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It is as if he floated through people's lives leaving nothing for them to recall.
One teacher who spent time with him in her classroom every day says that she typically has a good memory, but she apologizes because she really can't remember anything about him.
She trembled and shook until her knees buckled and she slid slowly onto the bench, mouth agape, barely moving. I'm so sorry.” She seemed to be speaking to her boyfriend, but maybe it was meant for Felicia Sanders, who was soon to take the stand. But from gavel to gavel, as I listened to the testimony of the survivors and family members, often the only thing I could focus on, and what would keep me up most nights while I was there, was the magnitude of Dylann Roof's silence, his refusal to even look up, to ever explain why he did what he had done.
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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.
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.
Could they keep their stories about the dead quick?
Whenever he stood to be walked back to his holding cell, his mouth moved with what I first thought was a sigh or a deep exhale—really, it was an ever present twitch, a gumming of his cheeks that sometimes ended with his tongue lolling out and licking his thin lips.
He was dressed in the sort of getup that a man wears when life hasn't presented him with many opportunities to wear a suit: a worn crewneck sweater and thick polyester khakis that hung low over cheap-looking brown leather dress shoes.
During two stages of his trial, Dylann Roof decided to represent himself.
Felicia Sanders, one of the few survivors, told the courtroom early on that Roof belonged in the pit of hell.
Months later, she said that because of him she can no longer close her eyes to pray.
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