Readers of this blog will know about Lantern’s author Jens Soering, currently serving life imprisonment in Virginia following his conviction for two murders in the mid-1980s. In 2015, Jens was the subject of a piece in The New Yorker by Nathan Heller and two blogs by me, Martin Rowe, in which I examined his very difficult situation. I talked about how important it was to me that Jens’ powerful insights into life in prison, his newly kindled Christian faith, and the prison-industrial complex were not dismissed because of any prurient obsession we readers might have about whether he was guilty or innocent. I suggested that we needed to get beyond the notion that innocence equaled authority or, conversely, that guilt meant you had nothing valuable to offer society. I affirmed that I published Jens because I thought he had important things to say.
I also indicated that publicity was a double-edged sword for Jens and for Lantern. I hoped that the attention brought to his situation by The New Yorker would encourage people to read his books and lead to his repatriation to his native Germany (Jens’ request), given that he had served more than enough time and posed absolutely no threat to the people of Virginia or the United States. But I also feared that the publicity might reactivate in the public’s consciousness Jens’ original trial and conviction and that, in turn, might encourage politicians in the Commonwealth of Virginia to burnish their “tough on crime” credentials by denying Jens’ request for repatriation to his native Germany. Sure enough, Governor Terry McAuliffe of Virginia turned down the request, partly, according to Jens, because of the original New Yorker piece, which Jens considers to have been poorly researched and misleading.
The New Yorker article—really two articles, since Heller wrote a follow-up in which he stated that Jens was “possibly innocent”—has helped to propel interest in Jens’ story, especially in Germany where his case is a cause célèbre and where the penal system is much less cruel and unusual. (Indeed, as Jens presciently noted in An Expensive Way to Make Bad People Worse, which we published over a decade ago, the U.S. system is so counterproductive that it cannot be sustained.) In June, The Promise (a docudrama that questions Jens’ conviction) premieres at the Munich Film Festival, and will then go on general release. Efforts are underway for distribution in the United States. And last month, Sandy Hausman, an award-winning journalist with WVTF public radio in Virginia, who has long taken an interest in Jens’ case, produced a further three-part series re-examining it. You can find these here:
A lot has changed and a lot has stayed the same since the publication of Nathan Heller’s “Blood Ties” in The New Yorker magazine a month ago. The article charted the torturous situation and complicated criminal case of our author Jens Soering, who was convicted of a double murder in the Commonwealth of Virginia in 1986, and who has long asked to be repatriated from the U.S. to his native Germany to serve the remainder of his sentence. “Blood Ties” was long and involved, and was read, according to Heller in a private correspondence with me (Martin R0we), “apparently avidly and closely” by around a million Americans. Soering’s response was a combination of despairing and furious. He considered the article an unmitigated disaster for his case and wrote me and others to tell me so. He demanded (because I was a “fair” man) that I post his correction/rebuttal, in which he details the errors, as he sees them, in Heller’s piece. You can read it here.
In his email to me, Heller observed that one (perhaps incidental) result of his article was that “Richmond has seemingly been feeling new pressure toward a repatriation decision.” One fascinating wrinkle of Soering’s case, which “Blood Ties” (for reasons of room, perhaps, as much as anything) had not delved deeply into, was that, in 2009, in one of his last acts as governor of Virginia, Democrat Tim Kaine had signed a repatriation order for Soering. This order was then rescinded by incoming governor, Bob McDonnell, a Republican, in a decision apparently unique in U.S. history and possibly unconstitutional. McDonnell will soon enough find himself a prisoner, convicted of fraud and extortion. In 2014, McDonnell was replaced in the governor’s mansion by Terry McAuliffe—and it is on him that Soering’s legal team are applying “new pressure” to reinstate Kaine’s order.
Almost from the outset, Soering’s case acquired a political dimension. In Germany, Soering has been profiled on national media and his case has become exemplary for everything the Germans consider cruel and unusual about American criminal justice. Chancellor Angela Merkel raised the issue of Soering’s repatriation with President Barack Obama, and the case was examined by Eric Holder, then the U.S. Attorney General. But many in the Commonwealth of Virginia—the home of Thomas Jefferson and, in some ways, the omphalos of “states” rights—have always dug their heels in whenever the name of Jens Soering is invoked. This time was no different. On December 6, the Lynchburg News & Advance, the local newspaper that has covered the murder story for thirty years, wrote an editorial that Soering should do his time where he did his crime. Four days later, Nathan Heller wrote a follow-up piece on The New Yorker‘s website, in which he revealed that, following the editorial, eighteen Republican state delegates had written to McAuliffe not to allow the repatriation—a decision that Heller found puzzling, especially since, he wrote, the case against Soering wasn’t strong and that he might, indeed, be “possibly innocent.”
