Book Excerpt: 'Crossing Over'

N E W   Y O R K , Aug. 27, 2001 -- Popular cable show Crossing Over with John Edward has captivated those who want to know more about the psychic world. On the show, which airs on the Science Fiction (SciFi) cable channel and goes into national syndication starting today, Edward delivers messages to his audience members that he says come from their deceased loved ones.

He has also written a book with the same title. Here is the prologue, and an excerpt from Chapter 9:

Unitel Studios, New York CityJune 14, 2000

I'm standing in shadows, waiting to walk out in front of a hundred people and explain that I'm about to connect some of them with their departed relatives. To your side means husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, above you parents, grandparents . . . appreciate the messages . . . just answer yes or no. . . .

I've given this litany a thousand times before, in living rooms and offices and Holiday Inns in states I can't even locate on a map. But this is different. This is like nothing I've ever done before. It's not something I've ever really aspired to. But here I am.

Across the dimly lit set, I see Doug Fogel watching me. He's the stage manager, a Martin Short-ish man with a twinkle in his eyes who's done Cats and The Lion King, Radio City (Music Hall) and the Metropolitan Opera. Now he's working on a TV show about a guy who talks to dead people.

He's in control of what's happening, unlike the person he's looking at, the person whose name is in the title of the show. I'm told that this studio was the original home of Big Bird, Bert, Ernie, and Oscar the Grouch. They shot Sesame Street right where I'm standing. And right before me, Chris Rock did his HBO show here. So I guess I fit right in. I like to think that this show is going to be educational. I won't break the news to the network just yet. I'm sure they think it's entertainment.

Doug hears the cue from the control room over his headset and begins counting me down with one hand. Five, four, three, two. . . . He points to the irregularly shaped white screen that plays the opening montage of the show. He looks at the audience, extends his arms, and begins clapping with a purpose, turning himself into a human APPLAUSE sign.

Then he points to me. It's showtime. Time for me to walk out from sidestage, make a quick left as I reach the middle of the screen, and bound onto the illuminated disk that will be my new home.

Something tells me we're not in the Holiday Inn anymore, Toto. I scan the audience-the gallery, as it's being called, and try to smile the way I think a TV host is supposed to smile. Regis? Jerry? Oprah? I'm not comfortable.

I am extremely uncomfortable. I'm not wearing clothes, I'm wearing wardrobe. I have makeup on. There's all this stuff around me. Up there, a constellation of lights. Over here, a contraption that looks vaguely like a camera. Back over there, a rolling screen that feeds me little bits of monologue to wrap around the taped segments.

And there's, like, an entire industry of people laboring over a cosmic version of something I've been doing for years by myself. Up until now, I've been pretty much OK with just God's help. Now I'm relying on Doug. Everywhere I look there are people in headsets talking to the producers and the director who's in a room somewhere staring at fifty-two TV screens with my face on more of them than really seems necessary. It's called the control room, and that makes me nervous. I'm a control freak — ask anybody. And I don't like surrendering so much control that they need an entire room to hold it.

Will I be able to do what I do under these conditions? Will I get swallowed up like that mad-as-hell-and-not-gonna-take-it-anymore guy in that movie that came out when I was in, like, second grade? Was this really such a good idea?How the hell did I get here?

Excerpt from Chapter 9 - Camera One Closes In

One day, I was badgering a poor group of women who were sitting in the back row, diagonally to my left. I couldn't understand how they didn't know that they had a male to the side who passed in a car accident who was making references to someone named Richard, another named Tony or maybe Timmy, and that there was a connection to a teacher, to a falls somewhere, and to the number 16.

"Guys, please think," I implored. I was sure of the information, and pretty sure of the area of the gallery it was meant for. "I'm in the back row. Or I'm behind them. Is there anyone behind them?" But the women in the back row just kept shaking their heads.

They couldn't validate a single thing. And there was nobody behind them. Finally, the energy was brushed aside by others trying to come through. I just left the information with the women and asked them to please go home and try to validate this unfortunate soul who was trying so hard to make a connection. I went with the other readings.

At the end of the show, Dana came over the PA: "John, I think we figured out what was going on in the back row," he said. Just then, Paul came onto the set with a man wearing a red parking attendant's shirt. His name was Basil, and he worked in the garage adjoining the studio.

"The garage attendant thinks this might be his story, so can you just spend a couple of seconds with him?" Paul asked.

I was totally baffled. "Um, how did . . .uh." My stammering made the gallery giggle. "What exactly did they explain to you?" I asked Basil. "What did they say?"

"You're getting a signal there's a Richard involved," Basil said in a strong Jamaican accent. "It happened when he was sixteen."

"Okay, wait. Explain to me why you think this makes sense for you."

"I have a brother Richard who died at sixteen in a car accident," Basil said. "I was a teacher in Jamaica."

There was a collective gasp from the gallery. I just stood there, agape.

"I was teaching at the school that he was attending," Basil continued. "A particular evening, he was riding his bike and he got in an accident and hit his head on the asphalt and died."

I had to know how this happened. "Who found Basil?" I asked the producers.

"Tjeerd," someone said. He was one of the production assistants.

"That's damn impressive," I said.

"John, we work with you," Paul said, as if nothing was impressive anymore. All in a day's work here at Crossing Over.

Tjeerd explained that he had been watching me point toward the women in the back row, and noticed that I didn't seem to be pointing right at them. It was more like past them-and in fact, at one point, I did ask if there was anyone behind them.

"I felt compelled — compelled — to go out the back door, where you were pointing," Tjeerd said.

His first stop was a group of police officers who were standing on 55th Street. He related the information about the male who had passed in the accident, and asked if this made sense to any of them. No, this didn't make any sense to them. In more ways than one.

Then, Tjeerd went a few steps down the street, to the parking garage. That's where he found Basil. Stunned, he recounted his brother's passing.

"Wow," I said, then turned to the women in the back row. "You're definitely off the hook." I turned back to Basil and asked him who had the "T" name.

"My brother. His name is Tonto."

Back to the gallery: "Was there anything we missed?" We were rolling tape, of course, but there was an after-show informality to this.

"Falls," people called out.

"Any type of falls connection?" I asked Basil, but as soon as the question left my lips, I had the answer. "Oh-Dunns River Falls. That's freaky, even for me. I think the hair on my legs is standing up. I think you've seen the ultimate pull-in. I've never gone through a brick wall before."

What was amazing about this for me was how it drove home how not about me this process is. I dropped the ball for Basil's brother. And Tjeerd, a production assistant, picked it up because Basil's brother saw his opportunity to get this message through.

You could almost imagine him handing Tjeerd a little note and then whispering, "Would you mind going next door and giving this to my brother?"

Excerpt courtesy of Jodere Group © 2001.