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.”
I remembered how much she hated wearing that patch, but I would gently remind her that it would help her see better in the future. I remember, too, that the stares and the questions made her more compassionate to her friends who may have also received stares because of braces or glasses.
Every restorative justice circle has a centerpiece or a focal point. Ours was the afghan that Ann’s friend Khadijah had crocheted. When Ann was in the hospital, I’d put it at the foot of her bed. Now it rested at our feet, holding items we’d brought from home to represent her life.
There was the portrait the funeral home had created from her photo. We had also placed on the afghan a small box of mementos she’d collected in special moments: fall leaves, seashells, rocks. Plus, a plaster cast that my friend Cindy made of her uninjured hand while she was at the funeral home. This was an especially close reminder of her, because it had touched her and even had taken the shape of a part of her.
Andy picked up Ann’s “Thespian of the Year” drama award and held it up as he shared.
“She found her niche in the Leon High School drama department. She didn’t want to be the star of the stage; she loved the unseen work of stage management. We were the proud parents pointing to the stage during scene changes, saying: ‘That’s my daughter—there in black, pushing the scenery around.’ Or, ‘That buzzer you just heard? That was Ann.’ We were proud of her backstage work and her awards for student direction. She had a feel for things like blocking—where the actors should stand on stage—and a desire to make sure things were done right. We loved hearing how much she contributed to the drama department and how reliable she was in getting things done.”
Conor sat there silently as we talked. The weight of our words fell heavy on him.
“She was great at her job at the baby boutique too. Her boss told me she was confident leaving Ann in charge of the store. An eighteen-year-old who loved working in a baby boutique. We never quite understood her love of Sophie,” I said, holding up the teether.
Andy and I were very teary and emotional as we talked about Ann’s life, but we were also very proud of her. It was a joy to talk about her life and what she meant to us. When I started transitioning to her future—what might have been—my voice got shakier.
“We were certain that someday, Ann would have children of her own. Grandchildren that we’ll never know now,” I said, tears now falling. I noticed Julie wiping away her own tears. They would have been her grandchildren, too, had Conor and Ann gotten married.
Andy continued. “She was barely nineteen when she died. She was looking forward to going to the University of Central Florida. She was becoming a young woman. Really, she was still in that place where parents were mostly uncool.”
My mind raced back to Andy’s last communication with Ann. She was rushing through the house, and she asked Andy what he was making for dinner. Boring grilled chicken.
“Will you make me fettuccine Alfredo?” she had asked. Andy’s specialty—made with half-and-half and Italian cheeses—was her favorite meal.
“No,” he had responded. “We’re having chicken for dinner. This isn’t a restaurant.”
She was upset. “Come on, Dad!”
“Do you see menus here?”
“But I’m going out on a picnic with Conor to celebrate making the dean’s list, and I need to be able to take it with me.”
When Andy saw how much it meant to her, his heart softened toward his daughter and his resolve melted away. Though he wished she’d just eat what he was making her, he realized this was not a battle to fight.
“Okay, Ann,” he told her. After all, what father can refuse his daughter?
He made her what she wanted and put in an extra portion for Conor. He had no idea this would be the last time he would interact with his daughter. This would be her last meal.
“In retrospect, I’m very thankful I made the fettuccine,” Andy told the people in the circle.
I recalled the day the police released her car from evidence. The containers, with remnants of the meal, were still in the backseat.
“We were in the phase of parenting where everything was a battle,” I explained. “We never had the chance to become her friends again.”
“Becoming ‘empty nesters’ was something I was looking forward to,” I said. “Instead, it was forced on me. From now on every holiday will have an empty seat at the table. Every family picture incomplete. There is a space that can never be filled.”
I continued. “Ann sought Jesus in her own unconventional way. She had a quiet devotion to St. Anthony, the patron saint of horses. A Franciscan love of animals. A compassionate heart. She wanted her own wildlife refuge—St. Margaret’s—where she would rescue horses and raptors. She’ll never have the chance to do the good in this world that she was intended to do. Conor, you have to make up for that—you have to do the good works of two people now.”
We also read a letter from my sister Patti, about how Ann had asked her to be her godmother. Since Ann had been baptized when we were attending a Methodist church, she did not have one. Patti also talked about the profound effect of being at the hospital and being in the room when Ann died. It was the catalyst that led to her sobriety after years of drinking.
After I finished the letter, we sat quietly and listened to “Angel Band” by the Stanley Brothers, which was as much Ann’s song as the one that had been dedicated to her memory.
The song ended, and the room was filled with thick silence.
“What do you want to know?” Conor asked.