Transcript
Alan (0:00)
Nemo, Emo and Doug. There's nowhere I wouldn't go to help someone customize and save on car insurance with Liberty Mutual.
EM Gessen (0:08)
Even if it means sitting front row
Alan (0:10)
at a comedy show.
EM Gessen (0:11)
Hey, everyone, Check out this guy and his bird. What is this, your first date? Oh, no.
Alan (0:16)
We help people customize and save on car insurance with Liberty Mutual together. We're married. Me to a human, him to a bird.
EM Gessen (0:22)
Yeah, the bird looks out of your league anyways.
Alan (0:24)
Only pay for what you need@libertymutual.com Liberty.
EM Gessen (0:27)
Liberty. Liberty. Liberty. In April 2024, my cousin Allen was delivered to federal court in San Francisco for his sentencing hearing. It had been just under a year since a jury found him guilty of hiring someone to kill his ex wife, Priscilla. The maximum sentence for this crime is 10 years. The cast of characters, the judge, the public defender, the prosecutor, and Allen were back in the same courtroom. All of them seemed the same, except maybe Alan. He was contrite, genuinely filled with regret, or so it sounded to me. He apologized to Priscilla, who was listening on Zoom. He promised that he would never again do anything to harm her or the children. He talked about his decision to reject a plea deal and go to trial. And for a minute, he didn't sound like Allen at all. He said that the trial had made him see himself as the jury saw him. It was embarrassing to listen to those recordings. He said, your Honor, I am prepared to serve any sentence. Allen told the judge, if he got the maximum 10 years, he would be almost 60 when he was released, and it would be hard to start over. But he said he had already suffered the biggest punishment. His voice cracked. He had lost all access to his children. And he continued, the torture I suffer every day comes from my awareness of the impact I've had on my mom. He was really choking up now. I felt something welling up in my throat, too. Alan was no longer dressed like a dad returning home from work for the sentencing. He was brought in wearing yellow prison scrubs over a white thermal underwear shirt and yellow Crocs knockoffs. Allen had his back to me, so most of the time I was watching Judge Curley. She was leaning toward Allen. She was nodding to every affirmative statement he made. Her face reacted to every word, it seemed. Then it was her turn to speak. I didn't see it when you were on the stand at trial, but I can see it now, she said. You acknowledged the harm. The judge had really listened. I mean, she had really listened and observed Allen. And so she focused on the irony. That's the word she used of the story. Allen's relationship with his mother was perhaps the strongest bond of his life, and yet he had been willing to deprive his own children of their own mother. So there's that in itself, judge Corley said. And there were all those times that Allen made the decision to go ahead with the murder for hire plan, not just in that one conversation with the undercover agent. The judge said, you didn't have to meet with him the second time. You could have just not shown up. You didn't have to give him the gold coin. Then you didn't have to wire the $23,000, and you didn't have to send the target package, and you didn't have to tell him when you were going to be on vacations with the kids so they wouldn't be there. Right? So you had opportunity after opportunity after opportunity, but she went forward because that was your intent. Allen's mother, Lena, had gotten dozens of people to write letters to the court on Allen's behalf. All of them attested to Allen's loving, kind, and supportive character. Some, including a letter from one of Allen's ex girlfriends, were over the top and praising him. The judge addressed those letters. Now, it's so tragic that you have been such a generous and helpful person to all these other people, she said, but we see that sometimes with domestic violence. She said those last two words staccato, like she was striking the gavel. And finally she said, Mr. Gessen, you were a lawyer. You were a barred lawyer. You took an oath to uphold the law, but by your own testimony, your own testimony, you thought that you were going to bribe some official to have her kidnapped and removed from the United States. The sentence had to reflect this, too. The thing in my throat that had been threatening to make me cry had dissolved. I was following the judge's logic, her righteous outrage. The judge sentenced Allen to the maximum 120 months in prison, followed by three years of supervised release. Like an episode of a TV series. The hearing lasted exactly one hour, took me as a viewer through a range of emotions and deposited me more or less where I'd started. I still had no real understanding of how Alan ended up doing what he did. The court is an interest in why people do the terrible things they do. The court's job is to determine guilt and apportion punishment. But for me to tell this story, I needed a theory of the crime or a theory of Alan. I needed to imagine what had been going through Alan's head that had made it seem that having his wife Killed was a reasonable solution to his problems. For that, I needed to talk to him. I had asked Riulena, and she told me that he wouldn't talk, at least not until after the trial and the sentencing and the appeals. That last part would surely drag on for months or years. More still. When I got back to my hotel after the sentencing, I created an account in the system that facilitates correspondence with inmates and sent Alan a message asking for an interview. Next. Alan would have to agree to correspond with me, and the prison would have to approve my message. But before any of that could happen, Alan reached out to me himself. He was ready to talk. I am M. Gessen, and from Serial Productions and the New York Times, this is the idiot.
