Yesterday was a sort-of “official” first day of a new job for me. And then it wasn’t.

The job is that of a criminal mitigation specialist. The work is to get to know a client who is facing criminal charges or a significant sentence, such as the death penalty or life without parole, and develop a narrative story of their life that humanizes them to the judge who will decide their fate. There are variations on this theme, but that’s the gist.

This work combines my interest in learning people’s stories with my background in writing and my deeply held conviction that our current “criminal justice” system is horrendously flawed. I feel beyond lucky to have found something that I truly want to do.

Yesterday, I was supposed to have my first meeting with a client on my first case. He was sentenced to life without parole for his participation in a crime when he was fifteen years old. (Yes, that’s 15.) The US Supreme Court ruled a number of years ago that it is unconstitutional to sentence juveniles to life without parole. We now understand the science of brain development to an extent that a sentence of life without parole for youth constitutes cruel and unusual punishment. The Court later ruled that this fact applies retroactively, which means that everyone currently serving life sentences is entitled to a reconsideration of their sentences.

I flew to the state in which my client is incarcerated the night before and spent yesterday morning nervously preparing for this meeting. To be clear, I was not nervous about meeting with the client, I was nervous about establishing rapport, gaining his trust and getting him to disclose sensitive information in the short time we had available. I was nervous about encountering some type of push back at security from a guard having a bad day and not getting in at all. (A colleague was recently told she could only go in with pens that have completely clear ink shafts, despite this not being anywhere in the state’s official visiting guidelines. I made a stop at Office Depot to stock up on pre-sharpened pencils.) Mostly, I was nervous because I’ve never done this before and I want so badly to get it right. My otherwise healthy appetite was nonexistent, which also made me worry that halfway through the 4 hours interview I would wind up pathetically unable to go on due to a blood sugar crash.

At the prison, I sat among two dozen people waiting to see their loved ones during visiting hours, with anticipation much different than mine. Someone made an announcement that there was “a situation” and things might be delayed. A couple people next to me exchanged stories of other times this happened – a stabbing in the kitchen that led to a shutdown; an electrical issue that prevented the opening and closing of all gates – and the wasted miles they’d driven to be there. But things moved on and eventually a guard called my number and I went to check in. “I didn’t know he was here,” the woman behind the desk said. She typed some info into her system and confirmed that he’d been moved to another location 128 miles away. In February.

I was thoroughly confused and immediately began mentally reviewing the conversations I’d had with his lawyer when we confirmed this visit. I was fairly certain she had told me he was at the prison I went to, but I worried that I had been too harried with other things last week and missed the detail. I went back to visit confirmation email from the paralegal and buried deep in the thread the correct location was listed in a prison administrators signature line, but no where in the official visit details, which I had reviewed carefully. It was there, but not in a place I had thought to look.

I felt terrible. First and foremost, for the client, who presumably had been expecting a visit. But also, for myself. I was consumed with fear that I had screwed this up and the attorney would think I’m an idiot and incapable of this work and be angry about the wasted time and money for this trip. I texted her to let her know what happened and then I called the paralegal who quickly got to work trying to reschedule the visit for later this week. Then I stewed and stewed and checked my phone every two minutes, desperately wanting to hear back from the attorney and even more desperately wanting her to tell me this was not my fault.

My loss of appetite from nerves morphed into a desperate need to stress eat, so I went to Buffalo Wild Wings and tried to focus on some school work I needed to do. I sent out comfort-seeking texts to my husband and sisters and received the appropriate supportive responses.

And I tried to be mindful of what I was feeling. If I’m honest, what I was feeling most was this: a visceral fear of being wrong. Ugh.

I don’t know why I react this strongly to situations like this. I don’t generally have an issue with a lot of negative self-talk and I’m a fairly confident person. I mostly like myself and usually have a decent sense of self-compassion. But in situations like this, my need for someone else to tell me everything is okay is palpable. And that someone has to have the right “authority” to do so. In this case, that someone was the lawyer. I was still a little miffed at myself for having missed the tiny detail in the email signature, but mostly I needed to know that I had not misunderstood things beyond that and more importantly, I needed her to know that.

Last 4th of July, I made a terribly inappropriate joke to my teenage niece that got a lot of laughs from the men in the room. It came out of my mouth differently than I had intended, but I didn’t pull it back once the laughing started. The hubbub of the day went on and we all had a nice time, but as I fell asleep that night, I realized that I had deep regret about what I’d said and I felt sick. The next morning, I called my sister (my niece’s mother) who had not been with us and left her a message. I didn’t want to make my niece feel awkward, so I wanted her mother’s advice before I approached her to apologize. Then I ruminated for two hours until my sister called me back. When I recounted the story, she laughed out loud and said “Ha! You don’t have to worry about that. That sounds like something she would say herself.” I still feel a little ashamed when I think about it. Even if it didn’t matter to my niece, it didn’t represent the kind of person I want to be. That said, my feeling of relief when I talked to my sister was practically euphoric.

The attorney called me about four hours after I had texted her. Immediately, she apologized and said that the information was a surprise to her as well. I wanted to hug her.

I’m relieved that I wasn’t really at fault, though lesson learned about confirming all details. But I’m also left with a slightly icky feeling about my desperate need to be absolved, especially when that person isn’t really the one harmed. My sister was not the butt of my joke; the attorney was not the one expecting a visit that represents a small step toward his possible freedom. I am genuinely sorry for any distress I caused, but weirdly, I can move on as long as someone else tells me I’m alright. That doesn’t feel right.

This makes me wonder about the difference between absolution and forgiveness and whether absolution is sometimes all we can hope for, and whether it has an importance I haven’t considered before.

I was raised Catholic, but have long disdained the Sacrament of Reconciliation because of the Church’s insistence that men (and only men) can somehow stand in for God to grant forgiveness. Yesterday’s panic and subsequent resolution didn’t change that, but it did make me think that the idea in general may not be a bad one.

I thought that part of the reason I feel called to work as a mitigation specialist is that I have a strong capacity forgiveness and a deep belief that people can turn their lives around when someone says “I see your humanity. I see good in you. I believe you deserve a chance.”

My client was part of a terrible crime. It’s quite the possible the victim’s family cannot find it in them to forgive him. And I get that. It is unquestionably too much to ask. But having my client serve a sentence that does not consider his own background and his own mental capacity cannot reverse what happened either.

What he did can hardly be compared to a hurtful joke or a professional mistake. I am not the one he wronged and for that reason, I can’t really be the one to forgive him. But perhaps, by showing up, I can offer a minor bit of absolution. Maybe we all need to do more of that for each other – remind each other that we’re doing okay, we’re all human. I think forgiveness has the potential to make us whole, but absolution can allow us to move forward.