A Sister’s Plea

A Sister’s Plea

Your honor,

I stand before the court today in support of my younger brother, S. While I understand the gravity of the charges S has plead to, I appreciate the court taking time to consider additional information about S. Like all of us, S is far more than can be described in a psychosocial assessment; he is more than the mistakes he has made, and he is better than his actions demonstrated on one truly terrible night.

I thought long and hard about what I wanted to say if given the opportunity. Should I tell stories of our childhood, marked by a mix of upper-middle-class suburban opportunity and the constant chaos of divorce and a mentally ill parent with suicidal ideations and attempts? Should I tell of S’s efforts and success in rebuilding his life once following incarceration? Of how S paid his debt to society for his adolescent mistakes, yet still faced the consequences of being viewed as a “violent offender” decades after making the same kind of peer pressure-fueled choices that many young men make and only a small percentage of end up paying the price he paid. Maybe I should tell you about how S was the proudest father I had ever seen and vowed to live a solid life to be a role model to his son, only to have all contact with this little human, part him, severed suddenly and permanently. Now there is a hole in S, a vacuum that will only be filled once time passes and this little human turns into an adult and, God-willing, comes to find out that there was an entire family that ached for him, missed him, thought of him, yet faced solid, impenetrable walls placed between him and love that he deserved.

Or maybe I should tell you of how I have spent the last several months knee deep in S's life — meeting his friends, his business contacts, seeing his work, answering his calls for service, cleaning out his living space, and securing his assets so that he has a life to come back to after this chapter is over. And during this time, the brother I thought I knew well has solidified himself as quite literally the best person I know. What I have come to see is that everyone S knows, everywhere he goes, and with all groups he is a part of — he elevates those around him. Quite simply, S makes everyone he touches better. Not through brute force, not through showing off, but just by being him — quietly, consistently, and honestly being him. He raises the bar. He sets the standard. He is confident, competent, compassionate, and fills a place in many people’s lives that they didn’t even know he filled — until he was no longer there. The quality of relationships he maintains with friends, family, and business associates is nothing short of impressive. The level of mutual respect he has forged with countless individuals, ranging from those struggling with homelessness and substance abuse to those who live in multimillion-dollar homes and run multiple highly regarded solid businesses that build the very fabric of this community. S is constantly regarded as the hardest working, smartest, most dedicated, self-motivated, thorough, fair, and honest service provider in the area.

Well, that’s not true. He’s typically regarded as the second best, hardest working, most creative problem-solving HVAC/ refrigeration guy — second only to our father. Our father was an incredible man, a Vietnam Marine, a life-long self-employed businessman, a character who didn’t play well with liberals and personified the idea of “speak softly & carry a big stick.” And he was funny — God was he a riot. And possibly the most brilliant man I’ve ever known. He knew just about everything about just about everything — but was never arrogant, didn’t show off, and never called attention to himself. But one thing he did do was protect us. Not blatantly, not in a way that shielded us from consequences we earned, but by being a constant model of making the right choices, the hard choices, the unpopular choices. He championed the idea of doing what was right, not what was easy.

He taught S everything he knew. He eventually faded away from the work, gradually, as age crept up on him. He was tough as nails and I honestly never thought he would die. I didn’t think it was possible. I thought he was far too stubborn, possibly a cyborg or alien, and almost certainly a federal agent in deep cover. He was a man larger than life, who shrank by over 100 lbs in less than a year. A man who spent the last years of his life constantly feeling the sensation of drowning as his lungs filled with fluid. Relieved only temporarily when he would sterilize the environment, go into his bathroom and perform the medical procedure he had been trained on to open the tube sticking from his chest and drain off liters and liters of fluid from his lungs. Then he could breathe again for a few minutes, sometimes long enough to enjoy a cigarette or two.

When he lost the ability to swallow, that’s when things got scary. I remember driving him to the VA hospital, three hours away, out of local options, literally afraid that he was going to starve to death if someone didn’t do something. And on the way is when he got the call. As he expected, the blockage at the bottom of his throat that he kept describing to the doctors — it was cancer. They said he may have 6 months. He took it like a soldier, but I saw him cry that day. It was the second time that I remember ever seeing my father cry. But he was okay, he accepted 6 months. One more chance to see the leaves change, to see the snow fall. “I’ve lived a good life” he said. S & I were the only 2 he let see him. He needed round-the-clock care, but he didn’t want anyone to remember him like that. But he trusted us, “you two will be fine. You’re people people. You’ll be okay.”

So, S & I froze our lives and did what had to be done. S was scared. I had the benefit of decades of caregiving experience. I knew how to pass meds, how to support someone needing personal care assistance, how to just be there for someone whose body was failing. S had to learn it all and he did. He did our father proud. He pushed through the lack of skills, lack of knowledge, and fear that he would “mess up” and did what needed to be done. Then 16 days after being told he had 6 months, my father took his final breath. The impact on S cannot be overstated. Yet, he didn’t get a chance to grieve, not properly. Not before his past came back to haunt him.

So maybe I should try to explain to the court how S came to be in the situation he was in. How someone could be everything I described above, yet still end up barricaded in a room with the walls closing in as pepper canisters explode, glass breaks, battering rams attempt to smash through reinforced doors, and the loudspeaker repeats, “come out or we are coming in.” Is there any way to possibly explain how someone can be so incredibly brilliant, able to fix just about anything, yet still end up calling his family and saying goodbye, moments away from the inevitability of SWAT entering, a weapon being brandished, and a life ending far far too soon? What could possibly happen to make someone with their whole life ahead of them decide that the system feels so unjust, so unfair, that the facts are irrelevant, and that their worth is judged solely on documented sins of their past? What could possibly make someone feel like no amount of work, day in and day out, to build trust, to build connection, to be the person who someone calls in the middle of the night when they need help, that no matter how hard he worked to separate himself from his past, all it takes is one pissed off petty person picking up the phone to spin his life into chaos.

Please consider the benefit to the community he provides, the businesses that depend on him, his friends that are better for his presence, and me — his family — who is lost without him. I respectfully ask the court to consider if the community would not be better served by sending S to substance use treatment, intensive community supervision and mental health treatment. He has a place to live with me and the support of numerous individuals who want him to succeed. Most importantly, he wants better for himself. He wants to be the man he should be, the man my father knew he could be.

Thank you for hearing my thoughts. I trust you will make a fair decision.

Respectfully,

sister