A Day in Court

Last July 3 in Chicago, my sister's father-in-law, Bill Hallin, was brutally murdered by his tenant when he went to collect the overdue rent.  For the past year they have been preparing for a trial.

Today was the sentencing hearing for the guy who murdered my sister's father-in-law.  About a month ago he suddenly saw the light and plead guilty.  Up until then, he was facing a possible death penalty sentence.  By pleading, that was taken off the table.

My sister's family has attended court many times over the past year, but this was my first visit.  Approaching the Cook County Court building should turn any petty crooks into angels.  The campus takes up a couple of full city blocks, if not more.  The back of the property is surrounded by 15 or 20 foot high cement walls topped with razor wire and guard towers.  Everywhere you look there are cops with guns.  The security guard at the entrance, where you go through the metal detectors, was cracking jokes but I got the sense that the laughter was nervous, and gauged to please the guard without pushing any buttons.  It's intimidating.

I'd been told to be there at 9 am, which is apparently the general starting time for all courts in the whole building.  Lawyers, clerks, court reporters and family members hustled and bustled through the old halls, which echoed down their marble lengths.  I reached the courtroom on the 7th floor a few minutes before, stepping through the door into another world.  In the midst of all the chatter and racing in the building, here was a huge, cool, quiet room.  Soft sunlight came through tall windows on the east side.  Neat wood benches defined the gallery, with wide aisles to allow easy movement.  The business end of the room is carpeted, presumably to help reduce the echo from the floors.  The jury box and lawyers' table have big, comfortable chairs.  And the judge's desk sits above it all, in this case with a framed photograph of Martin Luther King, Jr. hanging behind the judge.

The only other person in the room when I arrived was the clerk.  As she busily organized the paperwork for the day, she cracked her chewing gum.  It added a human element to the cool peace of the space.

Gradually other people arrived.  Lawyers weighed down with files and briefcases, family members texting away, police and others.  Our family occupied three rows of benches, by far the largest presence in the courtroom.

It was after 10 am when Judge Marcus Salone finally entered the room, following the bailiff's instructions to turn off cell phones, no eating, no talking, no distracting anyone while court is in session.  The Judge made the rounds of the gallery, shaking hands with all of the "future taxpayers" in attendance.  He got a few laughs, then took his seat and began the proceedings.

The acoustics of the room do not lend themselves to listening in when the defendants and their lawyers stand before the judge.  My impression was that most of the initial business was continuances for one reason and another.  Then the judge called Martin Vega, the man who murdered Bill.

I felt my stomach tense up.  I had never seen this man before, who brutally murdered Bill in an incomprehensible rage.  Over the past year he's been "the jerk" in my mind.  But I'd never actually assigned him a human form in my mind.  I prepared to see him, but instead the States Attorney and Defense Attorney approached the bench and after short discussion turned around back to their seats.  Apparently the defense had requested a bit more time.

More continuances, more defendants entering and leaving the court in their drab Department of Corrections scrubs with the size prominently displayed on the left chest.  XXL, M, 3XL.  Sad examples of lives wasted to drugs, violence.  Occasionally when a defendant appeared, a family member or two would stand at the bar.  I guess they are allowed to do that so that they can better hear the proceedings.

After a bit they called Vega again.  Another delay.  The States Attorney wished to include in his remarks the belief that the defendant deserved the death penalty.   Another delay and another string of technical hearings.

Finally around 11:30 they called Vega and brought him into the court.  He was much taller than I'd expected, his head shaved bald.  He sat at the defendants table with his lawyer and her assistant.  The States Attorney made preliminary remarks and then called Kelly, my sister's partner and Bill's daughter, to give her victim's impact statement.

The family had been told very soon after the crime to begin to write their statements while the pain was fresh.  Listening to Kelly's statement certainly brought back the pain of those days last July immediately after Bill was killed.  I tried to watch Vega as Kelly spoke, to see if he showed any sign of remorse.  For the most part his face stayed neutral.  Kelly, however, was not neutral.  She cried, and she was angry, and she ached for her father.  Everyone in the courtroom seemed to recognize her pain.

