Several years ago, the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation distributed tablets in state prisons for the first time. After more than a decade of relying on pay phones and snail mail, I could suddenly communicate with people via monitored text messages and calls, from the privacy of my cell. In the months that followed, the tablet helped make many unlikely things possible. After I published my first essay for The New Yorker, “Listening to Taylor Swift in Prison,” my editor was able to share how readers responded on Twitter, a platform I’d never used: “Absolutely wrecked and sobbing at this beautiful heartbreaking essay,” “drop everything now and read this omg.” Folks from all over the world contacted me to share their reactions. Kate Cortesi, a playwright, asked if she could write a stage play based on my experiences. I also heard from several filmmakers, including a documentarian named Jon Kasbe.
When Kasbe got in touch, I was preparing for a parole hearing—my first real opportunity at freedom in twenty-one years. My parole attorney, Heidi Rummel, warned me that filming a documentary could work against me. At the hearing, I needed to take responsibility for committing a murder, and to demonstrate genuine self-awareness and remorse. I’d learned to stop blaming others, and to accept that my own life choices led me to my crime. Rummel worried that the parole board might hear about the media attention and think I was grandstanding. Still, I let Kasbe interview me via phone and video call. Neither of us knew what a potential film would focus on. He might wind up following the story of me earning parole—or of me getting denied. I was still worried that the film project could affect my chances, but I gave Kasbe the go-ahead to ask for approval to film inside. Many times during my incarceration, I’d wished for a camera. Maybe Kasbe’s could capture a glimpse of what our lives really looked like.
As much as I wanted the film to happen, I expected Kasbe’s request to be denied. I thought his best chance would be to start by asking for access to a support group for lifers that I attended. C.D.C.R. might be more inclined to shine a light on a successful rehabilitative program than to focus on some prison Swiftie. First, though, I needed to see how the guys in the group felt about the idea. Our discussions were often intense and personal. Anyone whose sentence included the word “life” was forced to imagine dying in prison; we talked about our crimes and our consciences, our family secrets and our darkest fears. “What goes on in here stays in here,” someone says at the start of each meeting. I began asking participants if, theoretically, they were cool with being filmed. Maybe they thought that I was making this stuff up. But they said that they’d be O.K. with it if I could actually make it happen.
Months passed before Kasbe, to my amazement, was approved. In that time, I was found suitable for parole. Now I was in limbo, waiting to see if Governor Newsom would clear me for release. C.D.C.R. sometimes likes to tout its success stories. Maybe that’s how they saw me now. Soon, in spite of my doubts, we were informed that, the next week, cameras were coming in. A few of the group’s leaders tipped me off about what they’d heard from the administration. They’d been told about my journalism work and the whole Taylor Swift thing. The group’s vice-chair, Tyrone Tittle, even asked his wife to find my essay online, and to read it to him over the phone. He tracked me down at breakfast the next day to thank me for helping him share a sweet moment with her. Maintaining deep connections while incarcerated can be a real struggle sometimes. I’d always hoped that my stories would introduce outside audiences to the realities of prison, but I’d never expected to see this kind of impact.
