Forgiving My Daughter's Killer

by Kate Grosmaire

  The truth in this situation was forgiveness and justice—notions that transcend the categories that define us. That’s how a couple of Catholics listened to the advice of an Episcopal priest, who led us to a Mennonite, who introduced us to a Buddhist, who worked with Protestant parents to attempt what everyone wanted: restorative justice.

  Would we receive it?

  It all came down to the restorative justice circle.

  “All right,” Sujatha said as she sat down on our couch after dinner. “If we’re going to be ready for this circle Tuesday, we have a lot to talk about.”

  That night we discussed the details of the circle, but the conversation turned personal when Andy asked Sujatha how she had gotten into the restorative justice business in the first place.

  She told us that when she was in college at Harvard, she planned to go to law school because she wanted to become a prosecutor and put child molesters behind bars. It was personal for her because her own father had sexually abused her when she was young.

  Then one summer she traveled to India with her then boyfriend. He was starting a school in Mumbai. There she met women and children who had been abducted and forced to work as sex slaves. It was hard to listen to her talk about such dehumanizing conditions. She had a passion in her voice that I admired. She had even spent time with Mother Teresa, serving the poorest of the poor through her ministry.

  “I even considered becoming a Catholic nun,” Sujatha said with a laugh. I wondered if her boyfriend had known how the trip had affected her.

  The trauma of spending time with the sex slaves and their children threatened to overcome her. Obviously, she was dealing with unresolved issues related to her own childhood abuse, which couldn’t be undone simply by trying to help other people with theirs. Her fury and rage began to take a toll on her. She talked of suffering from blinding migraines, terrible stomach problems, and complicated relationships. And so, on the advice of some friends, she grabbed a backpack and hiked north to the Himalayas. She landed in the Dharamsala, where she was quite the anomaly, an Indian American traveling alone with a backpack. A number of Tibetan families in exile welcomed and befriended her. They wanted to know her story, and she wanted to know theirs.

  Their stories gave her a new, life-shifting perspective. They told her about losing family members as they tried to escape the Chinese Army, about women getting raped, and children being made to kill their own parents, parents being forced to leave the bodies of their children behind, and worse.

  Once again I was overwhelmed by the depth of pain some are made to endure in this world.

  “I had to ask them,” Sujatha continued. “How can you go through all of that and still have a smile on your face? You’ve been through so much. So why do you seem to be happier than I am? And time and time again, the response was the same: ‘We practice forgiveness.’ ”

  “I thought they were insane,” she said. “I thought some things are just unforgivable!”

  The woman who managed the guesthouse in which she was staying asked her, “Why are you so angry?”

  Sujatha shared her story of abuse.

  “She told me, ‘People often write to His Holiness the Dalai Lama for advice. You should try it. Write the letter, then take it to his monastery. You’ll get some sort of response.’ ”

  Andy and I were rapt with attention. The Dalai Lama? That would be like writing a letter and putting it in the pope’s mailbox.

  “I wrote, ‘Anger is killing me, but it motivates my work. How do you work on behalf of abused and oppressed people without anger as the motivating force?’

  “I dropped the letter off at the front gate to the Dalai Lama’s compound, but I didn’t expect anything to come of it. I came back a week later, however, to see if there was a response. I figured I’d get some sort of prayer cord or a preprinted card. To my surprise, I was taken all the way in to his private secretary. ‘His Holiness was moved by your letter, and his schedule has changed so he’s not traveling this week,’ the secretary said, while looking at a calendar. ‘Would you like to have a private audience with him on Thursday?’ ”

  Sujatha told us that she couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but within days, she sat face-to-face with the Nobel Peace Prize winner. Sujatha began the conversation by talking about sexualized violence against women and children. She told him about her work counseling women and children who had been forced into sexual slavery.

