be included because I’m the filmmaker. Maybe I’m too close to his death. I’ve already filmed the story of Jose Alvarez in Amarillo, Texas, a nineteen-year-old undocumented worker who was shot fourteen times by DEA agents. Problem is, no one in his family speaks English and there’s not much sympathy for illegal immigrants. I’ve filmed the story of Tyler Marshak, a college boy in California who was peddling marijuana. The DEA broke into his dorm room like a bunch of Gestapo goons and shot him dead in his bed. You may have read about it.” He has not. The Nathan Cooley I knew played video games hours a day and never looked at a newspaper or magazine. Nor does he have the innate curiosity to check out either Skelter Films or Cove Creek.
“Anyway, I have some great footage of the dorm room, the autopsy, and statements from his family, but they’re currently tied up in a lawsuit against the DEA. I may not be able to use this.”
Lunch arrives and we order more beer. Nathan rips chicken off the bone and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Why are you so interested in my brother’s case?”
“Let’s say I’m curious. I don’t know all the facts yet. I would like to hear your version of what happened and walk through the drug bust at the scene. My lawyers have filed Freedom of Information applications to get the DEA records and also the court file. We’ll plow through the paperwork, but there’s a good chance the DEA has covered up everything. That’s what they typically do. We will slowly piece things together, and at the same time we’ll see how you and your family look on camera. The camera doesn’t like everyone, Nathan.”
He says, “I doubt if the camera likes my mother.”
“We’ll see.”
“Not so sure about that. She probably won’t do it. You mention anything about Gene’s death and she falls all to pieces.” He licks his fingers and selects another wing.
“Perfect. That’s what I want to capture on film.”
“What’s the time frame here? What are we looking at?”
I take a bite of my sandwich and chew for a while as I ponder. “Maybe a year. I’d like to finish all the filming within the next six months, then have that much time to cut, splice, edit, maybe reshoot some stuff. You can tinker with these things forever and it’s hard to let go. As far as you’re concerned, I would like to shoot some initial footage, maybe three or four hours, and send that to my producers and editors in Miami. Let them see you, hear you, get a feel for the story and your ability to tell it. If we all agree, then we’ll keep shooting.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Nothing, other than the truth and exposing the men who killed your brother. Think about it, Nathan. Wouldn’t you love to see these bastards charged with murder and put on trial?”
“Damned right I would.”
I lean in fiercely, my eyes on fire. “Then do it, Nathan. Tell me his story. You have nothing to lose and a lot to gain. Tell me about the drug trade, how it wrecked your family, how Gene got caught up in it, how it was simply a way of life in these parts, there were no other jobs. You don’t have to name names-I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.” I take a sip and finish off my second beer. “Where was Gene the last time you saw him?”
“Lying on the ground, hands behind his back, getting handcuffed. Not a single shot had been fired by anyone. The deal was gone, the bust was over. I was handcuffed and led away, then I heard gunshots. They said Gene tripped an agent and sprinted into the woods. Bullshit. They killed him in cold blood.”
“You gotta tell me this story, Nathan. You gotta take me back to the scene and reenact it. The world needs to know what the federal government is doing in its war on drugs. It’s taking no prisoners.”
He takes a deep breath to let the moment pass. I’m talking too much, and too fast, so I spend a few minutes with my sandwich. The waitress asks if we want another round. “Yes, please, for me,” I say, and Nathan quickly follows. He finishes off a wing, licks his fingers, and says, “My family is causing problems right now. That’s why I moved away and came to Radford.”
I shrug as if this is his problem, not mine, but I’m not surprised. I ask, “If you cooperate, and the rest of your family does not, will that cause more trouble?”
He laughs and says, “Trouble is the norm with the Cooleys. We are notorious for feuding.”
“Let’s do this. Let’s sign a one-page agreement, already prepared by my lawyers and in English so plain you don’t need to hire your own lawyers unless you enjoy pissing away money, and the agreement will state that you, Nathan Cooley, will cooperate fully in the making of this documentary film. In return, you’ll be paid a fee of $8,000, which is the minimum required of actors in these projects. From time to time, or whenever you want, you can review the film in progress, and-and this is crucial-if you don’t like what you see, you can walk and I cannot use any of your footage. That’s a pretty fair deal, Nathan.”
He nods as he searches for loopholes, but Nathan is not the type to analyze things quickly. Plus, the alcohol is urging him on. I suspect he’s drooling over the word “actor.”
“Eight thousand dollars?” he repeats.
“Yes, as I said, these are low-budget films. Nobody will make a lot of money.”
The interesting point here is that I mentioned money before he did. I sweeten the deal by adding, “Plus, you’ll get a small piece of the back end.”
A piece of the back end. Nathan is probably thinking of something else.
“That means that you’ll get a few bucks if the movie sells some tickets, but don’t expect it,” I say. “You’re not doing this for the money, Nathan. You’re doing it for your brother.”
The plate in front of him is littered with bones. The waitress brings our third round and removes the scraps. It’s important to keep him talking because I don’t want him thinking.
“What kind of guy was Gene?” I ask.
He shakes his head and looks as if he might cry. “My big brother, you know. Our dad disappeared when we were small. Just me and Gene.” He narrates a few stories about their childhood, funny stories about two kids trying to survive. We finish our third beers, order another round, but vow to stop after that.
At ten the following morning, Nathan and I meet at a coffee shop in Radford. He looks over the contract, asks a few questions, and signs it. I sign as the vice president of Skelter Films and hand over a check for $8,000 drawn on a company bank account in Miami.
“When do we start?” he asks.
“Well, Nathan, I’m here and I’m not leaving. The sooner, the better. What about tomorrow morning?”
“Sure. Where?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. We’re in southwest Virginia, where mountains are important. In fact, the land here has a lot to do with the story. The remoteness of the mountains and so on. I think I’d like to be outdoors, at first anyway. We can always move around. Do you live in town or in the country?”
“I’m renting a place just outside town. From the backyard, there’s a nice view of some hills.”
“Let’s take a look. I’ll be there at ten in the morning with a small crew and we’ll check out the lighting.”
“Okay. I talked to my mother and she says no way.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“You can try, but she’s pretty tough. She doesn’t like the idea of you or anybody else making a movie about Gene and our family. She thinks you’ll make us look like a bunch of ignorant mountain folk.”
“Did you explain that you have the right to monitor the film as it progresses?”
“I tried to. She was drinking.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
CHAPTER 30
Nathan is living in a small, redbrick house on a narrow road a few miles west of the Radford city limits. His nearest neighbor lives in a double-wide trailer half a mile closer to the state highway. His front lawn is neatly mowed and there are a few shrubs lining the narrow front porch. He’s outside playing with his yellow Lab as we arrive and park in the drive behind his shiny new truck.
My ace crew consists of my new assistant, Vanessa, who will be called Gwen on this project, and two freelancers from Roanoke-Slade, the videographer, and his assistant, Cody. Slade bills himself as a filmmaker and
