A Knock at Midnight(43)
“Freedom should not be a matter of compromise or convenience,” I said, my voice unsteady.
“It shouldn’t be,” Professor Udashen said, shaking his head sadly. “But all too often in this country, it is.”
In the months that followed, the U.S. Sentencing Commission retroactively modified the federal sentencing guidelines, reducing the base offense level used to calculate crack cocaine offenses by two points. The move was hopeful, as were all the changes that dramatically altered the federal sentencing landscape. Still, Sharanda’s inflated ghost dope quantity exceeded the threshold for a reduction. Even under all the hopeful changes, her sentence could not be amended. But Keyon Mitchell’s could. And if I could do something to help Keyon, I was going to. Using cases and sample motions I found in Westlaw, and with Sharanda’s encouragement, I drafted a twenty-eight-page sentence reduction motion for him based on the guideline amendment. There was just one problem: I was not a lawyer yet. I couldn’t file the motion with the court on my own.
Keyon suggested I reach out to Bruce Cobb, a lawyer who had tried to help him with an appeal a few years before. Already familiar with Keyon’s case, Bruce was more than happy to help. He reviewed my work and filed the motion with the court.
Relief was immediate. Only one week after Bruce filed the motion, a federal judge reduced Keyon’s life sentence to the low end of his new guideline range: 384 months. That was thirty-two years. Keyon and his family were elated. Mr. Mitchell called me three times in one day to thank me over and over.
On the phone with Mr. Mitchell, I tried to sound excited. I was glad Keyon’s sentence had been reduced, but in truth, I was underwhelmed. Keyon still had a quarter of a century left to serve. He was still looking at more time in prison than he’d even been alive.
There had to be more we could do.
But the more I learned about the law, the less it seemed I would be able to help him. And the prognosis for Sharanda was even worse. As much as I hated to admit it—refused to admit it—a legal remedy through the courts for Sharanda simply did not exist. I worried that I had earned Sharanda’s trust just to let her down.
I needed to find another legal tool, one that would give Sharanda a fighting chance. Then, one day, the tool I needed found me.
Chapter 9
A KNOCK AT MY DOOR
In the fall of 2011, I walked through the glass doors into Winstead PC’s marble-floored lobby as a bona fide attorney. I’d set my sights on corporate law, and here I was. After three rigorous years at SMU, it felt amazing. At the end of my time as a summer associate, I received an offer to join the firm after I completed my final year at law school. For me, the vibe at Winstead was just what I was looking for. They were fast-moving and ambitious, but a lot less formal and stuffy than some of the other firms who had offered me positions. It was just my kind of place.
I joined the firm’s Finance and Banking group, representing and advising banks in complex commercial lending transactions across a wide array of industries: telecom, natural resources, technology, healthcare, and beyond. There was a learning curve, but my experience in banking and accounting at Comerica and PwC ensured it wasn’t as steep as for some of my peers. No two days were ever the same. Finance and Banking was a high-stakes world where our legal advice could have multimillion-dollar consequences for our clients. The hours were long, and many weekends I found myself at work drafting credit agreements or tackling the dreaded and monotonous junior associate task of performing due diligence for an acquisition financing deal.
For weeks, I missed Sunday dinners at Mama Lena’s, becoming engrossed in big-firm life. Within my first year I second-chaired a billion-dollar finance deal. Melissa Stewart, an equity partner and one of the firm’s rainmakers, was lead counsel, and I worked side by side with her. A brilliant attorney and incomparable negotiator, Melissa showed me what it meant to leave it all on the table for a big deal. We regularly put in sixteen-hour days, working closely with the client to develop financing structure and strategy. The art of the deal fueled us. This was the life I had always dreamed of.
Once the deal closed, I finally had a Sunday off to have dinner at Mama Lena’s. Jazz was excited to ride with me, not just so we could catch up but also because the week before, I’d traded in my beloved Mitsubishi Eclipse for a new Silver BMW 5 Series. Jazz had a great new job as a pharmacy technician for a company that provided kidney dialysis to outpatient centers. We turned the music up and laughed and talked nonstop all the way to Mama Lena’s. It felt good to shed my professional poise and just be my whole self. Jazz’s carefree spirit always seemed to give me permission to do just that.
“How’s Sharanda doing?” Jazz asked.
“She’s doing good,” I said. “Her spirit is amazing. Nothing gets her down.”
“Anything new on her case?”
There hadn’t been. And it wasn’t for lack of trying. I had set up Google alerts for updates in federal sentencing reform, followed criminal justice reform organizations like Families Against Mandatory Minimums (FAMM) and the ACLU on social media, scoured articles and legislative news feeds, hoping for some legal shift that would give the tiniest crack of light. For now, there was nothing.
“I know it probably seems hard, but if anyone can get her out, you can, Sis,” Jazz said. “You know what Daddy Sudie would say.”