually really like to visit you Paris but I am in NYC and you are in Texas. I really don’t know if I can make that kind of trip happen anytime soon and I don’t want to take up space on your limited visitors list.”
“I can update my visitors list every six months and I’d like to put you on it.”
I agreed while reiterating that a trip like that was most probably not in the foreseeable cards. If I were able to visit Paris I would, most likely because of the distance I would be traveling, be approved for an extended visit. Extended visits would allow me to spend 4 hours a day with Paris for two days. Since I am not a family member, I would not be allowed a contact visit, meaning there would be glass between us.
“You could analyze me in person,” Paris quipped.
Though we had come to joke a bit about my profession, and desire to understand Paris better, we had many serious conversations about the neuroscience of psychopathology, as well as his life prior to his crime. We have spoken about Freud’s model of the psyche and his concept of the Id, Ego, and Superego. Because of Paris, I read the book The Psychopath Inside by the neuroscientist James Fallon. Fallon had inadvertently learned through a PET scan that his brain imaging had features commonly found in violent psychopaths, though Fallon himself had never committed a crime. His investigations into the neurology of psychopathology and his belief that nurture played a large role in why he never acted out violently, were fascinating to both Paris and I. Ironically, Paris is someone with whom I have had some of the most detailed conversations about these concepts, and he has been open to sharing his own life experiences in relation to them. In the awkward beginning, I think we interacted a bit more like therapist and patient, but it has become to feel more like we are trusted friends.
“So now all we need to do is get you a PET scan to see how your brain lights up, and a blood test to find out if you have the warrior gene.”
Paris responded initially with enthusiasm to that idea, though having those tests done seemed like a difficult if not impossible endeavor. As I became more excited about the idea, and offered to look into possibilities to make it happen, Paris withdrew. Even if it worked out, he explained, he would need to go through an arduous process of leaving the facility he was in, losing his current housing situation (which he was comfortable with), and being put through a complicated process to travel for outside testing, as he was deemed a high risk inmate. Paris never told me he feared the results could possibly work against him when his time for parole arrived, but I dropped the subject with him soon after.
I had not spoken to Paris in almost a week. I had been battling some of my own emotional demons and became more isolated. I received an email from his godmother saying Paris was concerned about me.
When he next called I picked up and told him a bit about what had been going on.
“I have just kind of wanted to cry most days,” I told him. Paris seemed puzzled.
“Why do you want to cry?” he asked.
I remembered at that moment that Paris had told me his emotions didn’t run particularly deep. He had described them as a rock skipping across the top of the water — making superficial ripples but not making an impression beneath the surface.
“I don’t know. I guess I get a bit emotional sometimes.”
“Well, consider me your trash can. Dump anything you want on me to get rid of it.”
“You are not a trash can Paris.”
“If it makes you feel any better, you can say anything to me Regina.”
I thought back to a letter I had received from Paris prior to our phone relationship. In it he wrote; “Pseudo-philosophical nattering for the day: there are two types of people in this world; those who open up a new box of Legos, build the set displayed on the box and take pride in their ability to follow the directions (i.e. banish chaos); and those who open the box, ignore the instruction booklet, build whatever their whim deems best and take pride in their creativity (i.e. banish conformity). Which are you, Regina? And which am I?”
And now I wondered even more, which one was I.
The familiar computer voice gave us our one minute warning and I had to go.
“Talk soon Paris. And thank you.”
“I am your friend Regina. I am here for you.”
I took in the silence and what felt like Paris’ sincerity for a few seconds.
The computer voice interrupted my thoughts.
“The caller has hung up. Thank you for using Century Link. Goodbye.”
- excerpt from a book in progress
