by Michael Fine
Judge Jackson entered from her chambers, and the bailiff announced, “All rise. The U.S. District Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Lorraine Jackson presiding.” Judge Jackson stepped up on the dais and sat down, and everyone in the packed courtroom took their seats. Jackson organized her papers, as she always did, flicked an annoying speck of dust from her robe, and addressed Hope and the entire courtroom.
“As I’m sure everyone in the court can appreciate and, as was stated several times throughout the trial, this is a difficult case, and a difficult decision. Let me just say for the record that I have reviewed everything, including the sentencing memorandum submitted. And, before I forget, I would like to thank counsel for their professionalism throughout this trial.” The two lawyers bowed their heads slightly, graciously accepting a rare compliment from Judge Jackson.
Judge Jackson took a sip of water, placed her glass precisely in the center of her Ruth Bader Ginsburg coaster, which she made sure was at right angles on her bench, and continued.
“The facts of this case appear to be incontrovertible. The defendant surrendered herself to the FBI and, on her own accord, admitted her actions. Yet I believe there are mitigating factors in this case. The defendant has no history of criminal conduct. In fact, she was, until very recently, a model student and citizen. She was also under great personal stress, given her family’s tragic history.”
The judge paused and added, “In effect, the defendant sexually assaulted her victims while they were unconscious. This case, in its essence, is not much different than traditional rape cases heard by courts around the country every day. Obviously the details are unique, but the essence remains the same.” Jackson paused and steeled herself to say her next line exactly as she’d rehearsed, despite not believing a word of it. “As in all rape cases, the victims will be inconvenienced for just nine months or less.”
Gasps, shouts, and cries came from the audience in the courtroom. Half were furious that it seemed the judge was saying that permanent injury was the standard for criminal sentences. Half loved the irony of the judge’s comments, which echoed the arguments of pro-life activists through the years. Jackson let the hubbub die down.
Judge Jackson knew that Hope’s convictions carried a potential sentence of eighteen years in prison. The AUSA in the case recommended eight years in prison, while probation officials recommended only a “moderate” county jail sentence.
Jackson, who had envisioned this moment in her mind every day since Hope’s jury had found her guilty on all charges, said, “The role of the Court at sentencing is, essentially, to follow the roadmap that our system of criminal justice sets out for the Court in sentencing decisions, which I will do to the best of my ability.” She took a deep breath and continued. “Based on these rules and associated constraints, my decision is to sentence the defendant to six months with time served.”
Hope had been in prison awaiting sentencing for six months. Judge Jackson was, in effect, saying that Hope had served her prison time.
The courtroom erupted. Many immediately flashed back to the light sentence given to Brock Turner in the case People v. Turner, formally People of the State of California v. Brock Allen Turner, in 2015. Turner sexually assaulted an unconscious woman. His convictions carried a potential sentence of fourteen years in prison and prosecutors recommended he serve six years. Instead, on June 2, 2016, Santa Clara County Superior Court Judge Aaron Persky sentenced Turner to six months’ confinement in the Santa Clara County jail. He had already served half of that time. People were outraged then, as it appeared they were now. Lorraine Jackson was prepared to take the backlash she would receive for her sentencing. And the praise.
Judge Jackson pounded her gavel. “Quiet. Quiet please.” She waited for the courtroom to quiet down and proceeded.
“The question I have to ask myself, consistent with the Rules of Court, is: Is prison for this defendant an appropriate antidote to the poisoning of Reverend Porter Brooks’ life? Is incarceration in federal prison the right answer? In trying to balance the factors in the Rules of Court, I conclude that it is not and that justice would best be served, ultimately, with my judgment here today.
“I will now go through some of the factors I have taken into account.” The judge took another sip of water. “First, the Defendant was not armed and did not use a weapon. Second, the victim, while arguably vulnerable during the crime, is not, generally, a member of a traditionally vulnerable class. Third, while the Defendant inflicted physical and emotional injury, there was no real degree of monetary loss to the victim. Fourth, this crime was arguably committed because of unusual circumstances, which are not likely to reoccur. And fifth, the Defendant did not take advantage of a position of trust or confidence to commit the crime.”
A middle-aged man in the audience stood and yelled, “This is an outrage!” A U.S. marshall quickly escorted the man from the courtroom. His red baseball cap was knocked off of his head as the marshall dragged the man from the room.
Lorraine Jackson waited for the bedlam to recede. Her demeanor shifted and she looked directly at Hope.
“All of that said, what you did was horrific, young lady. As a medical school student, you agreed to follow the Hippocratic Oath, to do no harm. There is no doubt that knocking two men unconscious and performing surgery on them without their consent constitutes ‘harm.’” She sighed. “It gives me no pleasure to do this, but I must. I hereby place an injunction on your ability to practice medicine in the United States. You may not practice medicine ever again in this country.”
Hope was not surprised by this part of the judge’s ruling.
“My injunction is backed by the full coercive power of the Court. If it is found that you ever so much as prescribe an aspirin to anyone, I will personally find you in contempt of court and throw the book at you. Am I clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hope said.
