Some years ago, while on an assignment for the Jamaica Observer in Tivoli Gardens, I received a call from my boss, Executive Editor Desmond Allen. Mr Allen, at the time, was the editor of an interesting series carried in the Sunday edition of the newspaper entitled ‘Crimes that rocked the Nation’.

My assignment was to mingle with community members and get their perspective of the effect of the Tivoli Gardens incursion and subsequent demise of dozens of residents who fell victim to the security forces who were carrying out a state-directed edict to capture then fugitive, Christopher ‘Dudus’ Coke. But Allen was the least bit concerned with my blinkered focus.

Something had jumped out at him while he perused the information he garnered to deliver that week’s edition of the series.

The story he was about to edit was about a man who had murdered his wife in March 1970 while his infant child was in the back seat of her white Hilman Hunter motorcar. The murder took place along Sunrise Drive, which runs between Red Hills Road and Molynes Road in St Andrew.

The woman, Ruby Walker, an employee of the Ministry of Education, was stabbed 11 times in her centre mass and left for dead in a pool of blood by her husband, Leary Walker. In 1970, murders were not as commonplace so naturally this was big news.

Walker was eventually arrested after he drove the car to the child’s grandmother’s home, threw the infant out of the car and sought to hide in the hills of Rock Hall, St Andrew. That murderer was my father. I witnessed that crime as a child, barely three-and-a-half years old.

Allen was editing the story about the incident and the trial that followed and somewhere in the text, he stumbled upon the name Karyl – the child who was the sole witness for the state, who witnessed everything that unfolded that fateful evening.

He wanted confirmation if it was in fact me who ended giving testimony which led to my father’s conviction.

“Karyl?” he said as I answered the call.

“Yes Uncle Desmond. What a go on?” I replied.

“I am reading something here about the murder of a woman in 1970. Her name is Ruby Walker and there is something about a three-year-old child who gave testimony that he saw his father stabbing his mother after an argument. That child’s name was Karyl. Now it is interesting that the child’s name is Karyl Walker. Was that you?” he asked.

After about 30 seconds, when the memories of the incident flooded my mind, I replied.

“Yes Desmond that was me.”

I have never heard him swear or curse, but that morning, Allen almost used choice Jamaican words.

“Desmond, most of the people who know me don’t know of that part of my past. It is very private to me and I only share it with those who I think are very close to me. If you are going to publish that article please don’t use my name. I don’t want that information out there,” I beseeched.

Allen gave me his assurance that my name would not be published.

Lo and behold, the next day the article appeared with my name as the child who convicted his father through testimony.

Allen was the first to call and explain that the printer’s imp had felled him.

It occurred that my name appeared three times, he deleted it twice, but somehow the third time it somehow eluded him. As a writer turned editor myself, I knew this was possible, so while very upset I understood and accepted my fate. Everybody now knows. Especially my media colleagues.

But this article is about Barbara Gayle. A woman who mentored me and was a major influence on my career.

If you have covered court as a reporter in Jamaica and have not crossed paths with Barbara Gayle, then you have not covered that beat. Barbara Gayle was the best at it. She had all the contacts. In short, she owned the court, especially the Supreme Court in downtown Kingston. She knew every judge, lawyer and police who mattered.

Sometime after the article was published I managed to cross paths with her. She hugged me and said: “I was very young then and that case was a major one. Everybody was worried about that baby and what he experienced and we all wanted to know what became of you. I have watched you rise through the ranks and you are indeed an excellent writer. I knew we had a connection but couldn’t figure out what it was. How you do Karyl?”

“Me alright Aunty Barbara. So life go,” I replied.

Barbara Gayle never knew who I was when she saw me trying to figure out how to maneuver my way through the court system and get the information needed to pen an article that would inform, educate and entertain the readers of the Jamaica Observer. I was but a fledgling working for a competing entity.

While she always kept her exclusive stories close to her chest, Barbara Gayle never shirked from pointing her fellow reporters in the right direction.

She was Aunty Barbara to me and many others. An icon of the times when the pen was more powerful than the sword or gun. She was never cocky about her many achievements, always earthy and equal in her treatment of others. She cared for her fellow human beings.

There was nothing fake or cosmetic about her and she conversed in patios most times. Her murder has shaken me to the core.

She died in similar fashion to my mother. Stabbed multiple times by someone she interacted with and decided to lower her guard to. Her murderer, akin to my father, was found cowering in bushes after snuffing out the life of a human being who contributed much more to the development of the world than he could ever spell.

Life is extremely unfair. I often ask myself: Why do good people perish and others who are so negative and covetous in their outlook be allowed to survive?

This man may well be found guilty, sentenced to a lengthy prison term and pay for his crime. But Barbara Gayle is dead. Her loved ones will never get over this.

Barbara Gayle, you have been a positive influence and you should have never ended the race of life in this fashion. We celebrate your life but we cannot get over this. Not just yet. Thanks for all you have done.

Karyl Walker

Karyl Walker is a veteran journalist who served as the Crime/court editor for the Jamaica Observer. He now resides in Florida, USA.