Justice Notes: Remorse
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
REMORSE
Remorse is a complicated issue, for the offender, as well as the victim. For the victim, angered and punished by the crime, there is often a paradoxical relationship to the offender’s apology. On the one hand, the victim might yearn for an expression of remorse. On the other hand, an authentic apology can undermine the very anger that has become the victim’s emotional anchor. It can muddy the righteous clarity of the wound. Punishment offers closure, but remorse clouds it. And so, for many victims, the apology itself becomes a source of further anguish, a destabilizing force that blurs the lines between justice and mercy.
For the offender, remorse is no less conflicted. There is the public assumption that any expression of sorrow is performative—a last-minute attempt at leniency or damage control. Prosecutors, victims, and the general public often conflate remorse with regret over being caught. It's a fair question: Is this sorrow born of empathy, or exposure?
In my own case, I was accused of showing no remorse by my former investors at my sentencing hearing. This, despite the fact that I had turned myself in before an investigation had commenced, resigned immediately when asked, gave up all current and future equity in the business, and sent personal apology letters to investors, partners, and colleagues. But remorse is not measured by action alone; it’s filtered through perception. And in the courtroom, the perception belonged to others.
Even for the offender, the emotional terrain is uneven. I’ve found myself questioning my own sincerity. I’ll begin to write or speak an apology and feel the impulse to explain, to offer context, to clarify, to soften the sting. “I’m sorry. I take full responsibility, but…” There’s always a “but.” Even when I try to silence it, it lurks. Am I apologizing because I feel deep shame for what I did? Or because I hate how it’s affected me? Would I have acted differently if I knew what I know now? And if so, is that remorse, or just hindsight?
Since my release, I’ve committed myself to transparency. I monitor my words for signs of spin, self-justification, and evasion. Still, I sometimes catch myself reaching for a more favorable version of events or resisting the unpleasant truth staring back at me. The habit of explaining dies slowly.
There’s also the problem of suffering. Incarceration imposes a psychic toll that’s difficult to articulate. Is it possible for an offender to feel genuine remorse while also carrying the weight of his own punishment? Or does suffering crowd out empathy? Can my own pain coexist with honest sorrow for the pain I’ve caused others?
I know that I am deeply remorseful for the damage I caused to my family, my friends, my investors, and my former employees. But if I am honest—and this is difficult to admit—I still wrestle with the feeling that no one has suffered more than I have. That belief doesn’t make me proud. I dread even writing it. But part of remorse, I’ve come to believe, is acknowledging not only the harm we’ve done, but the tangled mess of motives, denials, and self-pity that surround it.
Maybe the true expression of remorse isn’t just a spoken apology. Perhaps it’s what we do with our lives after the fall, how we reckon with our failures in the quiet, ordinary days that follow. Maybe the best we can do is continue to tell the truth about who we are and what we’ve done, even when that truth is uncomfortable.
If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
To leave a comment, Substack may ask you to verify your email address (a one-time step to prevent spam). You don’t need to subscribe or create an account. Just check your inbox for a one-time link.