The Freedom Writers Diary - Erin Gruwell [26]
I think of how there is no million-dollar defense, no dream team with briefcases filled with credentials. There is just a state-appointed attorney who probably believes that my brother is guilty, too.
I watched the O.J. trial on television. It seemed just when the prosecution began to present a strong case against him, his dream team displayed something else to weaken their evidence, and softened the hearts of the jury. Then I reflected on my brother and how his only hope was a confession statement from the person he was with, the real killer. The court stated:
“The defendant confessed his actions to a person who was not an officer of the court. Therefore his statement is null and void, and it cannot be used as admissible evidence in court.”
His lawyer came and advised him to plead the fifth amendment—no statement, no conviction. Once again, they proved that justice doesn’t mean the bad guys go to jail, it just means someone pays for the crime.
I remember images from Twelve Angry Men, and how one optimistic juror turned the hearts of eleven jurors. As soon as I started to become hopeful, I realized it was only a book, nothing more.
Today at two o’clock my brother was without a dream team or a guardian angel on the jury. He was sentenced to serve fifteen years to life in prison.
Diary 28
Dear Diary,
Ever since elementary school I’ve been in accelerated classes. I had thought I was lucky getting the best education and the top-notch teachers. I was on the road to the brightest of the bright.
When I reached junior high, I started to realize that since I was in the accelerated program, I only knew the other accelerated kids. We didn’t talk to anyone else. It was like an unspoken law. We weren’t allowed to talk to the kids who weren’t in the gifted program, or maybe they weren’t allowed to talk to us. I knew it wasn’t right, but it was all I knew. Going into high school, I was accepted into the highest academic program in my district. I thought it was a good thing, until the middle of my first semester. The work was piled over my head and I felt like I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t have time for anything but homework. It was hard to pay attention because my teachers talked like robots. I’m sure they were teaching me important information, but by the time I got home, I couldn’t remember a thing. We were assigned too many pages to read in one night and too many tests in one week. I didn’t have time to actually learn. I found my way out of this program and found my way into another one at Wilson High School. I crossed my fingers, hoping this one would be better.
This new program was called Distinguished Scholars. I was given a list of qualifications that had to be met. We had to have a good grade point average, good attendance, and take more classes than the average student. It seemed tough, but I felt it was a more reachable goal. I walked into this open-minded, but it just wasn’t the right program for me. All of my teachers held their noses in the air, as if they were above the rest of the school. Looking around, I realized I was uncomfortable. The class was made up of all white, wealthy kids who couldn’t have more stress than planning what they were going to wear the next day. They made it clear that their race, economic state, and the classes they were taking made them popular and better then anyone else. Even though I’m white, live in the same neighborhood, and had all of the same classes, I wanted out.
When I complained to a friend of mine, she told me about her English class. My friend raved about the things they did. While they were reading about Camelot, their teacher dressed up as Queen Guinevere to add an extra oomph. They also put on plays to make the stories come to life. I had never done that. We were lucky if we were able to read out loud. I begged to meet Ms. Gruwell. When I finally did,