My decade-long career as a journalist has been driven by a desire to tell human stories 鈥� not just the happy ones, but the stories of complicated people, and those who are frequently overlooked or disregarded by society and the media. Writing about poverty and the criminal justice system seemed like the right beat for me.
The stories are often grim. Hopelessness and violence are frequent themes. But the times when I can find the humans who open up to me 鈥� a stranger 鈥� that鈥檚 when the work feels worthwhile.
In the past year, I鈥檝e faced a new challenge in my reporting: the deaths of people I鈥檝e written about.
This happened recently, as I worked with Seven Days staff writer Derek Brouwer to count how many homeless Vermonters have died.
Todd Gorton was among the dozens of homeless in Vermont who died from fatal drug overdoses over the past four years.
From 开云体育 and Seven Days: Vermont doesn't track homeless deaths. So we did
I first met Gorton in 2021 while I was writing about how prisons were responding to the COVID-19 pandemic. Vermont was the only state in the country where no prisoners had died from COVID-19 鈥� thanks in part to aggressive lockdowns when the virus was detected.
Gorton told me those periods 鈥� which essentially amounted to solitary confinement 鈥� were tough. During these times, Gorton would only get to leave his 8 foot-by-12-foot cell for 15 minutes a day to shower. One lockdown lasted for 49 days.
鈥淢y anxiety is through the roof 鈥� I'm like, the best basket case you'll ever run into,鈥� he said during one phone call.
Over the course of three months, by phone and email, Gorton told me about his life 鈥� most of which had been spent in prison. He was first incarcerated when he was 16 after being being charged as an adult with attempted sexual assault. He spent three years in prison. At one point, he briefly escaped from the Windsor Correctional Facility.
Gorton, who was 17 at the time, was the youngest person at the prison.
鈥淵oung people at our place very often don鈥檛 do very well,鈥� the prison superintendent told the Rutland Daily Herald in 1987.
Gorton wasn鈥檛 out for very long after his first prison sentence. In 1990, he was convicted of sex crimes involving a child and spent another 18 years in prison.
When we talked in 2021, Gorton was close to finishing a 12-year sentence for burglary. But he was worried about finding a place to live.
鈥淚 have no renter history, I've never had a license, I've never had a credit card, I've never had nothing 鈥� nothing but jail,鈥� he told me. 鈥淚 can鈥檛 believe I鈥檝e made it this long.鈥�
Still, Gorton had some hope. He worked in the prison鈥檚 woodshop and liked it. He thought maybe he could work in carpentry when he got out.
鈥淚 really wish l could take some pictures of the stuff l鈥檓 putting together,鈥� Gorton wrote in an email. 鈥淚 always feel like l鈥檓 slower than death working, but l take my time because l want my projects to come out to the best of my ability.鈥�
At one point he told me a friend found him an old Toyota camper he could live in. Gorton wanted some structure 鈥� whether that was a roof over his head, or a job 鈥� to help him adjust to life outside of prison. In the past, in times of stress, he鈥檇 turned to drugs to cope.
鈥淢y problem is, though, every time I get out, I think it's my birthday,鈥� he told me in our last phone call in May 2021.
Gorton wrote a few more times. He鈥檇 talk about his days working at the woodshop, about the music he liked (Ozzy Osbourne and Metallica), and how hot the prison was during the summer. He said he was excited to hear my story about COVID-19 and the prison system, and that he hoped we鈥檇 run into each other on the outside someday. He told me he had a plan.
鈥淏elieve me, l know it鈥檚 pretty much my last chance to do something right in my life,鈥� he wrote. 鈥淚 believe l got it, will not know till out there.鈥�
A year later, in May 2022, Gorton got out of prison. I lost track of him until January 2024 when I ran into him at the Burlington criminal courthouse. The 54-year-old had picked up some retail theft charges, and had a hearing in front of Judge Michael Kuppersmith.
