Asunder

Early 2025

I see him before he sees me, although he is looking. He wanders without moving, searching without really seeing.

He’s at the right place, if ever such a place can exist for him again.

He is lost.

His skin is the burnished bronze of years spent laboring in the elements, his clean-shaven face a mottled hue of oranges and reds that blend seamlessly with the tight shock of wavy Just For Men treated hair atop his head. His hands are gnarled, thick arthritic fingers wringing the furled letter that he intends to read to the court. Today he wears dark jeans, a white oxford shirt, a dark blazer, a modest look interrupted only by the expensive loafers on his feet, no socks. He’s proud of his Italian heritage, and no one I’ve ever met has done it better.

A black Columbia rainshell is draped over his arm. I have the same one.

He slumps slightly forward, the shoulders already collapsing inward under a lifetime of manual labor, now falling further under the weight of his grief.

The courthouse is foreign territory for him, an alien planet where he doesn’t speak the language, doesn’t understand the moral code. The inhabitants of this faraway land are sharply dressed replicas of the humanity he thinks he knows, their nonchalant demeanor and legalese underwhelming at best, condescending at worst.

Nearly two years ago, His son was found dead in his bed, succumb to a fentanyl overdose at nearly forty years of age. The fentanyl in question came from His son-in-law, the husband of His daughter and father of His two grandchildren.

Son-in-law and his Wife were both non-intravenous heroin users (her as an extension of a pill addiction, him because he likes drugs), and seemed fairly functional outside of the financial decisions brought on by their habit. At a glance, they are a “normal” working class family- they’ve been to Disney, take their kids to dance class, and sometimes make dessert to eat after dinner.

Today, son-in-law will be sentenced. Late last year, a prosecutor and defense attorney agreed to allow him to plead to a lesser offense, and the maximum that he will serve is six months in county jail. Depending on the judge, he may not do a day. I have tried to caution Dad against hedging his peace on this outcome, but Dad is still appalled to learn how this all works.

I get to Dad before he sees me, and I am careful to announce myself before I touch him so as not to startle him. There’s a charge about him, an electric aura, the moment between when the doorbell is pushed and when it rings. He is prepared for a funeral, for a celebration, for a war.

He is alone. The letter in his hand was penned by his wife, she who now wishes for her own untimely end, a cessation of the levy-breaking pain that has overwhelmed the safeguards of her mind. If she will allow it, Dad will read this letter to the sentencing judge in an attempt to convey the impact that Son-In-Law’s actions have had on the family.

I am a lifeboat for him in this foreign sea, a translator, a guide. A familiar face speaking a familiar language.

I am someone he can trust.

My professional obligation to him ended months ago. My “job” is done. There are “victim services” personnel who can walk him through this, but they don’t KNOW him, haven’t waded through this with him, and so their sympathy makes him uneasy.

Regardless, there’s no way I let him face this alone.

We enter the tiny sentencing courtroom, a pressure-cooking chamber of industrial carpet and dark reddish-brown wooden benches, polished and clean but for the irreversible stain of years and years of hopes rent asunder. Here the brain of man performs its rendition of justice. Here are meted out punishments both fair and unfair, too lenient, too harsh. Here dreams die and here prayers are answered. Here victims seek a comfort that the machine cannot deliver. Here, those pronounced guilty seek leniency from a machine that cannot feel.

Here, no one wins.

And today is no exception.

Son-In-Law’s name is called. He is present with his wife, Dad’s daughter. Dad heard that they were having trouble, is hopeful that maybe she is “coming to her senses”, but today she will show where her loyalty lies.

She is dressed in all black- black pants, black sweater, black boots- the outfit matching her long straight hair. Her face is a mask, painted with hatred, resentment, and disgust- but she looks clean. Sober. Closer to life than the last time we met, nearly two years ago.

She is afraid. Terrified, even.

Dad does not seem to care. He will have his vengeance, and nothing will stand in the way of it.

They sit as far apart as possible, not far enough. This room is inadequate. Any room would be inadequate. They should not be occupying the same space.

At trial, she lit into her father, barged into the room while he spoke with the prosecutor and unleashed the hateful rhetoric shaped by the pain of her situation.

She called him worthless. Told him she hated him. That she hopes he dies.

He just shrugged. Unphased. “That’s fine.”

I guess that’s how their family does things.

The judge calls the case.

She states the son’s name, the sound of it the final blow that fragments the weakened facade. Dad is seated to my left, and I feel him shaking before I see it. Hours and hours of conversation, and I’ve never seen his anguish this close to the surface.

I don’t want to look at him, to embarrass him with my attention. I don’t know how to comfort him, don’t know if any attempt to do so will make it worse, and hope that my presence is enough.

As the prosecutor reads the letter from Mom, Dad’s condition worsens. He is audibly crying now, the stitches of his unaffected demeanor disintegrating.

He is wide open.

Raw.

Undone.

I know how important it is to him to tell his tale to the court, how difficult it would be WITHOUT the debilitating vulnerability of a soul bared open.

