I want to know everything that happened and why it happened,” Andy said. “From the moment she left the house with the fettuccine until . . .”
His voice trailed off. I knew Andy couldn’t go further to actually say the words, “until she was shot.” Not in this moment. Not on this day.
All eyes in the room moved from the grieving father to the offender.
At this point in the circle, Conor was supposed to explain what had happened, to give us closure on the events that had transpired that night. Usually in the criminal justice system, the offender and the victims are forever separated, an effort to protect the victims from being further damaged. The offender is coached to never admit any wrongdoing, no matter what. However, this artificial construct leaves no room for an apology from the offender. How often do we read that the prisoner standing before the judge showed no emotion at the trial or at sentencing? Victims are left to think that the offenders have no remorse for their actions.
Because of this legal wall, it is often impossible for family members to learn what really happened when their loved one died. What were their last words? Andy wanted answers to those questions. By knowing, he felt he could somehow come to peace with what happened.
Restorative justice circles and Victim Offender Dialogue (VOD) programs provide the space for victims and their loved ones to have a voice . . . a place for offenders to take responsibility for their actions. This is why we’d come.
In all the times we had spoken to Conor at the Leon County jail, we had never spoken about this. Conor was under strict orders from his defense attorney not to speak to anyone about what had happened. He wasn’t even sure what we knew. Had we read the police report? Seen his confession? What would we do, now that he was going to share with us the details of what he had done? He had no idea. But he did have a baby’s faith. Faith in the God that the Grosmaires had shown him. The God who loves unconditionally.
Before he spoke, he leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. He looked directly at us, then cleared his throat as if to steady his voice.
“Ann and I would fight sometimes,” he started, “because I didn’t understand the things that were important to her. I would forget about meeting her for lunch and she would be so disappointed. We would argue, and we couldn’t stop. Neither of us could let it go.”
As he spoke, he described the typical things teens fight about. Honestly, the things over which I, as an adult, find myself being disappointed.
“Did they fight?” the detective had asked. Don’t all teens fight? I thought. Ann was emotional, like me. I’d had my share of teenage arguments when I’d been caught up in the high emotions of the moment. I remember feeling like a breakup was the end of the world . . . crying behind a locked door while my mom stood on the other side, gently asking if everything was okay. I’d asked Ann the same question before.
“I hit her,” Conor said, distressed by the memory of his explosive anger. “I hit her two times—two different occasions. Once in the stomach and once in the face. With my fist . . . each time.” He explained that they’d both been horrified by his actions. Each time he was sorry for what he had done. Neither of them understood why he had reacted so violently. “We were scared to tell anyone. We were afraid of what might happen, that I might be arrested.”
“Did you know he’d hit her?” the detective had asked. No, we hadn’t. She hadn’t even told her sisters. How many times had I thought about the fight Conor had with his dad? Conor had seemed so distraught. It didn’t occur to me that Conor was learning by example. Fear and shame. Feeling isolated. Afraid to seek help.
He began to talk about what had happened that weekend. How Ann had planned a picnic dinner to celebrate her making the dean’s list. She had expected congratulations, maybe a card, some sort of recognition—not just a dinner partner. Once again he had failed to understand how important it was to her.
He didn’t care, she claimed.
He couldn’t read her mind, he replied.
They had returned to his parents’ house and began an argument that continued until he fell asleep from exhaustion.
He woke up to find her even angrier than she had been the night before. Neither of them had the maturity to walk away or to declare a cooling off period. Ann finally said she was leaving, then walked out of the house.
Conor sat there for a moment before saying more. “I was unsure if Ann meant she was leaving for the moment or leaving for good. I saw that she had left her water bottle, and I took it out to her car.”
Why, Conor, why? I thought when the detective told us about Conor leaving the house. He just had to give her back her water bottle? It was as if some dreadful tether held them together in this place.
“ ‘I wish you were dead!’ she shouted at me. ‘Okay,’ I said. I went back into the house. I got my dad’s shotgun and loaded it. I placed the barrel of the gun under my chin. If I kill myself, would Ann blame herself? I thought.” A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.
“It was Ann, begging me to let her in. I set the gun down on a table in the entryway, unlocked the door, and opened it.”
Now the question fighting to escape through my mouth was for Ann.
Why? Why did you go back to the door, insist on coming back into the house? You were in the car! You could’ve just driven away.
When I first heard the story from the detective, there just seemed to be so many places where it all could have changed, so many moments when a clearer head would have made a better choice. Hearing it now all again from Conor only reemphasized the insanity. Two young kids tumbling toward the edge of the cliff, grabbing a branch only to let it go and continue tumbling, tumbling, tumbling . . .
“We went back to my bedroom. When she realized I intended to kill myself, she told me that she didn’t want to live either. That’s when I went back to get the gun.”
None of this was new information, but hearing him explain it chilled me to the bone.
“I came back to the room and she was slumped on the floor, sitting on her knees. I wanted to scare her. I started waving the gun around. ‘Is this what you want?’ I asked her. She said, ‘No, I don’t . . .’ But I stopped waving the gun around . . . I pointed it at her . . . I pulled the trigger.”
