Southwester
Human nature is astonishingly simple to understand sometimes. We laugh, we bleed, we die. Each event is surrounded by its wonder, and sometimes our own curiosity leads us to stop and stare fascinated at the feeble attempts of life to survive another moment. That's the same instinct that makes us laugh first when someone slips and falls on the floor, and run to help the fallen only later when our consciousness whispers guiltily to our brains.
That's also the same instinct that makes drivers slow down when they drive by an accident. There is a shared sentiment of curiosity, of wanting to get a glimpse of those hurt (or dead), just to see how fragile life can be, and how it can sparkle for a moment, and suddenly, it is gone.
So, since the shootout at Waverly, said instinct to know, to touch the victims ruled the media. Each reporter wanted to have the unique insight of what the survivors (and the dead) saw in those moments of terror. They hounded the survivors, cajoled the relatives of the dead, and expected to some new fact to arise.
So, when a small TV crew got the break of what really happened in room 309, and that one of the survivors was somehow related to a federal agent, and that said agent had been on campus, they ran to catch up, trying desperately to top the other on their findings.
As a federal employee, his file (at least the official version of it) would be easily accessible by the Freedom of Information Act. His life was scrutinized, his school colleagues, both from MIT and John Hopkins, were tracked down, and his (almost non-existent) love life was carefully investigated.
The appearance of a very well-dressed man who claimed to be his father also stirred the curiosity of the journalists, but he was hurriedly taken inside the building, and then later on also in the same speed taken to a taxi and dispatched.
They camped at the gates, and waited. At some moment, someone had to come to talk to them and give them something to sink their teeth into. That's the power of the press, to feed the masses with too much information, and very little content.
Suddenly, there was some movement. Like a swarm of bees, the news crews started to move in a frenzy, hooking up their mikes and putting cameras on their shoulders.
Apparently, finally someone was coming out of the building they were laying siege to and was going to feed their need for knowledge. They bowed to the power of the press, and they would throw their agent to the wolves, only to protect the image of their agency.
They were very surprised when, instead of the tall agent they had researched a very short brunette came out of the building, and requested them to get organized so she might answer their questions.
They fell upon her like vultures, shouting their questions harshly at her, but she placidly stood before them, in silence, and lifted her hand, requesting silence. It was soon clear that she wouldn't answer until they got silent themselves. So they prepared their cameras, and started to roll the video.
"We're going to set up some ground rules for this press conference, and I expect you all to follow." They started shouting their questions, and she lifted her hand demanding silence. Once they quieted again, she kept on talking, "I will answer exactly ten questions prepared by you. You will raise your hand, and I will pick one journalist at a time. You, once chosen, will state your name and channel you work for, and you will state your question. If I deem your question worthy of an answer, I will answer it to the best of my ability," they started to talk again, and she lifted her hand, they shut up, "as long as it is not any information regarding the case that might put its investigation in jeopardy. I will also not answer any answer regarding the victims or the victim's relatives, or any survivors."
They started shouting, and she stopped talking, and lifted her hand, again demanding silence. After some minutes, they quieted down. "No negotiation on this point. Once this press conference is finished, you all will leave the Navy Yard and will not return to its gates, allowing the normal continuance of the work in its buildings, without press interference and disturbance. If any of you by any chance disrespect any of the conditions above, I will" there was a murmur of disagreement, but she continued talking "I will immediately terminate this press conference and you will stay without answers, and you will be forcibly removed from the premises of the Navy Yard by the Marines, and no other employee will come forth to speak to you."
She looked at the sea of cameras and mikes in front of her, "do you have any doubts about the conditions?"
The shouting started again, and she gazed placidly at the journalists and lifted her hand demanding silence.
"If you don't organize yourselves in one minute, I will leave and no other will come out, and all of you will be forcibly removed."
They quieted down.
"The American people have to right to know." Someone shouted in the back.
The agent turns burning brown eyes to the journalist.
"Excuse me, can you identify yourself?"
"Evan Jennings, WVTV, ma'am," the tall man spoke. He knew that most cameras were turned either to him or to the agent before him, so he fixed his jacket and insisted, "We have the right to report what happened."
"You are mistaken. The American people don't have the right to know." They started to shout questions, and she lifted her hand, demanding silence, and she stared at the journalist with cold eyes. He shivered before the intensity of her stare.
"The American people have the right to heal," she says, and everyone shuts up, "talking and examining exhaustively what happened will not heal the wounds opened by the acts of that young man. It will not bring back to life those who lost their lives, neither will it stop the tears of those who lost loved ones. Talking about what happened will not stop the nightmares of those who survived, and who have to live with the burden of having survived while so many others lost their lives."
"It will not soothe their panic attacks, neither erase the sound of the bullets hitting flesh, ending lives with so much potential, cut short on the brink of adulthood."
"So, Mr. Jennings," says Joy, furious at the callousness of that redneck reporter, "nothing I ever say here will erase the pain and anger of those who had to face that nightmare."
"Exposing the pain and the wounds of the survivors to all the word to see will reduce you to the same level of those who inflicted the wounds, and will turn you as evil as the shooter." She stares coldly at the journalist, "so I have to ask you, what gives you the right to wound those who are already hurt even deeper? What superior power granted you the divine access to explore their pain for your own profit?"
She stares at the other journalists, and they all see that she's furious at them, at their meddling ways and how they hurt the survivors and the victims' families.
"You have exactly ten questions, and I suggest you think very carefully before lifting your hand to question me, and if you demonstrate the same insensitive and callousness he demonstrated, towards the dead and specially the living, you ALL will not be escorted out of the premises, you will be arrested for disturbance of the peace and interfering with a federal investigation."
She stopped, and stared at the faces of some journalists, the ones closer to her, and saw that her message had been received loud and clear.
"You may begin," she said placidly.
Two hands in the back were raised, while the others stayed in silence.
"Your name, please, and your question, ma'am."
"I'm Joanne Lorstein, from…."
And while Joy spoke to the journalists, two cars left silently through the back gate of the Navy Yard, and sped up towards Norfolk, away from the hounds of the press, and the self-seeking bastard who was planning to attack them again.