E.

Bas/Unspeakable 1

Chapter 1: The Wind and the Willow Tree

I was always scared of the wind; in fact even I think it’s getting rather silly at

my age. The William Paterson University dormitories, made up of concrete

still seems rather weak to me when forced to withstand the wind. As secure

as I can be under my pillow and blanket, I picture the building shaking

violently, the surrounding trees collapsing one-by-one; no match for the

force of Mother Nature. Then I see it –-through my dorm room window the

large oak tree twenty feet away whipping back and forth, slowly losing its

strength and comes crashing down through my window. I silenced the

sounds of the wind with my headphones – my last-resort, secret weapon.

Large oak trees have surrounded me since I was a child. I grew up in

Pompton Lakes, New Jersey; a small, suburban town just minutes from my

campus. When it came time to pick a college, I wanted to go away, mainly

for the sake of moving out, and my parents wanted me close, for the sake of

driving me crazy. We struck a deal; I was to live on campus, provided it was

still in the state of New Jersey. I chose William Paterson University though I

could have gone farther away, but I got my dorm and my parents got their

daughter just minutes away – win/win.

As the semesters went by, living so close to home was more beneficial than I

originally had thought, especially when it came time to do laundry or if I was

craving mom’s cooking. I was in my final semester of college. I went home

almost every weekend; I love the feeling of waking up on Saturday morning

 2

in my own bed and coming downstairs for breakfast with mom, dad and my

younger brother Ian. I sat up from bed and put on my incredibly comfortable

moccasins. I took a brush to my messy hair --proof of a good night’s rest.

Downstairs I found my dad playing around with his newest toy – an iPad at

the kitchen table. If it was a gadget and it was popular, he had to have it. I

couldn’t even tell you how many times we replaced our television because

another with an even more exciting (and useless) feature came out.

My mother was finishing up the eggs and my brother was still asleep. I

greeted dad from behind with a hug and kiss on the cheek.

“Eva,” my mother asked without turning her back from the toaster. “Coffee

or tea?”

“Better make it coffee today,” I answered.

Breakfast usually consisted of talking about my week and course load,

conveniently forgetting wine night with my girlfriends and dollar-beer night

on Thursdays at the nearby bar. Dad was quieter than usual this morning,

fully enthralled at the article he is reading on his iPad.

I hear the sliding of feet from a distance, my brother –-eyes still shut, hair a

complete mess, walks like a zombie to the table, plopping himself down on

the chair.

“Long night?” I asked.

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“More like epic night.” Ian responded.

“Can’t you play your computer games at a reasonable time? I don’t

understand why it’s normal for you and your friends to play from one to five

in the morning.”

“…and you never will,” he responds before plopping his head down on the

table.

“Better make that two cups mom,” I said.

“Ain’t that something,” dad says under his breath. Ian lifts his head up to

listen in, a napkin remains stuck on his forehead.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Not sure if you remember this sweetheart but Calvin Botta is being released

from prison in five months.” He says in an almost anchorman-like voice.

“How could anybody forget Calvin Botta?” Mom said after finally turning

around. She was right though; how could anyone, especially in the town of

Pompton Lakes ever forget Calvin Botta?

“Let me see.” Dad handed over the iPad to me – cautiously of course. I read

the New York Times article myself; accompanying the story was a picture of

a fifteen-year old Calvin Botta during his arrest. I gazed at the picture; he

was wearing an orange jumpsuit, his head was down, his arms and ankles

handcuffed; under it displayed the date, October 12, 2000. He was just a
 4

fragile little boy at the time. I thought how unnecessary it was to cuff his

ankles. I was just twelve years old at the time; I remembered what he did

and the sense of fear came rushing back to me like it had when the murder

happened ten years ago. The same fear I felt when he was still on the loose

and I slept in my parents’ bedroom until he was captured because I was

convinced he would one night come through my window and hurt me. They

found Calvin Botta asleep in the woods near a lake -- cold and alone and

sobbing uncontrollably. The crime struck such fear across the town that no

one felt safe to even step outside. Schools were locked down and special

curfews were set for our safety. But when it was discovered to be at the

hands of a fifteen year-old boy at the time, it brought a mixture of anger,

confusion and despair for everyone.

A week before the discovery of the body, I remember one particular

afternoon raking with my brother. Raking was always a fun time because it

allowed me the privilege to toss Ian into the leaves. The trade-off of course

was cleaning up after. It was a rather quiet day for me however, mainly

because after school I had skipped soccer practice and all of my friends were

still there.