  “I told him about my father’s abuse. How that was the motivation for me to do good in the world. But that the anger was having physical effects on me now. His Holiness listened attentively to my story, then he shared a very personal story about how he dealt with his own anger toward the Chinese. I was amazed by his ability to forgive and how peaceful he was.

  “Then, when I asked His Holiness for specific advice on how to forgive my father, he asked me a genuine but profound question. ‘Do you feel you have been angry long enough?’ The question struck me. For a few moments I didn’t respond. We sat in silence as I thought about the way anger had affected my life. My anger was killing me. The migraines and the stomach problems. I was a mess! So I finally simply said yes.’

  “ ‘Then, I have two pieces of advice for you.’ He smiled at me. ‘First, you should meditate. Second, open your heart to your enemies,’ he said.

  “ ‘I’m just about to start law school to become a prosecutor so I can make sure that abusers, batterers, and child molesters all end up behind bars,’ I protested. ‘I’m not opening my heart to anyone!’ ”

  The Dalai Lama thought her response was absolutely hilarious. “Okay,” he chuckled and patted her on the knee. “Okay, okay, then you just meditate.”

  Inspired by the conversation, she went back to the United States and signed up for a ten-day meditation course conducted completely in silence.

  “Then, on the very last day there,” Sujatha told us, “I was able to completely forgive my father. I let go of all the hatred and just felt love for him.”

  Honestly, as I listened to this incredible story, I probably thought the same thing that others do when they hear our story. How could she have done this after just ten days of meditation? Could she really feel love for her father after what he’d done to her? But it was true. I could tell by the way she told the story, the sound of her voice. She felt it.

  A couple of weeks after she had forgiven her father and returned home, she started law school. Without the rage of her abuse brewing in her soul, she no longer had the desire to become a prosecutor. Instead she decided to become an attorney who defends women who kill their abusers. “I didn’t realize lawyers don’t have the option of specializing in such a way,” she said. “So once I became a defense attorney, I had to defend everyone—including people accused of child abuse. I found myself following His Holiness’s second piece of advice, to open my heart to people I’d previously seen as my ‘enemies.’ And I learned that their life stories were not so different from my own.”

  Sujatha had benefited so immensely from forgiveness, but ultimately she was dissatisfied with how the system seemed bent on artificially segregating the victims and the perpetrators. Frequently, her clients simply wanted to apologize for the harm they had caused.

  “I’d have to tell my client, ‘Everything you say will be used against you. If you talk to the victims, it could be used against you if we get you a new trial,’ ” she said. “ ‘Tell your therapist, and tell your priest, but you can’t say a word to the victim.’ ”

  Of course, this effectively squelched the potential for the restoration and emotional peace that frequently follows an apology. Sujatha couldn’t quite reconcile this with what she’d learned in her spiritual practice. Victims frequently want to hear those words—I’m sorry—and criminals so desperately need to say them. Yet she denied them the opportunity because of legal posturing. Wasn’t there a way to pursue justice outside of the adversarial roles of the criminal justice system? Somewhere in the middle?

  This is how Sujatha wa
s led to restorative justice, which led her right to my front door.

  CHAPTER 16

  Bring him in.”

  When Conor entered the room, we all stood. He looked at us awkwardly, as if he didn’t know what to do. He was in the same room with people he loved. No glass to separate him from us. He looked down at his feet. His ankles weren’t shackled.

  We’d planned every detail with Sujatha—things such as who would sit where and who would walk in first.

  “It’s important for the victims to feel safe and comfortable in the room,” she’d explained as we went over the minutiae of the meeting. “These decisions are commonly made before restorative justice circles so that everyone knows what to expect.” Some of these details didn’t strike us as particularly important. Neither Andy nor I felt that being in the room first would make us feel safer. Gradually, something occurred to me that Sujatha had not addressed.

  “Will Conor be shackled?”

  “Do you want him to be?”

  Suddenly overwhelmed, I couldn’t speak.