鈥淗ow is it that Mr. Gorton has no income, no expenses 鈥� yet you鈥檙e standing here in good health,鈥� Kuppersmith said, looking at Gorton who was standing next to his public defender.
鈥淚鈥檓 not in good health, I鈥檝e been homeless,鈥� Gorton said quietly.
I鈥檇 never seen Gorton in person. He was taller than I expected, and had glasses and a salt-and-pepper goatee. He was sitting on a bench when I approached. I knelt down so I could reintroduce myself at eye level.
I asked Gorton how he鈥檇 been. He said he鈥檇 be using drugs, and recently got into a bad bike accident. But he insisted that things were looking up.
Gorton was on suboxone, a medication to treat opioid addiction, and he鈥檇 recently got into the Burlington housing 鈥榩ods鈥� 鈥� a shelter intended as a first step for people exiting homelessness. I gave him my card. He said he鈥檇 call.
Less than two weeks later, he overdosed and died inside his 60-square-foot pod.
I didn鈥檛 know that until I was combing through a spreadsheet of death certificates this January. It was a shock to see this name in the list. Though, given his history, perhaps I shouldn鈥檛 have been surprised.
Gorton wasn鈥檛 the only source of mine to struggle with homelessness. In the summer 2023, my colleague Elodie Reed and I were driving around the Northeast Kingdom to find people living at motels through the state emergency shelter program.
It was a rainy day, and we weren鈥檛 having much luck. We were about to give up when we pulled into Crest Motel in Barton. We tried talking to a man outside who wanted nothing to do with us. Then, Paula Broe, who鈥檇 been smoking under the overhang outside her room walked out. She wanted to talk.
Broe had been living in the motel for two years, along with her dog, Cujo, a Pomeranian and rat terrier mix. She was struggling to find an apartment. She told me she felt like people assumed because she was homeless and living at a motel on the state鈥檚 dime that she was lazy.
鈥淛ust looking for free housing, you know, like the state鈥檚 paying for it,鈥� Broe told me. 鈥淣o, it鈥檚 not like that at all 鈥� I can鈥檛 find an apartment. I鈥檝e looked.鈥�
While living at the motel, Broe had struck up a close friendship with one of her neighbors, who was also housed through the state motel program. The two cooked dinner together, using a hodgepodge of electric griddles, air-fryers and microwaves. They鈥檇 stay up all night talking and watching 鈥淗ell鈥檚 Kitchen.鈥�
Shortly after I met Broe, she left the motel. Not because she wanted to, but because the state鈥檚 motel housing program changed, and Broe would have had to pay a third of her monthly income to stay. For Broe, who was on disability, that was too much. She opted to move in with her ex-husband in Orleans.
I visited her there once. We sat on a small porch while it rained. Cujo, her dog, joined us. It鈥檚 been OK living at her ex鈥檚 place, she said, though their dogs don't get along. But Broe told me she didn鈥檛 really have another choice once she left the motel.
鈥淢y only other option was thinking about putting an air mattress in my jeep," Broe said. 鈥淏ut it's already August. This is Vermont 鈥� winter鈥檚 coming.鈥�
I kept in touch with Broe over the next few months, mostly by text. We tried to find time to meet up and talk, for me to gather more tape for what I imagined would be a documentary about someone struggling to find housing.
Instead, seven months after we sat on her ex鈥檚 porch in Orleans, I opened a police affidavit and read her name. Broe, along with her ex-husband, had been beaten to death at the apartment. Authorities say a young man who Broe and her ex-husband considered 鈥渙ne of their own,鈥� killed them, according to court records.
Writing about violent crime is not easy. But I鈥檇 never done it when I knew the victim. I could see Broe鈥檚 dark, shoulder-length hair streaked with gray and an eyebrow ring, and hear her gravelly smoker鈥檚 voice as I read the police report.
Journalists are supposed to maintain some distance from their sources. But in these moments, when people who鈥檝e shared their humanity with me have died, that feels like a tall order.
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