Murder Was the Case That They Gave Me

“How was school today?” I asked daughter, S, when she got in the car.

“We had some people come to talk to us today. Well, just to the fifth graders,” she said.

“What about?” I asked her.

The possibilities were endless. You never know what the school has planned. Sometimes it’s a virtual field trip talking with an astronomer in New Mexico. Sometimes it’s a dance troupe that performs in the cafeteria.  You know, something enriching or educational.

“It was about making choices. They brought in some inmates to talk to us about drugs and stuff.”

“Wait, what? Inmates? How did you know they were inmates? Were they wearing orange jumpsuits?”

“No, Mom. Orange is for the detention center. These people were in khaki jumpsuits. But don’t worry; they had a couple of cops with them."

Yes, that made me feel much better.

“Exactly how many inmates did you listen to? And what was the ratio of inmate to cop?” This story needed more details before it could even get started.

“There were four of them, and two police officers. Three men and a woman,” she said. “Now, be quiet so I can tell you about them.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “I am all ears.”

“They started by telling us why they are in prison,” she began. “The first guy was in jail for seven years for drugs. He had some drugs in his car, and he lied about it to the police, and then he went home and the police wanted to search the car and the house cause they thought he was lying, and then he let them and he had the drugs and the police could have taken the car and his parents’ house. Now he is in jail for seven years and he was only seventeen.”

“So I guess he shouldn’t have lied?” I asked.

“No, Mom, he shouldn’t have the drugs. They don’t send you to jail for lying.”

“Have you heard of perjury?” I asked her.

“No, but do you want to hear this story or not?”

“Of course I do. Please continue.”

“Well, stop interrupting,” she instructed me. “The next one had drugs and sold them. I think he got eleven years in jail.”

“Sounds like a bad choice to me,” I said.

“The next one was kind of sad. It was a woman, and she sold drugs too, but she said she only did it so she could take of her kids. She has two kids, and their mom is in jail for twelve years. She is younger than you, Mom, but she doesn’t look like it.”

“Thanks,” I said.  “I’m glad I look better than a drug dealer in prison.”

“Younger,” she clarified. “Then the last one spoke, and he was in jail for murder, Mom. Can you believe they brought a murderer to an elementary school?”

“Um, no, I cannot,” I said. Especially not after Sandy Hook. Who thought bringing a murderer to talk to fifth graders was a good idea?

“So, anyway, he had drugs too, but then he got in a fight with this other guy, and something happened, and he ended up stabbing him.  And the guy died. He’s in jail for twenty-three years.”

“That’s pretty messed up,” I said to her.

“They talked about how bad life is in jail too. They said for breakfast they have to eat grits, and they’re yellow but they don’t have any cheese or butter in them.”

“They’re made from yellow corn. That’s not so bad.”

“Well, they also have to eat scrambled eggs that have eyelashes and fingernails in them and stuff,” she told me.

That’s a little worse,” I said.

“For lunch, they get a hard biscuit and a wet piece of lunch meat. They said they can wring out the juice from it.”

“That’s pretty nasty,” I agreed. “What about dinner?”

“I don’t remember except they said they get gravy and it’s green. I could not eat in prison,” she told me.

“Another good reason to not go there,” I told her.

“Anyway, when they left and we went back to class, a bunch of kids were all sad, talking about how they felt sorry for them, but I told them I didn’t feel sorry for them at all.”

“Not even a little bit?” I asked.

“No. Nobody made them do drugs, and certainly nobody made them sell drugs. They made a stupid choice, so it’s their own fault. I feel sorry for that woman’s kids, but not for the people in jail.”

I thought about launching into a conversation of unfair jail sentences for non-violent drug offenders and the flaws in our legal system, but I thought that might undermine the intention of the little talk, namely for the children to stay away from drugs and make good choices, like staying in school, and if possible, staying ten forever.

“I still can’t believe they brought a murderer into school,” she said. “We’re only in fifth grade.”

Good point, my child. What are they going to do next week? Make them watch “Silence of the Lambs?” At least they didn’t pack up the whole fifth grade and cart them off to a maximum security facility. Or take them to a crack house. Or the morgue.  Still, the last thing you expect your child to tell you is that her school chose to bring drug dealers and murderers to school for a little pep talk. Maybe in art class tomorrow they can learn how to make shivs out of their cafeteria sporks.