Stefan Kamph » Print

Feature: Meet the Preppers

Stefan — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 17:15:16 +0000

Also in Miami.

The Room Where Ron Vinci’s Body Was Discovered

Stefan — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 13:02:20 +0000

My latest cover story for New Times involves the murder of Ron Vinci, who was found wrapped up in plastic sheeting and a sleeping bag, covered with coffee grounds, in that space between the bed and the window last June. Contrary to local and national media reports, there was no duct tape involved. I took the photo in March, though the $4 million house on the river has just now been sold.

Feature: Prisonville, Fla.

Stefan — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 18:38:43 +0000

Feature: The Case of the Missing Pen

Stefan — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 18:54:01 +0000

Feature: The Mouse Who Loved Me

Stefan — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 19:12:40 +0000

Feature: Food Not Bombs

Stefan — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 16:46:37 +0000

Published in both Broward and Miami.

Feature: Losing Battle

Stefan — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 14:38:42 +0000

When Hank Battle rolled up at the upper-crust Pine Crest School in January, nobody knew what had hit them. My first dalliance with anonymous sources.

Plus: recent graduates go on the record about participating in Hank Battle’s secretive—and feared—group of student advisors.

Feature: My Father’s Bones

Stefan — Wed, 22 Jun 2011 19:09:01 +0000

Plus: more about the “confession” that a jury may never get to see.

Feature: Cult of the Can

Stefan — Wed, 04 May 2011 00:55:10 +0000

A Nonfiction Story You Have to Read

Stefan — Sat, 12 Mar 2011 20:26:37 +0000

“The Wronged Man,” by Andrew Corsello. I first read it about two months ago, and my admiration only grows.

He tells her what it’s like watching the children of the guards, who live on the plantation grounds, grow up, and how strange it is to see young boys who once called “Hey, nigger!” to him as he worked the fields become guards themselves—yes, that much time is passing—with rifles in their hands and toothpicks in their mouths and absolute power over where he rests his eyeballs. He tells her he is losing his grasp on time, losing his ability to count, in a way; how during his first four years of imprisonment, at Caddo Correctional, time was still solid, still the bedrock of his reality, each day marked by a beginning and an end linked by a continuous line of being, but how at Angola, a place that cannot possibly be real (can it?), he has learned that a man’s grasp on time is like his good health— something taken for granted until it dissolves. He tells her about the way a cell becomes a kiln in the summer, the air void of motion, 110 degrees at two in the morning, the way he will take a tin cup and splash the brown water from the tap onto the concrete floor, then lie in it face down, spread-eagled and naked, his nose and mouth filled with the ever present shit-stink bubbling up from the drain, his ears filled with the baboon shrieks of men whose consciousness has been reduced to the purely physical, saying to himself over and over, for hours on end, I will not die in Angola.… I will not die in Angola.… I will not die in Angola.…

Read it. And weep. Download it, print it out. Read it on a bus. Read it out loud to your girlfriend. You know what to do.