All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(39)

I told my dad I was going, and he told me to be sure I took someone. I hadn’t really planned on that, but it made sense. I asked my producing partner Andrew if he could go, and he said he could. I texted Gil and he responded seconds later: “I don’t think that is going to work. I want it to be close friends only.” He did not consider me a reporter, but a friend. I had two options before me: 1. Cancel, send a clear message, but possibly lose my in for the story, or 2. Go, and try to be clear about my boundaries.

I called my dad to have him weigh in. “Your call, hoss”—a moniker he gave people when he was pleased with them. He knew I had a conundrum but didn’t want to influence me, as I was the one who would have to live with the consequences.

I chose to go. It was the wrong choice.

I took the subway out to Forest Hills, Queens, sweating due to the heat but also my nerves. Gil had first had to clear the party with his probation officer. It was just his family, his legal team, and, oh yeah, me. We ate in Gil’s backyard; hot dogs sizzled in the July heat and were pretty unappetizing given the bizarre circumstances. There was enough food for twenty people, which made the fact that there were six attendees that much more conspicuous. About an hour in, Gil made a speech thanking each person for what they did for him while he was on the inside. I was second to last; he stated how crucial my presence was for him in his darkest times. The whole thing was next-level uncomfortable.

His lawyers’ concern was clear: Was this girl going to be the liability that made all of their work go to hell? I am sure they worried about Gil getting confused and revealing something that they didn’t want leaked to the press. That, or acting like a weirdo and crossing a boundary. I tried to leave early, but he cornered me for a hug and held on too tight.

Gil now started to amp up the creepy behavior, and I knew I would soon be at a crossroads with him and our relationship. One day while filming, I saw his eyes trail my cameraman as he went out the front door to get some exterior shots of the house. Gil walked over to me and started rubbing my shoulders, telling me how tense I seemed. My body seized at his touch, and I knew something bad was happening. I had practiced for this moment.

“Gil, you shouldn’t touch me like this.”

He replied quickly: “Don’t worry, I touch my dog like this.”

My brain and body froze and I prayed that our cameraman would come in and relieve me from this moment. He let go as soon as he heard footsteps approaching. This is when the alarm bells kicked in. Within ten minutes a car arrived to take me back to Brooklyn. I sent an email to my twin and called my dad and got his voicemail. I got home and cried in the shower.

Five minutes later my dad called me back. He had never been physically intimidated by a source, so he couldn’t really advise in that capacity. Instead he used his network to connect me with Andrew Jarecki, a filmmaker he knew who had dealt with these issues specifically. Andrew had directed Capturing the Friedmans, a film from my early career must-watch list. Andrew also had something new cooking—a docuseries centered around a man named Robert Durst. That show would end up becoming HBO’s hugely popular documentary The Jinx.

I called Andrew immediately. After some backstory, he told me it was about establishing a protocol. After our phone call, I came up with the following rules for myself:

         Don’t answer the phone or a text after 9 P.M.



     If I see him, it is only during filming, and nothing that could be perceived as social.



     Make it clear that I do not live alone.



     If problems arise, have Gil’s probation officer’s number in my phone.





I look at this chaotic and, frankly, scary time in my life and think about how my dad reacted to it all. Was he scared or uncomfortable about the subject matter or the relationship?


you are such a pro. what a great result. you are being paid. as a filmmaker. um. wow.



No, he was proud. Proud that he’d raised a kid who could go after these stories. Proud to jump in and help, either with some serious journo advice or a dark joke to lighten the mood—whatever was required at the time.

I continued making the film despite lingering tension between Gil and me. My dad urged me to be careful; the ego of such a man is a fragile thing. Gil had his freedom to lose but he had lost it once before, which made his actions unpredictable. That said, I needed to press him on parts of the story that felt deeply uncomfortable for both of us. That is what journalism is. It’s what’s lurking between convenient and uncomfortable.

The prosecution appealed the overturned conviction, but the judge’s ruling held firm. Gil remained a free man.





22


    Jelly Beans



“You are a rocking presence wherever you are, including in the center of my heart.”



I typed in “Fahja,” on November 16, 2014, and pressed the green button to call him. My dad had invited me to speak at Boston University, where he taught a weekly journalism course on media criticism.

I’d emailed him my presentation notes for the class and was met with a chuckle on the other end of the phone.

“You are way overpreparing for this.”

“Better than under, right?” I countered.