Forgiving My Daughter's Killer

by Kate Grosmaire

  “Restorative what?” Andy said.

  “Aren’t you Catholic?”

  “Yes,” Andy said, taken aback by the question.

  “Then why aren’t you pursuing restorative justice? That’s what Catholics are all about, right?”

  “Restorative justice,” he repeated as we stared at him blankly. “Google it.”

  And with those two words—Google it—our trajectory with Conor changed forever.

  At the time, Andy was taking a class on Catholic moral theology and was assigned a term paper. The more he studied restorative justice, the more it intrigued him. When his professor told him that he could write his term paper on it, instead of the other listed topics, Andy began researching it more intensely.

  One afternoon I was washing clothes in the laundry room when he came in.

  “Kate, this restorative justice is really incredible,” he said excitedly, holding a book called The Little Book of Restorative Justice by Howard Zehr. He held it as if he’d just found buried treasure in the backyard and couldn’t wait to show me.

  “What is it, exactly?” I asked.

  “It’s just common sense,” he said, before plunging into his explanation. “Basically, when someone has committed a crime, he needs to acknowledge the wrongdoing. The victims need to grieve their losses, tell their story, have their questions answered, and have their needs addressed. The offender needs to accept responsibility for his actions and try to repair the damage if possible.”

  Zehr says restorative justice is based on three principles:

  1. Crime is the violation of people and of interpersonal relationships.

  2. Violations create obligations on the part of the offender.

  3. The central obligation is to right the wrongs.

  “Basically, it’s based on the idea that everyone is connected,” he said, “and crime rips that connectivity in a way that needs to be addressed.” Though Zehr’s first principle addresses the relational aspect of crime, the criminal justice system does not prioritize this relationship. The system doesn’t really meet the needs of victims, because it wasn’t designed to do so. The definition of “crime” doesn’t even include victims. Rather, a crime is something done to harm the state. This, of course, is what Andy reacted to in Jack Campbell’s office, when Jack said he’d handle everything and be Ann’s advocate. The state stands in for the victim, which leaves the victim out of a process that so profoundly affected his or her life. In Ann’s case, it ended hers.

  Restorative justice aims to meet some of the needs of crime victims, such as providing real information about what happened. In our current system of justice, we ask: What law was broken? Who broke it? How should they be punished? Restorative justice asks a different set of questions: Who was harmed? What do they need? Whose obligation is it to meet those needs?

  Frequently, victims never truly understand what happened during the crime. Because they are so separated from the criminal justice process, they only hear—sometimes from their seats in the courthouse—partial truths spun to help defend the perpetrator. Because it’s not usually possible to get true details from a trial, restorative justice allows victims (or their advocates) to speak directly to the criminal.

  Next, restorative justice allows the victim to tell his or her story, in what is hopefully a healing and transformative way. Crime disrupts the victims’ views of themselves, their life stories, and the way the world operates. To be able to get beyond the horrific crimes, victims must “re-story” the incident by telling the story in significant ways. Sometimes it’s also critical for the criminal to understand the effect his or her actions had on the victim’s life. This empowers the victim in a way that the criminal justice system—not designed to include the victim—cannot do.

  Lastly, restorative justice gives the criminal the opportunity to make restitution. Sometimes it’s vindicating for a criminal to try to make up for what was lost.

  “But what if it’s not possible to replace what was taken?” I asked.

  “This book addresses that,” he said, before flipping through the pages and reading me a story about an elderly woman who had been robbed of her wedding ring and jewelry. She chose to sit down with the young man who had stolen the jewelry to explain how her jewelry had been a family heirloom of enormous sentimental importance. Once the man who’d stolen it—for the money—heard her story, he better understood that he’d taken more than a ring from this woman. “In other words, restorative justice encourages offenders to understand the consequences of what they’ve done and to empathize with the people they’ve harmed.”

  Which, as I thought about it, was true. The adversarial way that the system is set up discourages people from even admitting that they’ve done anything wrong at all. Conor had already pled not guilty in court, though he had confessed when he walked into the police station. Offenders rarely have an opportunity to make it up to their victims. Even when people are punished, they’re never actually held accountable for their crimes. The restorative justice Andy was telling me about attempts to hold the criminal accountable in ways that benefit the victim, the criminal, and the community.

  “In fact, restorative justice factors in the community in ways that the criminal justice system can’t,” he said. I poured some detergent into the washer while Andy turned a page in the book. “Communities are considered ‘secondary victims,’ because they’re impacted by crime as well.”

  “But is it possible to use it when there’s more to restore than some jewelry?” Of course I was thinking of Ann, but I didn’t want to say it. While I wanted the best for Conor, his path was already determined: life in prison. Still, part of me was curious if restorative justice could be used in a case as challenging as ours.

  Andy read to me a story about a young woman whose father was murdered, and she participated in a victim/offender dialogue with his killer before he was released back into the community. Though this book emphasized that forgiveness was not a necessary part of restorative justice, it certainly gave forgiveness more of a fighting chance. In this story the young lady forgave her father’s murderer.

