Years after I retired, I came upon notes from a case I tried when I was the prosecuting attorney for our state. The case had haunted me off and on for years. I questioned my motives for requesting a ten-year sentence for a first-time offender. I wanted to find out if the man I sent to jail had ever been released. My friend, who was still in the prosecutor’s office, agreed to help me. She looked up the file and emailed me some information. I sent a letter to the address of the offender’s wife. 

After several months, I received a reply from the man’s son. His mother died recently, and her mail had been forwarded to him. He wrote that his father died in prison about four years into his six-year sentence. He had been attacked by another inmate, a racist, who stabbed him. He lived for a while in the infirmary but died of his wounds. His younger brother, Bashir, died from alcohol poisoning when he was nineteen. His mother cursed my name until her dying day, blaming me for the premature deaths of both her husband and her son. She believed I robbed their family of a good husband and a father’s steady guidance. He asked that I not contact him again.

I remember my first day back to work from bereavement leave, feeling disoriented by grief. The chief prosecutor asked me to meet with a woman, the wife of a man being prosecuted by my office. I had been kept up-to-date on the trial and was to deliver the final argument to the judge the next day. Mrs. Darwish came to make a last-minute plea for her husband.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Judge,” Nour Darwish started. She was accompanied by their two young sons, Yusif and Bashir. Yusif’s lively dark eyes reminded me so much of my son, Teddy, the boy I just buried. They were about the same age. Bashir, the younger boy, was more solemn.

“I am not the judge, Mrs. Darwish. My name is Makena Washington; I am the prosecuting attorney. What can I do for you?” I knew I sounded abrupt. Why was this woman, this wife, this mother, coming to me? Why did she have two living sons when my only one was in a fresh grave? I could barely listen to her; jealousy gripped every fiber of my being.

“My Tarek did a bad thing, but it was for a good reason. We have been in this country two years only. We want our sons to have a better life than we had in Syria. Tarek drove his truck for farmer products. He was asked to take something with the farmer crop without knowing it. They said he would be paid big money, so he allowed his truck to be used to haul things, illegal things. He was paid for savings to help our sons to school.

“Mr.  Darwish was arrested driving his truck with nearly a thousand pounds of methamphetamine hidden in farm produce. That much crystal meth is a death sentence for thousands of people. It is a simple law, a felony, leading to incarceration of three to twenty years in jail in this state.”

“He didn’t know what they were putting in his truck. He just wanted the extra pay for our sons.”

“His motivation has no bearing on the fact that he was transporting a deadly substance. To be clear, Mrs. Darwish, I am not the judge. I make recommendations to the judge based on my understanding of the case. He will do the actual sentencing.

“I know Tarek must be punished, Mrs. Judge.  I’m asking for kindness. My sons need their baba while they are growing. Give him short time in jail, please.”

Her entreaties fell on deaf ears. Where was the mercy for my Teddy? He deserved to live a life. A full life. Why had he been the target, run down by an unlicensed driver? What is justice? What is mercy? How many people would live another day without being poisoned by the meth in Tarek’s truck? I could suggest leniency for a first offense, but what does that accomplish? There are no guarantees. Tarek Darwish could have been hit by a bus the day he got out of jail. It is better that he be a symbol, a warning to others who think they can bend the law for their own purposes, I reasoned.

How many lives did I impact that day? That day of grieving.