Right courtroom, wrong time. I’m late. Shit. The inner door to the courtroom has a window. I can see that someone is already testifying in the witness stand.
A deputy lets me in. It feels like everyone - judge, witness, jury, deputies, lawyers - turns to watch me enter.
I tiptoe to a seat. My coffee mug thunks on the wooden pew. My bag clunks, too. Good God. A rabid hyena would be more quiet.
I slide down the seat to position myself behind the middle-aged Black man and woman I assume are the victim’s father and stepmother. The volunteer coordinator told me their names, but now I’m not sure I remember. John, I think? Marianne? (Not not their real names.)
The woman watched me come in but has turned back to the witness. The man looks at me, clocks my name tag, Volunteer, Religious Coalition for Nonviolent Durham. Our eyes catch.
I attempt a reassuring smile, a gentle nod: Hi. Hello. Sorry about being late. But rest assured, I’m usually chill and collected. I’m here to support you, whatever you need.
I am neither chill nor collected. All morning, I’ve been shaking with nervousness. I couldn’t eat breakfast. I felt light-headed in the elevator.
And now a lump of anxiety is growing in my throat. I don’t know why I’m so scared. I just am.
The man, the father, turns back to the testimony.
I open my bag, check my notebook. Yes, his name is John. She is Mary. Okay.
I put my phone on Do Not Disturb, slide it into my bag.
I look around. The defendant, Burton Maslow (not his real name) is a Black man in his early twenties. He remains stone-faced as testimony continues.
John, Mary, and I are the only people in the audience of the court room.
No one is here to support the defendant.
The lump in my throat gets bigger.
Does the defendant, Mr. Maslow, have friends and family? Don’t they care enough to come? Or are they desperate to be here, but have babies or young children, health problems? Or can’t afford to take time off work?
Maybe Mr. Maslow’s family has had a huge loss of income because he’s locked up.
The killing was four years ago.
Mr. Maslow been incarcerated in the county jail, unconvicted, awaiting trial, for four years.
I uncross, recross my legs. This wooden seat is like an unpadded church pew. Huh. That’s fitting, because come to think of it, the courtroom is set up like a church sanctuary. There are even Bibles for swearing in witnesses.
But nothing here feels holy.
This place feels bleak. Alienating. Scary.
Well I just need to get the fuck out of here.
The thought comes to me clearly and in a complete sentence. Usually my thoughts are jumbles. Not now, not here.
Get up and leave. Nothing good happens in this room.
Bad things coalesce here. It’s a focal point. Grief, pain from outside, violence in the community, it all converges into this one space.
Here, you will relive your loved one’s murder.
Here, judgments can condemn you to decades, or life, in prison.
Here, there is no sense of welcome or belonging … to each other, to this process, to this room, to anything.
And all of it, it’s all being done in my name. In our names, collectively. The People of North Carolina vs. Burton Maslow.
Well, hell. So much for my deep sense of purpose.
I’d joined RCND’s little roster of court companions to support families during their loved ones’ homicide trials because I wanted to show up and bear witness.
I’d wanted to stop distancing myself from the devastating violence in Durham.
I’d wanted a way to, as Bryan Stevenson advises, get proximate to suffering.
A small, meaningful, and invited way to walk alongside my neighbors.
Why? Because I believe we are all beloved children of the Universe. We are each other’s siblings. And I want to act like it.
Okay I’m proximate. What now?
The scraping emptiness of this space — filled as it is with jury, judge, clerks, deputies, lawyers — feels like a receding ocean wave that sucks shells away from shore as it the tide ebbs.
It’s the siphoning away of … everything … before a tsunami hits.
And if I, ostensibly unaffected by this crime, feel this sense of loneliness and despair, my God, how must John and Mary feel right now?
And the defendant? What is this like for him?
I take a deep breath. My heart rattles against my ribs.
Am I in over my head? Uh. Clearly.
Worse, am I being a white savior - doing something just to feel self-congratulatory?
Can I, a middle-class white woman, really be useful in this space?
And sweet Cosmic Echidna, holy shit, I did not think this through — can I listen to gruesome evidence? Of a real murder?
The prosecution is cuing up video from a security camera.
This isn’t the movies. This is John’s son, Mary’s stepson, being shot to death.
The video has no sound. It’s stilted. Images jump slightly, a time lag between frames. Three tiny flashes of light. A figure falls. A life is over. That quick.
I feel sick.
I take another breath.
Get it together, Jen. Get. Your. Shit. Together.
Remember what the volunteer coordinator said: “We cannot take away a family’s pain. But they do say our presence cushions the blow.”
Remember that every big thing you’ve ever done, you did while being certain you couldn’t go through with it.
Remember: this isn’t about you.
Okay. Right. Chin up, camper.
I stay. Instead of listening to every detail, I pray silently. I envision light filling the courtroom. I ask for light to shine into the hearts of everyone here.
During court recess, I take a deep breath and introduce myself to John and Mary.
We shake hands.
I offer them some gum.
Mary is quiet, sits back down. John is talkative. He asks about my morning. Has it warmed up out there?
It has.
Want to stretch our legs in the hallway?
Sounds good.
John seems glad to chitchat. Nothing big. Just shooting the shit with a kindly stranger. It seems like it helps a little.
So I come back.
Mary stays quiet and reserved. John shows me pictures of his murdered son. His name was RJ. He looks just like John.
I ask about RJ. What was he like? What did he like to do?
John’s eyes light up.
RJ never met a stranger. He loved to ride motorcycles. Great mechanic. Could take anything apart and put it back together, did that ever since he was little. Called me every day to check on me. Oh, and Lord, he cooked the best barbecue. You wouldn’t believe how good.
Later in the week, John and Mary I while away the time while the jury deliberates.
It’s a strange, heavy boredom.
We tell each other our worst jokes to try to pass the time.
The verdict comes in.
Guilty. Mr. Maslow contracts like he’s been punched in the stomach.
Mary is stoic. John falls apart. Just unravels at the seams.
I put my hand on his shoulder while he sobs.
The jury is excused.
The judge sentences Mr. Maslow to 155 months in prison, minus time served.
Mr. Maslow keeps shaking his head wordlessly. He is handcuffed, chained, escorted away.
We gather our things.
John says he’s relieved. He feels that justice has been done. His son’s life mattered enough to put his killer behind bars.
We walk to the parking garage. Mary surprises me with a tight embrace.
John asks me to be sure to tell everyone at the Religious Coalition: A guilty verdict. Justice for RJ. Thank y’all for being here.
I go home and cry.
I cry for John. Mary. I cry for RJ.
I cry for Mr. Maslow. Hurt people hurt people.
Is this justice?
It’s been five years since that trial. Along with our other volunteers, I keep showing up. We now try to schedule two court companions at a time, so we can support each other while we support victims’ families.
It’s never not sad.
Showing up is a small thing and a hard thing. It’s complicated yet simple.
Complicated for a lot of reasons.
Simple because it’s simple: we are all children of the Universe. We are all connected.
If we must suffer, maybe, at the very least, we can be with each other while we cry.
XOXO
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Fascinating read Jen. Indeed, many of our most worthwhile endeavours are hard, maybe even upsetting, but fulfil our obligation to others. Reminds me of the forensic medical work I did with maltreated children - people would say “why do that, I couldn’t”, and I’d say that I chose to be a pediatrician and therefore have an obligation to work for those in the most strife. Not easy, often upsetting, but satisfies my duty to the Echidna.
So, know that you have my admiration for showing up, and don’t underestimate the impact on those at a nadir.