Have you ever been involved in some intense situation and your account doesn’t match up with others who were there and involved?
The human mind and memory is a curious thing. When I’m with the family members I grew up with, it’s always fascinating to hear their stories about growing up, but each of us remembers the anecdotes differently. They spin these tales, I watch their lips move, and wonder what the hell they’re talking about.
Case in point. Let’s talk about eye witnesses, but not from a legal standpoint. Let’s simply discuss what we see, and why it’s different, likely resulting from different backgrounds and worldly experiences.
John Gilstrap and I were in Indianapolis a few years ago, along with our wives, attending Magna Cum Murder, a small writing conference full of heart and camaraderie. On that October day in question, the four of us were having drinks outside a grand old club on Monument Circle, enjoying the company and cool weather.
John made dinner reservations at a steakhouse within walking distance, but we’d been out there for a couple of hours and it was necessary to visit the hotel’s facilities first. I’m not sure why we both decided to go at the same time, and I really don’t want to discuss that here, but….
…his wife, Joy, and my bride, Shana, continued their conversation as we left. The current Columbia Club was built in 1925, and the restroom at the far end of the grand lobby of marble and tile was some distance from the front entrance, monitored by traditionally well-dressed doormen.
I reached out to Gilstrap, who two-fingered his version of that clear Indianapolis day and sent it over. I promise, the skies were bright and blue, we all agree on that.
*
Murder At The War Memorial
The lobby of Columbia Club in Indianapolis reeks of Old Money, from its elegant carved wood moldings and soaring ceiling to the dark wood bar to the massive walk-in fireplace. That golden eagle in the corner once stood guard over Abraham Lincoln’s funeral bier. It is the perfect location for a mystery writers’ conference, and so it served for one of my annual favorites, Magna Cum Murder. The conference started on Friday, so Thursday was all about arrival, checking in and meeting up with new friends. My wife, Joy, doesn’t always go to these things with me, but a few years ago, she came along because my buddy Reavis’s wife, Shana, was accompanying him. You haven’t seen trouble until Joy and Shana knock around together.
Somehow, Rev and I found the bar before the ladies did–by the span of a couple of drinks and a dozen war stories–and because it was such a nice early autumn day, we partook of our libations on the patio in the front of the hotel, across the street from the towering War Memorial obelisk. From this vantage point, we could watch the valet parking team do its work and wave hello to writers and readers we’ve seen year after year at Magna.
Finally, the ladies joined us, and after a little while, those early libations caught up with Rev and me and certain biological realities kicked in. I’m not sure which one of us excused ourselves first, but the trip to the men’s room became a dual effort.
We left our wives at the table to catch up with each other.
The restrooms at the Columbia Club are not conveniently located. It’s a bit of a hike to get to them. So, having left the ladies alone for five, maybe seven minutes, as Rev and I are heading back to the front doors, I notice a lady and a little boy on my left, pressing themselves into a corner by the luggage closet, and the valets are in the opposite corner. How odd. Then, when we stepped out into the sunshine, I glanced at the table where we’d left our wives, saw that their chairs were empty, and then, from across the street, at the base of the obelisk, I saw two men running, one behind the other. The one in the rear was a cop. The cop yelled, “Police! Don’t move!” Then took a shooter’s stance, fired, and the runner face planted onto the concrete. In that instant, I thought he’d shot with a pistol, but it turned out to be a Taser. That explained the quietness of the report.
Like most violence, the whole scene transpired over maybe ten seconds. I said to Rev, “The ladies missed the whole show.”
He replied, “No, they didn’t. They’re in the middle of it.” He pointed to a scrum of activity centered around a screaming lady, and sure enough, there they were.
*
His recollection ends here for the purposes of this discussion, but different viewpoints and proximity, as well as several minutes of extra knowledge, can sharpen the event.
“Eyewitnesses can provide very compelling legal testimony, but rather than recording experiences flawlessly, their memories are susceptible to a variety of errors and biases. They (and that’s all of us) can make errors in remembering specific details and can even recall whole events that did not actually happen.” Cara Laney and Elizabeth F. Loftus, Reed College, University of California, Irvine.
