Rewriting Retribution

Following the death of her eldest son, Clarissa Turner walked into a courtroom, angry and crying, as she prepared for the arraignment of her son’s killers. Her son, Willie Marquis, was 24 years old when he was murdered at gunpoint on Nov. 29, 2011, in Charlestown.

She didn’t think she would be able to walk past them. But when she went up to give her impact statement, this was the first time she’d seen their faces — one was 20 and the other was 23 at the time. She looked at them and saw how young they were, and her first thought was: “These are somebody’s children.”

One of them looked her in the eye, and the other one hung his head low. To each of them, Turner unexpectedly said, “I forgive you.” Even though at that moment, she had not processed what she said, she knew that she meant every word of it.

“Each time I said that, I felt, if it makes sense, I was getting lighter. Like every time I would say something to them, I just felt this load being lifted off of me,” Turner said. “And I realized I gave it back to them — all that anger and hate I was harboring. … I gave it back to them, and it left me to be free and open to receive restorative justice.”

Restorative justice (n.) an approach rooted in Indigenous cultures that focuses on repairing harm, by bringing together responsible parties and victims, as a form of rehabilitation

Turner was first introduced to restorative justice by Janet Connors, a close friend whose son was also murdered. Turner, like Connors, now devotes her life to restorative justice work. She even started her own nonprofit organization called Legacy Lives On, which supports families who’ve lost loved ones to homicide.

The criminal justice system makes incarceration the only way to hold people accountable for crimes they commit. But advocates like Turner see restorative justice as a greater opportunity for healing.

Incorporating practices of restorative justice into the criminal justice system can both empower voices of victims and repair harm in ways the system cannot.

“In our current system, you will have hours and hours, and years perhaps, of proceedings,” says Jessica Hedges, a Boston-based defense attorney at Hedges & Tumposky LLP and a survivor of crime. “The victim is only heard in that system for ten minutes at the final sentencing. Maybe the prosecutor is consulting with the victim [before then] and maybe not.”

This lack of victim-centered justice led Judge Leo T. Sorokin to found RISE (Repair, Invest, Succeed, Emerge) in the Massachusetts’ federal district court in 2015. The program gives some defendants who plead guilty a chance to partake in a rehabilitation program, with a restorative justice workshop, before sentencing.

At the center of the workshop is a circle that brings together those responsible for crime and victims of similar crimes, creating conversations that allow defendants to understand the impact of crime and work to make amends for harm they’ve caused.

“In circle, we learn how to say what we need to say, release a lot of pain, not one feeling embarrassed to express how they feel or what they've been through,” Turner says. “It’s a safe haven place that you can just release. And we know when we do release, we leave space open to receive anew.”

That’s why RISE, and other programs at the state and local level, offer a real chance at healing for victims, defendants and their families. These groups often desire a space to feel heard and get answers — something that isn’t usually granted during court proceedings. And this form of justice provides positive mental and emotional impacts on victims of crime.

Survivor Amanda Ruiz believes the greatest impact of restorative justice comes from direct communication between victims and those who hurt them. She serves as the deputy director of programs and operations at Communities for Restorative Justice, or C4RJ.

“They just want to let that other person know how much they impacted their lives. Or they have questions, like: ‘Why me? Why did you do this to me? Were you targeting me? Are you going to come back?’ All of those things are really important for a victim to be able to ask the person who harmed them because they can ask their lawyer, the police, even C4RJ as an intermediary, but really, the person who has the best answer is the person who caused them harm.”

The myth of the victimless crime

Many offenders who take part in restorative justice programs are considered to have committed what are sometimes called “victimless” crimes, like selling drugs or guns.

Connors, whose son, Joel, was murdered in a home invasion in 2001, emphasizes that crimes affect a whole community, whether there is a specific victim or not.

“If you follow those drugs, if you follow those guns, how many people get hurt? How many people get killed, How many people get arrested, deported, incarcerated? How many people get addicted? How many people die of overdoses? How many families suffer behind all of that?” Connors says. “And so people [responsible for crimes] then realize, ‘Wow, I have a lot of victims. I never thought about it.’”

