November 20, 1998
(Con't from Nov. 13, 1998 edition)
by Mario Rocha
Division 107--Superior Court. Lead by a bailiff, I walked into the courtroom. I made my way to a blue chair on the side of the defendant's desk where my attorney was seated. I sat down and glanced at the people crammed in the courtroom gallery: my family, friends, loved ones, people who have been there for me throughout my stay at Central. Many of them were smiling. Some of them looked as restless as me. I smiled and slumped my head forward. I thought: All these people are here for me... They really do care. 8 o'clock in the morning, and they're here to support me. Suddenly the tears began. I felt hopeless yet secure. Weak yet mighty.
Judgement Day
The judge then entered the courtroom. The silence in the air became even more still when he began to speak. As he started to introduce the case and formally explain the matter at hand, I raised my head and looked toward his direction. For weeks, I had prayed that light would enter his mind, that God's compassion would enter his heart, that he would see The Truth: My Innocence. Two weeks earlier, my attorney had filed several motions asking the court to: overturn the verdicts, to grand me a re-trial or to drop the charges and reduce my sentence. My attorney had also presented a "sentencing package" that consisted of numerous letters of recommendation and support written to the court on my behalf—a total of approximately fifty letters. In addition, my attorney had recommended that I be housed in Y.A. until the age of 25 and then be sent to prison. The judge asked my attorney if he would like to be heard on these matters. As soon as my attorney began to speak, something in the back of my mind told me: He's gonna deny everything. This judge doesn't care! He just wants to get this all over with. My head dropped to my chest. I knew that my attorney's efforts would produce no results in this courtroom.
When my attorney was finished with his argument, the D.A. came back, opposing the motions and briefly stating his point of view. At last, the judge denied all motions and asked my attorney if there was any other legal reason why I shouldn't be sentenced at that point. "No, your honor," my attorney replied... The casket was closed.
My attorney informed the judge that a few of my people had pleaded to be heard before I was sentenced. My tears continued to run down my face and my head just hung there as I heard the voice of a man who, although he had entered my life near the end of my stay at Central, had inspired me to trust God and to teach others to trust God in a very unique way: as a true homeboy. As father Kennedy began to speak, I started to think about the essay Marlon Rivera had read in the MN writing class two days earlier, when he spoke about Father Kennedy "saving his life" on his sentencing day. It was a beautiful story, but deep inside I had a feeling that no words would touch the heart of this judge.
I then heard the voice of a person whom I respected so very much. A man who had taught me so much about life: life as an incarcerated young man... life as an innocent man... life as a writer. My writing teacher, Duane, began by greeting the judge with respect and approaching the victim's family with condolences. He had prepared a draft that disclosed some of the words I had written and expressed on prior meetings with him. He talked about the power of words and the strength that my words possessed. He spoke with self-assurance and honesty. And he read my words with poise. He earnestly asked the judge to search for the essence of what he had discovered through my writing. On a different day, different time, different setting, after hearing those words of praise, I would have probably just laughed. Flattered, my face would have turned red with emotion. I would've had a big ol' smile that said, "Thanks, Duane! I feel honored. I can never repay you for those beautiful words," but on this day, all I could do was cry. Like a child lost amongst thousands of people, strangers. I felt helpless! Before he was finished, in a very dignified manner, he asked the judge to consider giving me the most lenient sentence that the court was capable of imposing and thanked everyone for listening.
In the whole two years that I have spent at Central, I never cried—I never felt as bad as I did on that day. An eerie voice in my head began to whisper. This is your funeral. Look at all these people. They're here to pay their final respects... to view the body before they lower the casket into the ground... the cold and dark soil, where you will never be heard, never be seen. A memory is all you will be. Take a good look at your family—and never forget about the love that they have for you! Look at all these people! They will never forget you!
Sentencia
I spent two years in Central Juvenile Hall awaiting my case to be resolved. And following at three-week trial, I was found guilty of first-degree murder and attempted murder. I was 18 years old.
I couldn't believe it! In a Superior Court room, my innocence was proven —the truth had been exposed— and still justice had not been served. My prayers, my faith, my new found hopes and dreams, my purpose suddenly seemed meaningless. I no longer had a future. Twelve members of a jury had decided to ruin the rest of my life. But there was something inside me that was not shaken. My life seemed hopeless, but an inner strength did not allowed me to submit to the reality of my situation.
A few minutes after the guilty verdict, I spoke to God alone in a holding tank. "I don't know why this is happening—I don't know why you're letting this happen to me. You know the truth! But let this be your will, and give me the strength to not give up."
Three months later, I was sentenced to 29 years to life plus a second consecutive life sentence. And three weeks later, there was an off sense of leaving home as I sat in the holding tank of Central Juvenile Hall's Movement and Control office awaiting the bus to pick me up. I was the only person picked up from Juvenile Hall, and here I am, sitting amidst the adults—crammed inside this bus on my way to prison.
Freedom. A powerful word. As I look at the outside world through these barred windows, a world that is passing me by, I realize the meaning of freedom goes beyond what is seen. Surely the majestic mountains and the clouds of the sky give a sense of freedom, but the freedom I have learned to cherish comes from within. And it is a freedom of greater value than the freedom beyond these bars. This freedom will not perish nor decay with the body when it is buried in the ground. This freedom will not wither with the wind as the years go by. This freedom will not fade away as the sun penetrates the earth. This freedom will live and endure. It will persevere. It will grow.
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