Ricochet is the best place on the internet to discuss the issues of the day, either through commenting on posts or writing your own for our active and dynamic community in a fully moderated environment. In addition, the Ricochet Audio Network offers over 50 original podcasts with new episodes released every day.
A Just Judge
Queen Elizabeth once famously referred to 1992 as the annus horribilis, one upon which “[she would] not look back with undiluted pleasure.” Among other calamities, it was the year of Andrew and Fergie’s separation, of Princess Anne and Mark Phillips’s divorce, of explosive revelations which set the already on-the-rocks marriage of Charles and Lady Diana hurtling towards the ash-heap of history, and to top it all off, the year that Windsor Castle burned down.
Right about now, I’m trending (see how woke I am?) in that direction with regard to my feelings about 2019. Not sure that the magnitude of disasters that have beset the denizens of Chez She are of monarchical or even royal proportions, but there has been one, after another, after another, and it will live in my memory as, if not the annus horribilest of my life, probably one of the top five.
I seem to have had my butt glued to the dentist’s chair for an unconscionably long time this year. Root canals (some of them re-dos of previous ones). Gum surgery. Crowns. It’s a good thing I like my dentist (been going to the same practice for over fifty years; I’d rather change my gynecologist than my dentist), and that he’s very competent. One of the cars (there are two, aged ten and eleven–so I guess, together, they can drink, smoke, vote, and own a gun (for now) in any State in the union) decided to demonstrate its independence by crapping out on me, miles from home, and requiring extensive repairs. My best friend’s cancer has recurred, and another very good friend was diagnosed with breast cancer. I’ve had a couple of (so far looking like minor) health scares, myself. After a year of no coal-mine-related house subsidence to speak of, we had a few instances that required work and remediation. My step-daughter’s long-standing relationship fell apart. I lost a cherished friend through (I’m pretty sure) no fault of my own. Mr. She’s health, which has been failing for a few years, got substantially worse.
On a brighter note, I suddenly found myself, to alternate feelings of bemusement and hilarity, on the front lines of the SJW wars in the knitting community (don’t laugh; they are real and meaningful), when I was “canceled” on Ravelry for two months for making “triggering” and unwelcome comments which the moderators and PTB’s believed showed innate privilege on my own behalf, and staggering insensitivity to “survivors of violence” on theirs. It was in the midst of a conversation about, among other things, surviving assault and violence, and I wrote frankly about my experiences, apparently triggering some readers, and making me wonder, as I have before, how we’re ever supposed to have conversations about difficult things if we’re not allowed to mention the difficult things we’re supposed to be having conversations about.
My comments on Ravelry were about my stepson Sam, and about my feelings after he was assaulted, and after he died. Apparently though, I’m not permitted to voice my thoughts among a group of (mostly) women who were describing sexual assaults they said were perpetrated on them, because I wasn’t actually the one murdered. (Sam, unfortunately, was unavailable for comment.) So I did the best I could, but I guess the fact that I wasn’t the actual “murderee,” combined with my “privilege” and my “rudeness” in “triggering” the assembled company, did me in. Go figure.
That brings us to October 31, 2019. Halloween. And the inevitable wondering about whether life was going to deal me yet another 2019 “trick” or if, finally, my luck had changed. The preponderance of evidence leading up to the date pointed in one direction; but I am nothing if not an incorrigible optimist, so I couldn’t help hoping for a dies mirabilis, to act as a counter to the rest.
You see, October 31, Halloween, was the date set by the Court, in its wisdom, for the sentencing of Sam’s murderers. They’d pleaded guilty to third-degree murder and several related charges, and one of them had an agreed-upon sentencing of 5-10 years followed by lengthy probation. So the only matter at issue was the sentencing of the other, more seriously charged individual.
Apparently (I’m not a legal scholar, so this is a layperson speaking), the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania has two sentencing ranges for third-degree murder. The first one is something like 7-24 years, and the second one is 20-40 years (those are minimum-maximum incarceration times). The judge has great flexibility in determining the imposition of the sentence, and takes into account prior criminal history, aggravated circumstances, intent, and a bunch of other stuff that loses me and that, anyway, I don’t want to think about.