I place a hand on his arm, feel the slick plastic of the rain jacket. I squeeze once, firmly, way more “come on, bro” than “I’m sorry”. In this moment, I’m NOT sorry. Sorry won’t help him, will only spiral him further. He needs strength.

He nods, and the storm abates.

The prosecutor calls him to the stand, and he follows the deputies instructions, shuffling rather than stepping to the witness box. He sits in an elevated chair in front of a microphone that never seems to be in the right place. He looks ancient. He looks defeated.

For the next several minutes, he attempts to explain to the judge how the death of his son has impacted his life. What comes out of his mouth is not human language. It’s primal, guttural, and lacking the faintest melodic shred of normal speech.

He is an animal caught in a trap.

He is pain embodied.

Daughter rolls her eyes. Son-in-law hangs his head. Defense attorney makes notes, seems disinterested.

Son-in-law receives the full six month sentence, and is remanded to the custody of the deputies. He was not prepared for this.

Neither is his wife.

She stands to hug him goodbye, but she may not. The deputies bar her path and forbid her from getting near him. She returns to her seat, her purse, keys, and phone clutched in her shaking hands. After a moment, she steels herself, channeling it all into a palpable hate that she aims directly at her father. We usher him from the room so as to avoid any further interaction.

Between the extreme emotional dump and the judge’s legal jargon, Dad doesn’t understand a word of the sentencing. He doesn’t know if we “won” or “lost. We usher him to a private room where he waits with my boss.

Daughter walks to the hallway, scanning for Dad, the target of her rage. I fear that she will escalate this and end up sitting next to her husband. I hurt for what this has done to their family.

I approach her as her husband’s attorney bids her adieu. He is distant and passionless, and it is apparent that she exists in the same space as her wounded father. She is alone, and doesn’t comprehend what is happening, but she recognizes me. Always cordial before, she now accepts me as a substitute for her father, a fitting target for her vitriol.

I intend to tell her that I am sorry.

“How the fuck do you sleep at night?”

She continues for the better part of three minutes, certain that I am the source of her pain. Certain that I got it wrong. Certain that I take pleasure in ripping her home apart. Certain that I don’t care that her children will live without a father for the next six months. Certain that her husband doesn’t have the strength to do jail time, that he will kill himself within a week, that his death is on my hands.

“What would you have me do?”

Addiction has destroyed their lives. They have no money. They can’t pay their mortgage. She purchased heroin with her children in the backseat. They’re volatile, and vile, and mean to each other. Her husband has overdosed twice, and is a prime candidate to be found dead by their children. They brought heroin into her father’s house, it was fentanyl, it killed her brother, and all anyone has done is make excuses for it- not even so much as an apology. I feel awful about it all, truly, and wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

These facts give her pause.

I take no pleasure in this. I feel sick. But I have hope for her because she seems to have found a way to kick it. She’s not defeated. And she’ll find a way to grow from this if she chooses to do so. County jail is not “Oz”. She can call and visit him without jumping through the endless hoops of the federal system. This is NOT consolation- he will be gone for six months, no bones about it.

She softens, breathes deeply, and apologizes. For the first time today, her face relaxes, her shoulders lower. Attack mode seems to take a back seat to rational thought. She realizes that I’m the only person she knows here, the only person who knows what just happened to her, who might even understand (if only just a fraction).

I’m not her enemy, and never wanted to be. I can see it when she realizes this.

She apologizes, says “thank you”, and walks away. Later that evening, she texts me to ask how our jail works. I send her everything she needs and wish her whatever peace she can find.

This was one of the lowest moments of my career, a true no-win situation that crushed all parties involved. But it was also a reminder of the terrible consequences of enraged hatred on the human soul, and the importance of empathic perspective in overcoming it.

A man made a terrible decision that in some capacity aided in the death of his brother-in-law. He never showed a shred of remorse to the family and accepted no outward accountability for his actions. I believe he may use his time as an opportunity to refocus, to get his shit together. I hope that he does.

Dad thought he would feel good if we could “win”, delaying his own healing by two years while he waited for “justice”. He stonewalled his pain with rage and visions of revenge. I’m not sure if the reality of it all hit him until the judge called his son’s name. In spirit, he thought he was doing right by his son, defending his honor while unflinchingly presiding over the destruction of his remaining family dynamic. I’m hopeful that he finds the path back.

Daughter thought that her husband would be set free, that this was all a plot by her father to put him behind bars because he never liked him. She blamed everyone but her husband, everything but heroin, but in the end still possessed the humanity to see things from a rational perspective. This gives me hope that it is rarely too late, that raw and powerful hatred can be overcome by authentic kindness, by true empathy, even from a stranger.

“Under the curving sky
I’m finally learning why
It matters for me and you
To say it and mean it too
For life and its loveliness
And all of its ugliness
Good as it’s been to me
I have no enemies“

-The Avett Brothers

Thanks for reading.