A Letter to My Daughter

Ever since I found out I was pregnant the first time I have been writing letters. Journal entries really, to the girls. First Aurora, then Jubilee. Someday I will bind them all up in a book, a record of my life as their mother. I wrote this one this morning. Some names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved.

Dear Aurora,

            We were falling asleep, finally, you in our bed and dada in yours. The evening prior you’d also found your way into our bed, as is often the case, when a bout of nightmares made sleeping alone impossible. So here you were in my bed on a Wednesday which was both highly irregular and highly enjoyable. I’d been in court since Monday, gone from 7am-5pm, and being able to spend this quiet time together was giving me some perspective for what your father goes through every day. It’s terrible to be away from you girls.

I cuddled you in my arms and was almost out when you looked up at me through the dark and asked, “Mama, what did Bart do to T****?”

So you have been listening.

I looked down at your face, 4 years old and no context for what happened 2 years ago in May of 2022. You have no container for words like “lured” or “roofied” or “sexual assault”. No context for what it’s like for T****, a Black woman in a post George Floyd Asheville where tensions between police officers and the general public became so caustic it made national news, as she navigates the justice system. After two years the case has finally gone to trial and she gave her testimony in court on Tuesday. This included having to sit on the witness stand while the 4-minute cell phone video Bart made of the assault was played on a giant tv for the jurors, bailiffs, judge, lawyers, support staff, God. She had to sit there while over 20 people watched him violate her while she was unconscious. Not asleep, no, a forensic toxicologist mentioned this in his expert testimony Wednesday, in fact. She was clearly in a deeper state of central nervous system failure, a sleeping person would have woken up.

She had to sit there while the defense attorney cross examined her. Asking her questions like, “well how did you end up in his bed in the first place” as if that has fuck all to do with anything. The lead detective on the case, detective Hunter, was quick on his feet when it came time for him to testify. Every time the defense attempted to walk him down some sort of road that involved T**** agreeing to drink a beer, agreeing to go to Bart’s house under the auspices of a social gathering but staying when no one else showed, agreeing to “one more song” when she had iterated several times she wanted to leave. Agreeing to a drink does not equal consent to sexual activity. Having to many drinks does not equal consent to sexual activity. Going to someone’s house for a party does not equal consent to sexual activity. Hell, even agreeing to sleep in someone’s bed cuddled up to them does not equal consent to sexual activity (even though she didn’t. She fell asleep on the recliner and woke up in the bed with no recollection of how she got there. But I digress).

She sat there while the defense attorney attempted to paint her as some sort of party animal who had gone to Bart’s in order to party with him and it ended in sex the way these things do with people like her. She was absolutely brilliant Aurora, she was amazing. She kept her cool, didn’t lose her temper and every question he used to trap her resulted in an answer that made her story even more plausible. She had gone to the party to see an unnamed ex, a fact that the defense tried to use to make her look like a dishonest person who was withholding information. It went like this,

“you say you went to see an ex, some person who you’ve never identified. In fact, you never identified the person in your police report even. Does this “person” have a name?”

T**** didn’t flinch.

“Yes.”

Defense sort of fumbled when she did not elaborate.

“Well, what is it? What was this person’s name?”

T**** took a deep breath, shifted in her seat and replied,

“Christina. Her name is Christina.”

You see, it would have been easy for T**** to use the “but I was there for a WOMAN” excuse to make her story even more believable. To show, once and for all, she would never have agreed to sex with Bart, or any man for that matter, but she didn’t. Because she shouldn’t fucking have too. But here’s the defense, revealing the fact for her and making himself look like a giant asshole in the process. He continued in his attempt to make her look like a liar.

“Well you never said that name to the police. Why is that?”

“They never asked.”

“You didn’t say that name yesterday, in your testimony. Wouldn’t it have been relevant?”

“I answered the questions I was asked, as they were asked.”

“And yet you somehow feel like it was ok to reveal it today? What changed?”

“You asked. I answered.”