After Kelly, Bill Jr. gave his statement, much more to the point and less emotional, and then the States Attorney read grandson Sean's statement.  Sean was present but did not want to break down while reading his own words of loss.  Another 27 statements were included in the record but not read.  Bill's good humor and kindness touched many people.

The States Attorney wrapped up the prosecution's case by again stating that the crime bore all necessary elements to make it a death penalty case, and asking that the judge issue a sentence that would keep Vega off the street for the rest of his life.

Then the Defense attorney rose.  She was an anorexic looking woman with a bad, short haircut.  Maybe it's her job.  She acknowledged the serious nature of the crime, then began building a case for the mercy of the court.  Vega's background in an abusive home.  His drug and alcohol addictions.  His mental illness.  And his remorse.

I got confused here.  She seemed to be making a case against the death penalty, which I thought was clearly off the table.  She asked for 70 years instead.

While she talked about him, Vega began to cry.  First silently, then in large, breath-sucking sobs.  As though the gravity of his situation had just hit him.  I was skeptical at first.  It seemed too convenient that his emotional outburst began when the focus turned to his table.  But I do think some element of it was honest.  The whole scene was so hollow and sad.  This boy given life only to be abused, treated like nothing, sent out on the street where he made one bad choice after another into adulthood, leading ultimately to murder.  His life rendered pointless by a series of circumstances he could not control that conditioned him to believe himself the victim.  To become the defensive dog lashing out first, lest he be beaten again.

Don't misunderstand me.  I do not have sympathy for him.  He had minutes worth of opportunities to stop beating Bill before he was dead.  He did not make that choice.  He should not be on the street ever again.

But the circumstances of his birth and early years are not that far different from those of my adopted brother, or Jen and Kelly's adopted son and daughter.  Parents with addiction issues giving birth, either ignoring their children or giving them up for adoption, kids afflicted with learning disabilities and mental illnesses as a result of their parents' abuses.  But the people in my family were taken into loving environments, given some sense of belonging and value.  They have not been turned to violence.

Back to the hearing.  Vega gave a statement acknowledging the pain his actions caused to our family, and to his sisters, who sat across the aisle from us weeping.  He professed his intent to try to turn his life around and do something that would be helpful to society, now that he will be denied any future re-entrance to it.  He spoke well for someone with "decreased intellectual capacity".  His words put me in mind of my brother, whose charisma is always strongest when his addictions are active.  Addicts are the most persuasive people.

And I found myself hoping that he would be a model prisoner, would participate in programs to help reform those first-offenders that still have a chance for change.  That he will pursue his education in prison and find a way to be involved in his children's lives, so that they are not denied a father.

Because in the end, if something positive resulted from this ordeal, that would be the best thing.  Nothing will bring Bill back.  We must move forwards.

After the defense wrapped up, the judge sat quietly to consider his decision, then ruled that Vega will be incarcerated for the next 70 years with no opportunity for parole or time off.  He is 28 now.  In all likelihood he will live out his natural life in the Illinois Department of Corrections.  He was taken into custody.

As I left the bench to return to my life, I could not help looking over at his three sisters, sitting still in their row, watching their brother be taken away for life.  What is their world like, and how does it change with a murderer as a brother?  So many worlds have been irreparably impacted by this senseless violence.  And so many other crimes were being tried in the court at the same time, impacting other lives.

After we left the courtroom, the States Attorney thanked us all for coming.  He said that most of the time no family show up.  He said he believed that Vega has remorse for the crime; he said that he believes this was the best outcome in a bad situation.  He said "No one wants to come to 26th and California, no one is ever happy when they leave."

I was not happy when I left, but I felt satisfied.  A dangerous person will be kept off the streets.  He has been made to consider and reconsider his actions, and to understand and acknowledge that his actions have consequences. 

The tension of the morning stayed with me all day.  It all felt so hollow and hopeless.  It's not good, but it's done.