As my belly grew and resignation about my pregnancy turned to acceptance, then expectation, I couldn’t stop thinking about Nakira. He was convicted of first-degree murder earlier that year and sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. Almost every afternoon, I Googled him to see if there were any new developments in his case.
It wasn’t long before I started researching other stories about women convicted of killing their children. Mothers who beat, shook, hit, strangled, suffocated and stabbed their babies. Mothers who place their babies in the microwave oven and turn it on. There were days when I did little other than read one harrowing script after another and catalog it on my computer. I examined the photographs of these women. Some looked at me with a wild, challenging look. Others looked docile, with downcast eyes refusing to look at the camera. I found myself searching for something in her eyes, a sign, something that could explain how a mother could turn against her own child.
I would end up going down a rabbit hole trying to figure it out. During my investigation, I interviewed Nakira’s family members and several attorneys and investigators who worked on the case. I spoke with sociologists and criminologists, legal scholars, and mental health experts, all of whom have examined, in one way or another, the intersection between motherhood and violence. Experts have emphasized that a woman’s childhood often plays an important role: Isolation, neglect, abuse and intergenerational trauma emerge in many cases of filicide. However, many studies have found that most women who commit filicide have never been in trouble with the law before, like Nakira. When I discussed this case with Anna Motz, a British forensic psychologist who has worked with violent women in England for more than three decades, she observed this about her experience interviewing women convicted of murdering their children: “There’s always a bit of self-preservation. I’m not a monster, I’m not a bad person.”
Nakira’s mug shot showed a young Black woman with her dark hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, her green eyes staring intently at the camera. I studied a photo of her wearing felted reindeer antlers and looking down at her son balanced on his hip. She was like the mothers I see every day on my way to school and kiss and wave to my daughter in the morning.
The story about Nakira Griner’s crime and subsequent trial circulated on TikTok. His case was shocking in a way that true crime buffs will appreciate: a ridiculous act; an innocent victim; an unlikely, photogenic perpetrator. But other than a dormant Facebook page and YouTube videos, I couldn’t find much about his pre-existing conditions. I was curious about her past, her relationship with her mother, what she was like as a young girl. What were their expectations from motherhood? So what caused him to break down on that particular day?
I suddenly decided to write to him. Nakira was now incarcerated at the Edna Mahan Correctional Institution for Women in Clinton, New Jersey. Writing to a prisoner in the United States is surprisingly simple; A company called JPay let me correspond with Nakira for thirty-five cents per email.
“Dear Nakira,” I began. “I am a writer living in Paris, France.” So I ventured: “I would love to talk to you about your life in and out of prison.” The same day, he wrote: “Hmm, to be honest, I’ve been approached by a lot of people and I’m almost sure more will come. And I’m very skeptical not only of you, but of this whole process.”