It was almost as if he wanted her to win. He could not trap her, she was Muhammed Ali dancing like a butterfly, juking every punch like a professional.

It was not the same story at home.

Several times in the two weeks leading up to the trial I have held my friend, this 180 lb MMA fighter with bones of steel, while she cried, “I can’t do this”. Who held my gaze in the courtroom, eyes filled with shame as I sat in the front row and whispered to her over and over, “I’m right here, you are not alone, I’m right here” while they played the video evidence. Who has sat with her head in her hands so many times, blaming herself for the assault. She should have known, she should have left, she should have whatever’d. But none of that was on display for the nearly 2 hours that defense cross-examined her about the assault. Her story never wavered. Her testimony during the cross was exactly the same as her testimony the day before.

But you see, sometimes none of that matters when it comes to the jury.

The prosecution team, the ADA who worked T****s case, his co-counsel on SA cases, and his legal assistant Brenna, had told me of acquittals that would make your blood boil. The woman who had DNA evidence to support her accusation, but because the attacker had violated her from behind while she was pinned face down, he was acquitted in a jury trial. One older obese man who had been single since his wife died in the 60’s believed it was impossible to have sex with a woman from behind, so clearly, she was lying.

One person. One in 12, because that’s all it takes. One obstinate mother fucker that for one reason or another chooses their own opinion over the evidence and will not be swayed.

T**** and I had conferenced about this several times on the way home from court. The jurors were stone faced, for the most part, and both of us were collecting as much data as we could. All 12 had nicknames.

“Did you see sherbet shirt during the cross? He seemed almost incredulous, like he couldn’t believe this wasn’t obvious.”

“Pony tail was in tears today; I think she’s on board.”

“I can’t get a read on baldie, he’s the one I think may be the hardest to convince.”

“Home girl has been stone-faced this entire time. She won’t even look at me. I have no idea what’s going on there.”

It went like this Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Through her testimony, the evidence, an expert testimony by a forensic toxicologist, and detective Hunter. The prosecution team is confident, so is the victim’s advocate from APD that has been working this case with T**** since day one. Wednesday marked the end of the trial, both attorneys offered their closing statements, and first thing in the morning we will reconvene for jury deliberation and verdict. Everyone seems relieved and secure that he will be found guilty. But we know how this goes, and no one wants to say the creeping underlying fear at the foundation of T****'s lack of confidence.

Will any of these jurors disbelieve, not because of the evidence, but because of some personal prejudice? Is there someone, anyone, who has made up their mind and will not be swayed because (as the defense is attempting to prove) girls “like her” do things “like this”?

I looked down at you Aurora, and I had no idea how to answer your query. What did Bart do to T****? I looked you in the eye and said, “well he hurt her”.

“Yeah,” you said, “but what did he do to hurt her?”

I contemplated and replied, “honey, what he did was really ugly and I don’t want you to have that stuff in your head. I’ll tell you about it when you’re older if you still remember.”

You nodded. “Did he pinch her?”

This made me smile. Jubilee, when she cannot communicate with words, will often pinch the person she’s pissed at. Or bite. Or hit. You are frequently on the receiving end of her rage, and so this is the only context you have for intentional harm.

“He did, yes. He pinched her.”

You nodded, and I continued.

“So that’s why we are in court this week. T**** tattled on Bart, which is good. He deserves to be in trouble. Right now she’s telling the story to 12 jurors, just like when you come tell mommy what Jubi did. Tomorrow the jurors will decide if they believe her and if they do, he will go to jail. Which is like timeout for adults.”

“I hope he goes to timeout,” you said.

“Me too”, was all I could say.

And here, now, at 8:30 am July 13th 2024 it is my good pleasure to report that yes, he did in fact go to time out.

Thursday morning, I picked T**** up bright and early. We drove to court doing what we do every day.

“When the defense argued it wasn’t sex because Bart didn’t ejaculate, ‘squinty eye’ nodded like that was a good point!”

“Oh my god I know, but when Hunter said I think everyone’s mother, daughter and sister would disagree I was like, ‘DAMN’” 

We paced in the witness room waiting waiting waiting.