The District Attorney had done a terrific job of building the case, aided by the Pittsburgh Police Detective who was on the scene, arrested the miscreants, and stayed involved until the end. Sam’s family owes them an unrepayable debt for their competence, their caring, their attention to detail, their humanity and their diligence. The DA asked for and hoped the judge would impose a sentence at the higher end of the lower scale; something like 14-24 years.
Sam’s family had had second thoughts (as I suspect most such families do) about whether we should have advocated acceptance of the guilty plea from both of them. Was third-degree murder a serious enough charge to see this criminal put away for a good long time? Were we better off trusting the Judge to see justice done? Or should we have put the matter in the hands of a jury? Would the murderer get off with a slap on the wrist? I didn’t know until it was over just how much those thoughts, and those questions, were eating at me, and how much they’ve affected me over the course of the last several months.
So, at 8AM on October 31, Sam’s sister and I presented ourselves in the Witness Room at the Courthouse, where we met with the “Victim Advocate,” (God bless the Commonwealth of PA, which apparently does acknowledge our right to feel violated by what was done to Sam, even if the knitwits on Ravelry do not), and the District Attorney. Shortly thereafter, we were shown into the courtroom, which was populated by several others, most of whom may have been related to the defendants; I don’t know.
The Judge entered. A tiny lady bearing an uncanny resemblance to Ellen deGeneres, and smothered in her judicial robes. “You’ll like her, she’s very direct and has a lot of common sense,” the victim advocate had told us.
The proceedings took about an hour. The DA made his case. The defendants’ attorneys spoke. Somewhere in there, I began to feel as if I were witnessing a nomination for a couple of “Outstanding Citizen of the Year” awards. Broken childhoods. Challenges early in life. Gender dysphoria. Mental illness. All seemingly offered as mitigation for such a heinous crime. Not sure how some of these public defenders sleep at night. Lord, it was hard to listen to.
The mother of one of the defendants spoke. I have no idea what she said. I hold no animus against her. Poor lady, she’s probably hurting too.
Then, it was Sam’s sister’s and my turn to make our “victim statements.” I went first. I’d already provided a written statement but chose not to read it. I had no notes and just winged it. “Are you Francis’s stepmother,” they asked. “His name is Sam. His family calls him Sam,” I said.
Here’s approximately what I said (trigger warning):
I thank the Court for the opportunity to speak. You know, I’ve never thought of myself as a “victim” or as a “survivor” of violence before, so this is new to me. But I’ll try not to waste too much of the Court’s time.
I’ll just say that I’ve definitely had some thoughts and feelings that I’d never have had, if the horrible circumstances that we are deliberating today had never occurred. For instance, I think about what it feels like to bash someone else in the head over and over and over until he dies. And I wonder which blow killed Sam. The first one? The last one? The hardest one? The most well-placed one? The cumulative effect of all of them?
And I wonder what Sam felt, while this was happening. When did he stop feeling? What was he thinking about while his head was being beaten to a pulp?
Sam’s father isn’t here today. He doesn’t know I’m here. He has dementia. Quite often, he doesn’t remember what happened to Sam. And he asks me where Sam is, and why Sam doesn’t call us or come to see us.
Sometimes, I lie. And I tell him that Sam is very busy. But that he loves us, and I’m sure he’ll call and come to see us soon.
Sometimes, if I think I should, I tell Sam’s father the truth. And when I do, I relive the horror, again, and again, and again.
But it is worse for Sam’s father. Because every time he hears it, he is hearing it, and processing it for the first time. Then he forgets again. A blessing. For a time.
The real victim here is Sam. But he can’t speak for himself, so I’m going to try to speak for him.
Sam was a gentle person. We’ve heard about the challenges of gender dysphoria and mental illness in the defendant’s lives, and how they should mitigate the sentence. Sam had those challenges too. But he didn’t use them as an excuse to hurt, or kill others. He was a gentle and kind person.
Sam would not want revenge. I think he would want justice.
We live in a civil society, bound by laws. And those laws state that perpetrators of heinous crimes must be punished for them. The two individuals here today perpetrated the most heinous crime one person can commit on another: they deprived him of his life.
