All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(38)

Now the time had come not to watch a movie, but to actually make one and deliver it to HBO. I wasn’t sure how to begin. My journo instincts told me I needed to get to the man (the assumed cannibal) at the center of the story.

Gilberto Valle had been found guilty of conspiracy to kidnap by a jury of his peers in March 2013. The prosecution alleged that this former NYPD officer had dossiers on sixty-plus women on his home computer and was looking up potential victims on the police database in his squad car.

But there was another side to the story. His defense team stated that he had never actually physically stalked any women. They argued that while the young police officer’s thoughts and Google searches were terrifying, they were just thoughts, and he was within his rights to think them. The defense lost that argument, and Valle was sent to a federal prison in lower Manhattan. He was housed in solitary for his own safety. He was a former cop, after all.

In a matter of weeks I started visiting him inside the prison during Thursday visiting hours. He was lonely and bored and said he looked forward to our conversations. He even sent me a Valentine’s Day card. The front cover had a single red rose. I emailed a photo of the card to my family.


Just in case I ever “go missing” you know where to look.

Erin



My dad’s response? “I’m happy for the look into your world.”

I remember getting that email and feeling a powerful sense of excitement. I had a world at which my dad was thrilled to get a glimpse! Most parents upon receiving an email like this would immediately press the “call my kid” button to put an end to this misguided quest, but not my dad, not this family. To move toward the darkness was a win, and it was something I would look to do again and again.

Months went by, and Gil and I kept talking on the phone. On my third visit to the prison, I stood in line, nervous, though not nearly as nervous as I was that first time. “Erin Carr?”

I stepped forward. “Yes?”

“You have been put on the denied list. Please exit the waiting room immediately. If you have an issue with your refusal you can call the Bureau of Prisons at this number.” And just like that I was ushered outside.

I was never allowed back into the prison. No one ever told me this outright, but I could put two and two together. Someone saw that I was visiting an inmate that the BOP felt conflicted about, and so they restricted his access to press, most likely to hurt him and his mental state, or to keep something under wraps. I guessed that it was the prosecutor in Gil’s case who pushed the reject button, though I haven’t been able to confirm that. Gil had told me that he’d started to depend on me and our calls. This felt like more than a journalist-source relationship, and the Valentine’s Day card confirmed that. The romantic inclination was one-sided, but I was anxious about how to handle the situation.

So I continued talking on the phone with Gil, trying to appeal to the warden to let me get a camera inside the prison. Each request was met with a refusal, and soon I was awake every night wondering if my project would fail and once again cursing myself for leaving VICE.

And then something pretty unbelievable happened. The same judge who’d presided over the trial decided there was insufficient evidence, and he overturned the conviction. This never, ever happens. After nineteen months—seven of which Gil spent in solitary confinement—he was out. Against my journalistic objectivity and better instincts, I was elated for him, his family, and his legal team. Clearly I was far from impartial, but I truly believed after viewing the evidence that he did not belong in prison. My film would reflect this perspective.

Once Gil was out, he started texting me constantly. He would ask about the specifics of making our film, but he also wanted to know more about me, where I lived, how I spent my time, if I had a boyfriend. I did. One day, I tweeted “my boyfriend sends me documentary ideas, swoooon.” Within three minutes of the post, Gil texted me: “You have a boyfriend???” I knew then and there that he was watching my every move, online and in real life. To others, I reconciled the attention he paid to me by mumbling that it was because he’d had few friends since his arrest.

Multiple news outlets were targeting him for his “big” interview. I knew that if he consented to do even one of those, my project would be a goner. So far, he hadn’t agreed to anything. I wondered if I had an opening. I texted him, asking if I could come over and film informally. He told me he didn’t think it was a good idea and that he just wanted to focus on spending quality time with his mom and dad. I was disappointed, but I understood that he wanted privacy.

I was uncertain how to proceed. This was a delicate and dangerous dance. I called my dad. He picked up immediately and started asking questions.

“Hey, Dolly, so did you ask him?”

“Yeah, I did,” I answered. “He says he’ll do it but he needs space.”

“Here’s the thing: If you don’t get that interview in the next couple days, you’ll be fucked.”

Blunt truth-telling is how he communicated with me and others. I hated that I knew he was right. I called Gil and convinced him that we needed to tape now.

I brought the camera, and Coffman, our editor-turned-shooter, began filming short handheld-camera interviews in which Gil and I talked about what it felt like to be set free. He was guarded yet playful. He invited me to his upcoming party he’d dubbed “Freedom Fest.” He then asked me not to bring my camera. Okay, I thought, still a worthwhile way to solidify my standing with his family and legal team as he had other TV networks vying for his “exclusive.”