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There was just this, just intrusions from strangers who wanted an answer and felt the nature of his son's crime warranted one—and just Benn Roof letting his two giant Rottweilers out the front door to track me and to make sure I'd gone back into the dark street and the black night I'd come from. (Contacted later, Benn Roof declined to participate in this story further, describing it as “fake news.”) In Dylann's farewell note to his father, found torn out of a journal in the backseat of his car, there is no nostalgia.It is devoid of a loving tone, except to say to his father that he was a good dad.But even during all of this chaos, this pain that made the courtroom feel swollen with grief, Dylann Roof did not appear to look back at his very own mother. He did not have to dignify our questions with a response or explain anything at all to the people whose relatives he had maimed and murdered.After Roof was found guilty, they went up to the podium, one by one, when it was time for the victim-impact testimony, and standing near the jury box, they screamed, wept, prayed, cursed. Roof was safeguarded by his knowledge that white American terrorism is never waterboarded for answers, it is never twisted out for meaning, we never identify its “handlers,” and we could not force him to do a thing. He remained in control, just the way he wanted to be.No one acknowledged that Dylann Roof had not once apologized, shown any remorse, or for this forgiveness. Some said they were working the Devil from his body.Or the fact that with 573 days to think about his crime, Dylann Roof stood in front of the jurors and, with that thick, slow tongue of his, said without any hesitation whatsoever, “I felt like I had to do it, and I still feel like I had to do it.”On the first morning that Felicia Sanders testified, I was seated directly behind Dylann Roof's mother, and because she is skin and bones, it was apparent that she was having some kind of fit. I had come to Charleston intending to write about them, the nine people who were gone.In a living room full of paintings of Florida and parrots, all that Dylann Roof's father could say, over and over again, was: “I don't know what happened, I just know that the boy wasn't raised that way.”Even when I pushed him, he said it again, and then he shook his head and kept saying it until he asked me to leave, with the sad look of a man who wanted any other life than this one.
Months later, she said that because of him she can no longer close her eyes to pray.
Almost every white person I spoke with in Charleston during the trial praised the church's resounding forgiveness of the young white man who shot their members down. No one made mention that this forgiveness was individual, not collective.
Some of the victims and their families forgave him, and some of them did not.
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