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Laura Coates
Goodreads Author
Member Since
October 2021
URL
https://www.goodreads.com/thelauracoates
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“Blackness is an implicit charge in the criminal justice system. Black defendants must defend against the charge as much as the stereotype that negates a presumption of innocence. They may find their own name at the end of “The United States versus,” but I assure you, their first line of defense will have to be combating the historic mistreatment, prejudice, and racist attitudes toward them—it is the Black defendant versus the history of the United States.”
― Just Pursuit: A Black Prosecutor's Fight for Fairness
― Just Pursuit: A Black Prosecutor's Fight for Fairness
“I was reluctant to expend all of my ammunition on this case. I knew there’d be cases for which I’d have to use my credibility, cases where lenience would be warranted regardless of a victim’s statement in support of, or to the contrary. I knew that I might get but one bite of the apple from this judge, and there were two files in my hand today. In the next case, there would be no surprise advocate, no eloquent defendant’s counsel to champion his cause. That case would require the full attention of the court, and I would need to persuade the court why a departure from the guidelines was, in fact, justified. I couldn’t risk compromising my perceived objectivity in this case, calling for the lenience I imagine was already a foregone conclusion. I wanted to be sure that when I did ask for lenience towards a defendant, the court would assign what was due. […] Asking for lenience here would have made the judge question my judgment in other cases.”
― Just Pursuit: A Black Prosecutor's Fight for Fairness
― Just Pursuit: A Black Prosecutor's Fight for Fairness
“I was about to head out of one polling site when a Black man my father’s age approached me. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
He was ushering an old woman dressed in her Sunday best, complete with a lavender hat, by the elbow. She pressed her cane into the ground as she repositioned her leg between strides. She trained her eyes on mine as she walked. I walked to meet her where she was.
“Hello, ma’am. How are you?” I said, smiling, as she extended her warm, soft hand, contorted by arthritis. I clasped it between both of mine. She released her cane to the man who had introduced us, who must have been her son, placing her other hand on top of mine and squeezing. She shuffled closer, and I could instantly smell my own grandmother’s hair cream. I wondered how old she was.
“You tell President Obama”—her words fired like a slow cannon as she patted the top of my hand with each syllable, lingering on the final word with a swallow—“that I voted for him and that he is making us proud. You tell him that I lived to see the day.”
I indulged her willingly. “I sure will, ma’am.”
“You tell him and those babies that we are prayerful. A Black man in the Oval Office. My God. We are prayerful.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, still holding her hands.
“My grandson brought me down here to vote today.” I was dying to ask her age now. “And he told me that we had a Black woman, a sister, making sure no one messed with our votes.”
I nodded.
“God bless you for coming. God bless President Obama for making it so. I always vote now. I always come out. Rain or shine. I’m here, isn’t that right?” she said, turning to her grandson. She must have been in her nineties if he was her grandson.
“Yes. She wouldn’t miss it. Means too much. She was on the front lines. Been on the front lines,” he explained.”
― Just Pursuit: A Black Prosecutor's Fight for Fairness
He was ushering an old woman dressed in her Sunday best, complete with a lavender hat, by the elbow. She pressed her cane into the ground as she repositioned her leg between strides. She trained her eyes on mine as she walked. I walked to meet her where she was.
“Hello, ma’am. How are you?” I said, smiling, as she extended her warm, soft hand, contorted by arthritis. I clasped it between both of mine. She released her cane to the man who had introduced us, who must have been her son, placing her other hand on top of mine and squeezing. She shuffled closer, and I could instantly smell my own grandmother’s hair cream. I wondered how old she was.
“You tell President Obama”—her words fired like a slow cannon as she patted the top of my hand with each syllable, lingering on the final word with a swallow—“that I voted for him and that he is making us proud. You tell him that I lived to see the day.”
I indulged her willingly. “I sure will, ma’am.”
“You tell him and those babies that we are prayerful. A Black man in the Oval Office. My God. We are prayerful.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, still holding her hands.
“My grandson brought me down here to vote today.” I was dying to ask her age now. “And he told me that we had a Black woman, a sister, making sure no one messed with our votes.”
I nodded.
“God bless you for coming. God bless President Obama for making it so. I always vote now. I always come out. Rain or shine. I’m here, isn’t that right?” she said, turning to her grandson. She must have been in her nineties if he was her grandson.
“Yes. She wouldn’t miss it. Means too much. She was on the front lines. Been on the front lines,” he explained.”
― Just Pursuit: A Black Prosecutor's Fight for Fairness
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|---|---|---|---|---|
| On The Same Page : Ann’s Motley Reading Challenge 2022 | 1 | 6 | Dec 07, 2021 06:29PM | |
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