*
John’s view ends his story at the perfect place. Now my Bride picks up the narrative.
She is a former degreed journalist and as an old-school newspaper reporter, deals in facts, less emotion.
(She quickly came over from the dark side and moved into public education where we met.)
If she hears a story, or half of one, she’ll ruthlessly drill down until she discovers the truth. Both daughters can vouch for that from teenage experience. The truth is, I’d prefer to spin my stories when she isn’t present, if you know what I mean…
*
“Well, since the girls were there the whole time, we saw and heard much more.
“The screaming and yelling moved us toward the melee to see if we could help. The man, who was not wearing dark clothing, was hitting a woman who was crumpled on the ground next to a raised wall. I believe he was wearing a t-shirt. I guess his pants were dark. He then ran across the monument area looking for another victim. As we moved toward where he was going, we saw a man with a white dress shirt with blood on it standing near a man who was hurt and laying on steps. He was obviously trying to make sure the assailant did not return and cause more harm to the man on the ground that he had apparently targeted earlier.
“We later learned the blood on his shirt was that of the victim – he was a doctor trying to render aid. Later that night we were told that the victim sadly did not survive. Also near the area was a group of people who had come down to bring food to the homeless. All were prepared to intervene in some way, but the police arrived quickly and confronted the assailant. He did not heed their warnings and kept moving. They tazed him as he moved away from them, but the direction was not toward where we were standing with the guys at this point. If we were facing north, he was running east.
“It was all very unsettling. Joy later mentioned that she would not have felt as confident in our moving in closer to the tragic events unfolding if she had known I was not carrying protection. I normally do, but since we were with the guys, I was not. Lesson learned.”
*
We’re all susceptible to erroneous accounts for a variety of reasons. I think mine differs because like John, I’m a storyteller and have related this event over and over, likely embellishing it because of audience reaction whenever I give a talk. Or maybe because I simply like my version better.
*
The girls were settled on an outside settee as two fairly well-known authors headed for the necessary room. After the hike back, strange activities at the front doors caught our attention. I woman huddle with her little one (age between four and eight) to our left, burrowing into the luggage coat section. The woman gave us a fearful look, and ducked back down as if an artillery barrage was about to ensue.
Exchanging puzzled looks, we pushed past a tense-faced doorman and into the covered entrance where I heard shouting.
Orders came fierce and strong. “Stop!”
“Get on the ground!”
Men and women screamed.
A huddle to the right across the street caught my attention and action to our left moved fast. A man raced in our direction, in my memory wearing dark running clothes, and one of two pursuing officers shouted again.
“Stop!”
The brain slows. Too much information. Something bad.
I looked past the assailant and down the barrel of what I thought was a handgun as the closest officer took a stance and fired. Instead of the report of a firearm, the fleeing suspect stiffened and fell hard on his face. Tazed.
Blinking, I looked to the left to see another man down, surrounded by good Samaritans who’d gathered to render air. That’s when time kicked back and concern swept over me.
John frowned. The ladies missed the whole show.
*
As they said, they didn’t. The instinct to protect others kicked in and both our wives rushed in to help defend others against a demented criminal who’d just been released from jail that morning.
Misinformation can corrupt memory in the aftermath of an event. When more than one person witnesses a crime and discusses it with others before officials arrive, they are likely to have noticed different things because witnesses have different personalities and that individuality shows up in recollections. Together they reinforce those shared memories and contaminate them with information from others.
The differences here are subtle, but collecting the three accounts…(and forgive me, because due to time limitations writing this at the last minute, I didn’t get Joy’s take, which had a little twist that made her participation even more interesting)…shows the reader that eyewitness testimony will never be exact.
The Old Man told me growing up not to believe most of what I hear, and only half of what I see. The older I get, the more I realize how smart he was.
I can imagine the discrepancies that can occur in eyewitness accounts. Thankfully I’ve not been in a position to have to offer any eyewitness testimony. Some people are just more observant than others. I myself don’t tend to take in details of what I see other than the natural (i.e. scenery like the mountains, etc. or when I see a dog or other cute critter) but I tend to ignore the vast sea of humans, other than giving a greeting as we pass.
And nowadays EVERYBODY seems less observant because they’re always staring down at their phones. On the other hand, you have the rising number of people capturing events by recording them on their phones (sometimes doing that instead of rushing in to help–I wonder if in the moment they think it’s not real but they’re seeing it on TV?).
Strange world.
In one way with the cell phones, you get an accurate depiction of the actors for sure. However, those who record incidents these days tend to do nothing but watch. Our wives rushed to help, though I doubt they could do much against a grown man full of violence who’d already injured a number of people, and murdered one.
It’s the TV mentality that frightens me. Record and watch.
I work as a Verbatim Court Reporter in a High Court. It’s a Family and Probate Division, so we deal mostly in divorce and probate matters. while the judge hears the matters, I transcribe via speech-to-text software.
One of the things that’ll never stop baffling me about these proceedings is how couples who have lived together for years will give different accounts of events that happened to them at home or away from home. On a few occasions, you can read from the whole narrative that none of them is lying. But still, their accounts do not agree.
My judge sometimes hears criminal and industrial matters. This is when we listen to eyewitnesses giving testimonies. In cases like this–just as in every other court matters–testifiers are under oath. There is often no reason for them to lie except they have something to gain from the matter. But eyewitness accounts are always different, even if everyone is telling the truth as they know it.
In essence, I experience this every day. And as much as I’ve always wondered about this phenomenon, I’ve never thought about it in the light of fiction writing. This explains why each character is expected to be built as an individual with their world views, biases and uniqueness. Sometimes, this uniqueness is made known in the way the character speaks, thinks or arrives at conclusions.
I’m going to give myself a writing assignment from today’s post.
We have a friend who works as a court reporter. She has to work at maintaining a blank expression, but finds herself rolling her eyes.
You’re right about fiction writing. That’s why good authors can put themselves inside the characters they’ve created, to look at the world through a different set of eyes.
Happy writing!
Fascinating example, Rev.
Years aoo, at a sheriff’s citizens academy class, a person suddenly burst through a door, ran through the room, and exited the other side.
We students were then asked to record exactly what we saw. Some noted clothing, others noted shoes, height, weight, hair color, facial hair, etc.
I pretty much “flunked” the physical details–did he really have a beard? I didn’t notice. My focus was on why he was running. IOW, motive. That’s a mystery writer for you. I can spin a good tale but am a lousy witness.
I was part of a high school experiment to do the same thing. A classmate and I “argued” in the hall loud enough for the class to hear, and when we reached the open door, he shoved me through.
The teacher who set it up “took me to the office” by escorting me into the hallway and the hands of another teacher in on the experiment. He went back in and they discussed what each person saw.
One said I had a knife. It was a rolled up piece of manilla paper.
Another said I’d started it, and was always wanting to fight. I was 5’2″ when I graduated. No. I never started trouble.
There were several different eyewitness accounts of the action, and many were extreme. It was good training for a budding author.
Great piece, Rev. I think it’s interesting to note the difference in writing styles between a journalist and novelists. While Shana’s section is clean and factual, I could not resist adding atmosphere and inner narrative–even though I thought I was being clean and factual.
Exactly. And once you had it set up, I couldn’t resist my own style and smart ass presentation.
Very insightful example, Rev. Of course, over time, our minds will continue to edit our memories, too. At the library, we could always try and get down details on a security incident report as fast as possible, and keep the focus on details we knew, not interject emotion or any sort of dramatic flourish. “Just the facts,” as Sergeant Friday used to say on “Dragnet.”
Not as easy as it sounds. Your wife’s account was a model of concise detail and definitely shows her journalistic background. Thanks to her, John and of course yourself for sharing your respect accounts.
Hope you have a wonderful weekend.
That’s my problem. I tend to editorialize and write fiction, as evidenced by being kicked off the high school newspaper staff.
I will never forget the day I went outside, walked to the back of my property to feed stray kitties and when I went back inside, a friend scared me out of two years of my life when he was sitting on the sofa. I had walked right by his car and did not see it. I have no idea what I was thinking about, probably something to do with the book I was working on, but I simply never saw him or his car.
Don’t feel bad. We get fixated in our own worlds, especially after a session of writing.