  Sujatha waited patiently. She didn’t know what I’d say, and neither did Andy. But I knew. My silence was due to pure emotion, not indecision. I couldn’t even think of having them humiliate Conor in that way. Meeting face-to-face meant meeting person-to-person. I didn’t need to prove anything by having Conor bound when he was brought into the room.

  “No,” I said through tears.

  I could hear the surprise in Sujatha’s voice. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not afraid of him,” I said.

  And so, he walked into the room freely, into a room with his mom and dad and us—the people who probably would have become his mother- and father-in-law. It was against the rules to touch inmates, but we had requested an exception be made for this circle.

  “Go hug your mother,” Sujatha said to Conor, who immediately walked over to his mom. He hadn’t touched her in fifteen months. A lump formed in my throat. I watched as he hugged his dad, before he walked across the room to me. We embraced.

  The last time I’d touched Conor, my daughter was alive. I wanted my hug to convey my forgiveness and my love for him. I was immensely sad for this young man whose previous life was over. Everything he could have been, he now had no chance to become. But I wanted him to know that we believed in redemption for him. We still visited Conor, so this wasn’t the first time we had seen him in fifteen months. But it was the first time we were able to physically touch him.

  The hugs were not overly emotional. No one cried. Since there were so many people there, it was a little awkward. This was not the time for a true reunion for anyone. That’s the thing about prison . . . Conor had nothing but time, but not in the moments he truly wanted to last. It’s like being thirsty when surrounded by a saltwater sea.

  We were there for a purpose—not to have a tearful reunion or to bind up the gaping wounds he’d inflicted on us, but for the very tough business of determining Conor’s fate. By the end of our meeting that day, we could all walk away with a sentence we’d agreed on that might give him a future outside the walls of the jail.

  “Let me explain a little about what is going to happen here today,” Sujatha said after everyone was seated. In the chair to the left of the doorway was Helene Potlock, Victim Assistance Program Director at the state attorney’s office. Though she had dutifully taken notes in our prior meetings with Jack Campbell, and she had helped us apply for victim’s aid for counseling, she never spoke much. Especially on this day. Beside her was a television and DVD player on an old metal rolling stand. Behind Andy and me was a long westward-facing window, so the sun poured into the room. I regretted wearing a blouse that wasn’t cotton. It was the first day of summer for the rest of the nation, but we’d had summer for quite some time already. Jack Campbell and Greg Cummings sat along the south wall, Conor’s parents faced us, Conor sat next to his mother, and Father Mike sat next to Conor. Sujatha completed the circle. The deputy sheriff sat outside the room at the desk the entire time. He was “off-duty,” paid by the McBrides as part of the conditions of being able to conduct the circle at the jail.

  The room was twelve by twelve and was made of concrete blocks. The only color in the room was the gray-speckled, white vinyl tiles on the floor. I was told we were sitting in stackable, plastic chairs instead of nicer wooden ones, in case things got intense. The plastic ones weren’t as dangerous.

  “We will begin the meeting with prayer, then State Attorney Jack Campbell will read the charges against Conor. Father Mike will speak about the impact on the community, then Andy and Kate will talk about Ann and what it meant to lose her. Conor will give a full account of what happened and answer any questions we have. After everyone has had a chance to speak, we will all discuss what we feel the terms of the sentencing should be and come to an agreement.”

  The room, warmed by the Florida sun, was silent.

  The phrase “full account” was what got me. Since Ann’s death, I couldn’t really imagine how Conor—the boy we loved, invited into our home, and even employed—had killed the person he said he loved. He had given a confession the night he’d turned himself in, and the sheriff’s detective had shared it with us. But I still couldn’t imagine what had taken him from being a young man in a rocky teenage relationship to prison. In normal criminal proceedings, the details of the crime that might be held against the defendant are withheld. As I tried to brace myself for the inevitable emotional onslaught, I tried to remind myself that this was an honor—an opportunity to hear the truth.

