I was deliberate when I took my seat. The courtroom was empty that morning so it made my seating decision easy. I was feeling defiant and I was going to show it. I sat in the first row behind the defendant, just five feet away, a safe yet empowering position. He turned his head to see who it was and didn't turn around again. I tried not to tremble. It was my duty and obligation, I believed. I sat there alone.
I'd arrived early--I'm always early--to gather my nerves, compose myself, and perhaps get a chance to see some of the other girls. It was the moment we'd all been waiting for--sentencing day--and I'd expected to see the other teens who'd fallen prey to this man.
I sat in the court cafeteria for a short time, feeling incredibly awkward and lonely, ate a single bite, and then waited outside of the courtroom. A short time later the district attorney arrived, followed moments later by the defendant's attorney with several of the defendant's family members. One news reporter joined the group.
It was a case that had terrified the community for several years. One girl kidnapped off a high school campus in the morning hours, another girl kidnapped from a popular mall on an afternoon. My grandmother, who'd clipped newspaper clippings to warn her grandchildren of the world's dangers, had shown me the clippings from these first two cases. I rolled my eyes slightly, gave her a gentle smile, and told her I was careful, that she didn't have to worry. A year later the newspaper reports would include details about two girls who had been abducted from a movie theater parking lot on a Saturday night. After us, there would be two more victims.
The DA walked up to me and asked if I was ready. Somewhat confused I asked where the other girls were. None of the other girls were coming, nor there family members, he told me. I paused. A bit dumbfounded I gathered my courage and stepped into the courtroom as the single representative of our group. It was now my responsibility. I took several deep breaths, held my head a bit erect, and entered that courtroom as an envoy for those who paths were interrupted by the perpetrator.
That's why I sat so close to the defendant. I placed myself right behind him--for all of us. I don't know if anyone else would have understood that.
A few minutes later and the judge would sentence him to the agreed upon plea bargained deal of 45 years. I left the courtroom with the DA before the defendant was taken from the defendant's chair. The DA thanked me for coming. And that was it.
It's been almost 30 years since that day but the repercussions of that day linger. Afraid to have any kind of an online voice, I've deliberately chosen a private life, spending my time passionately cultivating the voices of my students so they can live with empowerment and conviction. A bit ironic.
I take a little encouragement from Professor Brian Little though, an extreme introvert himself, who tells introverts to be forgiving of themselves when they miss opportunities to step outside of themselves and take on public lives ("Introverts' Night Out"). He gently reminds us that it's always two things that allow us to adopt that public persona: professionalism and love. Either one of these gives us that necessary push out of the comfy nests we've built for ourselves.
Last year's release proceedings for our abductor ended in a split verdict by the jury. He's entitled to a new trial each year until he's granted release. My friend and I were the only ones to address the jury. The other four didn't return the phone calls made by the DA. I don't blame them.
I'm strong enough to carry the others with me. Love will give me the strength to address any future juries.
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