Hour by hour
A sequel to Minute by minute.
My legs shake but my voice remains steady.
“According to the police report, Alana’s vehicle lurched forward from impact, and crashed into four trees, a road sign and a fire hydrant. The defendant sat in his vehicle, uninjured.”
A pinstripe-suited defense lawyer huffs at my statement as I read it to the judge in front of dozens of people. I continue.
“The report also states that rather than trying to help Alana and Tracey, the defendant attempted to flee the scene, deciding to let my friends slowly die in the street. He did not try to assist with any of the devastation he caused.”
My voice stabs the air with anger as I destroy the life of the person sitting five feet to my right like he destroyed mine. I do not understand why our justice system plays out like a performance piece from hell, where we all articulate months of mental anguish in front of each other while others watch in silence.
The year is not playing out like I intended. Alana and I agreed we would both write more — we promised ourselves and each other. Instead, she is dead and I’m writing obituaries, eulogies, impact statements, sentencing statements, and petitions to the Department of Corrections. As Tony Stark would say, I may not be able to save her, but I’m sure as hell going to avenge her.
The path to today was not a gentle one. Grief remains constant, even as support starts to waiver. Capitalism does not believe in bereavement for best friends and I was told to wrap up a lifetime of grief in two days. Friends and family do their best — and it’s greatly appreciated — but it’s never enough to feed the loneliness. Every lonely milestone is a new cut: movies we planned to see together, birthdays, Pokémon events, seasonal transitions, holidays… Each milestone slices in a different way. No metaphorical bandage helps. I just learned how to bleed quietly.
At least the pain is not as bad as it was a few months ago, and I can go more than a few minutes without thinking about it (but never a full hour). My brain plays cruel tricks on me in my sleep by making old experiences feel like fresh ones, where we go on adventures together with new and old friends alike. When I wake up to a dark, empty room, I realize my nightmares find me when I’m awake.
Someday I’m sure I’ll be able to make it more than an hour without missing her, but not yet. Preparing for today’s sentencing kept me focused, and while I hope I’ll feel relief when it’s over there is no guarantee. I’m still in disbelief it took us seven months to get to today, and even more shocked when people tell me how fast we got to sentencing. Justice moves slowly.
The courtroom overflows with people on both sides of the aisle for the sentencing. Each side seeks their own interpretation of justice, divided up like a wedding with the prosecution on one side and the defense on the other. I’m thankful to see so many familiar faces there in support, but I avoid consuming water in fear of the awkwardness of running into a member of the defense in the bathroom.
Reporters fill the remaining seats. While the last few months felt extremely personal, as though this horrible event was only horrible for a small circle of people, the shocking amount of news coverage, ranging from local online newspapers to the print edition of The Denver Post, makes it more real. This experience is not normal, and no one should live it.
The sentencing continues on forever. Our speeches jumpstart the day, as hours of case law, victim details, evidence, videos, and questions from the judge fill the time.
I listen to the defense explain that the quarter-mile long debris field caused by the 113 MPH crash is not really that much worse than an average car accident. Anyone’s purse could end up in a tree down the street after a crash, apparently. The defendant didn’t really make a series of bad choices, they argued, he just made one bad choice: Getting blackout drunk. Every choice beyond that was not his fault.
It takes all of my strength to stay quiet.
The defense demands the judge to avoid acting on vengeance, and the judge makes it clear that no matter the outcome there will be no justice here.
I watch the crash happen in real time as it was captured by a traffic camera. I watch my oldest friend get killed in high definition. I’ll never stop seeing it play out in my head.
After hours of torture, the judge finally gives a ruling — 18 years behind bars (which we all know will be less with good behavior). Considering he gave Alana the death penalty and the rest of us a life sentence, 18 years seems light. We do our best to accept the outcome.
But as the judge said, there is no justice today. There is no relief, either.