  “I’ve brought a picture of Ann,” Sujatha said, holding up a photo. Taken during a happier time, it showed Ann sticking out her tongue at the person taking the photo. “If anyone starts behaving in a way that Ann would not like, then Andy and Kate are going to flash the picture.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “We will be using a ‘talking piece,’ ” she said. Sujatha had thought carefully about this object and had, with our permission, selected an item that reflected our story: Sophie the giraffe from the baby boutique. In a way, this teether had come to represent our last interaction with Ann. She had suggested I buy it for the baby shower; and Andy had gone by the store, bought the giraffe, and shared a chicken finger sub from Publix with Ann the day before she was killed. It seemed right to use a sweet, innocent object in such a way.

  “Sophie will be passed from person to person around the circle. If you have Sophie, you have the floor and may speak without interruption. You may also hold the talking piece in silence or simply pass it on to the next person. It’s up to you.

  “Basically, using the talking piece will slow down our conversation, give everyone an equal voice, and give us time and space to express our emotions, even strong emotions,” she said. “It will also allow for deeper conversation. No one should interrupt. Also, there is no outside discussion. If you have something to say, everyone needs to hear it. Let’s begin.”

  Father Mike bowed his head. We all held hands.

  “Father, we thank you for this opportunity to come here together today, to open our hearts to one another. Help us to make this a place of healing. God, please let us feel the presence of the Holy Spirit, send wisdom to guide us,” Father Mike said. “Allow the peace and love of Jesus Christ to surround us . . .”

  While Father Mike prayed, I whispered a prayer too.

  “Come, Holy Spirit. Come, Holy Spirit. Come, Holy Spirit. Be here with us to guide everyone in the room,” I said. “Amen.”

  Jack Campbell read the charges.

  “Conor McBride has been charged by the state of Florida with first-degree murder and the discharge of a firearm in the commission of a felony.”

  Though the death penalty was not applicable for Conor’s crime, we had heard that State Attorney Willie Meggs was pushing for a forty-year sentence.

  Sujatha asked Father Mike to speak about the effect of Ann’s death on the community. “When one member of the community is lost, the whole community grieves. We are all connected
to one another. Death has touched us, and we are forever changed by that. And when it happens to someone so young, it is overwhelming. Someone so young, so vibrant. And not just one life has been taken by this act. Conor now faces a lengthy prison sentence. He will be sent away from his family, his friends. Certainly the parents, who have been devastated by the loss, suffer greatly. So many of us are left to question how such a thing can happen in our city. To our friends and our neighbors. How do we process this?”

  As he spoke, I lamented that we didn’t have a representative from the domestic violence activism community in the circle with us. We’d reached out to them but received no response. Using restorative justice in domestic violence cases is a touchy subject. Abusers are seen as masters of manipulation, and the fear is that they will do what they do best—apologize and then return to their negative behavior.

  When it was time for Andy and me to talk, I unfolded a piece of paper that had all the information I wanted to cover. Our job was simple. We were to take this opportunity to truly explain to Conor what he’d done, what he’d taken from us. We did that by simply telling the story of Ann.

  “I knew Ann would be a girl even though I only had one ultrasound very early in the pregnancy. We named her Ann Margaret the day after she was born, even though Sarah and Allyson preferred Rainbow Dolphin Star Heart.

  “That would have been some name to grow up with,” I said, using a line from our eulogy for Ann. People in the circle smiled.

  “When she was a little baby, I carried her around in a baby sling all the time. So much so that when she eventually began walking, someone told me that they didn’t think she had legs because they had never seen them. She was likely going to be our last baby, and everyone thought I would nurse her ‘forever.’ But she weaned when she was around eighteen months old.

  “When she was eight years old, she was diagnosed with amblyopia,” I said. “This is often called lazy eye. One eye sees better than the other, so the weaker eye shuts down. For two years we worked to recover her vision, patching her good eye so the weak one would work harder. We wanted her to be able to drive, to not be restricted from achievement because of her vision.”