Monday Morning Crisis Quarterback

The suspect in the murder of Seaman August Provost III completed a suicide in his cell at Camp Pendleton yesterday. He had been charged on July 23 (and I apologize for not bringing that to you -- I was on an Amtrak train with no internet access).

For those of you just joining this story (feel free to read the previous Quarterbacking on this topic), Provost was standing sentry at Camp Pendleton in the wee hours of June 30 when he was shot and his body set on fire. His family suspected a hate crime, since Provost was either bisexual or homosexual, depending on which article you read, and he had complained to them of being harassed both because of his sexual orientation and because of his race. The Navy said there was no evidence of a hate crime. They also failed to tell his family how he died -- they heard about it on the news.

The official story is that the suspect went on a really bad trip from hallucinogens sometime in May, and it was all downhill from there. He broke into a sailor's home and stole a gun and an xbox, and was pulled over in mid-June for driving while intoxicated. Provost allegedly confronted him as he was trying to set fire to a Navy landing craft, although there was no apparent motive for him wanting to set that fire. The Navy has said it was "part of a crime spree."

And now the suspect is dead. You might think that Provost's family would be glad he was dead -- an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. But victims and their families rarely feel that way. They may well want to see the perpetrator put to death, but death without a conviction is symbolically difficult, because it means he will never officially have been punished for what he did. In this instance, the family also will not have the opportunity to find out whether there was a race- or sexuality-based motive. From their point of view, the truth died with the suspect. And I'm sure there are conspiracty theorists out there who find the suicide of the suspect just a little too convenient for the Navy.

I am not one of them. I believe that most people have a conscience, and that living with that conscience when the drugs or the alcohol or the rage wears off is pretty difficult. I have no difficulty believing that this suspect felt he couldn't live with himself. Now his family, as well as the Provost family, are left with the aftermath.

(Two notes on usage: I use the term "completed the act of suicide" or "completed a suicide" because it most accurately describes what happened. If you think about it, "completed" is the natural extension of "attempted," which we commonly use to describe someone who tried to kill him or herself and did not die. The more common "committed suicide" is somewhat euphemistic, and I try whenever possible to use plain language, particularly when dealing with issues around death. I also try to avoid the terms "successful" or "unsuccessful," because they imply that suicide is a goal to be attained, and I never say "took his own life" because, again, that is euphemistic -- where did he take it?

You may also have noticed that I never name suspects or perpetrators in this blog. This represents my value that those who kill others should not in any way be made the center of the story, particularly in a blog about trauma.)

Coverage of the murder of Seaman August Provost III at Camp Pendleton at the end of last month sputtered out basically the minute it got going. It never made the New York Times at all. It continues to be carried largely by the online media, and particularly by websites devoted to African-American and/or Gay communities. Provost's funeral was on Friday, and on Saturday U.S Representative Sheila Jackson Lee called for an investigation into the circumstances surrounding his murder.

To refresh your memory, Provost was murdered while standing sentry. He was shot three times, bound, gagged, and set on fire. He was African-American and, depending on which report your read, either gay or bisexual. He complained of being harassed by fellow service members, and his family believes his murder was a hate crime. The Navy, on the other hand, has said there is no evidence of a hate crime and referred to this murder as a "random act of violence."

The way the Navy has chosen to deal with this situation is unfortunate, and is probably making things worse for both themselves and the family. It turns out that when the Navy notified Seaman Provost's family of his death, they told them he was found unconscious on sentry duty and later died. They failed to mention that he was murdered, let alone share the details. Provost's mother found out he had been shot and burned from the television coverage.

This violates some very, very basic principles of how institutions should behave in a crisis. I wish I could say it was unusual, but unfortunately it is all too common. Institutions -- whether it's a school, the military, a business or the government -- like to clamp down on information. We have this naive notion that all that will become public is what we say, so we don't say much.

But facts exist whether we talk about them or not, and they have a way of making it into the public arena. Instead of asking, "What facts do we want people to have?" institutions should be asking, "If we don't share this fact, how will it look when it does become public." It's almost always better for people to hear bad news immediately, directly and completely.

The two rules I always share with staff in my school and other schools about sharing bad news with children are very simple:

1. Tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth (which also means no guessing) and
2. Make sure that every known fact they will hear comes from you, and that no rumors do.
   

The minute you violate either of those rules, no matter how well-meaning you are, you lose all trust and credibility, and the same rules go for adults. As soon as it is known that you withheld information, gave inaccurate information or left facts to be revealed by the media or the rumor mill, no one will trust what you say and you will be completely ineffective in being supportive following the incident. People naturally want to blame others following an incident, and you will be the target whether you deserve it or not.

I wonder how this situation would have played out if the Navy had told the family how Seaman Provost died, had acknowledged the possibility of a hate crime even if they didn't think it was one, and had been honest with the Congressman on the base that day. I have to imagine that there would be a whole lot fewer conspiracy theories floating around.