Pompton Lakes is a small town where everybody knows everybody. If you

were my age, it was almost likely that I knew you. So it was no surprise when

this mysterious boy I had never seen before that looked my age rode his

bicycle down my street it caught my attention. He looked around as if he was

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scared of the environment, so nervous of anyone seeing him –then he saw

me. He has these big, beautiful blue eyes –-I felt like his eyes pierced right

through me. He looked nervous and I looked curious. But as quick as our

eyes locked for that brief moment, he hastily turned away towards the road

peddling even faster now. There was something about his face that made me

think of him for days after that. His hair was brown and messy, his t-shirt was

old and his jeans were filthy and torn. But behind the unkempt hair and dirty

clothes was this beautiful looking boy who looked so fragile and scared that

it made me want to follow him for his own safety.

I stood outside my house for days waiting for him to ride his bike past me

again. I practiced how I would make him stop and talk to me and tell him

how he made me feel when he rode past. How when I first saw him, I froze

up and later kicked myself for it. But he never came back.

A week went by since I last saw the boy. The wind kept up into the night –

already scary enough for me but the thought of him somehow kept me calm.

The willow tree outside of my window was louder than usual. The frail

branches whipped around in all directions. I turned the volume up on the

television to drown out the sounds outside. I remember hearing the faint

sounds of police sirens; I thought nothing of them since my dad usually

watched crime shows on TV. The sirens grew louder and louder as they

roared past my house. I, along with my family and the rest of the block

stepped outside to see the commotion going on down the street.

 6

The police set up a perimeter, no one could get near the house that was

surrounded -- something big happened, but what could it be? Murder, was

the last thing we all thought. News spread throughout the town fast; a

murder in Pompton Lakes. This was not just a murder, this was a mutilation

by a sick and sadistic killer who convinced everyone that only the devil

himself could do such wicked evil. Before he set fire to his victim, he first

tortured him in ways no one could imagine. He was bound at the wrists and

ankles; his body was mutilated while he was still alive. His fingers, his toes,

his eyes, even his tongue was found scattered throughout the room. The

name of a woman was carved into his chest with what was later discovered

to be a pocketknife. It was such a gruesome crime scene that counseling was

readily available not only for the brave police force, but also the neighbors,

the schools and anyone in the town.

It was an evil that took hostage of our souls, throwing us into a rollercoaster

of panic and fear as the town awaited the killer to be captured. The story

spread through the country. Even when talked about in public, reactions

from listeners were followed instantly by looks of disgust and anger for even

bringing it up. It was an evil that was so unbelievable, that it almost became

unspeakable.

When I think back to those days, I realize now that I had more of my dad in

me than I originally thought. I always had an interest in crime since I was

young. My favorite times as a child was playing cops and robbers with Ian, I

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was always the cop – respectively. Mom and dad would always punish me

when I locked Ian in the basement for hours at times, claiming he was in jail.

Then there were the nights where I would forego watching sitcoms with mom

and instead sat with dad to watch Unsolved Mysteries. Even though I was

young I was somehow allowed to watch it crime shows. I always wanted to

be a super hero, I looked up to Wonder Woman; a huge poster of her covered

the wall next to my bed. I figured being a police officer would be the closest

thing to one. Later on I became more interested in the psychology of

criminals so it was no surprise to anyone when I claimed my major when I

got to college: criminal psychology. So when the murder in Pompton Lakes

happened ten years ago, it was more understandable now than ever why I

couldn’t keep away from it. As terrified as I was, I was impatient to hear

about newly release information and discoveries in evidence.

I remember awaking on that Sunday morning October,2000 in my bed the

day he was captured. Even at a young age it was the same routine:

moccasins then hair brush. This morning was different however; when I went

downstairs I found my mom and brother glued to the television.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“They caught him,” mom said.

“The killer?” I asked intriguingly. My eyes lit up in both relief and excitement

that I will get my hands on more juicy information.

 8

“Just this morning. They found him asleep in the woods, he confessed almost

immediately,” my mom said.

“Where’s dad?”

“Downstairs about to leave, he wants to take pictures,” mom said. I grabbed

my coat.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m a better photographer.” I said. Even at a young age I was quick with the

tongue. I threw on my pink Converse sneakers and ran downstairs as fast as

my twelve year-old legs could take me --hoping dad didn’t already back out

of the driveway.

I climbed in his car and buckled up; he didn’t say a word, he smiled as if he

was already expected me. We pulled out of the driveway and were off to see

him with our own eyes. The only thing separating my dad and I was both a

digital and video camera.

We parked almost three blocks away. Traffic was not moving so there was no

point to try to drive the car any closer. We ran as fast as we could towards

the crowd of reporters and paparazzi outside of the police department. The

killer was inside ready to be transferred to a maximum prison while he

awaited trial.

It was too crowded, no possible way for us to get any closer. I on the other

hand was smaller and thinner. Dad handed me the digital camera while he

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manned the video camera from a distance. I managed to squeeze through all

the way to the front barricades. I began snapping photos of the

surroundings. I even turned the camera on myself flashing a peace sign with

the crowd of reporters and paparazzi behind me; I was clearly the only one

there not on the clock.

