Family Share in Book Two: The Fifteenth Year of the Third Millennium of the Common Era

Some of you know that my family is very close. When I say close I mean… my father’s cousin’s daughter I call Cousin. We all do. We’re not cousins once removed or any of that. We’re family. We grew up together in many ways and we get together at least once a decade if not more frequently. I share that because I wanted to share something my cousin wrote… and while she is not a direct cousin… she is my cousin. She is a prosecutor in Rapid City, South Dakota and routinely demonstrates the kind of prosecutor I would one day hope to be.

“victory (noun)
There are misconceptions about how the mind of a prosecutor works. No, we are not robots.

There are misconceptions about prosecutors in general. No, we are not all the same.

That was a bit repetitive.

But I believe the biggest misconception is how we define “victory” and “win”. It’s not just a guilty plea or a guilty verdict. Really, the only time I fist pump after one of those is when it involves a bad, bad person who needs to go far, far away. The murderers. The violent rapists. The ones who hurt children and show no remorse.

I don’t fist pump on cases with addicts when there’s a guilty plea or a guilty verdict. It’s more of a feeling of sadness. Maybe a prayer afterwards that this time it will sink in. It’s the kind of verdict where I don’t look at the defendant’s family members, because they always look tired. And sad. And confused as to how their loved one went into a downward spiral.

And many times, a few months later we see the same defendant again. On the same charges. It’s frustrating as heck. And that’s not a victory for anybody.

But there are times when a victory is so great in these cases, that it puts a pep in your step and a smile on your face. Yesterday, a few of my wonderful friends took me out to a birthday lunch at an undisclosed restaurant in Rapid City. I was a few minutes late, and they had already ordered. When I sat down, one of my friends identified our waitress by name to me. “Oh dear,” I thought, “this won’t end well.”

Shame on me.

She looked FANTASTIC. I didn’t even recognize her. Gone were the visual indicators of methamphetamine use. Gone was the surly scowl on her face. Gone was the tired. Gone was the anger. Gone was that addict I remember from a few years back. The one who tried to kill me with a look whenever I walked into a courtroom.

I didn’t even prosecute this woman in adult court. Another prosecutor (also at the lunch table) had her cases about five years prior. I dealt with the woman in Abuse and Neglect court at the same time, when her addiction put her children and her nieces and nephews at risk. She was not friendly. She was not happy. She was not pretty.

Yet, on October 14th, 2015… she was friendly. She was happy. She was gorgeous. She was an amazing waitress.

It took a lot for her to get there, including prison and treatment. But she was there.

Smiling at me.
Happy to be working.
Happy to be healthy.

And she gave us free dessert.

And that, my friends…is an epic victory for all involved.

Eating: I just finished a Pumpkin Spice Cappuccino. #basicwhitegirl

Listening to: My fingers typing on the keys

Annoyed at: the brief I’m about to edit

Shopping for: Nothing. Wait…what?

Sidenote of the Day: Saturday is National Pasta Day. Prepare yourselves for a proper celebration.”