“However, I will allow you to continue your research—assuming your boss will still employ you—on two conditions. One, that you agree to focus on helping women who can’t carry their pregnancies to term, not on impregnating men. And, two, that you agree to follow every single best practice and norm for your research, and not get ahead of yourself ever again. Am I clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hope repeated.
Judge Lorraine Jackson liked when defendants showed her the respect she deserved.
“I am also sentencing you to three years of probation. I am not sentencing you to a lifelong obligation to be lawfully registered as a sex offender and, further, I am not ordering you to complete a state approved rehabilitation program for sex offenders. I do not believe your particular case warrants those penalties. Do you understand just how much harsher a penalty I could have sentenced you to?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do,” Hope repeated yet again. “Thank you.”
“Well, in that case, we are adjourned.” She banged her gavel, closed her notebook, and walked off the dais and into her chambers, ignoring the chaos that once again filled the courtroom.
Hope turned to her lawyer and asked, “Does this mean what I think it means?”
The man-boy could once again hardly breathe, but managed to say, “You’re… you’re free to go.” He put his head in his hands and sat that way for quite a while. It was his first win as a practicing attorney after ten consecutive losses.
Hope turned to the gallery and saw Charlie, Billy, and Faye. Charlie had a huge, crooked grin on his face. Billy looked like a weight had been lifted from his life, which, she supposed, it had. Faye, forever stern, was not smiling, but Hope noticed that her eyes were moist.
Hope ran to Charlie, who wrapped her in a powerful bear hug. She squeezed back with all her might.
Releasing herself, she kissed him on his cheek.
“Oh, Charlie!”
“I know, kiddo. I know,” Charlie said. He subtly nodded his head in the direction of Billy Valentine, who had supported Hope just as much as he had, even if she didn’t fully realize it ye
t.
Hope turned to Billy, reached up and held his head with both of her hands, and kissed him on his lips. It wasn’t a full-on smooch, but it was the first time they’d kissed.
“Let’s have a real date,” she said. “This Friday. Pick me up at six?”
Billy smiled his Prince William smile and energetically bobbed his head.
Finally, Hope turned to Dr. Faye Young, her friend and mentor. And boss, still, maybe?
“I am appalled by what you’ve done. I hope you realize that,” Faye said.
“I do.”
“Are you going to apologize?”
Hope considered the question. “Honestly, I don’t know.”
Faye wasn’t happy with Hope’s answer, but let things go for the moment. She appreciated that at least Hope hadn’t offered up an insincere apology. And, besides, there was the not-so-small matter of a hundred million dollar research grant that was directly attributable to Hope Hunter’s high profile actions.
“Come by tomorrow at nine. We can talk about you coming back to work at the Research Lab. On a probationary status.”
Hope, not reading all of the reasons behind the pained look on Faye’s face, reached out and hugged her, catching her mentor by surprise.
“I’ll be there.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Friday, September 14 (later that week)
Trattoria Don Giovanni
Palo Alto, California
That Friday, Billy made reservations for two at Trattoria Don Giovanni, a tiny Italian restaurant in downtown Palo Alto. The owner, a jovial man who wore long, colorful ties over his protruding belly, welcomed Billy and Hope with hugs when they arrived for their seven o’clock table. They’d come to the cozy hole in the wall with incredible pasta and rotisserie chicken several times before Hope had gone to Washington and then to prison.
“Bentornato! Bentornata!” Welcome back.
“Thank you, Giovanni. We’re happy to be back.” Billy and Hope looked at each other and their eyes agreed: happier than you’ll ever know.
Giovanni sat the couple at a table for two near the window. A waiter soon approached with a basket of breadsticks and small containers of butter and olive oil and balsamic vinegar.
“Anything to drink tonight?”
Hope normally didn’t drink when they went out, but of course that was because she usually had a shift at the hospital or work at the lab early the following morning. Billy glanced at her and then turned to the waiter. “A bottle of Chianti, please.”
When the waiter left, Billy said, “I like your hair,” taking Hope’s hands in his own.
Hope had curled her hair for what felt like a special night, in a sort of salute to Angel. She was self-conscious about it and blushed at the compliment.
“Of course, I like it straight, too,” Billy said, nervous his compliment would be weaponized against him. He squeezed her hands and Hope smiled.
When the waiter arrived to take their order, Hope ordered the rotisserie chicken, her usual and the house specialty, and Billy ordered linguini and clams, one of his favorites. They sipped their wine and talked while they waited for their food.
“Thank you again for coming to the courthouse every day,” Hope said. “It really was unnecessary.”
“You’re welcome again,” Billy replied. “And, yes, it was necessary. I get to decide that, not you.” He smiled, grabbed a breadstick, dunked it in the oil and vinegar, and took a bite.
“How did you get so much time off from work?”
“I almost never take any vacation days. You were always busy with your residency and at the lab, so I knew you wouldn’t be able to go anywhere with me. Plus, you know, it’s not like we were at that point in our relationship.” Billy sighed. “I really don’t have any desire to go on vacation alone. Plus I like my work.”
Hope reached out and pulled Billy’s hands to the middle of the table, their fingers curled together. “Well, once you replenish your balance of vacation days, count me in. I’m going to have a great deal more free time now.”