Finally, we entered the courtroom and the jury filed in. They were given their charging orders (describing the charges and making sure the jury understands what constitutes a guilty verdict) and exited for deliberation. Back in the witness room, the advocate explained the process. They will take about 15 minutes to choose a foreman, go over the process and get some water or whatever and begin deliberation. Then they just have to review the evidence and we’ll go from there. It can take a long time sometimes, we just don’t…

A knock at the door.

We all looked up, somewhat surprised. It had been only 23 minutes since the jury exited, and yet here was the prosecution telling us the jury had reached a verdict and it was time.

We sat on the front row as the jury filed back in and for the first time in this entire process, ‘homegirl’ had a smile on her face. That was the first thing I noticed. Then I realized that every single juror had a smile either on their face, or in their deliberate eye contact with me or T****. Bart was found guilty by a jury of his peers on both counts, the felony and the misdemeanor. I felt T**** shudder as she exhaled, really exhaled, for the first time in two years.

I swear to God, the judge smiled.

“Alright,” he said, “jurors, you are now once again regular citizens and may leave the court to return to your normal lives. Several times in this process you have been cautioned to not discuss the particulars of this case amongst yourselves or with others, but you may now do so once you exit the property. You are welcome to reenter the courtroom as citizens for sentencing but are not required. Have a good day and thank you for your service to the court”.

You are not allowed to celebrate when a verdict has been reached, but when I tell you the bailiffs, the court stenographer, even the college age apprentice who was shadowing the judge and had been in court all week had huge smiles on their faces, I am not exaggerating. There was not a soul in that room who had been present through this trial who was not thrilled. The advocate had her arm around T**** and leaned forward to tell us both that now we would move on to sentencing. The jury box was now empty and she said it was not uncommon for one or two jurors to come back in for sentencing so we might see that, but it doesn’t always happen. As she finished, the courtroom door opened and we turned around.

Every single one of the 12 jurors reentered the court and sat in the back row. Even the fucking alternate Aurora. Every single one had a smile on their faces and nodded in our direction. I cried.

When it was all over and the courtroom had emptied, T*** and I walked out together. ‘Ponytail’ was waiting in the hallway and ushered us over to the enclave between elevators. There stood all 12 jurors, and the alternate, waiting to celebrate and congratulate her. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, and something that the ADA’s team had NEVER seen. Ever.

As T**** and I left the courtroom, I could feel the Holy Spirit behind us. I had been praying intensely this entire time and often felt the surety of Jesus deep in my heart. “Trust me” he said, “it’s going to be amazing”.

One of the hardest things we have to do as believers is to hold out hope until the very end. For two years I have held out hope, even when my friend was collapsing. For two years I have remained steadfast in my faith that justice would be served, but uncertain if that justice would come in the form of a conviction or a hit and run. We have to hold out faith in the face of unspeakable atrocities, knowing that such suffering is not the will of God but a byproduct of living in a world full of agents with free will. It’s the parable in Matthew 13 of the man who sowed good seed in his field, but in the night an enemy came and sowed weeds. It’s not until the plants began to really grow that the workers realized that evil was all tangled up with the good. They wanted to pull the weeds, but the man says no. Their roots, too, were all tangled up together now and if you pulled the weeds, you would harm the tender wheat. We must let them grow together, he said, and sort the wheat from the weeds at the harvest.

Aurora, you must always be good seed even as the weeds grow around you. You may not see it but through your roots, planted in the soil of God, you will nourish the other wheat around you through that mysterious underground system of entanglement. Wheat whose light is blocked by weeds. Wheat own roots are nearly choked by the weed roots that surround them. Wheat who does not yet know they too are planted in the good soil. You may not ever get to see it like I did this week, but at the great harvest the weeds will be thrown in the fire where they belongs. Evil WILL be defeated my child, even if you don’t see the harvest in your lifetime.

Be wheat, my sweet child, and God will always be on your side.