What a Murderer Taught Me About The Untold Story of World Jewry
Marble Arch synagogue asked for a piece on the Jew project for their annual magazine. I focused on Bruce Rich and wrote a short essay about our time together.
Along the southern edge of Miami International Airport are a string of hotels. The usual suspects are there, a Ramada, a Holiday Inn, a Marriott. You might find yourself staying the night after a cancellation or a lay-over. In late November 2018 I was having breakfast in the Marriott for a very different reason. I was due to meet and photograph Bruce Rich at the South Florida Reception Centre. An unfortunate name since it is in fact a prison, and Bruce is serving a life term for murder. Bruce is Jewish and I’m in the midst of a four year personal odyssey to photograph portraits of Jews from around the world.
Wind back a few years and I was a commercial photographer shooting ads for billboards and magazines. On one particular assignment I found myself on a production on location in Brooklyn. My team is accompanied by two shomrim; the local uniformed patrol. I goaded them slightly, “What sort of crime do you see in the community here?” They shrugged and replied “… some accounting irregularities.” Was that it? Later I casually Googled, how many Jews are there on death row? It seemed according to an article in the Jewish Chronicle in 2010 there were 20 in Florida alone.
Among family and friends, the whole story of world Jewry was not being told. Or at least, not being told fully. People like Bruce were being swept under the carpet. Which is why I originally set out to photograph, as truthfully as possible as wide a group of Jews as I could. I travelled to twelve countries in all, and as Alan Yentob later said of the project “From Brooklyn to Azerbaijan, from the homeless to the homeland, all Jewish life is here.”
As I drove to the prison, it’s less than a few miles from the airport, I reflected on the details of Bruce’s crime. In 1995 he shot Irving and Blanche Rich, his parents. He placed the gun in his mother’s mouth to make it appear to be a murder-suicide pact. But the authorities were unconvinced, the forensics didn’t add up and he was sentenced to life without parole. Bruce actually missed the death penalty by the narrowest of margins; the rabbis appealed on his behalf.
That morning I was anxious, expecting to meet a monster. Entering the prison took some time. As you might expect there are numerous security points and doors which, just like in the movies, open and close with an intimidating buzz/clunk. I was shown the room where we would meet and shoot the portrait. Bruce was shown in. He was skinny and frail and he walked with a zimmer-frame. But he was smily, avuncular and hugely appreciative that somebody, anybody might be interested in seeing him. He is religious and wears a kippah.
I took out my notebook, I didn’t want to get any of the facts wrong and we began by talking about his childhood. He told me he was a young gymnast and when he was at high-school he was due to go on a trip to Russia to compete. The day prior to leaving he had an accident and broke his neck, preventing him for going. “Wow” I said and we continued. He told me he flew helicopters in Vietnam, and then as we began to discuss London, he told me he used to live here in the 1960s, money laundering for the mob. Now, I’m not a journalist, but at this point I start to think he might be exaggerating slightly or deluding himself at best. We took the portrait.
I liked Bruce, although I admit we didn’t discuss his crime, and we even laughed a little bit. He was cheeky too, keen to overrun our allotted one hour, just to annoy someone or other in authority. As I left he asked if I would send him some magazines, specifically about super-yachts, which I thought was ironic considering where we were in the world. I’ve sent them.
It might be convenient to turn a blind-eye and choose to forget about those people who have done terrible things in their lives. This Yom Kippur I have no idea what Bruce will be reflecting on or atoning for. I for one cannot condone anything he has done, but I’ll spare a moment to think about him as I will too, the next time I’m passing through Miami airport.
Last Word…
At this time of year have you wondered how a ram’s horn made it to your local shul? ‘Shofar Salesman’ Uman, Ukraine.
Books and original limited edition prints from the series are available from www.jewportrait.com
Use the code 202020 to receive 20% discount at checkout.