Chapter 19 - WHAT MY FATHER SAID AT SENTENCING
Martin’s victims filled three rows of the courtroom.
Some had lost savings.
Some had lost homes.
Several had lost relationships with children who believed Martin’s claims that their parents were confused, paranoid or irresponsible.
Dad carried no prepared speech.
When the judge invited him to speak, he stood slowly and faced Martin.
“You did not begin by stealing my money,” he said. “You began by teaching my family not to trust one another.”
Martin stared at the table.
“You made my wife’s illness sound like incompetence. You made my son’s fear feel like permission. You made my age look like proof that my words mattered less.”
Dad’s voice shook.
He continued anyway.
“But you did not do those things alone.”
Colin sat behind his attorney at a separate table.
Dad turned toward him.
“My son chose you every time choosing me would have cost him something.”
Colin lowered his face.
“I protected him from consequences until he believed consequences were cruelty. That was my failure.”
The courtroom became silent.
“But failure is not the same as responsibility. I failed to see him clearly. He is responsible for what he did.”
Dad looked back at Martin.
“You built your life around the belief that shame would keep people quiet. Today, every person in these rows is proof that you were wrong.”
Martin received a sentence that would keep him imprisoned for the rest of his working life. The court ordered the liquidation of his company and properties to fund restitution.
Officer Price lost his pension and received a federal sentence.
Sabrina was sentenced to prison followed by supervised release and mandatory treatment.
Colin’s sentencing came last.
Before the judge ruled, he asked Dad whether he wanted contact with his son in the future.
Dad took a long breath.
“I do not know.”
Colin looked up.
Dad continued.
“I love him. But love is not access. Love is not money. Love is not silence.”
The judge sentenced Colin to twelve years.
As deputies approached, Colin turned toward us.
“Dad.”
Arthur’s fingers tightened around his cane.
For one terrible moment, I thought he might cross the room and embrace him.
Instead, Dad said, “Become someone who understands what you did.”
“Will you visit me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you write?”
“I don’t know.”
Colin’s face collapsed.
Dad did not change his answer to make the moment easier.
That was the final consequence.
May you like
Not knowing whether forgiveness would come.
Not being allowed to demand it.
