"This is blatant racism!" my Public Defender blurted out. I was amazed at how defensive she had become of and for me.
"What did you say?!" the judge shot back. He had dropped his glasses and cast a cold stare at my Defense Attorney. It was a stare that made even me shutter. Ms. Berry hadn't backed down, though her voice did crack subtly from nervousness as she responded.
"My client, a black man, is being sentenced to 5-10 years while his co-defendants, two white women, are guilty of the same crime, yet you sentenced them to four years of probation..."
"Well, Ms. Berry, your client also has a prior record..."
"Yes, for a simple possession of a small amount of marijuana... When he was a juvenile. He was sixteen years old..."
"Well, Ms. Berry, this sentence is well within the guidelines, and if your client can maintain good behavior, he should have no problem making it out on his minimum..."
My attorney wanted to speak but was silenced by another stern glare. No matter how much of her heart was wrapped up in my case, she still had a family she was helping to provide for. The jurors seemed pleased with the verdict and the prosecution smirked malevolently at me. I looked back to see my mother, who was in tears. Then at my attorney as the weight of my sentence began to set in.
"Sorry," she whispered to me before dropping her head and then... I was alone. I realized there was nothing I could do and no one that would be able to help me. My sentence was in and I would be going to a state penitentiary for the next five years, at the least. I, too, said,
"Sorry," to my mother and she asked, "Can I please hug him?" as I was being escorted out of the court room. I had done a good job of fighting back tears. Since a child of four, I had always had to be strong for my mother, and this situation was no different. I've always been like that, no matter how heavy my load, I tried to carry the burden for others. I hate to see people hurting. So, although I was the one going away, I didn't want her to hurt any more than she had to.
In the back of the patty wagon, as I was being transported back to Cumberland County Prison, I cursed God vehemently. It was only then that I realized, I had been having one-way conversations with God my entire life - speaking to "something" that never responded - at least not audibly. My sentence was in so there was no reason to ask for help now. So, I didn't. Instead, I retreated into the dark recesses of my mind.