I took a deep breath. I was still trying to process the details of Ann’s last moments, but I knew what was coming next: the discussion of an appropriate sentence for Conor.
Before coming to this meeting, I’d told Sujatha I would offer five years, with conditions: anger management classes, community service, and speaking to the public about teen-dating violence.
After hearing what I’d just heard, five years seemed like an awfully short period of time.
Five years?
Had I really promised I would say that?
But I had no more time to consider, because Sujatha started with me. “Kate, what do you suggest as an appropriate sentence?”
I paused for a moment, as I knew this could determine Conor’s fate. Was five years appropriate for ending someone’s life? Ann’s?
“Five . . . to ten years,” I said. I felt as though I had to honor what I had previously stipulated, but I also had to honor Ann’s life. Her last words.
No, I don’t.
I felt the freedom to say five years, because we knew Conor would never be sentenced to such little time. I also knew this wasn’t some sort of elementary math problem. Jack wasn’t going to take everyone’s recommendations and average them out. We didn’t need a low number to help the curve. Like all negotiations, however, we needed to know what the bottom line was; and I suddenly wanted the bottom line moved up a little bit.
Sujatha looked at Andy. “And you?”
“Ten to fifteen years, followed by probation with conditions.” Secretly, I was thankful he’d requested a higher sentence. I squeezed his hand.
Sujatha looked at the McBrides.
“We agree with the Grosmaires,” said Michael.
That didn’t make sense to me. I had said something entirely different than Andy. Did they agree with me or with him?
Father Mike just shook his head when Sujatha looked to him. Though he was the de facto community representative, he didn’t feel that he had any authority to recommend a sentence.
“My fate is in your hands,” Conor said, his head down.
He was right.
All eyes went to Jack Campbell, the man who was the deciding factor. He has light green eyes under thick eyebrows and the manner of someone who’s seen it all.
What would he say? Offer the forty-year sentence the state attorney supposedly wanted? Would he come down five years for every five years we went up? Had his experience in the circle changed his outlook on what could be accomplished?
Instead of answering, however, he closed his notebook and stood up.
“Thank you all very much,” he said. “I’ve heard your recommendations. I’ll take them back to my office and review them with my boss. I’ll let you know what’s decided.”
What?
We were supposed to have a discussion. If nothing else, this was a pre-plea conference. Shouldn’t we walk away with the recommendation for the judge, just as if it were only Jack and Greg Cummings?
“Jack, it would be best if we could at least hear your initial thoughts at this time,” Sujatha said. But Jack politely declined.
“Decisions like this should not be made when emotions are running so high,” he said simply before exiting the room.
The circle had ended, and we were all left stunned.
We hugged Conor one last time. Everyone was too surprised by the abrupt ending to speak.
After we watched a deputy take Conor away, we gathered up Ann’s things and put them back into the cardboard box. I carefully wrapped up the things she had found so precious, and we were escorted out.
It was a very quiet trip to the parking lot. Helene Potlock had disappeared with Jack, leaving everyone else to follow the deputy through the maze of hallways and out of the building.
“Thank you, Father Mike,” Andy said, hugging him.
“It was quite something. I’m glad I could be here for you. God bless you both.” He walked off to his car, too exhausted to say any more.
Greg Cummings had spoken briefly to the McBrides and left just as quickly.
“We’re going to need some time to process everything,” Sujatha said. She knew we were all disappointed by the sudden ending of the circle. “We’ll talk in the morning,” she said to the McBrides, then she and Andy and I went out to dinner.
“How could he just leave like that? That was not in the spirit of the circle. That was not what was supposed to happen! We were supposed to reach an agreement. Everyone was going to agree on the sentence and it would be taken to the judge. What just happened, Sujatha?”
She sat silently in the restaurant and allowed us to express our frustrations.
“There should have been a beginning, a middle, and an end,” I said. “There was a beginning and a middle, and now I feel as if I am just dangling there.”
My disappointment was crushing. Had the circle been a success? All the praying, the petitions, the planning. And now we were playing another waiting game. Not knowing if anything we said or did in that room would matter. That disappointment remained with me all evening and into the following days.
When we got back to our home, I poured some tea. We sat in our living room and evaluated what had happened.
“At least now I have no more questions,” Andy said. “I don’t have to wonder if there was anything I could have done, or any way I could have prevented what happened.”
We sat in silence.
“How do you feel about forgiving Conor now?” Sujatha asked me, quietly. “You know, now that you have heard everything.”
I took a sip of tea and sighed.
“Honestly,” I said, “I’ll have to think about it.”
CHAPTER 18
Forgiveness isn’t an event; it’s a lifestyle.