I ask the Court to impose the harshest sentence that it deems just, on these individuals. And if it does, I will not feel joy. I will not feel satisfaction. I will not feel vengeful. I will simply feel that justice has, at last, been served.
Justice.
For Sam.
That was me. Then Jenny spoke. Her statement was so heart-wrenching I can’t even. But she ended with a plea that “mercy” if it was to be extended in this proceeding, be extended to Sam’s family, and particularly to his eleven-year-old niece, who’d grow up without Uncle Sam in her life, and who’d never know his sweetness, his kindness his generosity, or his off-beat and goofy sense of humor.
Then, the defendants spoke. Praeteritio.
And the DA again, reminding the judge that the more seriously-charged defendant had, when Sam ran upstairs and locked himself in the bedroom to escape the assault, gone down to the basement, retrieved a pickax, and broken down the door so he could continue the beating. He again asked for the Judge to consider sentencing at the higher end of the lower scale.
Finally, it was the Judge’s turn. She started with the defendant who’d agreed to a 5-10 year sentence, followed by probation, she explained that in great detail, and then enumerated the ways in which this defendant must stay away from Sam’s family forever until the end of time.
And then she moved on to the second defendant.
And the lady I will forever think of as “Maximum Beth,” threw the book at him; she told him that waffling about “regretting things that happened” was a fiction. “You did this,” she said. “You caused this.” She gave him the same set of “no contact” restrictions as the other one. And explained his sentence.
The ultimate for third-degree murder in Pennsylvania. Minimum of 20 years. Maximum of 40.
God Bless her.
Justice.
For Sam.
Hope lives.
PS: I’m offering this up as a very tardy entry into the October Group Writing “Trick or Treat” set of posts. I was due, I think, on October 21, but “life happened as I was busy making other plans,” to paraphrase one of John Lennon’s more rational remarks. Forgive me, please. (Maybe it’s still October 31, somewhere.)
Published in Group Writing
It’s time for me to quit feeling sorry for myself. @she, my heart goes out to you and I wish I lived near enough to be with you and to help you. May G-d bless you with all his love.
God bless.
… and you, She.
I don’t really need to say, “Stay strong, Mrs. She,” because you seem to be strong enough to weather the numerous slings and arrows that life has thrown your way. I would have folded long ago.
Do you have to fight off depression at times?
Once again, Mrs. She, if there is a better writer on Ricochet, I haven’t read him. You’re a wonder.
Speaking of wonder. I wonder if sorting out your experiences by writing about them eases the pain. The process of writing about my personal experiences helps me think more rationally about them.
Mercy has its place, but the entire point of incarceration is the recognition that some people are too bent, or too broken, to be deemed safe in general society. Justice was served, but frankly so was safety.
Prayers for peace and as much of an end to this as is possible.
I have had enough experience with the justice system to have evolved into a full-blown cynic. Whenever the subject comes up in conversation my only advice is to avoid it.
I’m glad your experience was better.
Prayers for you and your family.
Thanks, Kay. I know you’ve got your hands full, too. I don’t know what else to do other than struggle on, day by day, and be grateful for my friends. Thanks, Ricochetti, for being there for me, as you are for so many others.
Thank you both.
I wish I could have.
Thank you. I wasn’t sure what to expect.
Thanks for all of that, @kentforrester. I don’t know if it’s depression, so much as the conviction that I ought to be able to overcome anything, so, sometimes, why can’t I? Sometimes, one just has to let go, and let things float where they will. And I’m not always so good at that.
As for sorting out experiences by writing about them, and the process leading to more rational thought, yes I certainly do, and often it does. I’ve also said, on several “Why Do You Write?” posts that have appeared on Ricochet during my tenure here (nine years!) that I write to recreate worlds I have lost. I think writing is magical that way, and that it can transport the reader across time and continents and cultures in a way that the rather cheap and easy way we capture our experiences with our phones and our iPads and our GoPros simply can’t. They are super for capturing the moment when a child blows out the candles on the birthday cake, or when Bob the Dog secures a treat from his treat-dispensing machine (his Lion King photo was nice too), but a good book, or a good piece of writing can expand a person’s horizons, open his eyes, and in some cases, really change him. Some of the pieces on Ricochet have done that for me. That’s never happened on Facebook or Twitter. At least, not so far.
