We had been cautioned, warned not to press our
questions about Angie’s murder, not to press for answers. Privately, friends in
the legal profession toll us we would only bring more grief on ourselves. These
friends even raised the specter that in ways, both big and small, life will
become difficult for us in the Old Dominion. Virginia’s politicians and legal
professionals will close ranks to protect the law school, they warned. We have
been warned that the legal establishment in Grundy has so many ties to the
school and has so much invested in it that a retired coal miner and his wife, a
retired school cook will never get their day in court. From Richmond, to
Fairfax County, to Norfolk, to Grundy—the answers have been the same. Law firm
after law firm refused to take on the law school.
The American Bar Association says there is no more
fitting response to the tragedy than to continue to build a program of legal
education that promotes the rule of law, opportunity, and justice.
Where is Angie’s opportunity? Where is our justice when
those in charge do everything they can to keep the truth from coming out?
When the police and school failed to bring the author
of the hideous e-mail justice, Angie told her family, “I guess I don’t amount
to much.” You are wrong Angie, you mean everything to us and we will not let go
of your memory, we will not let go of this fight for justice. On May 8th
Angie should have graduated from the Appalachian School of Law—instead of attending
the ceremony, we waited for answers.
Wherever you are, Angie, feel our anguish, feel our
love. If you are calling our names, our hearts are answering.
I had wanted the article to appear on the second
anniversary of the shooting, but on the advice of counsel I waited. In the
meantime, I gave a draft to the Dales for their approval. As the time for the
graduation ceremony for Angie’s law school approached, the attorney gave me the
green light.
I sent the
article to several large newspapers but heard nothing. I then sent it to our
local newspaper The Rappahannock Record. The article appeared as a
commentary in the editorial section on 6 May 2004. Later that month it appeared
on the front page of The Voice, a biweekly paper in southwest Virginia,
near Grundy.
The reaction to my article was surprising and somewhat
chilling. One neighbor called to say she read the article, but would not let
her husband read it because “he thinks he can fix everything. He cannot fix
this and it will throw him into depression.” At the doctor’s office a nurse,
giving my wife her allergy shot, closed the door and in quiet tones—as if not
to be overheard—expressed her sympathy.
People in Kilmarnock with whom I had done business for
years, stopped looking me in face. They talked about everything under the sun
in painfully evident ways to avoid discussing the shooting. The black clerk at
the local dry cleaner—the gregarious young woman who had greeted me each time I
went into the store—met me with a grim look and watery eyes. She would not look
me in the face. Her body language seemed to say “I am so sorry. I am so sorry a
black man did this.”
I wanted to tell her that the color of the killer makes
no difference. Monsters come in all shapes, in all sizes, in all colors. Instead,
I said nothing. There was just silence.
From southwest Virginia, I received a call from a man
wanting to organize a demonstration in front of the law school. He and his wife
warned us that my article had made “official Grundy and the law school look bad.”
I could be on a “hit list” they said. “Be careful when you visit your
granddaughter. Stop at every stop sign, obey all the traffic laws,” they
cautioned. “People have a way of going to jail in Grundy and not coming out
alive.” If law enforcement officials didn’t like you they would stop you and
plant contraband or drugs in your car—“look over your shoulder at all times.”
It was hard for me to believe what I was hearing. It
took a while for his words to sink in. I was being warned that because I was expressing
myself—exercising freedom of speech—I was putting my safety and the safety of
my family on the line. I started reflecting on what had happened since the
shootings. Had I been unfair? Had I been dishonest? Was I overacting or being
too emotional? The more I thought about the phone call, the more bewildered I
became. The phone call had been a dream—but no it was not. All of a sudden I
felt as if I were living a Hollywood movie—“The Pelican Brief.” I knew it was
not wrong to be asking questions, it was not wrong to press for answers—answers
that might help prevent another tragedy.
My words did not make the Grundy elite look bad; their
actions did.
The school president’s responses to calls for security
such as “you women and your hormones……nothing will happen…..you will be ok,”
made school officials look bad—not my words.
The hateful harangue of a State Highway Patrolman to
the man whose eight year old granddaughter has just lost her mother in the
state’s worst school shooting, makes the police look bad—not my words.
The disingenuous expressions of sympathy and offers of help
from the Commonwealth’s Attorney, make local officials look bad—not my words.
The condescending tone and comments of a prominent
Richmond attorney to a man and woman when the mother of their grandchild has
been gunned down, make the legal profession look bad—not my words.
An attorney’s callous comment to members of the
victim’s family that his sympathy lies with the law school and he is sending
them a check, makes the legal profession in Virginia look bad—not my words.
The off-the-record comments of many attorneys in
Virginia that we would not get our day in court, that we would not get a fair
trial; these words make the courts there look bad—not my words.
The fact that an innocent young woman bled to death
when the hospital was less than five minutes away—makes the school and rescue
officials look bad, not my words.
The arrest of sixteen public and private officials on
bribery and embezzling charges, makes Grundy look bad—not my words.
I have spent three quarters of my life as a resident of
Virginia. I have always been so proud to say I come from Thomas Jefferson’s
state, Jefferson the father of the Bill of Rights that guarantees everyone the
freedom of speech, the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness—the
right to life!
But that was Virginia then, this is Virginia now.
Today, a grandfather cannot visit his granddaughter without being afraid of
retaliation for what he has written. Today, a man can murder three people,
wound three others and the state will spend a fortune on him to ensure that he
is treated fairly. But, when the family of the student victim asks for a copy
of the court transcripts, they are charged 10 cents a page. There is something
terribly, terribly wrong in Virginia.
I could not help but think, this country invaded Iraq
to bring the Iraqi people freedom of speech, freedom of the press, and a
multitude of freedoms we—as a nation—proclaim so loudly. Freedom of speech that
some of us have difficulty finding in today’s Virginia. Did we go to war to
bring Virginia-style freedoms to Iraq—I hope not. (To be continued)
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