When I think of the racist white man who murdered those nine black folks at that church in Charleston, South Carolina, all I can see is the face of my cousin Bob McGuirk across from me in the visiting room at San Francisco City Prison back in 1974.
He’d just been arraigned for murder. He was my cousin, after all, and so I found myself looking at him through the glass and talking over the phone.
“What happened?” I asked him. “Is it true?”
He replied that he didn’t want to talk about it and changed the subject.