Heh. The little gremlin who sits on my shoulder and repeatedly whispers “remember, thou art mortal” into my ear has asserted himself, brought me to attention, and pointed out that the correct phrase is probably annus horribilissimus and not the other thing.
Can’t win ’em all.
You haven’t lost them. They are right up there in your noggin and in your heart. There is where they will always reside.
Thank you for — among many other things — introducing me to the Gagara Yasin. See? That one is in two places now.
Too much pain to bear. Mr. She . . . friends . . . personal pain . . . and Sam. And yet you will bear it to be there for those who survive, who love you, who care.
Thank you for letting us share this burden with you in a tiny way. I wish I could do more.
I hit Like, but that was heart-wrenching. You got through it (the courts). Life throws too many curve balls and they seem to be hurling toward everyone (including the president). To say you are a strong person is an understatement. God bless you sincerely and your family and friends. You can only do so much – take some time for yourself too.
Thanks @percival. Speaking of incorrigible optimists (pretty sure that’s where I get it from) . . .
Also, were you on the move the other day? If you think you were were traveling incognito, you might want to try a different outfit: https://www.foxnews.com/travel/suit-of-armor-atlanta-airport.
There’s nothing to say after reading your post, but I feel I should add that I’m sorry. I really am. And I believe the most in eternal justice. I don’t know what that looks like, but I’m certain God does. And I do think–if it’s okay to say–He holds all of us in His hand. Even the knitters.
Can’t tell if it is butted or riveted chainmail. You want riveted. Butted mail is trash.
And he has no vambraces, rerebraces, or couters. You won’t catch me going out half-dressed like that. Artie would have a fit.
I’m glad you brought that up. That was the first thing that sprang to my mind (lol), but I didn’t feel it was my place to carp . . . thought it might look a bit fishy.
This post goes beyond tricks and treats to trials (of life and law) and triumphs (of life and law) as we leave October’s theme: “Trick or Treat!” Thanks to everyone for doing your part to fill the month with treats, even tricks that entertained!
November’s theme is “Service,” which @she’s post might get us thinking upon.
I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet comes immediately to mind. Just as I was feeling sorry for myself because of a fairly innocuous family problem, I read your moving post and sit here with tears rolling down my cheeks as the real anguish you are going through sinks in. I have always liked and admired you for the humanity and kindness shown through your writing, but today you leave me speechless as I send you a huge hug. Bless you.
Well, some of your comments are making me cry. Thank you all.
I didn’t mean for this to be a “downer” post. Everyone faces calamities and challenges as they go through life, and we all deal with them the best we can, and (thankfully) only an infinitesimal percentage think the solution to life’s difficulties is to turn to violent and deadly crime. I’m really grateful to the police, the criminal justice system, and the “process” that served Sam in death so much better than it did in life (a story for another time).
I don’t know a better approach to life than the rather hackneyed and trite admonition given to Cinderella by her mother in the latest iteration of the story: “Have courage and be kind.” If we can do that, God knows, we might even survive the 2020 election intact. Here’s hoping.
Meanwhile, if there’s one song that expresses my own view of life, sung by an entertainer who always brings a smile to my face (if he doesn’t to yours, then perhaps I don’t want to know you), here it is:
Oh, @She!
Every year, I have the privilege of being invited to participate in an annual gathering of the state’s chapter of the group Parents of Murdered Children (it has been expanded to include family members of murdered persons). Friends from what I think of as my “normal” life are always…startled? stunned? To hear that I find this gathering peculiarly heartening rather than—as they expect—depressing or discouraging.
Scooped seemingly randomly from the general pool of human families, the POMC members are of all races, religions, social classes, but to have a loved one murdered is to be separated from the ordinary sorrows of life; it is a peculiarly traumatic and shattering way to enter into the common human experience of grief—and you have given us a beautiful illustration of just why that is.
