Read Chapter 1 of 'Jack and Jill'

ByABC News via logo
March 14, 2001, 1:10 PM

March 15 -- The following excerpt comes from James E. Shaw's new book, Jack and Jill: Why They Kill.

Buy your copy of Jack & Jill: Why They Kill.

Chapter One

Adolescentcide: All Kids Are At Risk

"Since I really got involved in the counseling and chapel ministry program here in prison, I couldn't wait to see my mom and dad because I really wanted to reach out to them and apologize and ask for their forgiveness. Well, for starters, they didn't visit me for over two years. When they finally came, my mother stayed in the car. My dad came to see me, but he wouldn't let me hug him, touch him, nothing like that. And he would cough and change the subject whenever I brought up Monica's death. You see, I've faced the fact that I killed my sister, and that I did it on purpose. My parents may never forgive me. I'm just another terrible family secret they'll lock up in the attic of their minds. At the end of my dad's visit, I felt so terrible. Even with all the counseling, I felt like I couldn't go on. I didn't eat for a week." Charity

I sat at the rectangular table in the Day Room and waited for the parole agent to bring in Charity. My two tape recorders were all set up and ready. An unopened giant box of "AA" batteries was between them, ready to be thrown into service at the first sound of tape-warble. A new spiral notebook lay open beneath two sharpened pencils. Our interview was for 9:00 a.m., just as it always was. I looked at my watch; it was 9:15. Charity was not here, and nobody else had come to tell me whether our interview was on or off. As I waited, I begin to reflect on the prison's highly-efficient communications system.

I recalled first being required to make a "why-am-I-here-and-what-do-I-want-to-do" presentation to the parole agents and counseling staff at a special meeting called specifically for them to meet and question me. Despite my having received the state's blessings to enter the juvenile prison system and interview children serving time for homicide, my "approval letter" had advised me that each prison would have to make its own determination about whether to allow me in. I knew that my task lay in convincing professional prison staff that teachers, parents and others were desperately concerned about finding answers to why kids were killing kids. I described my years as a teacher and ended my presentation by saying that I was prepared to invest years in the study of children incarcerated for homicide in order to help others around the nation, "including youth prison officials," solve this socially-urgent problem.

My presentation to the prison staff merely qualified me to make another presentation, at a different time, to children (wards) en masse, who were rounded up and marshaled into the gigantic Day Room. Even after my telling them that it would be a "multi-year project," most of the wards agreed to participate. I was almost beside myself with delight. However, one ward told me bluntly: "If you come back here wearing a jacket and tie, I ain't gonna talk to you."

Whenever I arrived at the prison, my immediate responsibilities included picking up, from the security checkpoint, my "package" the two memos listing my day's interviewees and my "Visitor" badge. If the memos were not there, usually a parole agent handed them to me when he or she ushered the first interviewee into the day room. My final task, prior to interviewing a ward for the first time, was to go over with the ward the "informed consent" form I designed. It explained the purpose of the interviews to provide information to teachers, parents and others who work with children and informed wards that they had the right to terminate interviews at any time, for any reason or for no reason. Their desire not to participate would not be held against them and was purely voluntary. However, they would receive no "points" or "credits." In other words, these interviews could not be used as "good behavior evidence" to show the parole board. Lastly, I stated my desire to interview them several times, over a number of years, to check, re-check, and verify information they gave me, and to get as accurate and complete a picture of their life as possible.

"Mr. Shaw?" The voice behind me sounded tentative. I turned around from the window through which I had been watching the rain hammering down. I had not heard any footsteps behind me, so engrossed was I in my thoughts and watching the downpour. "Good morning, Charity," I said. She smiled shyly. We shook hands. I gestured toward the table and we walked over to it. The parole agent gave me my "package" showing five more interviews that day; then she left.

"I'm awful sorry I'm late," Charity began. "Uh, something happened, and they needed to question me. I mean, I'm not like in trouble or anything. They just needed to question me about some things." I told Charity that was okay, that I understood, that "things come up sometimes, just like the rain comes down." She glanced toward the window and we both laughed. She said, "I know we only have about a half hour." I told her we could still begin the interview, if she wanted to do so. She nodded her head enthusiastically. So, we began. The story I got from her persuaded me of the value in returning, time and again, to these children and repeatedly interviewing the same ones for better and more information. Charity, in our previous four interviews, was usually taciturn and given to only a few words. Sometimes I had the impression she was there to put in the hour and be gone. Today, though, she gave me the story of her life.