A few officers walked out of the building first. Some other officers swiftly

began to clear a path through the reporters for the truck to get as close as

possible that will be transporting the suspect.

Then I saw him. Walking out of the building escorted heavily by officers was

the same boy who had rode his bike past me that one windy afternoon. I

could hear the chains clashing against each other on his ankles and wrists

over his orange prison jumpsuit. I put the camera down, frozen once again,

unable to snap any photos. His head was down completely, his cheeks were

rosy red, and his eyes were puffy -- as if he spent the entire night crying.

Pictures and flash bulbs were going off like a lightning storm around me, yet

I still could not move. Then it happened, he looked up just once, but in that

one time, he looked straight at me. For that brief moment, we had once

again locked eyes. He looked at me, as if he was calling out for help. I

refused to admit to it at the time but a huge part of me felt I had wanted to

console the boy, hug him and tell him everything will be okay. As quick as he

lifted his head, an officer pushed it back down as he was assisted into the

back of the truck and whisked away.

 10

I look back to that day with a sense of confusion with myself. Why did I have

such an overwhelming emotion for him? More importantly, why when he

looked up, did he only look at me? It’s been ten years since I last heard of

Calvin Botta. So it was no surprise when I held up the iPad and I saw his face

staring back at me after all of these years, it brought back a wave of

emotions, but also this time, more questions.

The following Monday, I didn’t realize how fast the semester was going until

Professor Wayne began mentioning our dissertation topics.

Professor Wayne was large in stature; he had the kind of gaze where you

genuinely felt both guilty and scared if you disrupted his lecture. I sat in the

middle of the classroom; it was close enough to keep my attention towards

the lecture but far enough where I could answer text messages without

being seen.

His class was my favorite, it also helped that he was handsome, and

physically fit man in his early forties. He had salt and pepper hair and left

stubble on his face, which I found a little attractive. You can tell through the

way he spoke that that he still had a passion for teaching after all of these

years – even if some of the students were to blame for his grey hairs. I will

admit I am guilty of taking up a little extra of his time after class discussing

current news or going over homework; so it was no shocker when he

revealed to me I was one of his favorite students.

My mind wouldn’t let go of Calvin Botta, I thought about him all times of the

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day. I wondered what came of him, I thought about how scared he must

have been his first night in prison all of those years ago; but I thought most

about what he looked like now. I started searching for any recent photos of

Calvin on the Internet I could find, but there was nothing –- as if he no longer

exists.

My search for anything on him became almost obsessive. The only

information I could find is his current address – Rahway Prison. It occurred to

me when I glanced over at my syllabus sticking out of my folder that I had

only until tomorrow to pick a topic for my dissertation. I couldn’t think of

anything else I’d want to spend researching more than Calvin Botta.
 12

Chapter 2: Rendezvous at Rahway

The next day in class, I was asked to stay after. I figured it was regarding my

topic and I was right. After the classroom emptied, Professor Wayne stood up

from his chair and walked around his desk. He leaned against the desk with

paper in hand.

“You know this is going to be a tough one right? he said, hoping I would

reconsider.

“I know. That’s probably why I’m doing it.”

He looked down, snickering. I could tell he was impressed at my persistence

to constantly challenge myself. I continued:

“It’s a big part of my town and yet we know nothing about him. I want

answers, and I want to get them straight from him.”

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“Straight from him? What do you mean? You want to interview him too?” He

said in disbelief?

“That’s the plan.”

“Plan? I’d like to hear the rest of your plan,” he said.

“Well, it maybe, kind of involves you. I remember in the beginning of the

semester you said you worked as a corrections officer at Rahway. Can’t you

maybe talk to someone? Pull a few strings?”

“I haven’t worked at Rahway for more than five years Eva,” he said.

“But people you know could still be there right?” I went dead silent after and

didn’t break eye contact; it was a persuasion tactic I learned from my dad --

a former car salesman.

He didn’t answer, instead just dropped his head. I could tell he was getting

slightly uneasy with my persistence. He looked at the clock as if he was

finding an excuse to exit.

“I’ll see what I can do and get back to you.”

I smiled at him, using my charm as much as possible.

“Thank you, it would mean so much to me,” I said, anchoring my emotional

well being to the outcome of his decision –-my final tactic to win him over.

My dorm room desk was now a cluttered mess, definitely a change from my

almost obsessive compulsive-like cleaning. Professor Wayne didn’t formally

 14

agree to helping but I did not need his approval to begin my own research; I

picked my topic and there is no backing out now. Scattered about were all of

the print articles I could find about the murder. I also managed to secure

some documents regarding his arraignment and court transcriptions from

those who testified against Calvin.

