Crime

How To Tell An 18-Year-Old He’s Going Away For Life

Do it in person. Hold his hand. Look him in the face and smile, even though you’re both crying on the inside. Tell him the facts about the likelihood of losing on appeal, but don’t undermine all hope. It’s too much for him to bear.

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Eighteen-year-olds are a special breed of adolescent.  They’re neither kids nor adults. Some are embarking on college careers; others have never graduated high school.  Some still have a foot in childhood, while others live independently or earn money to help support their families.  Most would choose to hang out with peers and not worry about things like cooking, cleaning, and earning a living.  Many are focused on just having fun — sex, drugs, and music.  Because of the still-developing nature of their brains, it’s tough for them to think five minutes ahead, no less 20 years.

Some are floundering.  Stuck in the abyss between adulthood and juvenility.  They’re no longer allowed to act like children, but neither are they treated nor expected to behave like adults. It’s a time of naïve expectations and dreams — becoming a famous rapper, basketball player, reality media star.  Few have the bandwidth to think of much more than their immediate needs and interests.  They think they’ll live forever and thus aren’t afraid of dying.

Now picture that combination of bravado, naivety, and egocentrism intersecting with a life sentence for a crime that, in your mind, you didn’t really commit.

You’re sitting in prison surrounded by men mostly twice your age and life experience and have just been sentenced to 25 to life.  That means the earliest you’ll get out (and this is unlikely because parole never lets any convicted murderer out on his first board) is when you’re 43, the age of your father. You still desperately want to be with your boys on the cell block, but if they’re gang members, you know that could extend your time in prison. You want to talk to your mom every night by phone but showing weakness or admitting that you feel scared is dangerous.

You look to your lawyer for a sign of hope that the case will be overturned on appeal and retried.  You need to count on a way out of the nightmare.  But generally, there isn’t.

As the lawyer, how do you prepare your client for this reality? You see him now at age 18, vulnerable, cocky, hungry for experience, unable to see past next week. But in your mind’s eye, you see all he’ll be confronting the next 25-plus years dealing with freedom cut short, the atrocities of prison life, the sheer boredom, the disconnect from family.

Do you look him in the eye and be honest when he asks when he’ll get out, or do you ignore reality and buoy his hopes for reversal on appeal to boost his morale until that appeal is denied?

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Criminal defense attorneys have all lived moments like this and there’s no easy way to comfort the client.

In the medical field, where care providers often have to relay bad news, tips for how to do it include sitting the person down in a quiet, private space (impossible when seeing a client in jail).  Making sure he has a supporting friend or relative with him to share the news (also impossible in prison).  Encouraging the person to seek social outlets, take a personal day at work, commune with nature (not a chance in jail).

Another recommendation is not to tell him the whole truth.  Just tell him as much as you think he can take and offer words of encouragement like, “You’ll get through this.”

Problem is in jail, there’s so few choices and so much random violence, words of encouragement often ring hollow.

Advice I’ve picked up along the way:  Don’t lie.  It might make the client feel better in the short run, but in the long run it’s devastating.  While appeals generally don’t succeed, you don’t need to say, “Forget it. You’re here for life,” but rather, “You’ll have the best appeal possible.  There’s always a chance, no matter how small, that something could get reversed.”

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Most important, is to just be there.  Generally, when a defendant is sentenced and an appeal filed, that’s the end of the attorney’s involvement.  But especially when you’ve built a rapport with a client over years and his sentence is now huge, it’s important to be there after the sentence also. Visit, if possible.  Show him he’s not just been cut off and forgotten — the fear most people have when they go away for long prison terms.  Write letters and answer his, even if they come two years down the road.  Send a book (if permitted) now and then.  Wish him well.  Let him know he’s not alone.

It may not do much, but it’s a start.

Toni Messina has tried over 100 cases and has been practicing criminal law and immigration since 1990. You can follow her on Twitter: @tonitamess.

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