"You overslept and missed breakfast and your medicine," Charity said with exasperation as she worked at the dishes. "Mom and Dad left for work hours ago."

"Watch your tone, please," Monica said. "You know I'm sick. Depression is sickness. Most people know that." The insult burrowed into Charity's patience. "Some sister you turned out to be."

"Listen, Monica "

Just then, the doorbell rang. Charity dried her hands on her apron and went for the door.

"I'll get it!" announced Monica, who lunged at Charity and knocked her to one side.

"Are you sick or are you sick?!" Charity shouted.

Monica turned around, mid-stride, "Don't you ever, ever say that to me again. I've got enough people thinking I'm a head case. I don't need my sister joining the team. Do you hear me, slut?"

The doorbell rang again. Monica turned briskly toward the door.

The name Monica had called her echoed in her mind. Slut? You're the slut, Monica. All these boys coming over all the time, and I never . . . If you were just dead.

"Monica?" Charity called.

"What?!" Monica answered dismissively, continuing toward the door.

"Monica?" Charity called again, her voice softer, more calculated.

Monica, now just inches from the front door, turned toward Charity with impatience.

"Don't call me a slut . . . ever." Charity could feel the heat in her cheeks as she just barely controlled her rage.

"Well, sometimes you're not really into charity, either, despite your name," Monica said with annoyance.

What a sick b**** you are, Monica. What kind of crap did you get into at that private school? Stuff that keeps you on medication. Stuff Mom and Dad won't talk about? I wonder if they'd miss you much.

Charity returned to her sink full of dishes, her eyes drifting to the knives atop the counter. Looking at the knives brought dark thoughts to her mind.

Moments later, Monica returned to the kitchen accompanied by one of her boyfriends, Brad. "Hi, Charity," Brad said. Charity did not return his greeting.

"I think Brad spoke to you." Monica said.

Don't push it, Monica.

"Just say 'hello,' Charity." Monica's voice rose, taking on her demanding tone.Drop it. Don't push me right now. Then something occurred to Charity. She turned around, her face beaming. "Hi Brad," she said with a lush, wanton voice.

"I said say hello, not flirt," Monica warned.

Charity watched as Brad appraised her from top to bottom. "Hey, I've got an idea," Brad said. "Let's go to the beach. The three of us, I mean." His spoke with expectation.. "I could get my dad's car. We'd be back before your folks got home from work."

"I don't know. I've got lots of work to do. And I've got to keep my parents happy."

"Talk to me, Brad. It's her day to cook and clean. But it's my day off."

"I figured if we could all go . . . but whatever . . . we'll go alone." Brad smiled wide. "Two can have fun just as well as three." They drew close to each other and looked ready to kiss.

Suddenly angry, Charity felt all the old pain crash in upon her. Monica always got what she wanted. From mom and dad, from whatever hormone-driven boy that showed up at the door. If she just weren't around anymore, Charity thought. "Brad, you have to go. Monica is sick and our folks don't like friends in the house when they're not here."

Brad turned to Monica. "You don't look sick to me. Matter of fact, you look very . . . healthy." His wit and charm reminded Charity of wax. But Monica glowed under his flattery.

Get the hell out of here, Brad. Just be a good stud and get off on some other girl whose folks aren't so concerned about appearances. "Brad, you have to go."

Suddenly, Monica was defensive. "He's my friend, and I say he stays!"

The command was strident in Monica's voice. It was always the same whenever she forgot to take her medicine. Charity felt her reserve slipping away. She had forgotten how long she had been looking after a crazy sister. Now, you stupid flirt, why didn't you wake up, get a good breakfast and take your damn medicine so we could avoid scenes like this? I hate you. Charity went to the china cabinet and took out a dessert plate. Then she took the bakery knife from its holder atop the counter. She cut a two-inch thick slice of lemon cake and placed it on the plate. Then taking a cloth napkin from a wicker basket, she walked slowly to where Monica and Brad sat at the kitchen table.

"Monica, may I speak to you in the living room, please?" Charity's tone was polite, soft, resigned. She turned to Brad and gave him the slice of cake and the napkin.

"I'm not leaving this room!" Monica shouted. Her face became manic and accusatory. "Whatever you have to say to me can be said in front of my friends." She clasped Brad's arm just as he picked up the cake with it. Brad, seeming to feel trapped, looked searchingly from Monica to Charity.