The door opens, Riley, my roommate plops her book bag down by the mini-

fridge and kicks off her boots.

“Hello Thanksgiving break!” Riley says. She stops and assesses the mess on

my desk.

“When did the tornado hit?”

“Funny.” I responded.

Riley was an attractive curly-haired blonde. I was by no means an ugly

duckling but when Riley and I were out together, she always got more

attention from the boys. She has an almost addictive personality, the type

you just couldn’t forget when first meeting. Her smile was big and bright, it

was no surprise to me when she told me she did print modeling. Riley and I

balanced each other out well, she taught me that having fun in college was

just as important as studying while I always stayed on top of her schoolwork

and ensured she didn’t fall behind.

“What time is your flight?” I asked.

“One o’clock tomorrow.”

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“Do you want me to stay tonight? I was thinking of going back home a little

early to get started on my paper.”

“I don’t mind, it just gives me options if Adam wants to sleep over tonight,”

Riley said smiling deviously.

“You do anything on my bed and I will tell the entire floor the time you peed

your pants.”

“It was New Years Eve and I was passed out drunk! Doesn’t everyone at one

point pee themselves when they are that drunk?”

“I’m getting you a bed pan for Christmas.” I replied.

“Do they come in pink?”

“Not too sure about custom-order bedpans but I’ll look into it,” I said.

I typed Calvin’s name into Google, something I’ve done dozens of time a day,

hoping a new search result would mysteriously appear that I have yet to see.

Riley placed the iPod I let her borrow back on my desk.

“Did you figure out your topic yet?” Riley asked.

I gestured for her to look at the screen.

“Calvin Botta huh?”

“Yeah, problem is I can’t seem to turn up anything new,” I said.

At that moment, I received a notice that I had new mail. I pressed the link. It
 16

was Professor Wayne:

“If you have prior obligations this Thanksgiving break, I suggest you break

them. Check your mailbox. Good luck, Professor Wayne.”

Riley and I turned and looked at each other. I jumped from my chair and ran

out the door to the main floor. At this point I’m shaking with excitement, I

can’t even manage to get the key in the mailbox lock on the first try. I finally

open the box, inside: a single folded letter-size manila envelope with my

name in permanent marker.

I turned and raced back to my dorm room. Riley, impatiently waiting for my

arrival, jumped out of her bed when the door swung open.

“Open it!” Riley said like a child on Christmas.

We sat on my bed, a wave of excitement washes over me. I removed the

rubber band and unsealed the metal fastener. The contents inside: a typed

letter and a DVD.

I covered my mouth in disbelief.

“What does it say?” Riley asked impatiently.

I froze, I felt excited but my nerves came crashing down. I managed to finally

look up and acknowledge Riley with a smile. I handed her the letter: a

visitation pass to Rahway Prison.

“Just don’t wear a skirt,” Riley responded with her trademark charm.

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I anxiously loaded the DVD into my Macbook.

“I’m almost scared to watch, the kid gives me the heebie jeebies,” Riley

says.

The DVD plays:

Suspect: Calvin James Botta

October 12, 2000

Detective Michael DiMotta

Pompton Lakes, New Jersey

Calvin is sitting alone behind a metal table. The room is a bare white; the

fluorescent ceiling lights offering no ambient warmth. On the table is a single

cassette recorder. Detective DiMotta is sitting at the end, leaning in and

resting his elbows on the table.

Calvin looks as pale as can be in the orange jumpsuit. His face is slightly

flushed with red from both restlessness and a constant stream of tears.

Detective DiMotta drills into Calvin with questions. DiMotta’s voice gets

louder; at one point he stands and slaps the table startling Calvin. Calvin

looks scared for his life; he puts his head down, his shoulders bouncing up

and down as he weeps in his own arms.

 18

I looked at Riley; she cupped her mouth with both hands. The sound of Calvin

sobbing uncontrollably was almost too unbearable. Riley ejects the DVD

before we could finish watching. We sat there silent. As sad as the video

made me feel, I became even more anxious to see him with my own eyes.

Later, I found myself walking alone through the main prison floor, inmates

screaming the most profane words in all directions and heights. I stopped at

Calvin’s cell – still a boy. He looked up at me with those big blue eyes and

asked my name.

“Eva,” I muttered with a trembling voice.

“Are you hear to save me?” he said in the most innocent child-like voice.

“I can’t save you Calvin,” I said. He began to cry, banging his head against

the bars. A river of blood washed down from his forehead. I reached over and

put my hands through the bars to stop him. He grabbed my arms, blood

soaking onto my arms and told me to run.

Just then, I looked over and right in the middle of the main floor was a large

oak tree whipping around. I ran but no doors would open. I began screaming

for help for the guards to open the doors but no one could hear me over the

sounds of the inmates yelling.

