Mistakes Made…Lessons Learned Excerpt

It was unseasonably warm and the courtroom was at a dead silence. Occasionally the prosecution and the defense attorneys would share a comment which didn’t quite sit well with me. Why were they so chummy? It would appear that opposing sides would at least project the front of opposing sides. My son’s life was hanging in the balance and his attorney was making small chatter with the side that was so assured that they had their man. Never to diminish the fact that another young life had been snuffed out seemingly over nothing. Someone was guilty. But it wasn’t my son. The phrase open and shut case now has new meaning to me after this ordeal. For in the south, one (doesn’t necessarily mean the right one) must be held accountable, by any means necessary. You are typically guilty until proven innocent. There’s something about law enforcement officers who chew tobacco in the courtroom that makes southern justice a little harder to swallow. Since the beginning of time, history has depicted a system that cannot be completely trusted. At the very least, it is not one that advocates more times than not for one of the African kind. I sat there previously ignorant of the judicial system, thinking its slanted outcomes only befell the disadvantaged. Surely we didn’t fall into that category. Or did we? As I shrugged off this vein of thought, I knew my son would be vindicated. We could all go home thankful that this nightmare was over for my family. I felt horrible that a mother had lost her son. But I knew that my son was not responsible for this heinous crime!

The belief of my son’s innocence goes much further than an allegiance based on the love a mother has for her child. Again, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that my son was innocent.With my husband on my left and my mother on my right, I felt like I was being suffocated. This was the last day of an emotionally exhausting experience. My soul was glad it was coming to an end, prayerfully with an expected outcome. As I recall, I was in the room but the room was not a part of me. I looked around prematurely dazed but fought through my mental fog to see a mother and father visibly grieving over the loss of their child. Gathered with them for support was a large representation of their grieving extended family members and friends. We were all on edge for they wanted justice and so did my family. Their justice was accountability for the death of their loved one. My family wanted justice also for them with a different result. Of course we want to see people punished for the crimes they commit. But again, punished for the crimes they commit.  My child was guilty by association.
Unbeknownst to him, his immaturity and desire to hang around the not so good element had brought us to this point.  As I gently reached out and touched my mother’s hand, although I was grown, a part of me felt like her little girl again. I whispered, “Mama, we did ask God for a miracle didnt we?” She clasped my hand and whispered back, “Yes.”  Although I was reassured in the physical realm, my spirit told me differently. And somewhere within those moments of reflection, the bailiff knocked on the door and said, “All Rise!”

I cannot begin to tell you how fast my heart began to beat. I’m sure it could be heard a mile away. The judge motioned for the jury to come and be seated. Somewhere in my mind (perhaps it was an episode of Law & Order) I remembered that if the jury didnt look in the direction of the defendant, then it was not a good sign. I begged silently for them to look at my son. But the jury (six white men and women) of his peers did not. I scanned their faces to get an idea or glimpse of hope of their impending verdict. In my search, I noticed that the face of one of the female jurors was extremely red. It was quite apparent that she had been crying. I remember pausing to look at her but the judge’s voice startled me as I turned my attention back to center stage.

The judge asked my son to please stand. As he and his attorney stood, the judge deliberately took his time to speak. As he read the verdict I focused all of my attention on my son. Even as I sat behind him I saw him in a different light that day. He was definitely a grown man of nineteen years; standing six foot one, slender and rather nice looking. I hadn’t been this close to him in a year for he sat in the county jail for a year awaiting trial.  Jailhouse visitations didn’t permit contact visits. They consisted of shouting between a glass-petition while using a telephone earpiece that didnt work well.  As I watched him, I began to experience flashbacks of when he was a baby bouncing on my lap; I saw him crying as a toddler bringing me a broken toy; I saw him beaming with the loss of his first tooth; I saw him playing little league football; I saw him hurting from the loss of a girlfriend; I saw him as he was learning to drive; I saw him on prom night with his girlfriend and just when I saw him dazzling the high school football crowd on any given football night, I heard it.

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