When I first wrote to Friedmann, in 2021, before the trial, he replied at once, though only to say that he was disinclined to meet. He wrote, “I’m not Jack Abbott and you’re not Norman Mailer,” a quip I enjoyed, as I suspect he knew I might, not least for its paradoxical mixture of humility and vanity. The murderer and writer Jack Abbott was in prison when Mailer befriended him, and went on to kill again after Mailer lobbied for his release. Friedmann, as a journalist and a self-taught legal expert, was too savvy to discuss the details of his pending case with a reporter. “I expect the article you write about me will also be fairly one-sided, though due to no fault of yours,” he said. “Hopefully you won’t trot out that old canard, that it will give me an opportunity to tell my side. Rather, it would help you tell your side, or at best your version of my side.”
Смерть подождетЭти люди доживают последние дни на полную катушку. С ними происходит невероятное21 ноября 2018
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By the time Friedmann was locked up, the central jail had been rebuilt and rechristened the Criminal Justice Center—a name whose ironies were well known to Nashvillians. Designed for six hundred inmates, it sometimes held twice that many. Some slept on mattresses on the floor of a tunnel. Tennessee state law doesn’t require much of jails, stipulating that they be “properly heated and ventilated, and have sufficient sewerage,” but the jail couldn’t manage even that. Sweltering in the summer, freezing in the winter, it routinely flooded with raw sewage. Hall described it to me as “a mess.”
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