The tree was picking up momentum; it was about to topple over any minute

from the wind coming from all directions and there was nowhere I could run

for safety. I started crying, trying to open any door, banging as hard as I

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could screaming at the top of my lungs. The tree started tipping, branches

cracking in half and crashing to the ground. Calvin’s cell door opens.

“In here Eva,” Calvin said in an ever so peaceful tone. I ran inside his cell.

Calvin stepped out of the cell to see the tree.

“It’s a beautiful tree,” he said smiling.

“It’s about to fall, come back! You’ll be killed!” I yelled.

I went to grab him but the cell door shut, locking me in alone. The tree

stopped shaking, Calvin looked at me and smiled.

“Let me out!” I cried. He ignored me and walked away.

I jumped up, relieved that I was back in my own bed at home. I wiped the

tears from my eyes, reaching for the bottled water on my nightstand to calm

myself. It was a nightmare that felt all but too real.

The next morning I began penning questions I would ask Calvin, a task

proven to be more difficult than I had originally thought. I crossed out the

first question I wrote: “Can you take me back to the day of the murder?” I

threw my notebook on my desk in frustration.

I remember the way he went silent when being questioned I did not want to

come off like I was scolding him, trying to get answers. I wanted to instead

just listen to anything he wanted to say. I ditched the prepped question

approach. I thought about the day I saw him ride his bike past and what I
 20

wanted to tell him when we caught each other’s gazes.

I wanted to tell him how beautiful he looked to me even in those dirty

clothes. I wanted to tell him that in that moment, that moment that was so

quick made such a lasting impression on me. I wanted to tell him how I stood

outside at that exact time everyday waiting for him to ride his bike past me;

how I had my bicycle conveniently outside ready to catch up to him the next

time I saw him. I wanted to tell him how I wanted to hug and comfort him

when our eyes met again outside of the police station. I just wanted to forget

about everything that happened and tell him how he made me feel and

forget about what he did.

I began to question my own sanity at this moment, trying to remind myself

he was a cold-blooded killer. I turned around to my television to find ‘Silence

of the Lambs’ playing. It was the scene where Clarice met Dr. Hannibal

Lecter for the first time, the connection between the sociopath and the

agent-in-training was very apparent. I pictured the same scenario but with

Calvin and I. I was very familiar of the scene, as I owned the movie along

with many other psychological thrillers found in my DVD collection.

It occurred to me during breakfast I had not told my parents about my

dissertation topic when mom asked if I picked a topic yet.

“Yes, I’m doing it on Calvin Botta.”

“Really?” Dad said intrigued.

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“And I also have a chance to interview him.”

“Where? He’s still in prison.” Mom asked.

“Right.”

“Prison! You want to interview him in prison? That’s way too dangerous!”

Mom said.

“I’ll be fine mom.”

“She’ll be fine. Look at those muscles on her” Dad said poking fun at my

skinny frame.

“Michael, you don’t know what can happen with all of those murderers in

there!” Mom said.

“She’s right Eva.” Dad says.

I looked away, obviously disapproving of their opinion.

“Ian, run to Walmart, grab fifty boxes of the game Monopoly and collect all of

the get-out-jail-free cards,” Dad says. He turns to me:

“If anyone threatens you, you hand them one okay?”

Ian and I break out in laughter; mom shakes her head in disbelief. Dad

always had a funny way to inject humor into serious conversations.

I didn’t sleep much later that night, I was too eager to begin my drive to

Rahway Prison to meet Calvin the following Sunday morning. I did not know
 22

what to expect or if he would even utter a single word to me, but it was

worth a shot. A big part of me just wanted to look at him one more time as

the young girl I was and the young boy he was. I wanted to know if he would

remember me if I told him I was the girl he saw standing outside the house

on that dreadful day.

I was to stay at a motel near the prison. I packed a week of clothes for just a

four-day stay. There was a brisk cool in the air as I packed my car, a used

two-door white Honda Civic with my belongings. Dad fiddled with the

settings on the video camera before placing it in my car. He wanted photos

and video of everything I was able to shoot though I doubt I would be

allowed to take it inside the prison.

Mom walked out of the house still in her robe.

“Here,” she said handing me pepper spray.

“Pepper spray mom? Really?”

“Just take it, piece of mind. You call me every night okay?” she said in a

nervous tone.

“Not a very intimidating color mom,” I said joking about the pink case around

the pepper spray.

She laughed and hugged me as if I was leaving home for good. Her fear was

starting to rub off on me. I thought of the humorous irony between the two

items my mother and father handed me: one shot a harmful spray and the

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other shot photos.

“Call us when you get to the motel sweetheart,” dad said proudly.

“I will, go inside, it’s cold out here and you’re still both in your pajamas,” I

said.

