After Ed’s case aired in early 2020, I located him at Pleasant Valley State Prison in Coalinga and sent him a letter of introduction. He responded, and we planned to meet. But the COVID-19 pandemic caused lockdowns and our visit was delayed. We communicated by letter until the prison released a text messaging option that inmates could use if they purchased a tablet. Eventually, Ed permitted me to write his story with his participation, but I needed more than just a promise from him.

I consulted with a literary attorney. We discussed the legalities of the project as well as the pros, cons, and potential landmines ahead. I hired her, and she drew up an agreement and sent it to Ed. Meanwhile, Ed and I continued to correspond. He was in the midst of his federal appeal, so we discussed topics unrelated to his case. I inquired about his family background and life before and after the murder. He answered some questions and declined to answer others. After several months, Ed signed and returned the agreement to my attorney. According to the terms, our four-year commitment allowed me to write his story with his input, ending in early 2025.

Before visiting Ed, I consulted with a criminal defense attorney—not for Ed, but for me. I told her about the book agreement and my upcoming visit with him. I told her about the apparent lie the prosecutor told the jury during the trial. We discussed the “what ifs” in case Ed told me something I didn’t ask for—like where he buried Chris’s body. We discussed my legal and moral obligations. Then, I made contingency plans. 
 
The four-year delay ended up being beneficial.  Because we spent years exchanging letters and texts, I learned more about Ed than what was shared in the media. I witnessed him morph from a disgruntled, whiny convict to a man who had adapted to life in prison. He conformed and became institutionalized, using his assets to earn a place within the inmate population. He did more than just survive prison; he learned how to stand out. He was college-educated and tri-lingual, speaking English, Korean, and Spanish. His greatest asset was his articulateness, which probably earned him respect from the staff and inmates. He was not going to be a victim of his circumstances. He wasn’t wired that way.

Ed also redefined our relationship over the years. On the visiting application in 2020, Ed listed me as a mentor/advisor, but by the time I visited him in 2024, I was listed as his friend/colleague. Somehow, the barriers had softened between us.

I thought that time was on my side. After all, Ed was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. And, although he was appealing his case, the probability of succeeding was quite slim. Then again, he was sentenced in California, where I was born. It was a liberal state governed by Gavin Newsom, who believed in prison reform and rehabilitation. I decided it was time to visit Ed.

Scheduling my prison visit was no easy task. I had to re-up my visiting application and reserve my visiting dates through a temperamental online prison visiting system. Then, I made flight arrangements from Tucson to Fresno, the nearest airport to Coalinga, with a layover in Las Vegas. I had to rent a car for the hour-long drive from the airport to the prison. Throughout this ordeal, I wondered if my trek would be worth the trip. The lingering risk of a prison lockdown or another COVID-19 outbreak could have easily thwarted my visit. 

However, as the visit drew closer, I realized its importance. Of the many questions I had developed during my research, I needed to ask two in person. Is Chris dead? How do you know? I told Ed years ago that I did not want to know where Chris was and would never ask him.

As I waited to board my Southwest flight from Tucson, I realized I was about to travel hundreds of miles to interview a skilled liar. And no matter his responses, they would only be what he wanted me to believe. 

I stayed at the Harris Ranch Resort, a hidden oasis in Coalinga. I woke up early on Friday, February 16, 2024, and had breakfast at the hotel while reviewing my notes. My research showed that Ed had been less than truthful in the past. I decided not to ask Ed extraneous follow-up questions because I learned long ago that if you keep asking a liar questions, he’ll keep lying, and you’ll never close a case. It’s just best to ask the questions needed to meet your objectives. 

I began the fifteen-minute drive to the prison at 10:00 a.m., surrounded by vineyards and almond tree orchards. It was much different compared to the Arizona desert I was used to. I parked off the main road in the dirt behind a silver Lexus. By 11:00, more than a dozen cars were lined up behind me when an officer waved us toward the guard shack. Another officer checked my name on his visiting list and directed me to the prison parking lot. I parked again and walked toward the visiting room, waiting until my name was called. It was cold and damp that morning. A couple stood behind me. I turned around, smiled, said good morning, and told them it was my first visit. They kindly explained the process to me. The woman told me they had been visiting their son for the past two years, who was in prison after his first arrest. The worry, sorrow, and despair on the woman’s face made me imagine how Ed’s parents must have felt when they visited him. I thought it in poor taste to ask why their son was incarcerated. But could it have been any worse than murder?

Once properly identified and searched for contraband, we converted our dollar bills to dollar coins and quarters for the vending machines and purchased vouchers to take pictures with our inmates. Then, we were led into the visiting room, given paper plates and napkins for our vending machine cuisine, and assigned to a table where we waited until the inmates arrived. The tables were about 3’ in diameter and 18” high to ensure the officers could see everyone’s hands. Plastic chairs surrounded the tables and were rearranged as needed by two orderlies. They kept things tidy and served as the photographers ready to memorialize our visit.

Visitors were not allowed to bring in pens or pencils, but an officer would provide a pencil if asked. However, inmates could bring pens into the visiting room. 

Ed entered the visiting room wearing a light blue short-sleeved shirt over a white long-sleeved undershirt, dark blue pants, white Nike tennis shoes, and Prada eyeglasses. Except for a bit more graying in his hair, he looked exactly as he did when newsmen Matt Gutman and Keith Morrison interviewed him on television shortly after he was sentenced. Ed appeared confident from the moment he stepped into the visiting room. As a former prison employee, I could tell immediately by his body language that he was on the upper end of the food chain. An officer directed him to the table where I was sitting. I stood up, and we shook hands as we introduced ourselves. Ed placed a black pen on the table for me. After a few cordial exchanges, we hit the vending machines. Over two days, my coins would buy Ed mango-flavored Arizona iced tea, hot wings, bottled waters, salads, fresh strawberries, Monster energy drinks, and a fresh avocado he mixed with hot sauce. When I asked about the hot sauce, he reminded me he was Korean. 

As we talked, I mentioned the children’s area where mothers and inmates could watch their kids play. Back to the Future played on a mounted television set. A bold and colorful mural covered the wall with paintings of the Minions, the Mario Brothers, and the Lion King. Ed took credit for arranging the artwork to uplift the mood and spirit of the room for the kids.

Outside and adjacent to the visiting room was a grassy courtyard area where an inmate played catch football with his son. On the perimeter, a couple strolled casually, hand in hand. (Conjugal visits are permitted for well-behaved inmates.) Except for the razor wire atop the fence, it seemed like any other day at the park.

For the remainder of our time, Ed did most of the talking. I’ve learned that the Korean culture favors indirect eye contact over direct eye contact during conversation. Ed was no different, and getting him to look at me while he answered my questions was rare. We were just two people having a conversation, and sometimes, I felt uncomfortably comfortable knowing I was sitting next to a killer in a room full of other convicted felons.

Some of his responses about his case will be noted in the book’s chapters. Throughout, he gave me off-the-record information, which I will respect (even though, as a non-journalist, I have no professional obligation to adhere to it). 

I showed Ed the court transcript page where the prosecutor seemed to have lied to the jury, explaining how it could justify a mistrial and that the retired prosecutor refused to discuss the matter with me. But it appeared that the roller coaster of emotions over the years had sucked the hope out of Ed. He read the transcripts and asked me to send the information to his father and attorney.

Ed recapped his relationship with Chris and told me his version of what happened before, during, and after June 4, 2010. Then, Ed answered my two questions…

TO BE CONTINUED