The Reckoning

A Forum for Stories of Incarceration, Justice, and Redemption

THE RECKONING

An excerpt from my memoir-in-progress, this piece recounts the day I appeared in federal court for sentencing, later published by Minutes Before Six, a literary journal that publishes writing by incarcerated and formerly incarcerated writers.

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The first thing my lawyer told me to do was to write down everything I did, which proved to be more complicated than I thought. And he said if I left anything out and the prosecutor found out, I would be in even more trouble. So, I started with the worst thing I did, which embarrassed me so much that I couldn’t write about the other things. I became confused about whether I should separate the bad things I did that were only meant to cover up the first bad thing, which, looking back, wasn’t so bad. But once I did the first bad thing, I had to do another to cover it up, which led to another bad thing and then another until I had no choice but to keep doing more bad things. When I look back, I realize I was trying to do things so I could be good again, which is what I had always tried to be, but I did so many bad things just to be good that I can never be good again.

And that was the crazy loop going through my head, driving to my lawyer’s office for my sentencing hearing.

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My lawyer told me the longer the delay, the better. After three years of waiting, I started to believe it would never happen. It was early April, but more like winter than spring. A long, nasty squall from the northeast had taken out any early bloom the day before.

I drove to my lawyer’s office. He greeted me like the mortician when my father died. Everything was different about him. Everything I liked about him was wrong: the clean-cut kid, the nice way about him, the warm greeting, and the smile, like all would be fine. But a dead body in the casket was lurking. The silent elephant in the room, I’m the dead body.

We drove to the hearing in his car. I was in the front of a new SUV with leather seats and a strong new-car smell. I never thought of it as the scent of death before, but it was reminiscent of the flowers in the wake hall. His assistant, a young female associate, was quiet in the back, her apprehension apparent.

“I’m Ms. Taylor,” she said with an awkward smile. “Nice to meet you.” The tip-off: it’s not going to be good.

The drive there was a blur. While searching for the garage, we passed the courthouse. A classic structure with four tall, white, imposing columns, it evoked something serious and ominous inside. We entered a dark garage with low ceilings and drove up level after level to find a parking spot. A crazy paranoia set in. It seemed like everything was in league against me, and the crowded car park a portent of things to come. Finally, we found a tiny spot on the last level, requiring three passes. Exiting, I banged the new car door. No one noticed or said anything.

It was a long walk down the ramps, circling the levels, and I almost tripped on the cracked concrete, looking for others entering the garage. But I didn’t see anyone I knew. The slow, deliberate punishment they planned for me evolved for so long that sometimes I thought they’d forgotten about me.

We entered a large, open lobby with marble floors and high ceilings, greeted by security personnel wearing starched uniforms who stood in front of steel and glass barriers. Shoes scraping the floors and a line of people removing everything from their pockets and removing their shoes created a steady din. They slowly filled plastic vials with wallets, belts, phones, and pocket change. Some looked used to it; others stumbled with their phones and briefcases. One woman struggled with her purse, turned towards me, and flashed an embarrassed look. I felt bad for her, but for some reason, I was grateful.

Approaching the monitor, I paused to sign in. The guard waved me on without recognizing that I was the defendant, the criminal, and without any urgency in his routine. There was a moment of false hope while he waved me through. I cleared the area with the rest of the crowd. No one was talking. My lawyers walked silently with me. There was a solemnity about everyone as we followed the others, removing belts and shoes and piling items into the plastic spheres. I knew that they didn’t want to be with me any more than I wanted to be there with them.

The elevator was crowded but silent. No one in them I recognized.

The courtroom represented my greatest fear. Everything terrible about me would come to light. One day, when everything was going well, I sat next to an investor’s wife. She told me she trusted me. She and her husband were so grateful to have invested in my company, a real estate investment company I founded twenty years earlier. Sometime later, her husband called me a sociopath. I thought about them. Maybe he was right.

I want to believe that I’m a person of conscience. But when you confess in public, there’s no end to the possible and frightening categories of your personal profile. My wife has a baby picture of me with an expression that says, “I have no idea what’s coming, but it’s not going to be good.”

In my most authentic moments of self-reflection, I believe I’m a good person, or at least aspire to be one. But I knew there would be only brutal revelations in that courtroom without any mitigating context. I would be framed as a con man, a fraudster, a liar, the worst of the worst, and in front of the world.

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For the complete essay, initially published in Minutes Before Six, you can read it here:
👉 The Reckoning – Minutes Before Six

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If this story resonates with you, or if you’ve wrestled with your own origin myths, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

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John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group, a non-profit organization that supports those impacted by the criminal justice system.

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Up Next on White Collar Journal:

Wednesday (Justice Notes): Expungement

Thursday (Notes from Exisle): Log/Verse reflections

Sunday (Prison Camp): More from the early years