Response (13 page)

The judge put on his glasses and studied the papers in front of him for a few seconds, before he took them off again to speak.

“It's plain for me to see that this defendant lacks good judgment, moral character, and any true comprehension of remorse. I find the defendant to be both hateful and brutal in his prior actions. He is truly part of the problem, not only in this city, but also in this country. Nothing in our history has caused more grief and suffering than racism, and the defendant, in my opinion, lives it, breathes it, and if not painted into this corner would continue to preach it. The very nature of his crime amplifies the message of racial intolerance and attempts to drag our society down to its lowest depths. I only hope that he may one day learn better,” the judge said, raising his gavel. “With those findings in mind, I hereby sentence Charles Scaturro to eighteen years in the state prison on the charges of robbery and assault as a hate crime.”

Scat winced as the
crack
of the judge's gavel ripped through the courtroom, and a big part of it was over for me.

I left there surrounded by my family, knowing I'd have to fight hard every day to get where I wanted to go, and stay focused on who I wanted to be.

I was satisfied that I didn't sink to Scat's level, feeding whatever was left of the negative feelings inside of me.

I didn't even have to make people see who Charlie Scat and the rest of those racists from Hillsboro really were. Scat and his friends did that themselves, with their own words and everything they did. And now there was no way any of them could ever hide it or pretend it wasn't the truth.

Outside, I looked down at the high courthouse steps. I could see how the smooth stones that formed them were laid together side by side, supporting the weight that none of them could hold alone.

And I wondered, in my whole life, if I'd ever build something like that for people to climb.