As "The Real Killer"'s Third Season Comes to an End, I Have Some Thoughts

Attention being drawn to my case by The Real Killer is, arguably, a good thing. Continued interest at least hints at a reason for hope. The way Leah Rothman's been setting out the facts seems a little scattershot, but the Jackson County Sheriff's Department investigation lasted almost four years, the facts do tend to sprawl.

I've always preferred putting everything on the table and letting people decide for themselves whether mine is a cause worth getting involved with. That is basically what The Real Killer has been doing over the past thirteen weeks. Messy? Sure, but at least it's honest.

Comparatively, people who believe (or desperately want to believe) that I'm guilty take the opposite tack when it comes to their argument strategy. The anti-Byrons call up the worst aspects of my polarizing teenage personality, cite out-of-context case document excerpts, invent unsubstantiated and often outlandish "facts," then wave it all around like a bloody handkerchief, shouting to all the world that their case against me is airtight.

I do wonder what conversation about the podcast has taken place in that camp. I hear occasional snippets of what passes for communication on The Real Killer's Instagram feed, and it seems like more of what it's always been: some people consider the facts and come away with the sense of my innocence; some watch video of my interviews and hiss, "He's got no soul!"

Everyone's got opinions, but the podcast itself keeps them to a merciful minimum. Anastasia's sisters said in a recent episode that they believe my accuser, in part, because she's stuck to the same story for twenty-four years. I have only this rebuttal: if time invested in maintaining a stance was the measure of its legitimacy, my innocence should be of no question. I've stuck with the truth since investigators first asked me if I was involved with Stasia's death. That was in October of 1997, three and a half years before Kelly Moffett made up her story. How could time convince you that Kelly's being truthful, but not that I am? This is the double standard I'm pitted against—another example of the injustice I've now fought more than half my life.

Listeners have been promised that the podcast's finale is coming soon, that The Real Killer is now taking a short break. What that last episode might be, I can only guess. I've been waiting for disappointment ever since I listened to the very first episode. Other shows' outcomes, even the half-hearted shrug that was MTV's Unlocking the Truth, have instilled in me a bit of pessimism. My approach with The Real Killer has been one of nonjudgment. Week after week, I refrained from guessing what direction the podcast was heading, the whole time half-expecting a hard left turn, as it veers away from Leah Rothman's relatively straightforward reportage.

At the moment I'm typing this, that turn has yet to come. While there are some small things about the podcast I take issue with, they're trifles, not important enough to speak out against or even mention here. Some of them are simply products of dramatic necessity. Leah's got to keep listener numbers up and her sponsors happy. The podcast is, after all, primarily a form of entertainment.

Like everyone who's faithfully listened every Thursday as new episodes drop, I'm waiting with anticipation to see how The Real Killer concludes. You could say I'm waiting for a miracle; I'm waiting for justice, after all.

Sleep, Interrupted

I wake in the small hours, unsure of why, until I strain my ears against the night and hear the faint jingle of keys. A guard's doing his routine wing walkthrough. I'm frequently woken up this way. The cause isn't always noise, though. Sometimes a steel door will slam after I wake up, and I'll realize belatedly that the person who closed it must've aimed a flashlight through the cell window and pierced the fragile membrane of my sleep. In either case, when the interrupter exits the wing, I'm often left to lie here, at the mercy of idle thoughts.

When am I going to be able do laundry tomorrow, considering my schedule? I need to ask how this weekend's Spotlight episode is coming. Shit, and there are still three guest spots to fill for this season of Real Talk. I've got to hurry up and record those episodes! And what are we going to do with the sports slot on Channel X after next week? Mental note: load Twon's notes for the next Playlist episode onto the tablet before our taping. That flyer still needs to be made for the housing units, too. And so on, leaping from thought to thought.

It only makes sense that anxieties about looming deadlines would lay siege to my nights. They certainly preoccupy my daylight hours. Considering that I practice regular meditation, I probably struggle too much with this.