Yet everyone who has read your story now has a glimpse of what I mean when I say that the survivors I meet at POMC events demonstrate, more than anything else, the truly extraordinary power of love. What courage they have! What stubborn determination to seek justice for their loved one and to make something—anything—good come from the evil they’ve had visited upon them.
Murder is permitted to be so much more defining of its victim than, say, cancer or a car accident. I’ve learned just how important it is to take every chance offered to insist that no, the one you loved is not defined by the murder or, God knows, the murderer(s). Sam was, and is so much more. So I’ll say a prayer for Sam tonight, grateful that I got to “meet” him through you. I’m glad God let him sojourn in the world with us, and I know he awaits us in the world to come.
Thank you Kate, and God bless you for the work you do, year in and year out. Your comment, and your prayers, mean more to me than I can say.
Your message was not a downer; it was an inspiration. I cry for those, too.
Time for Beto to go eat some regenerative dirt.
Good for the DA, and the judge. This part of the story is key. Sam was out of the fight, but this individual chose to continue the fight by searching for the means to break down Sam’s door and continue what he started. I hope he serves the 40, he deserves it.
I’m sorry that you and your family had to go through this.
I was a prosecutor for 35 years and have heard many victim impact statements. Yours is the most eloquent, moving and effective I have seen. It was hard to keep a dry eye when reading it. I don’t think I could have had I heard it.
”Have courage and be kind” is good advice, but not many of us can follow it as you do.
Thanks, @alfrench. I had no idea you were in that line of work. Your comments are much appreciated, as are all those of folks with experience or exposure to situations like this (@dougwatt).
The detective who was called to the crime scene and arrested the perps was a total lovebug throughout (OK, I get that’s not exactly a conventional way to refer to a policeman, but he was kind, caring and kept us fully informed throughout, even calling me the day before he and his family went to the beach in August to give me the absolute latest updates, and clue me in in what was likely to happen). The DA himself said that he’d never seen such dedication in a case, which involved, at one point, the detective rooting through thousands of audio recordings of prisoner/visitor conversations to find evidence as to the intent of the miscreants should they be granted bail. They were denied bail.
The DA’s office was also terrific, and spared no effort in gathering, and then presenting, the details of what was a very ugly crime.
There are so many stories about bent cops, bad cops, corrupt branches of the justice system, and miscarriages of justice. And I just wanted to say a public “thank you” to our Pennsylvania crime fighters, prosecutors and the judge who got it so right. I think that’s far more the case than not, but as with many other things in life, we seem to focus on the exceptions, and one rarely seems to hear about the vast majority of the times when things go “right.”
I had to force myself to read the description of what happened to Sam.
Yet you and your family have had to live with that description, and also whatever your mind’s eye might add to it, for so long.
I hope that God has helped you and kept with you throughout this long nightmare.
Whatever the reasons for this life that Sam was handed, I can’t fathom.
But your soul and those of your other family members have come shining through it all.
Thank you. I am very lucky in my family, both of birth and of marriage. Sam’s sister is an extraordinary person, and her daughter, who’s eleven, is the light of all our lives. She and her grandpa have a very special relationship that is just wonderful to see.
Another thing that gets us through, I think, is a sense of humor. Sometimes, it’s a rather dark sense of humor, but we laugh a lot, even through tough times. A couple of weeks after Sam was assaulted, Jenny called me one day, and in the course of our rather sad conversation, she said, “you know that saying about how, into each life some rain must fall?” “Yes,” I said. “Well,” she said, “I was thinking about that in relation to our family, and that’s not true. Rain doesn’t fall into our lives. Our lives are where the garbage is delivered.”
I laughed till I cried. And again, when I thought of it this morning, while driving into Pittsburgh to run a few errands.
I wrote it into a quote-of-the-day post a few days later, in January of 2018. (I was a bit disappointed in the Ricochet editor who changed my original reference to “[expletive] sandwich” into “leftover sandwich.” I thought it lost something in the translation.
I hope each of you has a Jenny in your life–male or female, relation or friend. We all deserve a Jenny in our lives.
This is one of those posts where “liking” the post somehow seems wrong.
Very powerfully written. Thank you for sharing.