Joel was stabbed to death in his apartment in Boston’s Dorchester neighborhood at the hands of four men. Three were sent to prison, while the other was acquitted. Since then, Connors has devoted her life to restorative justice practices, holding circles throughout the Greater Boston area at prisons and in communities, gathering those who’ve committed crimes with survivors.

Focusing on humanity

By sitting in a circle with those who’ve committed crimes, people can better understand who harmed them, while articulating their own pain.

Turner emphasizes that circles provide structure for these conversations. Along with a format to the conversation, there is a talking piece, where only the person holding it can speak, and this allows each person in the circle to listen and to be heard.

“The talking piece — that holds the power,” she says. “Because now it is giving order, it’s bringing the energy, right? And just being able to prompt [that] whoever has the talking piece at that moment has the floor, and everybody else just be humble and listen. So you’re teaching people how to listen.”

Robyn Houston-Bean, for example, was so nervous walking into her first circle session, following the death of her son, Nicholas, who died of a heroin overdose in 2015. This circle included people who pleaded guilty to drug trafficking. She went in with the sole intention of telling them how their types of crime “ruined her life.” But it didn’t go as she expected.

“It was weird because I expected them all to look like monsters, you know?” she says. “And they didn’t. They just looked like people.”

By hearing their stories, Houston-Bean was able to understand offenders in ways she hadn’t before. She learned what led them down the path to crime and incarceration. To her surprise, she felt empathy.

“There's people that have grown up in different ways than I did, who had different situations in their family lives than I did, who might have been handed a really crappy, crappy life,” she says. “Then this is where they ended up, probably through no fault of their own. And I don't think I had ever thought of it.”

For Connors, that empathy meant thinking of her son’s killers as people, not monsters.

“If I think of them as monsters, I absolve them of their responsibility,” she says. “Holding them in their humanity is what makes them accountable.”

An opportunity for reflection and redemption

It wasn’t until a circle session that Tavon Robinson had realized how those affected by crimes viewed him. A victim opened the circle talking about how her daughter did not come because she did not want to be surrounded by monsters.

“It hit me hard… Because I don't feel like I'm a monster. But I had to actually now see through the eyes of a woman whose child overdosed and died off of a product that I was … responsible at times for putting in the world… It opened my eyes.”

Robinson completed the restorative justice program following his second sentence. For him, restorative justice altered the patterns of harm by addressing his issues head-on.

“I was probably 85, 90% sure I wouldn't commit crimes anymore when I came home from prison,” he says. “And after that second time when I started to change my life, restorative justice made it 100%.”

Robinson’s transformation also resonated with his attorney, Hedges, who is a victim of crime herself.

“The last thing I want is for the people who victimized me to be put in a situation where they're going to become more likely to victimize others, more damaged, more marginalized and more hopeless,” Hedges says.

Recidivism (n.) when someone who has committed a crime reoffends

Robinson is not alone. Restorative justice approaches show evidence of dropping recidivism rates. A restorative justice program in Longmont, Colorado, for example, resulted a recidivism rate of 10% for its participants from 2007 to 2009. In a 2021 report, the U.S. Department of Justice found that 43% of those released from prison in 2008 were arrested again within the first year of their release, and a total of 82% were arrested again within 10 years.

As responsible parties opt to change for the better, they often feel remorse for others’ losses and empathize with those in their circle. This has happened several times in Turner’s experience, and is one of the most powerful moments for her.

“Don't just tell me sorry because you think I want to hear it, but I want you to mean it,” she says. “Because when you mean you're sorry, then that's been your process of healing begins. Because that’s telling me you are holding yourself accountable, your own what you did. Now you want to mend. Now you want to be better, show up better, not just for me or the community, but for your own family who you harmed.”