Lying flat on this dense mattress, I turn my focus to the breath. The heaviness of my chest suggests that it's filled with lead. The tension in my neck battles this lumpy pillow. A massage would be nice, I think, then let go of the idea, recognizing its unhelpfulness. Be here, now, I remind myself, and come back to the breath.

It's been a long day. I'm so tired. Sleep should come quickly, but the mattress is hot and my mind is on the move—the perfect recipe for unrest.

I'm no stranger to this. Insomnia plagued me as a teenager. Tossing on my bed for hours on end, I'd be exhausted but kept awake by a mind racing to nowhere. Doctors prescribed medication for sleep, but not even 300 milligrams of trazodone did the trick. The drugs only succeeded in making me dizzy. I'd just lie there, my head swimming, desperate for rest that wouldn't come.

Only when I started taking more control of my life did that anxiousness go away. I started asserting myself, exercising more independence, and opening my mind to the possibility of a rosier future. From major depression, I emerged into something like contentment.

Now is different. I have tools that are tremendously effective under normal conditions. My confinement is entirely to blame for these 2 o'clock wakeups. There's no way for me to prevent from being stirred out of sleep. All I can do is work to get back to that state when it happens. No prevention, only repair.

This fact, too, becomes a conscious thought that harasses me, another ten or fifteen minutes lost to unproductive thought. The sun will be up in a few hours. There's no winning here; I can only practice being a gracious loser.

Unreasonable Ideas

Where do you want to go? Where do you want to be? Do you want to travel or grow roots? Do you live in the city or on some land? Describe your house. How many rooms? Do you have a garden? Do you have a shop? Is there a hoop above the garage? [...] Activate your imagination by adding unreasonable accomplishments. You'd be amazed at what is possible.

—from The Re-entry Guide: A Returning Citizen's Guide to Successfully Navigating through Re-entry, by Frank Patka and Ryan McCrone

I want to go to Berlin. At dawn, I want to buy freshly baked Semmeln at the neighborhood bakery, walking home amid the diaspora of ten or fifteen different countries. I want to enjoy my breakfast with coffee made from beans I just ground, while sitting at a high window to watch the city bloom into springtime wakefulness.

The apartment where I live is cool and aglow in pale orange from the rising sun. The cat purrs loudly, affectionately circling my ankle. Below this floor or perhaps next door, someone is singing, a tenor voice, tuneful and even. I can't make out the language of its lyrics, but its sound is lovely.

After eating, I sit in meditation. Then, with a fresh, clear mind, I begin the morning's writing. It's a novel I'm working on, my second. Writing fiction remains a challenging diversion from the essays, memoir pieces, and poetry that held my focus during the decades I spent in prison. My literary agent in America isn't confident in the book's marketability, which only makes me more thankful for her trust in my ability to create meaningful work.

After a few hours, I have an interview with an American podcaster, to talk snout overcoming bitterness and developing resilience. Even though it's the usual subject matter, interviews always make for interesting breaks from my routine, and I enjoy them even when they turn a little difficult.

Conversations like these always compel recollections of my early days in prison, the contrast between the scared, confused young man that I was and the self-assured person I became. For about the first half of my life, I didn't know what actually benefitted me. I wasted a lot of years, mindlessly chasing a good time. Because now they're more about contribution than about consumption, my pursuits today have meaning: video production for a nonprofit, teaching coping skills to people in need, speaking to educate and inspire, volunteering my time.

Later in the evening, I meet some friends for dinner. I wonder when, exactly, silverware stopped feeling strange in my hand. I eat deliberately, savoring each bite with care and close attention. Table talk consists of the heady and the ridiculous, from philosophical concepts to pop culture. We make tentative plans to take a trip to Poland in the summer. Then we go our separate ways and I head home on the train, watching the illuminated city pass my window. As the carriage gently rocks down the tracks, I think back to all those nights when I searched—usually fruitlessly—for a glimpse of the moon from my prison cell. I peer up at the sky over Berlin and think, Yeah, it's a good life.

This is all speculative, of course. Ask me again tomorrow and I might just as well say Vancouver or Amsterdam instead of Berlin. The locations are mere details. But the substance, you might say the heart, of the life that I want won't change.