A Knock at Midnight(41)
At that time, federal drug sentencings were largely a formulaic exercise. In drug cases, the offense conduct is based on the type and quantity of the drug. The racially disproportionate 100-to-1 crack-to-powder ratio is embedded in the guidelines. At the time Sharanda was sentenced, 1.5 kilograms or more of crack yielded the highest base offense level possible in the guidelines—the same base offense level as 150 kilos of powder cocaine.
Although no drugs were found, the judge determined that Sharanda was responsible for the distribution of 30 kilograms of cocaine. The way he arrived at that number was mind-blowing. It was based solely on the testimony of Baby Jack, Julie, and Spider. To make matters worse and subject Sharanda to stiffer punishment, the judge determined that it was reasonably forseeable that the powder from Spider was going to be “rocked up,” or converted to crack by Baby Jack and Julie, therefore holding Sharanda accountable for trafficking crack, not powder. Using what seemed to me an arbitrary formula presented by a DEA analyst, the prosecutor said that the 30 kilograms of powder was equal to 13.39 kilograms of crack cocaine. The judge agreed.
But it didn’t stop there. The judge then added 10.528 kilograms of crack cocaine that the prosecutors said had been distributed in Terrell and was linked to Cooter. In total, the judge held Sharanda accountable for 23.92 kilograms of crack, triggering a base offense guideline level of 38.
Just like Keyon, Sharanda was being held accountable for “ghost dope.” The legal term is “relevant conduct,” but “ghost dope” is so much more accurate that even law professors use it. Basically, it refers to the calculation of drug quantity based entirely on testimony, often uncorroborated, in the absence of physical evidence. Prosecutors seek maximum quantities in order to trigger mandatory minimums, and ghost dope is a great way to get that number into the stratosphere.
Sharanda’s sentence was made even more severe with a punishment tool introduced at the height of the drug war that allowed judges in certain cases to “enhance” sentences—that is, make them longer. During the trial, Sharanda’s lawyer made a huge mistake. In his direct examination of Sharanda, when she took the stand to testify on her own behalf, Murphy asked her about her handgun license. As I read that portion of the trial transcripts, it was obvious Murphy thought that line of questioning would establish Sharanda’s character as a hardworking, law-abiding citizen. His point seemed to be that if Sharanda had been so deeply involved in illegal activity as the government was saying, she wouldn’t have gone through the rigorous steps to legally obtain a handgun, which she did for protection in her various businesses. Sharanda testified freely at trial to carrying her handgun. She said her business in the salon and restaurant was all cash-based, and that she carried a gun to and from work daily to protect herself, a woman walking to her car late at night carrying significant amounts of cash.
There was no testimony from any witness that they ever saw Sharanda with a gun, absolutely no allegations of violence.
But Murphy had introduced a weapon into the courtroom where previously there had been none. And prosecutors pounced. Since Sharanda said she never went anywhere without her gun and had been convicted on the drug conspiracy charge, she had to have had the gun with her on the trips to Houston. And “carrying a gun in furtherance of a drug conspiracy” was against the law.
Two-point enhancement.
Sharanda testified on her own behalf during trial. But because she was found guilty of drug conspiracy, the judge found she committed perjury on the stand while testifying in her own defense. And perjury on the stand was an “obstruction of justice.”
Two-point enhancement.
Prosecutors portrayed Sharanda as the leader and organizer of drugs being sold out of her mom’s house in Terrell, even though the people she was supposed to be “leading”—Cooter, Genice, Mitchell, Weasel—testified to the contrary.
Four-point enhancement.
Sharanda had no criminal history, so she was placed in the lowest criminal history category. But her clean record was no match for her total offense level after all the enhancements.
When Sharanda was sentenced, the guidelines were mandatory, so the judge had no choice but to impose the sentence pre-determined by the federal formula. In Sharanda’s case, her guideline sentence was not a range of numbers, but four letters: L-I-F-E. Mandatory sentencing guidelines had effectively reduced the federal judge to a mere calculator, unable to take into account the human being who stood before him. Unable to look beyond the numbers in the guideline calculation and see her heartbeat.
“Ms. Jones, it will be the judgment of the Court that you be sentenced to the custody of the U.S. Bureau of Prisons for a term of life imprisonment,” said Judge Solis. “You are remanded to the custody of the marshal, Ms. Jones, to serve your sentence.”
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WHEN I LOOKED up from the last of the transcripts, I had to make a conscious effort to unclench my jaw, loosen my shoulders, breathe. I was furious, but I was also heartbroken. The system had failed Sharanda. Failed Clenesha. The judge took Sharanda’s entire life, kidnapped her from Clenesha, condemned her to spend the remainder of her days in a cage. I thought of my own mother and could not imagine her so abruptly snatched from my life, for the rest of her life. I logged into Corrlinks and emailed Sharanda.
“Just finished reading the sentencing transcript. Your survivorship empowers me. How did you feel standing there after the judge sentenced you?”