Bonnie S. Hirst - Test of Faith: Surviving My Daughters Life Sentence

test of faith

Copyright 2019 by Bonnie Hirst

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published September 2019
Printed in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-594-0
E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-595-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019932269

For information, address:
She Writes Press 1569 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707

Cover and interior design by Tabitha Lahr

She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

ALL NAMES HAVE BEEN MODIFIED EXCEPT FOR THOSE OF FAMILY AND FRIENDS.

Versions of some pages were previously published in:
365 Ways to Connect with Your SoulSafe, Protected, and Very Blessed
365 Ways to Connect with Your SoulTaking Off the Blinders
Full Grown PeopleToll Bridge Essay

Content taken from Jesus Calling by Sarah Young Copyright 2004 by Sarah Young. Used by permission of Thomas

To Lacey, may God continue to keep hope alive.

November 16, 2010

T he jury has reached a verdict. My husband, Ron, our thirty-five-year-old daughter, Lacey, who is out on bail, and I are summoned to the third-floor courtroom.

Laceys two-week jury trial is the culmination of nineteen months of grueling pretrial appearances. Flanked by her two lawyers, Lacey is at the table allocated for the defense. Behind her, Ron and I sit on a wooden bench, hips touching. Our friends surround us. The victims familyhaggard from watching their daughters blood-speckled clothing presented as forensic evidencegather to our left, behind the prosecutor. Spectators fill the remaining seats.

All rise.

Reaching for Rons work-callused hand, I interweave my slender fingers with his large ones; his warmth lessens my anxiety.

The jurors file in and stand next to their padded chairs. They make no eye contact. Judge Barlow enters in his black, flowing robe. As he takes his seat, I notice that the hefty legal publications he has referred to during the trialwhich were always splayed open to the pages he wanted to quoteare now stacked in an orderly pile on the edge of his desk. The verdict is all that is left.

As we sit back down, Ron tucks our joined hands between us.

Does the defendant wish to stand? the judge asks. Laceys chair scrapes across the floor. Her attorneys rise with her. Laceys five-foot-four-inch figure looks like a divot between their towering frames. Her navy-and-white polyester blouse and black dress slacks communicate that she is a woman who should not be on trial for murder. Wire-rimmed glasses, short, tousled brown hair, and little to no makeup complete the image of who my daughter is.

Judge Barlow addresses the jury and asks to see the verdict paper. As he silently reads it, the pensive look on his face brings trepidation into my heart. Seldom has he shown emotion during this two-week trial, except for the times he pounded his gavel to quiet the courtroom.

He returns the paper to the jury foreman, who stands and clears his throat. My pulse quickens. I close my eyes and beseech God one last time, Please, Lord, pronounce her innocent.

The foreman reads the verdict. We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree.

My heart pounds with ravaging force; I feel its pulse throughout my body. My fingers clamp tight around Rons knuckles.

The foreman continues. We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of the crime of manslaughter in the first degree.

Rons palm burns into mine with vise-like pressure. My lungs feel suspended.

Count three, enhanced weapons charge: guilty.

The victims family is jubilant. Fist pumps and loud, exhaled shouts of Yes! pierce the air. Ron and I, our hands riveted between us, clench one another torturously. Our stoic faces will deny the reporters their possible headline: Parents Overwhelmed by Verdict.

Lacey turns tremulously away from the jury. I am unable to see her face. Her slim body reveals only a halo of the overweight young woman she was before our world began falling apart. The crestfallen slump of her sharp shoulder blades is a vision that will haunt me. With the verdict, guilty on all counts, the mandatory sentence will be life in prison without parole.

Courtroom activity fades into the background as I query myself: Did I not pray correctly? Did I not believe enough in His power? Why has God forsaken my family and me?

Uniformed police officers stand by the door as the courtroom empties.

Our friends, who have forged a protective bubble around us in court, congregate just outside the closed door. The judge and the jury have exited to their respective chambers. The room is vacant except for Ron, Lacey, her two lawyers, the two arresting officers, the lead investigator, and me. The officers appear stouter than they are in their dark blue uniforms and bulletproof vests. Their gleaming silver badges and matching nameplates seem overly flashy in the oppressive air. They block Ron and me from approaching Lacey by creating a barricade with their arms.

We just want to hug her, I beg.

The officers hold their ground and shake their heads no.

Ron bristles beside me. The hell we cant.

Matt, the lead investigator, intercedes on our behalf and nods a yes toward the officers. They drop their arms and they step aside. Gathering Lacey into my arms, I place a kiss on her cheek.

Lets make this quick, demands one of the officers as he nudges me. We need to get going.

Disengaging, I look into her shell-shocked eyes, and mine well up with tears. Lacey removes her wedding band, then her wristwatch, as the officers have instructed, and drops them into her open purse. Her hands shake as she lifts it toward me.

My chin quivers, and my mouth contorts as I try to hold in my disbelief. Why, God? This is not the scenario we envisioned. If we had received the not-guilty verdict, we were prepared to whisk Lacey away from the uproar that would assuredly have overtaken the courtroom.

Its Rons turn. He folds her into his protective bear hug. The agony on his face shatters me, and I fleeout the courtroom doors, past our ever-vigilant friends, my head lowered so I cant see their faces or the sadness that would reflect from their eyes to mine. I bolt down the three flights of stairs and thrust open the side entrance door. Gasping for air in the isolated employees courtyard, I collapse against a metal pole. My chest heaves as I bawl.

M y belief in God was nurtured from a young age. Mom was a churchgoer, and we attended the local Presbyterian Church. My older sister, Patty, and I attended Sunday school, where the lessons centered on God answering prayers. In one Bible story, David prayed, and the Lord helped him conquer the giant soldier, Goliath. God protected David in his hour of need. My favorite story was about Daniel in the lions den. Betrayed by jealous rivals, Daniel was condemned to death and thrown into a lair of hungry lions. Daniel called upon God to save him. The next day, when Daniel was lifted out of the den, no wound was found on him. He had trusted wholly in his Lord and had been protected.