The Sentence

Ryan is going to prison.

I first met him at the Wasatch Youth Center, a lock-up detention facility where I volunteer.  He came to all the meetings on Sundays and Wednesdays.  Ryan was bright, energetic and had a sweet spirit about him.  When he was released, we assigned him a mentor.  Then he made some mistakes and wound up in County Jail, where I have visited with him several times in the past few months.

This morning Ryan was sentenced to zero-to-five in the Big House.  He'll probably serve 18 months. At first I was sad, as I held his weeping grandmother in my arms, both of us knowing what prison can do to a 19-year-old boy.  And then I was angry, having just observed first-hand our legal system at work.

It was a tragic farce. His "Legal Defense Attorney" had not spoken to Ryan since his plea.   He seemed unfamiliar with the history of the case.  He had no idea of Ryan's side of the story.  So when the prosecutor rattled off unsubstantiated allegations in inflammatory language, his attorney was left to fumble through the papers and mumble back and forth with Ryan to formulate feeble responses to the judge.

I had seen the judge handle a dozen cases before Ryan's came up and I was impressed by her fairness and compassion.  But as this scene unfolded I could feel the sentence coming, like the denouement of a Greek tragedy.

If Ryan would have had a real defense--the kind where the lawyer is paid for his services and not compelled to take on pro-bono clients--the outcome would have been different.  Perhaps another six months in the County Jail.  Maybe less.  But the problem was, no one really cared enough about his future to make an effort--one that would result in justice, or in finding the best solution for Ryan.

As he left the courtroom, with tears in his eyes, he quietly said "I love you Grandma," and "Thank you Bill."  That image will haunt me forever.

For Ryan is going to prison.