The journalist and the murderer

Longo's story, Finkel writes, "was the journalistic equivalent of a winning lottery ticket." From the moment the Oregonian reporter had called him, Finkel felt "a vague sense that the beginnings of my redemption, both professional and personal, might somehow lie with Longo ... And I thought that if I were able to be truthful with Longo -- an accused murderer and a possible con man; a person who might easily forgive deceit -- then I'd demonstrate, at least to myself, that I'd moved beyond the dishonest behavior that had cost me my job."

"True Story" is Finkel's chronicle of his quest for redemption. Along the way it seeks to plumb three mysteries that, as is only fitting in this tale of human deviousness and deceit, remain resolutely unplumbable. In the fashion of a suspense novel, Finkel bounces between three fractured narratives that don't so much interlock as cast reflected light on each other.

One is the story of Longo, a handsome, charismatic and strikingly intelligent man with no history of violence who becomes the leading (and indeed only) suspect in a senseless and shocking crime. The second is the story of Finkel himself, a successful globe-trotting journalist who writes a feature story about the chocolate plantations of West Africa whose main character does not exist. The third is the story of Finkel and Longo's oddly deepening friendship, as they gaze into each other and begin to recognize an essential kinship -- a careless egotism, a facility for falsehood, a consuming desire to appear successful at almost any cost.

By far the cleanest and clearest of these narratives is Finkel's own. He faces his failings bravely and never tries to blame anyone else for the pile-of-crap Africa story he published. (Unlike Blair or Glass, he otherwise had written genuine and fully fact-checkable journalism, as a Times internal investigation confirmed.) There were indeed extenuating circumstances -- he was stressed out, overtired and writing to a crazy deadline; he was abusing drugs; and, one could argue, he was hemmed in by the aggressively stupid conventions of magazine journalism, which values easily summarized, high-drama "human" stories over honesty and subtlety.

But as Finkel gradually reveals the roots of the faked story and how he convinced himself to write it and file it, he refuses to hide behind excuses. His editor at the Times Magazine wanted a story that focused on one young boy who worked on a chocolate plantation. After trying and failing to dredge a single case history from his notes, Finkel took numerous real quotes from his reporting and attributed them to one invented character, convincing himself his story was truthful in spirit, even if it didn't follow the rules.

When the story began to unravel, thanks largely to a Canadian researcher for Save the Children who sent aid workers to track down the boy Finkel claimed to be portraying, he had a total meltdown. He wrote a series of deceptive e-mails to Save the Children, trying to drive the organization off the scent. He imagined draining his bank account and flying to Toronto to bribe the aid worker. He attempted to forge notes, using the same blue ink he had used in Africa. As humiliating as these details are, Finkel states them clearly, without prevaricating or passing the buck.

"I knew what I was doing," he writes. "I had the power to stop myself at any time, but I decided not to. It was the stupidest thing I have ever done. It's something that causes me pain every day; it's something for which I will never fully forgive myself." Those are the words, to use the language of Finkel's ancestors, of a mensch. But here's the thing: Finkel also becomes aware that his act of journalistic fakery was not an entirely isolated act. It revealed a side of his personality that was arrogant, that told pointless lies at parties, that dumped girlfriends without explanation. And the therapy he sought for this condition, for reasons that seem more deeply buried than the roots of his phony African-chocolate story, was friendship with Chris Longo.

Finkel became Longo's confidant and indeed almost his only contact with the outside world; Longo used his one hour per week in telephone privileges exclusively to talk to Finkel, and they wrote each other voluminous letters. (Longo's first ran 78 pages, written in golf pencil, the only writing implement he was permitted.) They shared the mundane details of their lives, their romantic and family histories, innermost thoughts and fears, and reflections on the misdeeds that had gotten them in trouble. (In Longo's case, that meant previous cases of embezzlement, check fraud and theft -- he never directly discussed the murders with Finkel until his trial was over.)

Longo, it turned out, was an aspiring writer, with an autodidact's large but uneven vocabulary; he had chosen Finkel's identity to assume because he read magazines voraciously and knew his work. Finkel bought him a high-end dictionary and a subscription to the New Yorker, and sent him books by his favorite writers. (Longo especially liked David Foster Wallace.) Finkel was smart enough to see the pitfalls that lay in getting involved with a fan, but was powerless to avoid them.

"There is perhaps nothing more dangerous to a writer's common sense," Finkel writes, "than encountering an enthusiastic reader of his work, even if he's calling collect from county jail." This combination of rueful self-scrutiny and what sometimes seems like painful, blazing naiveti, is what makes "True Story" so engrossing and so maddening. Despite Finkel's claim that he only wants to prove to himself that he is capable of honesty, he clearly craves attention and affection from Longo; he longs to like Longo and wants Longo to like him. During his first phone conversation with Longo, in April 2002 -- an experience he compares to an awkward first date -- the first thing Finkel wrote in his notebook was "A v. nice guy."

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