Before he was governor, McAuliffe was a head of the Democratic National Committee (2001-5), and before that a prolific fundraiser for Bill and Hillary Clinton. As the more perceptive of you may have noticed, it is now campaign season, and it is likely that Soering will become even more of a political football than he always has been. No Democrat will be want to be painted as soft on crime, especially in a swing-state like Virginia, and especially on a matter that pits international and federal interests against states’ rights. It is an irony lost on no one—including Soering or his supporters—the best option for his repatriation might be that he’s whisked away on a plane without anyone noticing he’s gone. That solution, which would solve a lot of peoples’ problems, is one that Soering, Heller, Lantern Books, and yours truly (at the request of the prisoner himself) are making less likely to happen.
In the latter part of 2014, I (Martin Rowe), like many fans of public radio, was transfixed by Serial, the Peabody award–winning podcast hosted and produced by journalist Sarah Koenig. Serial told the story of how Adnan Syed, a Baltimore high-school student, was convicted of killing his ex-girlfriend Hae Min Lee in 1999—and the doubts that attended the case from the beginning. In twelve absorbing and beautifully constructed episodes, Koenig explored the murder in fascinating detail and from apparently every angle. She uncovered inconsistencies in the prosecution and defense cases; she interviewed a witness not called by the defense; and she examined the multiple internal and external relationships among the students, their families, and their societies. She also told listeners about her doubts and puzzlements. She worried on air that she was being played by the charming Adnan, and how infuriatingly unforthcoming were some individuals at the heart of the case. As well as being a compelling use of radio, Serial made abundantly clear not only how difficult it was to establish what had actually happened that day fifteen years previously, but how hazy and unreliable memory was—even among those who had very good reason to want to remember everything that went on.
Beyond a love of public radio, I had a compelling reason to listen to Serial. My company, Lantern Books, is the publisher of four books by Jens Soering, a convicted double murderer, who has currently served 29 years in prison and is the subject of an extensive profile by Nathan Heller in the New Yorker magazine (“Blood Ties” November 9, 2015). Jens was very different in many ways from Adnan: he was awkward and naïve where Adnan was popular and gregarious; he was the privately educated son of a German diplomat, whereas Adnan was the child of Pakistani immigrants and attended public school. However, both were bright, with a touch of the grandiosity that sometimes makes young men think themselves untouchable; both protest their innocence.
The question that most friends who listened to Serial asked was, “Do you think Adnan did it?” To the consternation of many, and perhaps even herself, Sarah Koenig denied everyone the kind of neat wrapping-up and comforting condemnation of the guilty and vindication of the innocent that attends almost every whodunit, crime novel, or murder mystery, by admitting that she genuinely wasn’t sure. Not only that, but for all the tenacity of Koenig’s reporting and the dedication that she and the other producers demonstrated in their analysis of the facts and incisive investigation of the various narratives, I fancy she didn’t want to have to answer that question either. She was, in some ways, too knowledgeable about the case, too familiar with the people involved, too close to the realities and conflicts and human failings to come to a conclusion—no matter how complicated and nuanced—that would satisfy our deeply held wish for good guys and innocent victims to be vindicated and villains and perpetrators to be convicted.
When Heller came to talk to me about Jens, I too dreaded the innocence-vs.-guilt question, and wondered how I would answer it, if he posed it. If I said that I thought he was guilty, I’d rip up the trust that Jens and my epistolary and book-bound relationship is founded on, and, I think, leave Jens feeling even more isolated than he already is. It would go against the judgment of his original editor and my business partner, both of whom have (unlike me) met him in person. Yet to proclaim his innocence wouldn’t feel quite right, either. It would feel like I was protesting too much.
The truth is that, like Koenig, I don’t know. Like Koenig, I hold some (perhaps too much) store in not being played. Adnan and Jens are both persuasive and passionate advocates for their own innocence; both are in some way baffled at the young man who so apparently blithely sleepwalked into prison; both have been deeply schooled by incarceration and matured by time served. As Koenig noted on the show, it is hard not to warm to Adnan. Jens is a conscientious and elegant writer—remarkably so, given that English is not his first language. He is also diligent, punctilious, self-deprecating, and generous to a fault in thanking my company for its support for his work over the years. His moods swing from despair to hope—sometimes in the same letter. He can be self-righteous and self-pitying. But these are all forgivable flaws in a human being who’s spent thirty years in prison.
But there’s a more important reason why I don’t want to say whether I think he’s guilty or innocent. In his books and articles, Jens has thrown light on the lives of the poor, the insane, the illiterate, and the sick who populate our penitentiaries. He has shown prison to be inhumane and counterproductive as well as inefficient in its use of taxpayer funds. With mordant wit he’s illustrated how a dysfunctional system rewards duplicity, corruption, and criminality (among prisoners and their guards) and keeps people locked up long after they pose any kind of threat to society. In so doing, Jens has—along with many others in recent years—drawn attention to a collective shame that, finally, both the political left and right are recognizing has to change. We need prison reform desperately.