Dad opened the car door for me. I buckled my seat belt and waved goodbye

as I shut the door. I backed out of the driveway, ready for Rahway.

Chapter 3: The Calvin Complex

I always enjoyed driving; even when I was with friends I would always be the

one behind the wheel. Maybe part of me just hates not being in control.

Sometimes I would even take my car out just to cruise around and clear my

head with some music. Or I would drive to this certain cul-de-sac where I
 24

could park and enjoy the beautiful New York City skyline. I mostly enjoyed

being in my car during the rain. There was something about a confined space

that protected me from the weather that felt so secure and safe to me. The

scenery transitioned from the peaceful roads and highways I know to the

forgotten inner city of Newark. I encountered many potholes and stop-and-go

traffic. The environment was a little frightening at the moment; I locked the

doors and remembered where exactly the pepper spray was in my purse. My

mother’s paranoia was beginning to rear its ugly head. I did feel a little guilty

and childish for being scared when I had no reason to be.

My GPS announced my arrival. I pulled up to the very bland looking motel lot.

I popped the trunk and wheeled my suitcase to the office with my laptop bag

on my shoulder, completely forgetting the half-full cola I left on the hood of

my car. I rang the bell at the front desk; a large African-American male

greeted me with a smile.

“How many hours?” he asked with a Jamaican accent.

“Hours?” I said quizzically. He let out a roaring laughter and pushed his

dread-locks back behind.

“My apologies.”

“I’ll be checking out Thanksgiving morning.”

“Cash only,” he responded.

“Cash only? You probably lose a lot of business,” I said removing an

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envelope of twenties my father gave me – as independent as I can be, I’m

still daddy’s little girl.

“You aren’t aware of the business then,” he responded. It suddenly hit me

what he was hinting at after handing him the cash.

“Can I please have an end room?” I asked, I suppose to be as far away as

possible from any noise I may encounter through the walls.

“This way,” he said, grabbing a key from the behind him. I followed him

outside, he offered to carry my suitcase but I graciously declined.

He unlocked the end room door, it was nothing special, which I didn’t mind; I

was concerned more about the cleanliness. He handed me the key and went

back to the office. I locked the door behind me and first unpacked my laptop

onto the desk. I dialed home while checking out the bathroom.

“Hey mom, I guess you’re busy, just calling to say I’m here. Love you.”

I opened the bathroom’s small window to release the trapped musky air. I

finished unpacking and laid out my wardrobe options. I knew I would be in a

prison with men so I did not want any suggestive clothing but part of me

wanted to in fact look ‘cute’ for Calvin as strange as that seemed to me.

Later on, I picked up some Chinese food and sat at the desk with my laptop. I

talked myself into prepping some questions just so I had something readily

available to say in case he gave me the silent treatment. I didn’t want just

questions though; I wanted to engage him to the point where he would end
 26

up wanting to talk to me rather than just spewing his canned responses. I

wanted to be prepared for any cards he dealt me; after all, time was limited.

I walked around the motel in sweatpants, a sports bra and my moccasins

while going over the notes I accumulated. My cell phone rang:

“Hello?”

“Nervous?” the mystery voice asked.

“Professor Wayne?”

“Bingo,” he replied.

“A little, more on the anxious side.”

“He’s very smart from what I remembered when I was a guard. He reads a

lot, self-educated in fact. He can go on for hours about anything from Edgar

Allen Poe or Robert Frost.”

“So he likes poetry,” I said.

“To name a few yes. He’s smarter than you think, I feel like really isn’t

anything he doesn’t know at this point. Last time I saw him he was re-

reading ‘The Odyssey’. He read just about every book in the prison library in

fact. I do remember him being partial to nature, birds in particular.”

“Birds huh?”

“Well, I better get going. You won’t get much out of him if you try to get him

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if he refuses to talk, no matter what you throw at him. Might as well be

declared a mute. Valiant effort thus far, you already earned some good

points for the extra work you’ve done.”

After hanging up, I felt more motivated than ever to impress Professor

Wayne. I wanted to prove to him that I could get Calvin to talk to me.

Tomorrow could not come any sooner.

The next morning I awoke extra early to make sure I allotted enough time to

eat, iron my clothes and review my materials one last time. I decided to go

with black trousers and a black blazer with a white button-down blouse --an

outfit I had once purchased for a job interview. On the way back from picking

up my breakfast, I stopped at a bookstore to purchase a gift for Calvin. I was

scheduled to meet with Calvin at 1pm; I pulled up to Rahway Prison at

12:30pm. I have a fear of being late for meetings; I would rather be two

hours early than two minutes late. In anticipation of being searched, I took

with me just the essentials: my notebook, a tape recorder and Calvin’s gift

and left everything else in the car.