Repairing relationships with one’s self, family and community

While restorative justice is centered around victims, the support for responsible parties can be priceless. Reintegration into society and with family, is a common goal for many.

JC Anderson is no stranger to that goal. Before restorative justice, Anderson said he was a good “provider” for his children, but felt he wasn’t a good father figure. Restorative justice gave Anderson a new path to be a better support system and influence in their lives.

“I didn't want to look over my shoulder no more,” he says. “I wanted to be normal. I wanted to be a father. I wanted to go to basketball games. I wanted to throw a ball with my kid outside in the yard.”

Parental incarceration is known to have adverse physical and mental health effects on children and young adults, including heart disease, asthma, depression, anxiety, posttraumatic stress disorder and HIV/AIDS, according to a 2013 study by the American Academy of Pediatrics.

Anderson had been incarcerated four times before he participated in the restorative justice program, and he reached this turning point. The heart of restorative justice, he says, is honesty. Only by being true to himself about his actions was he able to recognize that he had to be a better man.

“Some of us are grown men, but we're boys inside, you know? And this makes you be a man, makes you step up to the plate and know that you [have] done wrong,” he says. “And it takes a man to be able to apologize to some people that you've hurt in the past.

Similarly, Jefferson Hudson, who was incarcerated for 35 years, started his restorative justice journey while in prison, and ultimately became one of the founding members of the Transformational Prison Project. He said his grandchildren gave him the strength to do the program.

“I remember my granddaughter told me, ‘Granddad, you got to do whatever you need to do to get better so you can come home to us,’” Hudson said. “And I was like, ‘I really gotta go all in.’”

Personally, Anderson also found greater self-worth and self-esteem — qualities that also empowered him to be a better member for his community.

He once avoided engaging with his community in a meaningful way. Now, he has gained confidence and learned how simple greetings like “Hi, how are you?” and “Good morning” can establish rapport with neighbors. This has been a first step in introducing the community to his new, changed self.

“[Restorative justice] broke me down, but it built me up to understand what a father is or what a person is in the community or how you’re gonna move to make others understand that you're not that type of person,” Anderson says. “If somebody reads about you, you could be judged, but [by] getting to know you, they’ll understand that you're a different person. And it really helped me believe in myself to let others believe in me.”

Armand Coleman spent two decades in maximum security and then more than a decade in solitary confinement. After finding restorative justice, he not only worked through his traumas, but gained lessons in how to make meaningful change in his own life.

“One thing I learned through restorative justice is that anytime I have an irrational reaction to everyday experiences, it means my trauma is being triggered,” he says. “All prison did was compound those traumas, and it just made me worse.”

Coleman became one of the founders of the Transformational Prison Project and serves as executive director.

What now?

Restorative justice has the potential to provide a more empathetic approach to the criminal justice system. But it’s still an approach that may not be for everyone.

“You have to be a part of the process to really get the full effect of it, because I can tell you and preach to the choir all day about what it’s doing for me, and it may not have that same impact on you. And I'm okay with that,” Turner says. “But I can tell you what it's done for me.”

Her second-youngest child, Marquez, for example, has not yet attended a circle. Unlike her, he is not ready to forgive his brother’s killers. He acknowledges that he’ll go to a circle one day, but he’s still in the process of accepting his brother’s death.

“The forgiveness part — me, personally, I can't do that. I haven't even seen their faces yet,” he says. “My mom, I honor her for doing that, though, because it takes a lot of strength to do that, especially for a woman that’s been through what she’s been through.”

Proponents of the program believe the program should also expand beyond the court systems. Coleman especially found that restorative justice wasn’t an available option for many communities affected by crime.

“I realized the people who needed restorative justice the most weren't getting it,” Coleman says. “It was not in the neighborhoods that we were in. It was not in the Department of Youth Services. It was not at the inlets of the criminal justice system.”

Overall, those who are most involved in restorative justice ultimately want to share these practices with a wider audience and see them implemented for a broader purpose: to build relationships and community, not just to restore them when harm is caused.