Memoir from the margins of justice
He was charged with assault.
The court granted a personal recognizance bond.
But he didn’t go home.
A parole hold kept him in custody.
From day one, he maintained his innocence.
And from day one, the system stalled.
No pending date from parole. That was contingent on the case resolution.
No movement from the State.
Just silence.
He was 67 years old and likely on parole for the rest of his life. Sentenced to 60 years in prison back in the 1980s. He’d already served decades. He knew the system. He knew how it moved—slow, impersonal, often indifferent.
Each subsequent court setting, he looked more restless. Not angry—just worn. The kind of fatigue that settles in when time stretches without purpose. He asked questions I couldn’t answer: “When will they talk to the complainant?” “Why am I still here?” “Can’t they just let me go?”
I explained what I could. That parole wouldn’t lift the hold until the case was resolved. That the State refused to make an offer until they spoke with the complainant. That we were waiting—together.
Five months passed.
Still no contact with the complainant.
No movement. No resolution.
Just delay.
Then came the offer: time served. A conviction, yes—but one that would end his confinement.
When I told him, he said yes. I paused. “What are you going to say when the judge asks if you’re pleading guilty because you are in fact guilty?” He looked at me and said, “This isn’t my first rodeo. I know how to accept a plea.”
I nodded. “I understand. I’m only asking because you’ve maintained your innocence from day one.” He sighed. “What other option is there?” I said, “Set it for trial.”
He paused again. Then said, “Set it.”
“Are you sure? I don’t know what the next available trial date is, but your case will likely be near the top of the docket since you’re in custody.”
“Set it. Parole moves so slow and I’m gonna be stuck in here for the holidays anyways so I might as well fight it to the end.”
That decision was quiet defiance. He chose truth over expedience. He chose to wait, even when waiting had already cost him five months of his life.
Five days before trial, the State filed a motion for continuance. They claimed the complainant was now in custody for a parole violation and needed time to speak with him.
The judge asked for my response. I opposed it.
“They’ve had seven months,” I said. “This is an indefinite continuance disguised as preparation. My client has waited long enough.”
The judge denied the motion. The State wasn’t done.
They started scrambling—trying to figure out if they could prove the case without the complainant. One of the newer prosecutors pulled me aside and said, “Honestly, I think this case should be dismissed. But the chief is allergic to dismissing cases.”
I fell out when she said that. Allergic? To dismissals?
The complainant didn’t call 911. And the woman who did? She didn’t even name my client.
Stop wasting my time.
Eventually, the case was dismissed.
No conviction. No plea. Just release.
But what stayed with me most wasn’t the dismissal- it was the moment he said, “Set it.” That was dignity over despair. I didn’t just represent him; I stood with him in the tension between resolution and truth. I held space for him, even when the system offered shortcuts. That’s the kind of advocacy I want to remember. That’s the kind I want to keep choosing.
But the damage was done.
Seven months in custody. Seven months of being held without conviction.
Dismissal doesn’t refund time. Nor does it restore peace or erase the trauma of being locked away while the system waits for its own convenience.
This case wasn’t just about delay. It was about dignity. About the cost of silence. About the courage it takes to say, “I’ll wait for trial,” when waiting has already broken you.
I carry this case with me. Not because it ended in dismissal, but because it began in stillness. Because it reminded me that justice delayed isn’t just justice denied—it’s justice that demands a witness.
And I’ll keep showing up. For the ones who wait. For the ones who choose truth over shortcuts. For the ones held without conviction.
On (In)justice 