“That would be nice,” Billy said. “I’d like that very much.”
“Me too.” Hope was surprised to realize that she meant it. Billy really had been one of the good guys through everything, especially considering the distance she’d put between them.
Dinner was delicious and slow-paced, as Billy hoped it would be. They finished off the bottle of Chianti and he ordered a second. He found himself wondering if alcohol consumption at restaurants went up with the recent adoption of fully automated cars, as they had when ride sharing services were introduced.
Billy and Hope shared a flourless chocolate cake for dessert, their spoons occasionally clacking as they went in for bites of the decadent treat.
As they finished the cake, Billy reached into his pocket and showed Hope a hotel key. Hope met his eyes, reached out for his hands again and squeezed them, and nodded her head.
“Are you sure?” Billy asked.
“Yes,” Hope said. “I love you, Billy.”
Billy’s smile could have lit a small Italian village. “It’s about damn time. Been way ahead of you on that front. Oh, and call me ‘William’ from now on. I reserve my full name only for a woman in love with me.”
It was Hope’s turn to beam her magnificent smile. So that’s why he insisted I call him Billy before.
Four Seasons Hotel
East Palo Alto, California
Decades earlier, East Palo Alto had been the ugly little sister to the beauty that was her neighbor, Palo Alto. Then, slowly but surely, the city made strides to reduce crime and become more upscale, and the city took a major leap forward in 2006 when the Four Seasons Hotel opened along Highway 101.
After paying the bill and a quick five-minute ride, William led Hope to the suite he’d reserved at the luxurious hotel.
“Wow,” Hope said, looking at the nicest hotel room she’d ever seen.
“Wow indeed,” William said, looking at Hope.
Hope blushed at the compliment. “Listen, William, I, uh, haven’t ever done this before.”
“Shh. We’ll go as slow as you want, and you’ll tell me how you’re feeling, what you need, and what you want.”
Hope loved this man with all her heart. She turned to him and kissed him passionately. The kiss lasted several minutes, as they stood in the center of the suite. It was their first real kiss, and Hope’s first real kiss since that day way back at the Louisiana State Fair over eleven years earlier. Todd had been cute, she remembered, but William was a man, and a man that loved her.
“Wow,” Hope said again.
“Wow indeed.” William said.
Billy wrapped his arms around Hope’s waist and started to turn slowly. Hope realized what he was doing and stretched her arms around his neck. They slowly danced there, in the center of the room, with no music, and Hope thought it was the most romantic thing she could imagine. After several minutes, Billy stepped back and said, “God, I love your body.”
Hope demurred, saying, “Really? I’ve always thought my breasts were too small.”
Billy grinned. “Oh, believe me, I will definitely show them the appreciation they deserve.” He looked toward the bedroom but didn’t move.
Hope realized he was asking her to lead, if she was ready. She was. She slowly led William to the bedroom by her fingertips. She was clearly nervous, but she did not hesitate.
Later, when Hope screamed during their lovemaking, it wasn’t in pain or fear; it was from release, and the first joy she’d felt in years.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Sunday, September 16 (two days later)
Zeline Yearwood’s house
Perryton, Texas
Charlie, Quinn, and Sanam formed their opinion of Miss Zeline Yearwood’s house as they approached: shithole. A half flight of bare concrete steps led up to the front door, which had a ripped screen door bouncing in the wind. The 1,100-square-foot house had moldy, peeling siding over a tan brick base. The yard was n
othing but straw and dirt.
They entered the side door to the one-and-a-half car garage and began their search. Within a minute, Quinn had found what they were looking for: a loose piece of drywall that, when moved, revealed a cache of handguns, marijuana, condoms, and bundles of cash. Quinn pocketed the cash and put the drywall back in its place. “Okay, let’s do this.”
The men quietly closed the door to the garage and made their way to the front of the house. The street, which only had a few other homes scattered along its length, was deathly quiet. As they approached the front door, they could hear angry yelling inside the house. It was an hour after sundown and a chill was in the air.
From inside, they heard a man’s voice say, “How many times do I have to tell you, you stupid bitch? Have my dinner ready when I come home from work. How hard is that?”
“That our man?” Quinn asked Charlie.
“Yep. Quite the charmer, huh?” It had taken him two years to track the son of a bitch down.
“Let’s do this,” Sanam urged. “It’s freezing out here.”
Charlie knocked on the door and stepped back. After a few moments he realized the couple was still arguing and not coming to the door. He knocked again. Just before the door opened, he could have sworn he heard a loud smacking sound.
The door swung open and a man wearing a wife beater t-shirt and patchy stubble on his face said, “Whadda you want?”
“You Derek Johnson, originally from Houston?” Charlie asked, already knowing the answer. The man, now twenty-eight, looked almost exactly like his high school yearbook picture and his old pictures on social media. Well, except for his forehead, which had already receded, and the beer belly, which had already formed.
“Yeah. I’ll ask again: Whadda you want?”
“May we come in?”
“No, you may no—”
Before Derek could finish his objection, Charlie forced his way past him and into the house. Quinn and Sanam followed.