To the Judge That Is A Mother To Her Officers,
Before I begin, I want you to take a step back from whatever you are doing, take off that black robe that exists inside your mind more so than on your body, and become a human being. I know you may not think I mean this, but you have the potential to become a good person deep down, despite the experiences you have put many people in this town through. It is never too late to make up for the mistakes that are already unacknowledged by so many. You may be questioning, mistakes? I’m a judge; I don’t make mistakes—I know right from wrong, moral from immoral, good versus bad, etc. I want to direct you in the path of someone who has watched you from the other side of the bench, myself, and ask you to consider the state of mind of the individuals involved in this particular incident, as I address the brief snippet of the case:
Picture the young male who was charged for bringing his dog on a football track for a walk. The male is crying, feeling helpless in the situation he is in. To his left stood the lawyer he paid over $5,000 only to persuade him that his only way out is to lie and say the cops were right, and behind him sat his broken family weeping behind him. He breaks down when you tell him, “he will never be more successful than a Wal-Mart worker, and his dreams of medical school are “crap in the drain.” ” You did not take into account the extensive hours he puts in as a medical scribe, or the recommendation letter he received from the head of Rutgers University which you ripped apart, his acceptance to one of the most competitive medical schools in the state which you deemed irrelevant, or even worse, imagine the feelings of his broken apart mother weeping behind him. Rather, you forced him to turn around, and address his mother the way he “spoke to the cops the night of the incident,” according to the police report. I am aware that you are a mother, so I ask you to think about how you would feel if someone pressured your daughter to look you dead in the eye, and say, “fuck you” three times. He realized that him informing you that he did not curse at the cops would get him no where, and so he murmured that he did not feel comfortable cursing at his mother, but you did not give up until he did.
Now—his mother. She has taken pride in all his work because he has shown her more love than her husband ever has. He kisses her on the forehead before leaving to work every morning, and reminds her that he loves her. He teaches her about the importance of science, and tries to help her understand the reasons why he and his siblings have drifted away from religion, more towards the scientific/ philosophical approach to life. She sat there, watching you indirectly tell her that she failed as a parent. As you emphasized the lack of respect he had for the officers that night, she thought of the morning kisses and cried. As you addressed him as an “arrogant child” she thought of how much he has matured over the years, working 13-hour shifts rather than partying it up on the weekends. As you had him turn around to curse at her, she covered her eyes because she knew that wasn’t her son. She knew that was the monster you were attempting to create through emotional abuse. She knew her son was strong enough to put up with criticism, and for that reason, she did not let out a sound besides a grief filled gasp as the words stung her ears.
Or how about his father, a man who works hard enough for the town, with his own business, to have been disrespected to the extent that you disrespected his son that day. I beg you to envision him, sitting there, thinking of himself as he looked at his son. He feels as if he failed in many aspects of his life, from losing an arm to moving to a separate country than his family to a near death experience, and here you were, adding another failure to his list. Just like his mother, he began to question, what have I done wrong as a parent to have others treat my son the way you did that evening.
Lastly comes his sister, myself. I am the most important component to this case because I was physically there the night of the incident. So here’s the story you never bothered to ask me because you had already received all the answers you needed from the cops. We walked onto the track with the dog, and I handed the dog to my brother halfway around. As I was walking, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a cop. He told me we couldn’t have the dog on the track. I looked at my brother, who was ahead of both the cop and I. He had stopped to talk to a friend, and I quickly ran to him to inform him that the cop wanted us to exit the track, and he told me to give him one second and we would exit from the nearest exit. The cop made his way over to us, looked at me and said, “what is he your boyfriend or something.” I looked at him, quite disgusted, and told him we were leaving. My brother looked at him, and asked if we could exit from the nearest exit because walking back around the track would make no sense. Why did the way we exited matter, as long as we were willing to comply and exit the track? The cop refused, egoistically stating, “because I said so” the whole walk back. Eventually, we made our way off the track. We stood by the fence, and a couple minutes pass by before the same cop approaches and says, “hey pal, you know what I want you to go stand over there.” He pointed at the trees secluded from everyone. My brother replied, “I’m not bothering anyone. The dogs not on the track anymore, just leave us alone.” The cop snickered, and remained standing behind us. Things were becoming personal; it was almost as if the cop was insulted at the way my brother was questioning his motives. The uneasy feeling in my stomach was tensing up. I felt something was going to happen. A couple more minutes pass by. A woman officer approached, tapped my brother on the back and asked, “you think you’re a tough guy don’t you, Mr. Mohammed.” The use of our last name really evoked tension. My brother ignored her, and she responded, “yeah, that’s right just stay shut, fucking tough guy.” I looked at her and wanted to ask her where she even came from; the problem had nothing to do with her. At this point, my brother had lost all his patience, and he turned around, looked at her, and asked her to “leave him the fuck alone”, and the next thing I knew he was on the ground being tackled by four officers. No Miranda rights—pure brutal violence, and abuse of authority. I saw the necklace I got for him fly off, his glasses break, and tears running down his cheeks as he looked at my younger sister and I watching helplessly. I yelled, and yelled, but was just told, “unless you want to get arrested to, stay out of this.” This may seem like it’s all a bogus story to you, but I have the recording of the whole entire night, which to you, his lawyer, and the cops was not relevant enough to share during the case. I sat there as he was forced to plead guilty to all charges. I sat there and watched as you tore up his pride with every word you spit out of your mouth. I thank you for kicking me out for blurting the truth because I couldn’t sit there and watch him tell one more lie to spare jail time for a walking a dog on a track. You asked, “were you read your Miranda rights” and the flashback of the attack just hit me. I couldn’t believe he said, “yes.” The Miranda rights were more along the lines of “that’s enough of you asshole, ” than a professional verbatim of your rights. He had no rights that night, and he had no rights that day of the trial.
So now, I beg your attention for a few more lines. All I ask is for one favor, re-listen to the recording of the trial, and question the reasons why you truly feel pride in the work you do. Do you feel proud because you dismantled a young man as much as you did, or do you feel pride because the officers in our town know they can depend on you to take their side in almost every case that presents itself? Do you feel pride in making this young man feel as if he murdered someone, or do you feel pride in the protection of authority that you provide the officer’s in this town? Re-listen to the recording and think of how you would feel, if you were on the other side of the stand, as the defendant or a family member. Take away the familiarity of your voice, and listen to the significance of the words you said. Do they really help protect our society, or do they help protect your title as a stern judge? My apologies if I had made you feel in any way close to the way you made us all feel the day of the trial, or even worse, if I have made you an inch of similarity to the way I felt the night of the incident.
Yours Truly,
The Voice in The Silent Courtroom