  “You just don’t hear of things like this,” I said, matching some socks. For some reason, Andy’s black socks all seemed to be of different varieties. I briefly considered matching a pair that were both black but had different patterns. “Forgiveness is such a foreign concept. Do you think restorative justice could really work?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Andy looked across the table at Michael McBride, who took a sip of espresso. They had already ordered their food, and were waiting for it to be delivered to the table. Andy reached up to their order number and rearranged it in the metal stand.

  There was almost nothing to say. There was almost too much to say.

  After one man’s son killed the other’s daughter, it would have been easy for the men to hash it out, over and over, examining every detail for missed clues. It would have been natural for accusations to fly, for excuses to be made, for anger to be shown. But even though there was a lot that could have been said, sometimes it was hard to say anything at all. Their conversations were heartfelt and personal. It was hard for anyone to believe that the two met every Friday for lunch, but this unusual pair shared a common, tragic bond: both had lost a child in a very significant, dramatic way. Andy had lost Ann to death. Forever. Michael had lost Conor to prison, possibly for life.

  “So, I’ve been reading about this concept called restorative justice,” Andy said as he poured sweetener into his iced tea and swirled his spoon around in his glass.

  “What is that?” Michael asked, his eyebrow raised in a parenthesis of curiosity. “Julie hasn’t been sleeping because she can’t stand the thought of Conor spending his entire life in jail. She tosses all night.”

  Andy explained restorative justice in as much detail as he knew. “The good thing about it is that Kate and I would have a say in the length of Conor’s sentence. The ‘restorative justice circle’ allows everyone to come to a
n agreement on what the sentence should be.”

  “Do you think it could work for Conor?” Michael asked. At this, the waitress appeared with their food and left it at the table.

  “I’m not sure. In order to start the process, we need a restorative justice facilitator, and I’m not sure where to start looking,” Andy said, pulling his food to him and picking up his sandwich. “There’s nothing like it here in Leon County. Then we will have to convince Jack Campbell to agree to it.”

  “What if it wasn’t just us asking?” Michael said. “What if we got a petition and circulated it among our friends?”

  Andy thought about this idea. “It definitely couldn’t hurt,” he said before biting into his meal.

  Later, Michael told his wife about all he and Andy had discussed. Without hesitation, Julie latched onto the concept like a drowning person to a life preserver. With the help of Julie, Andy began trying to figure out if restorative justice could be implemented in Conor’s case. They joined chat groups and forums. They called and e-mailed restorative justice experts, most of whom never bothered to respond. The two or three who did bother all had bad news.

  “Sorry, but there’s no one in the state of Florida who can do this for you,” one e-mail read.

  Andy actually talked to one of the most prominent restorative justice experts in the country who echoed the sentiment. “I can’t help you with this.” No reason was given.

  After months of effort, Andy got a call from Julie.

  “I found someone,” she said. “Her name is Sujatha Baliga and she works in Oakland, California. She gave me her phone number and wants to talk to you and Kate.”

  What Julie didn’t tell us was that she had found Sujatha by way of Howard Zehr, “the grandfather of restorative justice” and author of the book Andy read aloud to me in the laundry room. Basically, she decided she would not give up until she talked to him. “Hi, my name is Julie McBride. My son shot and killed his fiancée, and her parents are interested in doing restorative justice,” she said when she got him on the telephone.

  “Mm-hmm,” he said. “You don’t need just a restorative justice practitioner. You need a restorative justice lawyer. Let me make some calls.”

  Howard called Sujatha, who worked for the National Council on Crime and Delinquency in Oakland, California. She had been working in Alameda County to establish a restorative justice youth program in the juvenile justice system there. When she got a call from Howard, she immediately rejected the idea.

  “No way, Howard,” she said. “You were talking to the mother of the young man who committed this crime. Of course she wants to pursue this.”

  “I know you believe restorative justice could apply in cases like this.”

  “Of course I do. But how could we pull it off in a capital case in Florida?” Sujatha asked. “No chance, Howard.”

  Howard, who is a laid-back, peaceful Mennonite, finally agreed. “Okay, but you talk to her and tell her why it’s not going to work. She needs a lawyer’s perspective—someone who understands how restorative justice works within the legal system.”

  “Go ahead and give her my number. But I don’t have anything good to tell her. What I do here with kids in California is never going to happen in a capital case in a Southern state.”

  Within the hour Sujatha received a call from Julie, whom she found to be warm, grateful, and serious about helping her son. Through her tears, Julie described what happened that horrible Sunday: how Conor planned to take his own life, but took Ann’s instead, how he turned himself in, how he confessed. “Everyone wants to use restorative justice in this case,” she concluded.

  “I’m sorry, but this is a capital crime in Florida,” Sujatha said. “Even if the parents of the victim wanted to pursue restorative justice, it takes eighteen months to get a process like this started.”

  “Actually, the Grosmaires introduced us to the concept,” Julie said.

  “Wait, the parents of the victim?” Sujatha asked.

