It took three and a half tortuous years, but on July 23rd, I finally saw the man who murdered my brother officially labeled a convicted felon. It was not for the charge I ferociously sought, and the sentence does not at all reflect the seriousness of the crime but in the end, Tommy’s death was recognized, and his murderer was forced to suffer an actual consequence; likely for the first time in his pathetic life.
This silent war was waged a year after Tommy died, when numbness finally gave way to anger. It was then that I ultimately summoned the courage to tell my carpenter, the father of the defendant, that his son killed my brother. It was a fact I had known since the day I found Tommy but one that I struggled to bring to light given my relationship with his murderer’s family, and the fact that my design business relied heavily on the company that employed them both.
After a year of agonizing deliberation, I stood in my kitchen with a man I regarded as a friend and painstakingly laid out all the sordid details of my brother’s death and the role that his son played, while he stood slack jawed and silent. I went on to explain that I would forgo seeking criminal prosecution if he would agree to force his son to face me; to acknowledge his part, to see the pain on my face and to answer the litany of questions that plagued my daily thoughts. I begged him to hold his son accountable if for no other reason than to try and save his own child’s life by delivering a consequence that would help steer him toward a better path, while also potentially saving his younger son from traveling down the same road. We both cried, and before he left, I hugged him tight in a futile attempt to help ease the burden I had bestowed and absorb some of the guilt I knew all too well.
Despite his initial empathy and verbal agreement, my request was subsequently met with blatant disregard and awkward silence, though he had to face me every single day while he worked to implement my designs. The anger that resulted from being so cowardly ignored fostered the most indescribable need for accountability, and set me on a path for justice I did not even know I wanted. For the next 2 years, I stoically worked alongside him, smiling, while I silently worked behind his back to shatter the blissful ignorance of his family just as his son had shattered mine.
Those years were spent speaking to anyone and everyone I could find just to try and navigate my way through a process that most naively assume is completely automatic. My initial effort was spearheaded by an undercover narcotics agent I found through my hairdresser who encouraged me to join every online group that existed for victims lost to drug-induced homicide. One of the connections made was to a mother who saw her own son’s dealer brought to justice. She graciously took me under her wing and put me in contact with the lawyer who successfully aided her case. That lawyer became my unwavering advocate despite never having met me in person.
It was an endless string of emails to the Chicago Chief of Detectives, copying key journalists to ensure response, imploring him to reopen Tommy’s case and reassign it to someone who would actually investigate as it had long since been closed. I amassed Tommy’s bank records, poured over his cell phone data, and cross-referenced them both. I found prior addresses of the defendant, places of employment, and even a wedding registry that enabled me to connect some of the dots and provide information as to his whereabouts.
It was 2 years of ups and downs and constant disappointment dealing with overworked detectives who are bombarded with so many violent crimes that everything starts to look the same and nothing is particularly noteworthy. And even though I did all the leg work, documents were somehow lost, and subpoenas were erroneously written for my phone data instead of my brothers. It felt like a never-ending cruel joke which ultimately culminated with a desperate plea to the reassigned detective to come off furlough long enough to finally make an arrest just a mere 2 days before the 3-year statute of limitations was set to expire.
From there it was a string of oddly conducted, inconvenient court appearances peppered with unnecessary delays by the defense. There were numerous forced meetings with the ill-prepared and uninspired states attorney just to impress upon her the strength of the case and layout the evidence that I knew she would not take the time to review. Incompetence was displayed at every turn and every step was met with resistance due solely to the politics that govern the address where Tommy died.
It was the most taxing, emotionally draining experience I have ever sustained, but affording my mother and myself the opportunity to read a victim impact statement and ultimately destroy the holier-than-thou image of the defendant and his family was worth every ounce of effort. But above all else, this was for Tommy, even though he never would have wanted any of it for himself.