“Let me get this right,” Andy said, leaning forward a bit in his chair.
Andy rarely gets angry. When he’s anxious or worried, he grows still. He’s like a stone statue, immovable, strong. But there’s a softer side to Andy—the side I normally see—which was revealed as layer after layer of emotion was being ripped from him as he listened to Conor speak.
“You shot her while she was asking you not to?” he asked. “While she was on her knees?”
As I watched Andy, I realized that his paternal instincts were still very present, even though Ann was gone. His baby had been in danger. He would have protected her with his life, and there was no doubt by the look in his eyes, by the way he seemed to become larger just sitting there in the chair. But he hadn’t been there—didn’t know to be there. And his father-protector spirit was crushed. For the first time he realized what people meant when they talked about heartache, because his heart began to physically hurt.
“Yes,” Conor answered.
My mind raced as he spoke.
He had said it, in his own words. In one crazy instant, he had aimed the gun and pulled the trigger.
“We need to take a break,” Jack said. It was as if we were all under a spell of grief and regret, and Jack’s announcement punctured it. People stood up from the plastic chairs and stretched. Sujatha reminded everyone that in order to keep the integrity of the circle, we shouldn’t have side conversations outside the room. If we felt the need to say something, it should be shared with everyone in the circle.
Andy and I immediately walked out into the reception area, followed closely by Jack Campbell, who apparently had no intention of abiding by Sujatha’s no talking rule.
“You don’t have to go through any more of this. I can end it right now,” he said. “Just say the word.”
End it right now? I thought. We just heard about our daughter’s last conscious moments on Earth. How much worse does he think it will get?
“We want to continue,” I said. I hadn’t worked for almost a year for this circle to just walk away from it now. Always for me the whole thing was bigger than the Grosmaires and the McBrides, bigger than this tiny room. We had unlocked the door and stuck our foot in. There was no direction but forward. I had borne the unbearable. The worst was over.
Sujatha approached us to remind us it would be best to keep the conversation all together. Before she had a chance to open her mouth, Jack cut her off.
“I’m talking to the Grosmaires right now. Move away.” After she took the cue, he turned back to us. “You don’t have to go back in there.”
Andy repeated what I said: “We want to continue.”
Jack acquiesced.
Now that the rule had been tossed out the window, we went up to Sujatha to tell her what had transpired between Jack and us.
“I thought it would make sense,” Andy said. “I thought that somehow, something he said would explain what happened. He was waving the gun and his finger slipped . . . but there is no reason, no explanation . . . it will never make sense.”
Andy had come face-to-face with the futility of asking why.
I had not come to the circle to find answers, to know exactly what happened to Ann. I knew enough to know that it would never make sense. While his heart ached for Ann, my heart ached for Andy, who thought that somehow this impossible question could be answered.
We filed back into the room, resituated ourselves on the plastic chairs, and yielded the floor back to Conor.
“After I shot Ann, I thought about killing myself,” he said. “But I couldn’t do it. I got in my car and just drove around. I didn’t know what I was going to do, where I was going to go, so in the end, I drove to the police department.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He looked at Andy and me, his eyes filled with the remorse that victims seldom see in their offender’s eyes.
There it was.
He’d told us a story of two young people who had been caught up in their emotions. They’d wanted to leave, but for whatever reason, weren’t able to. They were teenagers with teenage emotions. Their angry words and tears should’ve been a squabble, a quarrel, a breakup fight. But since there was a weapon present, this normal fight suddenly escalated into something people frequently called “an unimaginable tragedy.”
Michael’s eyes were rimmed in red, as Julie unfolded some papers she’d brought from home that contained her thoughts.
“I cannot believe that my son has caused such a great harm,” she read, her voice full of raw emotion. In fact, she only got through about half a page before she abruptly stopped, looked up at us, and sighed. “That’s all I want to say for now,” she said, as if she were barely able to utter another word.
That meant that the floor was Michael’s. He shifted in his chair; his turn had arrived a bit earlier than anticipated.
“I just want to say that I’m so sorry. If I ever thought that my gun would have harmed anyone, I would never have kept it in the house. I know that I’ve had anger issues for a long time. When my brother died almost ten years ago, I got angry with God and the world. I stayed angry, and now I’ve taught Conor how to be angry,” he said regretfully. “I feel that I also have some responsibility in this. I wish I could’ve been charged with a crime and made to serve jail time with Conor, because of my anger.”
“Wait,” Jack Campbell interrupted—a forbidden gesture in the circle. Because everyone had been so respectful and polite while others talked, we hadn’t had to use Sophie the giraffe as the talking piece. All of us turned, surprised to hear what he had to say.
“Sir, you are not responsible for what happened,” he said. “Conor alone is the one who pulled that trigger.”
We all knew what Jack meant. By the letter of the law, Michael was not guilty of any crime against the state. But the circle is also about harm caused to the community. He was willing to admit the effect that his anger had on his son. He wanted a place to express his sorrow for allowing his anger to control him for so many years. This was everyone’s chance to say what they wanted to say, and I appreciated Michael’s honesty.
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.”