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motive I could clearly articulate to myself even if it didn’t satisfy others.
     “Tell me again, Jason,” I often heard from friends, “why are you wasting your time preparing to write letters to killers,
     instead of coming with us to the party?”
    What I realized is that the only answer people would accept was that I was working on a research project for school. In fact,
     this turned out to be true.
    For my political science class, we had to do a research paper on some facet of the discipline. We had a brief section on capital
     punishment in the textbook, so I figured if I asked some actual killers how they felt about the subject, it might add some
     legitimacy to what was otherwise a pretty harebrained scheme. I also figured that, given the unique quotes that would be layered
     in, the paper couldn’t help earning a high grade.
    After class one afternoon, I decided to run my idea past the professor to see what he thought. I could feel the presence of
     two or three other students behind me, listening, as I described what I had in mind.
    “Professor Gillman, I was thinking about doing my research paper on capital punishment and—”
    “Well, that’s great,” he interrupted me. “But the paper is not due until four months from now.” He was dismissing me and already
     moving on to the next student.
    I hurriedly continued. “I know, but I usually like to get an early start.” I had his attention again. “What I want to know
     is if it would be all right if I focused the paper on capital punishment from the prisoners’ viewpoint?”
    “What do you mean?” he asked.
    “I was going to write some condemned killers and find out as much as I could about how they felt on the issue. I thought that
     would be a unique angle, and would make for an interesting paper. Don’t you think?”
    He didn’t seem impressed. In fact, he looked annoyed, although I had no idea why. “I think there’s enough research out there
     on capital punishment without you doing all this unnecessary poking.”
    Poking,
I remember thinking. Is that all I’d be doing?
    I could see the other students staring at me. They seemed surprised as much by my early start on the term paper as by my choice
     of subject. One of the guys turned to me and asked, “So who are you going to write to?”
    I shrugged off the question. I knew where this conversation would lead. And I’d taken enough hits already from my family and
     friends.
    “Jason, come on! What’s the
real
reason you want to talk to these killers?” my buddies would tease. Or they’d call out to me across campus: “Hey, Jason, get
     any letters from Manson lately?”
    Then they’d giggle and I’d laugh back, all the while stifling my irritation. But how could I blame them? I never took the
     time to really explain the
why
of it all. Maybe because I was afraid to confront it.
    When I was totally honest with myself, I realized that part of the reason I was reaching out to these killers was that I
admired
them. Not for their crimes certainly—their behavior was beyond reprehensible—but for their nerve and follow-through. Not
     only did they dare to spit in the face of the rules that govern all people everywhere, but they did it
repeatedly,
as if taunting those who would try to control them.
    At a time in my life when I was naturally experiencing some tension between what was expected of me—the “right path”—and a
     building urge to make my mark in a unique way, it was easier for these killers’ actions to evoke in me a kind of awe.
    Only later, after it was all over, would I realize the truth: that the perversion I read about—and ultimately witnessed—was
     weakness masquerading as strength.
    I’d always known that there is a close link between criminals and those who catch them. I’d heard interviews in which police
     officers confided that they could have easily gone the other way if they’d gotten different breaks. And of course, there’s
     the phenomenon in