God was missing

It was a cold day in January. My eyes were planted firmly on my shoes, my head hanging lowly to avoid the lights of the television cameras as my family walked slowly towards the courtroom. Today, the younger brother Matt would be sentenced. He had plead guilty to felony murder. His older brother had contended that Matt had helped him tie Ericha to the chair, then left the scene of the crime prior to her murder – a notion many of us refused to believe for several reasons.

First – Ericha was a beautiful woman, but she was also a very strong woman – a physically stronger woman than most men I know. I believe it would’ve taken two people to kill her. She would have fought hard for life. I know this. Secondly, the gas station security camera tape was taken just before the older brother Ben left the gas station, when he was supposedly alone. The locked box containing this tape was not only extremely heavy, but it was also locked into a position high above the head of any human attempting to extricate it. The store manager has often said that she needed at least one other person to assist her to bring this lock box down. Because of this, we believed Ben and Matt were both still at the scene after Ericha’s death.

I sat in the courtroom, motionless, unable to look up at Matt. Matt was the “more popular” of the two brothers. He was younger, had less of a record, was better-looking, had more friends. His friends came to each of his hearings and were seated alongside his family members. Not once did any of them approach us. Not once did any member of his family express their condolences, much less apologize for their sons being the cause of our utter grief and loss. Not only did they not express any sympathy towards us – there were often times that they scowled at us, rolled their eyes at us, and pursed their lips at us. At the sight of this family, my view of humanity further deteriorated. Ericha was dead at the brutal hands of their sons and they acted as if we were imposing on them, as if we had injured them, as if they were the victims. Each time I looked in their direction I became nauseous.

After the closing arguments and impact statements, the Judge cleared his throat and began to explain the sentence. My hopes for a long sentence soared as the judge spoke of this murder being particularly brutal – perhaps the most brutal he had ever come across on the bench. Then – he began to speak about the evidence. While Ben was by no means a reliable witness to what time Matt left the scene, the judge contended, there was still a lack of evidence that could prove Ben’s story wrong. There was no video tape, as it had been taken and destroyed. With that, the judge ordered Matt to serve 23 years. By this time, I knew what 23 years meant in our state. It meant that Matt would be eligible for release in 5 years.

My head began spinning. I cannot say what the reaction of anyone else in the courtroom was, as I could no longer hear. My mother put her arm around me as I began to sob and shake. I felt that my life had ended. I felt paralyzed with grief. I couldn’t move or speak or stand. I actually felt physical pain. This feeling was unbearable.

I felt that God was missing.