I stare him down without trying to make it too obvious.
Who the hell does this guy think he is saying all of this shit? Making all of these assumptions. He doesn’t know a thing about Owen, or our family, or what he will do a month from now, let alone a year from now.
I glance over at Owen whose expression remains calm and detached.
This isn’t his first time in court and this isn’t his first time being judged by complete strangers by a few sentences printed on pieces of paper.
After years of prison, he is used to it.
I, on the other hand, am not.
“Finally, we reach rehabilitation,” the prosecutor says.
He doesn’t need to state the definitions of any of these terms to either the parole board, the defense attorney, Owen, or anyone else in this room except maybe me.
But he does so for effect.
He uses these words to make a point and to prove it at the same time.
“The last but not least important purpose of our penal system is to rehabilitate criminals to make sure that they become law abiding citizens. As we all know, Owen has taken advantage of the opportunities that we offer. He learned to read and write and has gone far in his education. But as you take that into account, don’t forget that with education comes knowledge. Knowledge as to how to manipulate the system and knowledge about what he should and shouldn’t say to you to get what he wants.”
So, in other words, there is no way to win.
If he hadn’t learned to read, then you would be standing here saying that he hasn’t taken advantage of any of the resources available to rehabilitate himself.
But now that he has, you are saying that he has done so only to advance his own agenda.
My blood feels like it’s starting to boil.
My throat closes up.
I start to cough. The sound echoes around the large room, filling it with my contempt and disappointment.
Finally, his speech is over.
Every person on the parole board gives the prosecutor a little nod, a courtesy that neither Owen nor I got when we spoke.
By the time it’s Owen’s attorney’s chance to speak, they are barely listening.
I can see their eyes glazing over and two of them check their phones. This is the most important moment in Owen’s life and these people, who are supposed to make their decision about his freedom, can’t wait to get out of here.
Once his attorney sits down, silence falls.
“Well, thank you all for coming. We will make our decision and notify you all accordingly.”
“Wait, what?” I whisper under my breath. Owen glances back at me, shrugging his shoulders.
“They aren’t going to decide now?” I ask his lawyer.
“No,” she says. “They never do.”
30
When I talk to him…
Owen doesn’t seem as surprised by this as I am. I reach over to him to give him a hug, but a guard blocks me.
“I am sorry, there is no touching.”
Owen shrugs his shoulders. He is used to this kind of treatment, but after all of these years somehow, I still am not.
Why can’t we even hold hands? They are afraid that I will pass him something illegal, but I promise that I won’t. That’s not enough, of course.
The incarcerated are in there for many reasons, which all boil down to one; they are liars.
They will tell anyone anything they want to hear to get what they want. At least, that’s what prosecutors, guards, judges, and the parole board think.
“How long will it take them?” I ask his lawyer whose name I already forgot.
“I have no idea,” she says. “It depends. Sometimes, we hear by the end of the day, sometimes it takes a week.”
I shake my head. It’s almost as if this whole system is designed to make prisoners and their families feel completely out of control.
Perhaps, that’s the point, huh?
But Owen isn’t guilty.
Technically, he was in the car while the robbery took place. Still, there’s the truth that exists on paper and then there’s the real truth. I’m not saying he’s completely innocent. He’s just not guilty the way other people in there are.
Owen’s hands are shackled in the front attached by a long chain to his feet. Dressed like this, he looks like a scary person to let back out into society.
If I were sitting on that parole board and this was the first time I saw him, I’d have a hard time saying that the world would be a safe place were he walking among us.
I watch the guard lead him away and listen to the loud clinking sound that the chain makes with each of his laborious steps.
I watch the parole board shuffle out the side entrance near the front, leaving all of the paperwork on the table in front of them.
I wonder whose case they will hear next.
“You know that he got a shitty deal,” I say, turning to the prosecutor.
Up close, he doesn’t look like he’s even in his forties, but he already has a head full of gray hair. Hereditary or an occupational hazard?
He puts the papers in front of him into a briefcase without acknowledging me.
“You don’t agree?” I ask.
“It’s not up to me to say,” he says, getting up.
“What do you mean?”
“Much of this case is out of my control. There are statutes that govern what sentencing he got. He refused to cooperate with the prosecutor’s office, so our hands were tied.”
His voice is robotic and detached. He wasn’t the one who originally prosecuted the case and I wonder how much he knows about any of the details.
“Please, there must be something you can do,” I plead, touching his arm.
He looks down at my hand on his suit jacket and then up at me. I pull away.
“It’s not up to me,” he says. “It’s up to them. But for what it’s worth, you made a really nice speech.”
“You think it helped?” I ask.
“It didn’t hurt,” he says, walking past me. “Listen, I have another hearing in here in half an hour. I have to run to my car to get my sandwich.”
I’ve always thought about lawyers living the high life.
Fancy apartments. Nice cars.
Definitely, not people who stuff their faces with smelly bologna sandwiches on their short breaks.
“Glamorous life of a district attorney,” he says, reading my mind.
He takes a gulp from a can of soda that he also brought from home. “From what I read here, your brother should’ve turned state’s evidence when they made him the offer. That was the only way he would’ve avoided such a harsh sentence.”
“He didn’t want to snitch on his friends,” I say, using his words. “I tried to convince him but he wouldn’t budge.”
“Well, his friends aren’t exactly the easiest people to testify against, but if he had then he wouldn’t have spent so much time in prison.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Wait, what do you mean?”
“They are pretty connected. Organized crime,” he explains. “Not exactly the type that’s easy to testify against. Especially if you’re from Charlestown.”
This is news to me.
“Was my brother also involved?”