Justice Notes: Forgiveness
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
Last week in Justice Notes, I wrote about apologies. This week, I turn to their distant cousin: forgiveness. For those who’ve caused harm, forgiveness is a fraught subject. Victims rarely find closure in an apology, and offenders are left circling the uneasy space between remorse and redemption. This post explores the limits of forgiveness and what it means to live with the knowledge that words can’t heal some wounds.
Forgiveness
It’s an often articulated dictum, among the formerly incarcerated, that a convicted felon must first forgive himself to receive forgiveness from victims and the community. But self-forgiveness is a freighted process at best, and its presumptuousness taints any forgiveness received. Self-forgiveness can be construed as merely a more subtle form of rationalization.
I understand that, for victims, anger is the center of gravity for their emotional recovery, so that self-forgiveness misses the point. It reminds me of a conversation I had with a former inmate during my incarceration. We were both in for the same kind of malfeasance. He had a private investment company that was faltering, and he used the company’s funds for his personal use. The principals of the company discovered this misallocation before he could complete the turnaround. He was arrested and sentenced to twenty-four months. Then his wife left him, and his son, a lawyer in Boston, sided with his mother, and he entered prison abandoned. His sister and daughter still supported him and visited from time to time. He seemed to be managing it all, but I’m sure it was more to him than he let on. For the most part, inmates keep their anguish private, despite the inner turmoil that prison life presents. Steely is the pose to survive in prison.
The company was still operating after his imprisonment. He believed that if he were released, he could navigate the company back to profitability and repay all the money his investor had lost.
“I did an analysis,” he said. “It makes no sense for the government to pay for the costs to imprison me when I could be out there repairing things. I could help them sell the company or some assets. I know I could make a difference.”
He even wrote a letter to the judge, saying this. But he never mailed it.
“No one gives a shit about your proposal,” I told him. “I know you don’t want to hear it. Everyone is angry at you. Same with me. They just want us to be punished. That’s the goal. It’s not what you want to hear. Me neither. But that’s the bottom line.”
“I know,” he persisted. “But it makes no sense.”
“It’s not about sense. And actually, it does make sense. People lost money because of us. They hate us. Makes a lot of sense.”
In my case, there were too many victims and too much money lost to ask for forgiveness from anyone, least of all from myself. I recall the Latin teacher from my Catholic high school, who used to say, just before brandishing the dreaded leather strap he kept in the top drawer of his desk, “God will grant you forgiveness. My job is to administer Justice.”
I’d be interested to hear your perspective—how do you think about forgiveness, whether giving it or seeking it?
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