I walked at a slower pace than usual, the haunting cement building, housing

some of the most dangerous criminals was right in front of me, and I, a girl of

just one-hundred and ten pounds was about to enter it. I practiced in my

head ignoring the profanities that would be shouted at me from inmates who

probably haven’t seen a girl in years. I stopped to look up, a flock of birds

darted through the sky catching my attention. I thought of the irony of being
 28

‘as free as a bird’ meanwhile I was standing outside of a prison. I stopped to

take a breath, my heart was racing and my hands were clammy. I took a sip

of water before I began walking again. There was a brief moment where I

wanted to turn around but I pushed myself to keep walking. As scared as I

was, there was nowhere else I would rather be.

I opened the door to the prison and was immediately greeted by a two

guards.

“This way ma’am,” the guard said politely. I smiled and thanked him for his

courtesy.

I approached another guard protected heavily by what I assumed was

bulletproof glass. I slipped him my credentials under the glass.

“So you’re the girl who wants to see Calvin huh? Tough cookie that kid is,

don’t be surprised if he doesn’t talk. He sure knows how to piss people off.

You wouldn’t be the first reporter that left cursing up a storm.”

“I’m a student officer,” I said.

“A student?” he said, looking at me like I had three heads.

I cut him off before it looked like he was about to turn me away:

“...And I will do my best to not let it get to me officer...Hale,” I said looking

down at his nametag.

I could tell he was reluctant to let the interview happen, he opened the door

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 E. Bas/Unspeakable 29

behind the glass and walked out from his desk. Now standing towering over

me, he pointed for me to go through the metal detector. I placed my blazer

and the rest of my belongings in a bin on a conveyor belt to be x-rayed for

contraband.

I walked through without the alarm going off.

“Left the gun at home today,” I said jokingly. No one laughed.

I put my blazer back on and collected my belongings from the bin.

I, along with two guards continue down the corridor towards the main prison

floor.

“We’ll be watching you at all times. You may hand him the book you bought

but he is not to put a finger on any pens, pencils or anything else, got it?”

the guard said sternly.

“Understood,” I said.

“For your safety, keep an arms length away from the bars. If anything

happens, you yell for a guard.”

“Understood.”

We hung a left to an even narrower corridor, skipping the entrance to the

main floor.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

 30

“Holding cell at infirmary. Calvin was in a fight today and needed minor

medical attention, he’s fine though.”

“Does he know I am coming?”

“He’s expecting you.”

“Does he get a lot of visitors?”

“Reporters mainly, never students.”

“What about family?”

“Not since his first year here, poor fella,” the guard said with an audible sigh.

At that moment it became evident to me that Calvin Botta was a special kind

of inmate to the guards and to the rest of Rahway Prison.

We entered an even smaller corridor with five holding cells. Out of the five

holding cells, only two were occupied: one by Calvin and the other by the

inmate he fought.

I was escorted to the very last cell by another guard carrying a folding chair.

It became all too surreal to me. I took a few deep breaths to ensure I was

prepared for this. It was almost like this was all a dream.

The guard walked ahead of me, I clenched my notebook; my heart was

beating so loud I felt like everyone could hear it. I put the notebook against

my chest, hoping it would stop my heart if it so happened to burst from my

chest. Surprisingly, I did not hear a word from the other inmate as I passed

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his cell. I am now just a few feet Calvin. The guard has stopped in front of a

cell, I was just a few feet from Calvin’s view now.

I shut my eyes and counted to three with one last deep breath. I walked in

front of the cell. I looked around but did not see Calvin in sight. The back

right of the cell where he was sitting was eclipsed with darkness. The guard

unfolded the chair and walked away. It was just Calvin and I now.

I froze again for the moment; I knew he was waiting for me to talk but I

didn’t know how to begin although I had practiced this many times before;

the words just weren’t there. I said the first thing that came to my mind:

“I’m not a reporter you know,” I said whimsically, realizing immediately after

how unprofessional and plain childish that probably sounded. I waited for a

response but got nothing. He was playing the silent treatment though I

wasn’t deterred. I kept going:

“Mr. Botta, I’m Eva Venti, a student from William Paterson University. I’m

working on my dissertation. I also live in Pompton Lakes.”

I heard his feet touch the ground and the bedsprings recoil as he rose to his

feet. I was still standing at this point as he walked from out of the darkness.