I’ve found that—after the big decision to forgive was made—it continued to happen, step-by-step, as new information came up or new thoughts came to mind. We had to forgive Conor when he told us he’d shot Ann while she was on her knees. We had to forgive Ann for going back inside the house. Why didn’t she just drive away? She was free and clear. She’d be alive now. We had to forgive Conor for hitting Ann. We had to forgive Ann for not coming to us when Conor hit her. We had to forgive the McBrides for not realizing what was going on with Conor. We had to forgive Michael for having a gun in the house—though locked—which Conor could access.
When these things came up, we had to remind ourselves: we have already forgiven this.
Frequently Conor would say to me, “Thank you for forgiving me.” My response was always the same. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it for me.”
Of course, I know forgiveness benefits both of us. But what I was trying to convey to Conor was this: forgiveness is an emotional release for the forgiver.
After all, I have a husband and two other living children. I had to forgive Conor because I had a life to live. One day I hope to have grandchildren. Because of the people in my life, I couldn’t allow myself to be stuck in a place of bitterness.
Everyone has their year in court.
A couple of weeks after our restorative justice circle, we still hadn’t heard from Jack Campbell. Ann had been gone for more than a year, which—of course—was a long period of time to be without closure. After the pre-plea conference, we talked to Sujatha, biding our time by analyzing every possible outcome, every eventuality.
“I never necessarily wanted Conor to receive a lighter sentence, but I did want his sentence to be meaningful,” I had told her before the pre-plea conference. “If the state wanted him to spend twenty-five years in prison, for example, then perhaps half of those years could be spent behind bars while the other half could be spent serving the community.”
“I know,” Sujatha said. Of course, we’d gone through all this before we even stepped foot in the restorative justice circle.
“I wish he could mow my yard for the rest of his life,” Andy said. I could tell he was only half-joking. Conor was a guy who had gotten accepted into Stanford. Letting him rot away in
jail wouldn’t help him, Tallahassee, or us.
I wanted him to serve nonprofits for which Ann would have volunteered. As a matter of fact, we procured letters from four or five community organizations that stated they would allow Conor to perform community service with them. Plus, he could start restorative justice programs in prison and go to high schools—in shackles—to talk about teen-dating violence. We knew of a young man convicted of DUI manslaughter who had done just this—with the mother of one of the young women killed in the accident.
During this time of waiting, I wondered if all our efforts toward restorative justice had been futile. The plea agreements seem to work more like a car sale: Let me take this to my manager and see what he says. Jack Campbell said he would not make a decision until he received the approval from State Attorney Willie Meggs.
Meggs apparently was a hard-hitting prosecutor who Jack thought wouldn’t sign off on any sentence less than forty years. Once Jack described how the circle worked—and assured him of our perspective—Meggs softened. Everyone knew this would be a controversial sentencing, so he just wanted to make sure that people were thinking logically about it. Additionally, Jack received input from community leaders and local domestic-violence shelters before making his decision. He felt the pressure of the present (as we all waited) and of the future (from people who might ask him how he’d come to this decision).
Finally, the plea offer came. Not one, but two offers. First, twenty-five years, day for day. Meaning Conor would receive no time off. No early release. Second, twenty years, day for day, followed by ten years of probation.
“What do you think?” Sujatha asked when she called after hearing of the offers.
I sighed. Michael had said that Conor was seriously considering the twenty-five-year offer. Serving five extra years would mean that once he was out, there would be no one looking over his shoulder. With a ten-year probation, he would run the risk of being sent back to prison for any infraction—even as minor as showing up late for an appointment.
“What about our terms of probation: anger management classes, volunteering, speaking on teen-dating violence? If he serves twenty-five years, then he’s really not obligated to do those things,” I said. Could I trust Conor to honor those conditions if they weren’t required? I couldn’t help but doubt. I wanted him to be out sooner. Only when he was released could he truly make amends for the harm he had caused. I realized that the threat of re-imprisonment was a real one. Could I blame him if he chose to walk out of prison after an additional five years with no obligation to the state?
We didn’t have to wait long. After just a few days, Conor chose the sentence of twenty years with ten years of probation, plus the specific conditions we had requested. I was pleased. It wasn’t exactly what we had wanted. Ideally, we had hoped that after negotiating, we would have settled on fifteen years followed by probation. But considering what would have happened had we done nothing, we couldn’t help but feel satisfied with our accomplishment. We had unlocked the door to restorative justice and cracked it open. It could never be shut again.
Over the past year and a half, we had visited Conor regularly. Suddenly, a passage from Matthew 25 came alive to me in its practical life application. Tucked away in a series of parables is a sobering vision of the future of Jesus on the heavenly throne, with all the nations gathered before the divine authority and great judge. He separates the righteous from the unrighteous. How does Jesus tell who fits into the “righteous” category? Helpfully, he provides a list: “I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.” Now, these folks hadn’t actually ministered to Jesus in these ways; so when they ask him about this, Jesus explains, “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me” (vv. 35–40).
