that you have to talk over people like an asshole or talk soft and sad so people feel sorry for you. Some people go with one or the other, always. But I do it call by call. From the moment I hear their voice. There’s something instinctual about it. When I hear the hello, I make a decision. Aggressive or pathetic. It keeps it interesting.”
Telemarketing was Trenton’s first job when he was seventeen. He was good at it, so he kept at it. Now he works that job in addition to one as a customer service representative at Medialink Cable Company—similar work, he says, though better-paying and less stressful.
“Anything but food service,” he explains to me. “Anything.”
Most of his earnings go toward his tuition at college, where he is now a junior, majoring in marketing. He shares a two-bedroom apartment with three other students, which keeps his rent low. The Barbieris occasionally help him out when he runs into financial difficulty.
He says he wished his brother were as lucky as he has been. He hopes he can help Dustin when he gets out of detention—after he himself graduates and gets a full-time job and a place of his own.
“Dustin—he had it tougher because this all happened when he was younger. But he’s old enough now to face reality. I wish I could help him with that. But I’ve figured out that that’s something no one can really help you do. You need to be ready to realize you’ve been bullshitting yourself.”
Admittedly, I’d only skimmed most of the parts of Zach’s book that weren’t about Zach himself. I didn’t remember these brothers very well.
And the last portion Kim had marked was this:
Dustin maintains his mother’s innocence all these years later—a position to which he attributes some of his difficulties with the Barbieris.
“They didn’t want me to ever talk about it. Or at least they didn’t want me to talk about it except in the way they wanted.”
By “they” he means “the social workers—and the families, at least some of the time. It’s frustrating to have to live with someone who doesn’t want you to ever say what’s on your mind.”
He says he finds that more people here in juvie are willing to listen to his thoughts about the murder than people on the outside are.
For one, there is Sharon Silverstein, who teaches English and history in the detention center’s high-school classes. She has encouraged Dustin to write about his parents. Usually he’s done so in the form of songs. He isn’t willing to share any of his songs.
“They’re shitty,” he says. “I need to hone my craft a little more. Maybe I can buy a guitar when I get out. My parents promised me one, back in the day. But obviously that didn’t work out.”
Another good listener is his classmate Anthony.
Dustin and Anthony are both sixteen. Though they don’t seem to acknowledge it, they are perhaps drawn to each other because they are two of the few inmates in this facility from a white suburban background.
“Anthony’s the only one I’ve told everything about what happened with my parents,” Dustin says.
Anthony and Dustin sit together in the dining hall at lunchtime.
“There were a lot of things the police didn’t want to pay attention to,” says Dustin. “They weren’t listening to what I was really saying. I was a confused kid. It’s their job as the adults to read between the lines and make sense of the story, not try to confuse me more and catch me in a lie. I’d just watched my father die. Then you’re gonna treat me like that?
“And there was other shit the police never followed up on. There was a holdup at a convenience store a few blocks away two nights before my dad was shot. A black guy and a white guy. Very unusual for our town, that kind of thing. Just like what happened at our house was very unusual. But that was real and ours wasn’t somehow. How does that make sense?”
Dustin pauses to shovel grayish peas into his mouth.
Anthony looks bored. He has
Telemarketing was Trenton’s first job when he was seventeen. He was good at it, so he kept at it. Now he works that job in addition to one as a customer service representative at Medialink Cable Company—similar work, he says, though better-paying and less stressful.
“Anything but food service,” he explains to me. “Anything.”
Most of his earnings go toward his tuition at college, where he is now a junior, majoring in marketing. He shares a two-bedroom apartment with three other students, which keeps his rent low. The Barbieris occasionally help him out when he runs into financial difficulty.
He says he wished his brother were as lucky as he has been. He hopes he can help Dustin when he gets out of detention—after he himself graduates and gets a full-time job and a place of his own.
“Dustin—he had it tougher because this all happened when he was younger. But he’s old enough now to face reality. I wish I could help him with that. But I’ve figured out that that’s something no one can really help you do. You need to be ready to realize you’ve been bullshitting yourself.”
Admittedly, I’d only skimmed most of the parts of Zach’s book that weren’t about Zach himself. I didn’t remember these brothers very well.
And the last portion Kim had marked was this:
Dustin maintains his mother’s innocence all these years later—a position to which he attributes some of his difficulties with the Barbieris.
“They didn’t want me to ever talk about it. Or at least they didn’t want me to talk about it except in the way they wanted.”
By “they” he means “the social workers—and the families, at least some of the time. It’s frustrating to have to live with someone who doesn’t want you to ever say what’s on your mind.”
He says he finds that more people here in juvie are willing to listen to his thoughts about the murder than people on the outside are.
For one, there is Sharon Silverstein, who teaches English and history in the detention center’s high-school classes. She has encouraged Dustin to write about his parents. Usually he’s done so in the form of songs. He isn’t willing to share any of his songs.
“They’re shitty,” he says. “I need to hone my craft a little more. Maybe I can buy a guitar when I get out. My parents promised me one, back in the day. But obviously that didn’t work out.”
Another good listener is his classmate Anthony.
Dustin and Anthony are both sixteen. Though they don’t seem to acknowledge it, they are perhaps drawn to each other because they are two of the few inmates in this facility from a white suburban background.
“Anthony’s the only one I’ve told everything about what happened with my parents,” Dustin says.
Anthony and Dustin sit together in the dining hall at lunchtime.
“There were a lot of things the police didn’t want to pay attention to,” says Dustin. “They weren’t listening to what I was really saying. I was a confused kid. It’s their job as the adults to read between the lines and make sense of the story, not try to confuse me more and catch me in a lie. I’d just watched my father die. Then you’re gonna treat me like that?
“And there was other shit the police never followed up on. There was a holdup at a convenience store a few blocks away two nights before my dad was shot. A black guy and a white guy. Very unusual for our town, that kind of thing. Just like what happened at our house was very unusual. But that was real and ours wasn’t somehow. How does that make sense?”
Dustin pauses to shovel grayish peas into his mouth.
Anthony looks bored. He has
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