He was wearing a grey prison jumpsuit that was unzipped so the top half was

hanging from his waist. I froze again when he for the third time in my life

caught my gaze. It seemed he had this magical hold on me that could take

the breath from my lungs away at any given moment. His hair was medium
 32

length but neatly slicked back. His blue eyes were deep-socketed and ice-

cold which was almost haunting against the pale complexion from the lack of

sunlight. He was wearing a white tank top under but it was obvious he was in

peak physical condition likely from excessive exercise with all of the

downtime he had when he wasn’t reading. His body was reminiscent of a

Greek God, as if he was a statue that was chiseled to flawless perfection. I

admired him like he was a piece of artwork that could only be housed in the

Louvre. The boy I saw so long ago grew up to be one of the most beautiful

men I have ever seen. His ribs were taped with gauze from what I presumed

was compliments of the inmate he was in the scuffle with.

I didn’t know what to expect when he opened his mouth. He looked at me

and said in an ever-so-comforting voice:

“You can sit down if you would like.”

I was caught off guard. The last thing I expected was such hospitable

warmth. I obliged and sat.

“Is it a good school, where you go?” He asked curiously.

“I don’t mind it, close to home.”

“I saw photos, seems like a delightful place to be.”

He was so eloquent when he spoke, like anything he said could be mistaken

for a sonnet.

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 E. Bas/Unspeakable 33

“And you are doing your dissertation on me?” he asked with a half smile.

“Yes.”

“Are you interested in law enforcement or psychology?”

“Criminal Psychology,” I said, impressed by how he easily he can piece

together a background with such minimal information.

“Then why is your dissertation about me?”

“Well, it is regarding the psychoanalysis of a person who committed a

murder...respectively.”

“Does the crime I did make me a murderer Eva?”

“By the court of New Jersey it does,” I regretted saying that, this was not

how I planned for this to go.

“Be that as it may, by the court system I have committed a crime which

respectively makes me a criminal. However, I firmly believe there is a

difference between a criminal and a person who committed a crime. A boy

who steals once from the cookie jar shouldn’t be known perpetually as the

cookie jar bandit should he? And I do not believe I should bare the title of

murderer for the rest of my life. Do you?” he said a bit standoffish but still in

his mellow, soft voice.

I had no response; he had already outsmarted me. I felt my just being there

was offending him, but I could tell he had much to get off of his chest but
 34

only to the right person. Why me? I had no idea.

“I just want to know...who you are,” I said which was so far the only words

that I truly meant to say.

“You have yet to press ‘record, Eva’ he said looking down at my tape

recorder I have clenched in my hand. I felt guilty for bringing it. I placed it

down on the floor next to me without turning it on. He looked at me, a bit

confused with a slight smirk.

“No tape recorder,” I said.

“Your ribs?”

“It will scar but I will live.”

“What happened?”

“Just a new guy looking to introduce a bold reputation, sadly I have a feeling

my friends will have an even more proper introduction ready for him when

he is released from the infirmary.”

“So what have you learned?” he asked.

“I’m sorry?” I asked quizzically.

“About me, what have you learned?”

“Just what I was able to get my hands on. Some court documents, newspaper

clippings, nothing out of the ordinary.”

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 E. Bas/Unspeakable 35

“I meant about me,” he smiled as he approached closer, looking down like

he was embarrassed to ask.

“I learned what I could from my professor who once was a guard here.”

“Wayne,” He said with a reminiscent smile.

“Yes.”

“He is a brilliant man. He inspired me to read more. More importantly, he

treated me like a human being. How is he? I have not seen him in years. You

must send him my regards.”

“He told me you liked poetry,” I answered. I stood up, arms length away from

the prison bars as instructed with my gift in hand.

“Another poetry book I presume. It’s okay, I don’t bite,” he smiled and

reached out his hand.

“You get a lot of poetry books as gifts?” I asked as I cautiously handed him

the gift. I wasn’t scared of Calvin, I was just following orders; if he had asked

me to I’d have reached my whole arm into the cell to hand him the gift.

“Yes, usually when reporters hear I like poetry, they purchase books I have

already read. I have four copies of the complete Poe collection if you are

interested in taking one home.”

His smile faded and he went dead silent when he removed the gift from the

paper bag.
 36

“Figured you were getting sick of poetry,” I said. I looked at him; he was an

awe of his gift --a copy of the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are. I

felt a bit of happiness for outsmarting him this time.

He had no words, just a smile and a nod of approval. He took the book and

sat at the edge of the bed.

“I can’t tell you the last time I held this book,” he said as he thumbed

through the pages. He looked like a child again to me. At one point I thought

he had forgotten I was sitting there. I stayed quiet, not wanting to ruin the

nostalgic moment he was having with another question. He looked up and

thanked me.

I looked at my notepad; I had not asked him anything I wrote down.

“Times up,” the guard yelled.

I rose from the chair and collected my belongings.

“Thank you for your time.” I said courteously.

My head was down as I walked away; though he did speak to me, I felt no

real progress was made. That was what I originally thought until he asked:

“Will I see you again?” he asked in a childish tone. I stopped and turned

around, smiled and nodded yes before walking off, leaving him alone with his

new book.

36