  “Yes! They’re the ones who told us about restorative justice.”

  “You’re in contact with them?”

  “Frequently,” she said. “In fact, they regularly visit Conor in jail, and my husband meets with Ann’s dad every week. I just went to breakfast with them on Saturday.”

  Sujatha paused on the other end of the line. “I have to say, it sounds like a remarkable situation. But I’m just not sure what we can do in a first-degree homicide case at this stage of the game.”

  Julie began to cry. “Won’t you let me just hire you to see what you can do?”

  “In Oakland I facilitate restorative practices to keep children out of the juvenile justice system,” Sujatha said, very kindly. “You know, for crimes like burglary and robbery, or teen-dating violence.” She explained how she gathered families, victims, law enforcement, the state attorney, and community members for in-person meetings with the juvenile who committed the crime. Then they agree on a plan for how to deal with the offense in a way that benefits all involved. “But I’ve never used restorative justice for a homicide case with gun charges,” she said. “Especially not for first-degree murder.”

  “I know you can’t promise anything,” Julie said, sniffling. She’d been trying for months to get a response from a restorative justice expert, and she felt her chance was slipping through her hands. “But please just talk with the Grosmaires.”

  “Even if the parents are on board, it took me years to build trust with the district attorney here. I can’t imagine it working in a homicide case in the Florida panhandle. I can’t work for you—in good conscience—because I don’t think it will work.”

  “But you’ll talk to them?”

  Sujatha paused, trying to figure out how far this should go. She knew this wouldn’t work, but she didn’t want to dash the hopes of this desperate mother.

  “Sure,” she said, though she figured this would be the end of it. She assumed Julie was just another worried, unrealistic mother valiantly doing whatever she could to help her son. “You can give them my contact information. If they want to call me, they can.”

  My cell phone buzzed on my desk, so I flipped it over and saw Andy’s name pop up on the screen.

  “Julie called and gave me the number of a lawyer in California who specializes in restorative justice,” Andy said. “Do you want to call her?”

  “Sure!” I said. Using the conference call feature on our iPhones, we dialed her number and were connected immediately.

  “Sujatha Baliga?” I asked. “Julie McBride gave us your number. Do you have time to talk?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  Andy and I explained our situation. We told her about Ann and Conor’s tumultuous relationship, how their tragic fight ended in death, how Conor turned himself in, how his dad showed up at the hospital, how we forgave Conor, and how I visited him in jail that Friday to tell him. Then I explained Allison’s suggestion that we pursue restorative justice.

  “God forgives us,” Andy said, “so we forgave Conor.”

  For a moment no one spoke. Sujatha cleared her throat, pushing away the emotion that I thought I’d detected in her voice.

  “Have you met with the state attorney?” she asked.

  “Yes, and the death penalty is already off the table,” I said. “Andy and I don’t want Conor to spend the rest of his life behind bars. What is the point of an able-bodied young man sitting in a cell every day for thirty years? Wouldn’t it be better if he could spend half of his sentence in prison, but the other half working to repair the harm he’s done? We know he can’t give us back Ann’s life—that is a debt he can never repay. But he can take his life and dedicate it to the things that she would have done—things like animal rescue. Wouldn’t community service be better than just being locked away? If the case doesn’t go to trial, then maybe we can make a difference in the sentence that Conor receives.” I paused.

  “Can you help us use the restorative justice process to handle his case?” I asked.
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  “It’ll be an uphill battle,” she said. “Restorative justice dialogues in serious cases like this happen, but only after the person who caused the harm is already into a long prison sentence, often just before he is released. The model I work with, restorative justice diversion, works because we have an arrangement with the district attorney. Here in Alameda County it’s for young people who have committed crimes. The DA’s office will refer cases to us that they think will work well. When the participants in the circle, including the youth, come to an agreement on what the outcome should be, the district attorney never charges the youth with the crime. There’s no similar process in your jurisdiction, and even if there were, this case is too serious for the DA to agree to use it.”

  “Part of the reason we want to do this is to have a say in Conor’s sentence. But I want answers,” Andy said. “We can’t get answers in the traditional criminal justice system. What were Ann’s last words? What kind of argument could’ve possibly caused this?”

  “I’ve worked with incarcerated people to prepare them for Victim Offender Dialogues,” Sujatha said. “From the time they commit their offense, they are coached to say nothing, deny everything. People serving time often don’t even speak to their cellmates about what they are in for and have espoused their innocence for so long that we have to spend a lot of time with them just to get them to admit what they did. Silence is conditioned into them.”

  “We know what we want to do has never been done before, but we also know that this is what God wants us to do. It’s about us, but it’s also about showing others that there is another way,” I said.

  “Okay,” she said reluctantly. “Let’s see what we can do then.”

  When she ended the phone call, I realized I’d been holding my breath when I wasn’t talking. We didn’t know that Sujatha had intended to break it to us gently that it was never going to work. Later she admitted that something in our voices made it impossible for her to say “no chance” as easily as she’d said it to Howard Zehr.