The “sobering” part comes when he talks to the “unrighteous”:
“Then [the King] will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’
“They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’
“He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’ ” (vv. 41–45)
It was relatively easy to go through life without even thinking about people in prison. I never encountered people who might go to jail or who have been in jail, so it was pretty easy to think of inmates as dangerous and scary. More accurately, it was easier to just simply not think of them at all. However, right there in the scriptures, Jesus enumerates what he’s looking for in our lives. He wants us to:
1. Give food to the hungry.
2. Provide drink to the thirsty.
3. Welcome the lonely.
4. Clothe those in need.
5. Visit the sick and those in prison.
Note that visiting people in prison is 20 percent of what Christ mentioned! Obviously, the Christian life is not a matter of checking items off a list. But the book of James says that “works” always accompany a living, vibrant faith, meaning the Christian life will necessarily be poured out in service of the poor and downtrodden (James 2:14–20). When Conor went to jail, I realized—with a sudden immediacy—that I had not even considered the plight of the prisoner until I knew someone who had been incarcerated. And so, for the past year and a half, Andy and I regularly met with Conor in jail, using every one of the thirty minutes per visit we were allocated.
While we waited for the sentencing hearing, we discovered a state law that would throw a wrench in our plans. We were told that the state of Florida does not permit victims to visit offenders in the prison system. State prisons were under the jurisdiction of the Florida Department of Corrections, while the Leon County jail was run by the Sheriff’s Office. While it was possible to apply for visitation, it would be a process—yet another hurdle we’d have to jump over. But here’s the thing: I wasn’t sure how long I wanted to keep visiting Conor. Learning of the rule was sort of a relief. We’d see Conor at the hearing, he’d go to prison, and that could be it. The decision would be made for us, and it would be out of our hands.
“Father Mike,” I confessed, “at some point, haven’t I done enough?”
“Kate, you have done more than enough.” His voice took on a serious tone. “Don’t ever think that you haven’t done enough. You’ve done more than enough.”
He just repeated this over and over, in the hopes of it sinking in.
Finally, after three weeks, it came time for sentencing. Instead of being a dramatic, emotional experience, it was very procedural.
Jack Campbell stood and highlighted the aggravating factors in the crime. Citing Conor’s “domestic violence,” he gave him a choice. He could either have a twenty-year sentence (with no time off for good behavior), plus ten years of probation; or he could choose twenty-five years in prison without probation. Conor took twenty years with probation. It was more time than we wanted, but far less than Jack would have offered if we hadn’t pursued restorative justice. In a newspaper article, Jack was quoted as saying, “There’s no way I would have—based on these facts and circumstances—agreed to a sentence this lenient had they not asked me and sincerely expressed to me how important it was to them to allow them to heal.”1
Circuit Judge Charles Dodson then read Conor’s sentence in front of the court, and added that he would also need to take an anger management class and talk to school groups about domestic teen violence or make a video to distribute to those types of groups.
We h
ad a chance to speak. That day I’d worn my necklace with a Franciscan cross. Andy wore a blue shirt with a tie that prominently had the word Hope written on it. We walked up to the lectern and read from prepared statements.
“What then should be a payment for taking a life? That life in return? What purpose does it serve but to just create an empty space where two young lives are lost? Conor owes us a debt he can never pay. To expect him to be able to repay that debt will leave us wanting for the rest of our lives. Ann wanted peace for us,” I said. “And that peace will come through forgiveness.”
Conor had the chance to speak as well. “I apologize to everyone that I’ve hurt and everyone who has suffered because of my actions,” he said. “As the Grosmaires said, I owe a debt I can’t pay. But I’ll give the rest of my life to make sure some good will come out of this.”
Greg Cummings then said, “Judge, we would like for you to include your recommendation that the Grosmaires be allowed to visit Mr. McBride when he goes to prison.”
Andy and I exchanged glances. We had no idea that he was going to make this request. Though we’d discussed whether or not we would want to jump through hurdles to see Conor once he went to a state correctional facility, there was a certain peace in allowing the law to form a barrier between us and the man who killed our daughter. Greg probably assumed we would want to keep up the visitation after all we’d done to go the route of restorative justice. But we weren’t so sure.
The judge looked at us. “Mr. and Mrs. Grosmaire, do you want to visit Conor in prison?”
In that moment, a million things went through my mind. I thought, Well, I can’t say no because that will be binding forever. I probably need to say yes in order to hold open that opportunity. I’m not sure what went through Andy’s mind. But we had one second to make this rather large decision. Simultaneously, without consultation, we both said yes. For whatever reason, God has decided that we are to be a part of this young man’s life. Though we weren’t sure we would go out of our way to pursue this, there was also no way that we would—when asked—shut that door.
Forgiving My Daughter's Killer Page 17