Thirteen years ago a man was shot and killed on Chicago’s Southwest side. Daniel Olivares was convicted of the crime in 2008, and he and his family have been fighting the verdict ever since.
By Bashirah Mack
Childhood photographs of Daniel Olivares decorate his family’s living room and enshrine his memory in their Southwest side Chicago home. (Photo: Pat Nabong)
The interview was scheduled for 8 p.m. on a Friday night. While most folks were preparing for the weekend, I was preparing to speak with the family of a man convicted of first-degree murder.
I had never reported from inside a person’s home before, let alone interviewed people who, ten years ago, had lost their son and brother to what they believed was a wrongful conviction and 60-year prison sentence.
My thoughts were polarized. I knew my role in this story was not to decide Daniel’s guilt or innocence. Still, I knew this was a story unlike any other I had covered. I was consumed with thoughts of how to maintain professional standards and ethical boundaries as a journalist during the interview, while also being human and responsive to the emotional needs of my interviewees.
As my reporting team and I approached the Olivares family home, I noticed a young woman waiting for us at the door. Passing through the black iron gate, I repeated to myself, almost rhythmically: “Be critical, but be compassionate. Be thorough, but be thoughtful.” Trying to find balance within, I anticipated this interview would be uneasy—because discussing the circumstances that led to the conviction and long-term incarceration of a loved one couldn’t possibly be easy.
We reached the front door and were greeted by Daniel’s younger sister with a smile. Entering the living room, I glanced at the display of family photographs covering the shelves near the window. Moving into the kitchen, my eyes quickly met the bright-colored, ceramic fruit ornaments hanging on the wall—mementos, I later learned, that were collected from past family vacations. The hardwood floors and matching orange table and chairs created a homey warmth that immediately dispelled my reporting angst.
This was the space chosen by the Olivares family—a mother, father and three siblings—where they would share their decade-long experience navigating the criminal justice system with three strangers: my colleagues and I.
I listened to their stories, often as they fought through tears. I tried to keep my composure. The very mention of Daniel’s name could make his mother and older sister cry. Being attentive, I lowered my pen and watched silently as they passed the tissue box between them.
Even with the brief pauses in our interview, the conversation was revealing. From accusations of troubled eyewitness testimony to claims of ineffective counsel; from financial strain to confusion and distress navigating the courts; the Olivares family felt pained and failed by the criminal justice system.
In my short time with Daniel’s family, I witnessed a grieving mother longing to be with her son. I observed a father’s silence where mere words were sometimes too painful to muster. And I recognized a sister consumed with guilt, wondering whether or not she assisted her brother as best she could with legal support.
By 10 p.m. our interview was over. In just two hours on a Friday night, my life as a journalist was forever changed. My thoughts were no longer an internal tug-of-war between my ability to maintain professional standards while showing empathy for my interviewees. I proved to myself that I could do both. But the most impactful part of my experience interviewing the Olivares family was to sit with them in the intimacy of their home and listen to them tell their own story—one where their belief in Daniel’s innocence is manifest in their hope to see him free.
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