Send Down the Rain(76)
Despite a packed house, the room was silent. After a minute, I continued, “Love walks into hell, where I sit in chains, where the verdict is guilty, grabs you by the heart, and says to the warden, ‘Me for him.’” I turned and glanced at my brother. “Sir, we live in an angry, evil world. Where stuff doesn’t always make sense. Where hope seems like something we did when we were kids and the love we cling to slips through our fingers like cold water, but”—I tapped my chest—“nothing that happens here today changes the fact that love heals the shattered places.” I shook my head once. “It’s the only thing that can—” The faces in the courtroom held steady on mine. “It’s the only thing worth fighting for,” I finished, then turned to Bobby. I’d like to think my eyes smiled. “So, no, sir, I don’t hate my brother.”
The judge nodded. Sat back. His chair squeaking. Another long pause. After a moment he sucked through his teeth and scratched his chin. “You present this court with a real problem, Mr. Brooks.”
“How so, Your Honor?”
He held up the scorecard that the jury had returned along with the verdict. It was the formal listing of my crimes, along with mandatory sentencing guidelines as outlined by the State. He waved the paper. “In Roman times this was called ‘the handwriting of requirements that was against us.’ Here today, the State of Florida requires that I sentence you to a term of punishment based on your crime as dictated by the law.”
“I understand.”
He pointed to the twelve empty jury chairs in the jury box. “They found you guilty of manslaughter. They did not agree with either you or your attorney’s argument that you had a moral obligation to defend that woman and her daughter”—he pointed to Catalina and Gabby, who were sitting one row behind Allie—“beyond the geographical boundaries of your home and place of work.”
I nodded. “Yes, sir, they did.”
He waved that piece of paper. “This brings with it a minimum requirement of eight years. And a maximum of two life terms to be served sequentially.”
I did not like where this was going, but I nodded. “That’s what my attorney tells me.”
The judge sat back in his chair. For several minutes he tapped his pencil on his desktop. Then he said, “Mr. Brooks, please stand.”
I did. My chains rattled.
The judge stood. “Mr. Brooks, I am sentencing you to life.”
Allie gasped behind me. As did most of the courtroom. Two dozen cameras clicked hundreds of photos. Mutiny bubbled just beneath the surface. The bailiff and four well-armed police officers stepped forward.
Judge Werther pounded his gavel, and the courtroom slowly quieted. Staring out across the room of reporters and cameras, he focused on me. “The conditions of your sentence are as follows.” He placed the gavel quietly on the desktop and folded his hands in front of him. If I’m not mistaken, his eyes had become glassy. “Go live your life. The one you never got to live.”
“Sir, I don’t follow you.”
“I have considered the manifest weight of the evidence, and I am reversing the jury’s decision. In legal terms it’s called sua sponte. Meaning after forty-plus years on this bench, I am making a decision of my own, which I believe serves justice better than the decision of the twelve who sat there. I am throwing this verdict back at the state’s attorney and telling him that he has to retry you. That I don’t really care what the jury said. I think they got it wrong. And based on my conversation with the state’s attorney, he does too. Given what has happened here, and been revealed, he knows it will be political suicide to retry you, and so he has no intention of ever doing that.” Judge Werther shook his head once. “Mr. Brooks . . . you’re free to go.”
I once owned a carnival. On Friday nights, when we were operating over capacity, I called it controlled chaos. But it was nothing compared to what that courtroom became when he pounded his gavel one last time and said, “Bailiff, remove Mr. Brooks’s chains.”
47
Bobby was called before Congress to testify. I asked to tag along. He didn’t think it’d do any good, but I went anyway. Walking in amid shouts for his blood, he said, “You sure you want to be here? This could get nasty.”
“I’ve seen nasty, and it doesn’t really scare me. I wouldn’t miss this.”
Most of my brother’s critics used the hearings as a chance to peacock. They drilled him with questions and he answered. Honestly. Not the least bit flustered. I sat in the chair next to him. His attorneys thanked me for my presence and my service, but reiterated that I was not compelled to testify. But given the public nature of my life over the last few weeks, they wondered if I had anything to add. They said this as if they were doing me a favor.
I told the story of the three events in our younger lives. My dad’s absence. The tae kwon do debacle. And Mr. Billy. Of their effect on Bobby and me. Then I tried to paint a picture of Bobby in those early years. One of the senators strutted and told me those stories had no bearing on my brother’s cowardice. He opined for about twenty minutes.
When he finished, I said, “Sir, you see this medal hanging around my neck?” It was dangling against the base of the microphone.
He didn’t respond.
“The governing body that you now represent awarded it to me upon returning from war. With all due respect, I’ve earned the right to speak in this chamber, and if I want to tell you about my childhood, then”—I smiled—“you’re going to hear about my childhood.”