We publishers like to concoct all sorts of theories as to why our books don’t sell as well as we think they should. In Jens’ case, I’ve sometimes wondered whether the lack of support for his written work from faith-based organizations and others wanting to reform the prison-industrial complex was because Jens didn’t fit the profile of the worthy prisoner. I’m probably not unique in wanting my dose of the harsh reality of prison life to be administered by the manifestly innocent, the victim of an incompetent lawyer or a corrupt police officer or a society that locks up a disproportionately large number of those who are poor, people of color, or mentally incompetent. Jens was a white, privileged foreigner; he went on the lam following the murders and initially confessed to the crime to protect a woman he loved; he was arrogant and supercilious during his trial. Unlike Adnan, he was not easy to warm to.
However, it’s precisely for these reasons that I resist the comfortable absolutes of “Guilty” or “Not Guilty.” Yes, Jens is understandably eager to make the case for his own innocence—not least through the forthcoming movie The Promise. At Lantern, we’re aware that his books are meant to serve as exempla of his usefulness not only for society but for the attention of the parole board. Yet none of these invalidates the knowledge garnered from years of incarceration—sometimes in isolation or in a maximum-security facility—that would test the ability of anyone to possess an iota of humanity, let alone retain the presence of mind and equanimity to concentrate on the lives and experiences of those even less fortunate than you. For our understanding of life in prison, the liberating practice of centering prayer, the redemptive power of faith, and the casual cruelties and rank absurdities of our criminal justice system, Jens is not only as good a rapporteur as anyone but perhaps all the better for the time he’s been behind bars. His guilt doesn’t invalidate his insights; his innocence doesn’t make the conditions for him and his fellow prisoners any less harsh or infuriating.
It may be that, as with Serial’s Adnan, once Jens’ story becomes more widely known, the Innocence Project will take on his case, using the newly discovered DNA and a witness who never testified at Jens’ trial as a reason to reopen his case. Once again, many will find themselves in the discomforting situation of wondering whether in fact he’s guilty of the crimes to which he confessed. But, for me, as Jens’ publisher, that question isn’t the point.
The first two books are part of our publishing program in centering prayer and Christian spirituality. Jens first came to us through the auspices of another of our authors, Fr. Thomas Keating, a Trappist monk who lives in St. Benedict’s Monastery in Snowmass, Colorado, and who is known as a pioneer of centering prayer. Jens had found centering prayer to be an effective method for dealing with stress, depression, and violence in prison, and had sent the manuscript of Way to Contemplative Outreach, which had an active prison ministry program. Keating then commended it to our attention.
Not only was The Way of the Prisoner a guide to centering prayer practice, but it, and Jens’ other books, fit into a number of our other programs—particularly on matters of criminal justice, law and order, violence, and trauma. In the last decade and a half, we’ve produced titles from law enforcement professionals attempting to tackle the problem of PTSD in their officers and in controlling potentially life-threatening situations before they get out of hand (Force Under Pressureby Lawrence E. Blum, and Sound Doctrine and Field Commandby Charles “Sid” Heal). Lantern published a book on the Columbine school massacre (No Easy Answersby Brooks Brown and Rob Merritt) and has also examined the criminalization of dissent regarding animal and environmental activism (Muzzling a Movementby Dara Lovitz, Burning Rage of a Dying Planetby Craig Rosebraugh, and Terrorists or Freedom Fighters? edited by Anthony J. Nocella II and Steven Best). It has also produced efforts to extend racial justice (Nonviolence Now!by Alycee Lane and Sistah Vegan! edited by A. Breeze Harper) and reduce trauma (Aftershockby pattrice jones).
But, we hear you say, none of these were convicted of murder, as Jens was. To which our reply is, so what? The literary world has been populated by writers who were, to put it mildly, morally compromised. Christopher Marlowe, Ben Jonson, and Anne Perry were killers, as was William Burroughs. Norman Mailer (who stabbed his wife), championed the release from prison of author Jack Henry Abbott, only for the latter to commit another murder within weeks. T. S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, and Céline (to name only a few), were explicit, even vehement, in their anti-Semitism; Knut Hamsun, W. B. Yeats, and Gabriele D’Annunzio were Fascists; Jean Genet was a thief. And, as for the Marquis de Sade. . . .
