Repeat three times: I am merely an observer

The last I heard from J., she was at the bedside of a hospitalized friend. She sounded fine. Brisk. In charge.

That was probably about three weeks ago. I called back. No answer. I left a message. She called back. I wasn't at my desk.

And I meant to call again. I did. But our conversations usually last awhile, and I was busy at work and even busier at home ... and I never made that call.

Now here's where things get sticky.

J. was the subject of a couple of in-depth stories I wrote for the paper. She had suffered a horrible loss, and for six months I immersed myself in her life.

The stories came out and reaction from readers seemed to give J. a little peace. And of course, I felt so good about myself because oh how wonderful that all these people care about J.'s situation.

In the months that followed the stories' publication, J. and I stayed in sporadic contact. A reporter often assumes the role of a good bartender. Or a priest. Most of us tend not to judge because we've seen it all and heard it all. We make for fantastic listeners. Because, you know, that's what we do.

Some people, J. included, find it hard to let go of that bartender. And you know, I like hearing from the people I've written about. I like knowing how they're doing, what's going on in their lives.

So I was always happy to hear from J, who would call every so often to fill me in on her life. "Hey, girl!" she'd say. "You'll never guess what happened..."

She told me about the breakup with her boyfriend. She told me about her son and her frustrations with his new school. She told me all about this cute guy she'd started dating. She told me how she'd quit her new job because the place was in financial trouble and they hadn't paid her.

She didn't tell me she was falling apart, or that she'd told her friends she was on her way down and couldn't seem to swim up.

Last week, I'd heard from a photographer that J. had yet another new job. I figured I would stop by, surprise her, see how she was doing.

But then yesterday I got a panicked phone call from a friend of J.'s who lives in another state.

She couldn't find J. Could I help her? Did I have any other phone numbers? A mutual friend of theirs had died. She needed to tell J. There was a funeral to plan for.

I called every number I'd ever had for J.

Disconnected.

I called the new place of employment and was told she no longer worked there.

Odd, I thought.

So I called J.'s friend back and suggested she call J.'s workplace and see if she could get more information.

Five minutes later, she called me again.

"I'm really worried," she said. "I talked to someone who said he's a friend of hers and he said she's in a situation right now that doesn't allow her to contact anyone. And no one can call her."

Oh, God. Jail.

I don't know why I immediately jumped to that conclusion. J. didn't have any sort of criminal history. At least, not one that I or police or prosecutors knew of.

"You know, she could be in rehab," one of my reporter-friends said. "Has she ever had a problem with drugs?"

She's been through hell and I could see her looking to medicate herself into oblivion. But I've got a bad feeling.

I called the county jail.

Yes, the woman said. She's here. Been here since last week.

I'm still not clear on what landed her there, but this is what I struggle with:

This woman was the subject of a story. She wasn't someone I'm "allowed" to get close to. But you can't spend all that time with someone, you can't wiggle yourself into every intimate corner of their lives, and then not wonder or care about what happens to them.

OK, well, fine, that makes me human.

What's frustrating is that because I wrote about her, because credibility and objectivity are mainstays of my job, there's not a damn thing I can do for her.

Those stories? They did a lot of good. And if I were to get too involved now, that would bring into question whether I was too involved then.

If I weren't a reporter, I would write or visit her in jail and say, "Hey, is there anything you need? What happened? Are you OK? Can I call someone for you?"

But I am a reporter. And being her friend isn't -- it can't be -- my role.

And it sucks. Because I know she's in bad shape. And because I really liked this woman, and I wanted to see her make it. I wanted to see her overcome.

I don't know all the details of what landed her in jail. I don't know that I want to know all the details.

Because the truth is, no matter how many stories I write about horrible things that happen to people, I can't help but feel hopeful. I do my interviews and I write the story and then I cross my fingers. Maybe it will turn out OK. She'll get through this dark time and find new inspiration and hope.

But she didn't.

And the whole situation just really bites.