ully. “Mr. Patterson, what are you asking for?”
I turned to look at Marcus. “I’m asking you not to send this boy to prison. I’m asking for mercy. For rehabilitation. For a chance at redemption.”
“Sit down,” the judge said quietly. “I want to hear this.”
I took a deep breath. “Your Honor, my daughter Linda was training to be an EMT. She wanted to save lives. She volunteered at the fire station. She carried a first aid kit in her car everywhere she went.” My voice broke. “She would hate knowing that her death led to another young life being destroyed. She would want mercy. She would want this boy to have a chance.”
“Three months ago, I went to visit Marcus in juvenile detention. I wanted to see him face to face. Wanted to look into the eyes of the person who killed my baby.”
“And you know what I saw? I saw a broken child. A boy who looked like he’d already been sentenced to death. Who couldn’t sleep because he had nightmares about my daughter. Who couldn’t eat because he was drowning in guilt.”
“I saw my daughter’s killer and all I could think was that Linda would want me to help him, not destroy him.”
Marcus was sobbing openly now. His shoulders shaking. His mother was crying. Half the courtroom was crying.
“So I started visiting him every week. I told him about Linda. Showed him pictures. Told him stories about her childhood. About her dreams. About the kind of person she was.”
“And Marcus told me about himself. About his life. About his own dreams. He wants to be a counselor. Wants to help kids avoid the mistakes he made. Wants to speak at schools about the dangers of drunk driving and date rape drugs.”
“This is a letter from Linda’s EMT instructor. He’s offering Marcus a job at the fire station doing community outreach. Teaching kids about safety. Being a living example of how one mistake can change everything.”
“This is a letter from my wife. She’s asking that Marcus be released into our custody. That he be allowed to live with us while he finishes high school and completes his community service.”
The courtroom erupted. The prosecutor was on his feet objecting. Marcus’s mother was crying so hard she couldn’t breathe. The judge was banging his gavel calling for order.
“Mr. Patterson,” the judge said slowly, “are you saying you want the boy who killed your daughter to live in your home?”
I nodded. “Yes, Your Honor. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Why would you do that?”
I looked at Marcus again. This broken sixteen-year-old boy who’d made a tragic mistake. Who’d tried to do the right thing and ended up destroying two families.
