I finally released the kid—Marcus was his name—and turned to face the courtroom. My hands were shaking. I’d been dreading this moment for six months. Six months since the accident. Six months since I buried my baby girl.
“My daughter Linda was seventeen years old when she died,” I started. My voice cracked but I pushed through. “She was driving home from her friend’s house. It was 11 PM on a Saturday. This young man ran a red light going seventy miles an hour. Drunk. He hit her driver’s side door. She died instantly.”
“The police told me Linda never saw it coming. Said she didn’t suffer. They thought that would make me feel better.” I paused. “It didn’t. Nothing made it better. My daughter was gone and this kid took her from me.”
The prosecutor nodded like I was making his case for him. He was asking for fifteen years. Wanted to make an example out of Marcus. Wanted to show that drunk driving kills and killers go to prison.
“But three months ago, something happened that changed everything,” I continued. “I received a letter. It was delivered to my house by Marcus’s mother. She stood on my porch crying and begging me to read it.”Continue reading…
