A Knock at Midnight(84)
When I left Terre Haute that day, all I could think about was Corey’s wish to see a tree. The moment I left the gates I began taking in the textured trunks or young branches of each one I passed with renewed attention. Corey’s incredible energy, his refusal to be defeated by the inhumane punishment of sixteen life sentences, was all the evidence I needed of a simple truth: A system that did everything in its power to dehumanize and still failed was a vulnerable system. And a vulnerable system can be transformed.
I left my visit with Corey in a new state of consciousness. I no longer wanted to be just a lawyer. I wanted to use my platform to promote the greater good. In the new American age of mass incarceration, the need for freedom was far too urgent.
Chapter 15
MIDNIGHT
After my visit to Corey, we began regularly meditating together, at 8:16 every morning. We worked our way up to sixteen minutes. Sixteen because it was a number of great significance to Corey—he had a whole philosophy built around it. My own math mind soon got on board, and the significance of the number sixteen in our lives seemed endless: Sixteen life sentences. Sixteen letters in each of our names. Sharanda had served sixteen years. Mike’s first sentence reduction, September 16. His second, October 16. Sixteen was a spiritually charged number, and 8:16 was the perfect time for us. It was amazing how clear-minded I felt, how energized.
And after every session, I felt closer to making a momentous personal decision that just months before I would never even have considered. As the sand slipped through the Clemency Initiative hourglass, I found myself continuing to struggle mightily with the question: Should I leave ORIX?
I had worked so hard to get where I was. The main reason I went to law school in the first place was to leverage my accounting degree in corporate law, and ORIX was the best place for it. I loved the hectic pursuit of the deal, the pulse of global power surging through the offices on the cusp of a major acquisition. The absolute conviction that anything was possible if you put the best minds to it. And there was the security of a six-figure paycheck. I couldn’t live on goodwill and symbolic stipends, and I didn’t want to. I was still knocking down student loans. And I liked having nice things, traveling, helping my mom and Jazz without worrying about it.
I was also often the only Black woman in the boardroom with C-level executives during deal negotiations. I felt I had a responsibility to keep walking into those rooms and show that Black women deserved to be at the table. To forge a path that others could follow, the way Christa and others had done for me.
But time was running out on Obama’s second term, and there was no telling what the next president’s approach to clemency would be. If we didn’t get Corey free in the next eight months, there was a strong chance he wouldn’t get out at all. Ever. We all knew the stakes. And with a man’s life on the line, spending ten hours a day ironing out IPOs and closing private equity deals for multibillion-dollar corporations held little meaning. I searched deep within myself.
Our 8:16 meditation sessions helped. But sometimes you need your dad. I went to visit him in his new home in Rockwall, which had its own five acres and a pond, just like Daddy Sudie’s. We sat together on the back of his truck and watched the sunset. I told him all my concerns, all the factors I’d been weighing over and over, losing nights of sleep.
“At ORIX, I know just what I’m doing, where I’m going. Every day is different, but there’s still a routine to it. I mean, without a firm, what will I even do all day? How will I make money?”
My dad listened attentively all the way through. “Stop thinking about the challenges,” he said. “Imagine the possibilities instead.”
The sun melted, turning the sky orange. The pine trees around the property were backlit by the vibrant sky. We sat together, watching. Since my first job with Chase Bank at seventeen, I had been on this career track. My concerns about flying from the corporate nest were sensible, and real. But so was Corey. So was my passion for justice. What new realities might I create if I just walked through my fear? As I sat shoulder to shoulder with my dad in the waning Texas light, the answer suddenly seemed very clear.
As if he had heard my thoughts, my dad spoke again.
“Take the leap, BK,” he said. “Follow your heart.”
I waited until May so that I could collect my year-end bonus, which was enough to cover my cost of living for twelve months. And then I took the leap. The moment I did, I felt so much peace. And full of energy. I was going to get Corey free. Period. And I was going to devote every minute of my time pursuing justice for all those suffering under draconian drug-sentencing laws.
* * *
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IMMEDIATELY, I STARTED to pound the pavement for Corey. I wasn’t just working full-time to secure his freedom, I was working overtime. It’s astounding how much you can get done in a ten-hour workday when you’re not tied to a desk or the minutiae of corporate law. Mike’s brother, Wayland, had received clemency on May 5, 2016, boosting the wind in my sails as I got going. That spring, I flew all over the country, searching out people and initiatives that could help get Corey out of prison. I racked up airline miles, collected countless business cards. I fell asleep at my computer in hotel rooms in multiple states.
Obama’s Clemency Initiative, once and still a beacon of hope for so many, had turned from being a potential tool for mass liberation to a bureaucratic nightmare. The previous spring, U.S. Pardon Attorney Deborah Leff had resigned in frustration, citing a lack of resources and staff to process the flood of petitions her office was receiving. The DOJ was reversing her recommendations, she said, and an increasing number of clemencies her office believed should be granted never made it to the White House. There were simply too many levels of review before the thousands of clemency petitions even made it to the president’s desk. And the reviewers were federal prosecutors, the very people who had pushed for harsh sentences in the first place. Between a lack of capacity, red tape, and bureaucratic inertia, there was the very real threat that thousands of people who met the criteria would miss out entirely on the opportunity for relief.