Indeed, Jens confronts this issue of guilt and innocence in Church of the Second Chance. He describes the numerous criminals, murderers and would-be killers, adulterers, and other sinners who populate the Hebrew and Christian scriptures and yet who are all redeemed, even though they may neither confess to their crimes nor even be held accountable by their own for what they did. He then relates stories of those who, like their biblical counterparts, are criminals and yet have not found redemption in a prison-industrial system that is dedicated to punishment and has no interest in mercy.
Is this special pleading? Is Jens trying to cloak his refusal to admit his guilt (having revoked the confession he made before the trial) in these stories of holy men and women who committed crimes? Perhaps. But simply to dismiss what Jens has to say because one assumes his guilt merely draws attention to our blithe and blinkered assumption that only “good” people have valuable lessons to teach us, or, conversely, that “bad” people cannot learn the errors of their ways and offer service to the society as a whole—even if posterity (as with Moses or the writers above) whitewashes or downplays their “crimes.”
We certainly have no qualms about being Jens’ publishers. We’ve learned an enormous amount from him; we’ve read the stories of individuals we’d never have ordinarily encountered; and he’s persuaded us of the prison-industrial complex’s gross inefficiency and numerous cruelties. Like many of the people he writes about in his books, he is merely being warehoused, even though we’re convinced that he (unlike Jack Henry Abbott) poses no threat to the citizenry at large.
We understand the simple attractions of retribution: that life in prison should mean life; that the more Jens proves his worth, the more exquisite and torturous will be his continued and perpetual confinement, and the more profoundly will be understand the consequences of his actions. Such justice has all of the stringency and sharpness of concentrated chlorine on a public washroom’s floor. Yet, after a while, the pungency makes you gag, or fades and the original stench appears.
So, given our intimate knowledge of Jens’ situation and our role in his rehabilitation, what course of action would we recommend? It seems to us logical and compassionate that the taxpayers of the Commonwealth of Virginia should be relieved of the burden of keeping this German citizen in prison, and that he should be returned to his home country to serve out the rest of the sentence, which may or may not be curtailed under German penal laws. Even if he were to be freed, Jens wouldn’t pose a threat to the U.S. since he’s indicated he would welcome a ban on ever visiting again the home of the brave and the land of the free. He’s spent more than enough time in the U.S., he says, and has no wish to return. Keeping him in Germany seems to us a reasonable outcome to this three-decades-long story.
Fr. Wiseman had told Pat that at Compostela there was a very small English-language library for pilgrims, in which he found a copy of The Way of the Prisoner. Jens himself speculated that Martin Sheen may have left a copy there himself! What Jens doesn’t know is that Fr. Wiseman is also an author published by Lantern! He was involved in Monastic Interreligious Dialogue (MID) back when Lantern began to publish its bulletins, in the early 2000s, and was the co-editor of volumes on the first and second of the Gethsemani Encounters—the meetings of Buddhist, Hindu, and Christian monks and nuns that took place at Gethsemani Abbey, Kentucky, in the 1990s. These volumes, which were initially published by Continuum and Doubleday respectively, went out of print, and we republished them as The Spiritual Life: A Dialogue of Buddhist and Christian Monastics and Finding Peace in Troubled Times: Buddhist and Christian Monastics on Transforming Suffering.
But the connections don’t stop there. It so happens that I (Martin) was in London in early June, where I attended the third annual Wangari Maathai Memorial Lecture at St. James’ Church, Piccadilly. Lantern and I were deeply involved in the life and work of the late Wangari Maathai, the Kenyan environmentalist and activist who was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 2004 for her efforts in conservation, democracy, and peace. Lantern had published her first book, The Green Belt Movement(the name of the organization she founded), and a book about her life and work, called Wangari Maathai: Visionary, Environmental Leader, Political Activist by Namulundah Florence, a fellow Kenyan and educator.
At the event, there was a musical interlude by a cellist called Michael Fitzpatrick. He told me that he had met me before: at Benedict’s Dharma, a conference held the week after 9/11 at Our Lady of Grace Monastery in Beech Grove, Indiana, under the auspices of Sr. Mary Margaret Funk, an author at my former company (Continuum) and an author at my current one. That event, so weighty given its proximity to 9/11, had been where I’d been introduced to Ven. Yifa, a Buddhist nun who was to write four books for Lantern. Also present was, of course, Fr. James Wiseman. It seemed especially poignant given how Wangari Maathai had herself been educated by Catholic nuns in Kenya and in the United States that it should be the Catholic faith and the church in general that tied these disparate threads of our publishing program together over such temporal and spatial distances.
We send our books out into the world and they are carried into unlikely places. To that extent, our books are all on pilgrimages, accompanying our life’s journeys, whether in our imagination or with one foot in front of the other. It’s also an example a vibration—the strings of a cello echoing across the distance of a decade and a half—holding these stories together; and at their heart, if you’ll forgive me, a wise man!