A Knock at Midnight(89)

The next day, families would leave at dawn to drive back down South or catch flights to the Midwest or California. Attorneys and activists would return to our grind, exerting pressure in any and every way we could to those in power. That night, we walked back toward our separate hotel rooms, hoping beyond hope that the bright light of the supermoon was a sign of things to come. We had delivered two million signatures to the Department of Justice that day. Two million people who supported the successful resolution of all of our clemency petitions. Two million people who prayed for justice to be served. We were drained, but empowered. Our gathering had been one final, impassioned plea to the White House: Please, do not pass us by.



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    ON NOVEMBER 29, just over two weeks later, the federal government answered our call. It was not the answer we were looking for. Instead of a list of clemencies, the Department of Justice released six hundred names of incarcerated people whose clemency petitions had been denied. Denial was a devastation. There was no appeals process for clemency, and there was no telling whether Trump had any interest in granting clemency for drug offenses. Without retroactive sentencing laws, this was it. Back in Dallas, I desperately scrolled down the list of names on the Department of Justice website with single-minded focus, dreading what I would find. Please don’t let Corey’s name be on the list, I kept repeating to myself. Finally I reached the last name. It wasn’t his. The fist in my chest unclenched. If Corey wasn’t denied, he still had a chance. I went frantically back to the top just to make sure. But this time, I started to see names I knew. And the pain I had steeled myself against the first time began to hit.

Ferrell Scott: Clemency denied. William Underwood: Clemency denied. Lashanda Hall: Clemency denied. Roderick Reed: Clemency denied.

I experienced each familiar name as a punch in the gut. For these women and men—some of whose family members I had just held in my arms in D.C.—the slim light of hope offered by the Clemency Initiative had just gone completely out. Worse, if that was even possible, there had been no forewarning of this announcement, no time for attorneys or family members to gently inform those waiting in prison. I got an urgent text from Diddy, who had heard about the list of names published without preamble on the DOJ website and was worried for Corey.

    What if he doesn’t make it? Is this the last one for Obama?

I felt Diddy’s panic and tried to reassure him, even in my own moment of darkness. Even for a man as powerful as Sean Combs, the criminal justice system seemed impossible to take on. But it was hard to stay hopeful when for so many, the light had just gone out for good.

I spent the day reaching out to the families whose loved ones had just lost their one chance at freedom. They were terrible calls. Serrell Scott, Ferrell’s daughter, was crying so hard she could barely speak. “I couldn’t even get the words out to tell my dad,” she said. “What is he going to do now? What am I going to do?” I’d grown very close to his children, Serrell and her brother Skyler, in the lead-up to Hope for the Holidays. Skyler wasn’t answering his phone, and I was worried about him. All these kids wanted was to be with their dad. What sense did this make?

By evening, I was exhausted, empty. It was devastating to hear the anguish in the voices of those who only two weeks before had stood on the White House lawn with hope in their hearts. I sat on the couch in my Dallas apartment, staring despondently out at the lights of the city.

And then I got one more call.

“Sherene, how are you? Thanks for calling me back. I’m so, so sorry about your dad.” Sherene’s father had been on the denial list. I had been trying to reach her all day.

When she answered, though, it wasn’t just grief that I heard in her voice. She sounded cold, hard. “Look, Brittany. I know you have connections. I know you know someone in Washington. You have to help us!”

“Sherene, I don’t know anyone,” I said. “If I did, everyone would be free. Everyone.” I slipped farther down off the couch. I was so drained from sharing in everyone’s grief. I couldn’t believe the conversation I was having.

    “How’d you get Darryl out, then? Everyone’s always telling us they can’t help our dad because of his case. But they called Darryl a kingpin! How’d he get out? We know you know somebody. Why you holding out on us? It’s not right.”

Her accusations hurt. I hadn’t slept in weeks. I was doing everything I knew how to do and then some. And this family thought I was holding out on them? Her dad wasn’t even my client. I wanted to weep.

“Who do you think I know?” I said. “I don’t know anybody. I know who you know.”

“Don’t lie, Brittany. Eric Holder is like some kind of mentor to you. That’s why all your clients get out.”

“He doesn’t know me like that. Sherene, believe me, if I had any say, your dad would be free. I promise you.”

After the phone call I left the couch and lay on the cold floor. I’d never felt lower in my life. All these people, buried alive. I’d thought if only those in power could hear us, more would be freed. The denials were cruel. And now their families were doubting me? My intentions, my integrity? It hurt. But I couldn’t judge Sherene. What kind of pain would I feel if it were my dad?

My cheek pressed to the cold, hard floor, I checked my email on my phone, hoping for a message from Skyler. He’d sent one saying he was okay. And I had a new message from Corey: