A Crimson Stain
His blood be on us.
I was watching The Nightly Show with Larry Wilmore a few weeks ago. The debate was whether or not capital punishment was appropriate for Boston Marathon bomber Dzhokhar Tsarnaev. Larry made the case that he was against the death penalty generally speaking, but in the case of “this lowly bastard” we should make an exception. Few applauded.
After a commercial break, the host introduced his guests for the roundtable discussion. The panel included two comedians and MSNBC anchor Alex Wagner. After a rather uncomfortable joke kicked-off the discussion, Larry turned to Alex to ask her opinion. She opened her comment with this:
The true test of one’s convictions is the most abhorrent example of them.
She followed declaratively, “I’m against the death penalty.” The crowd cheered.
I was at the Boston Marathon on Monday, April 15, 2013. I was one of the ones in the crowd. I was one of the ones who saw the crowd quickly begin to disburse. I was one of the ones who began moving in the direction opposite the finish line, not knowing why. I was one of the ones who watched the news in pure shock and horror as they informed me of the explosions that took place just a little over a mile from my observation post. And after this jury’s decision, I suddenly feel like I am one of the ones with blood on his hands.
I remember being at my friends’ apartment. We had begun the day there. It was like every other Marathon Monday, filled with day drinking, music and laughter. When we returned to the apartment it became a completely different place. Where there was once levity, confusion took its place. A quiet fear replaced the music. Nervous cleaning was used to steady our hands and shift our focus. I remember wanting to cry but feeling like that would accomplish nothing.
So many questions ran through my head. I wondered why someone would do this. I asked myself if I had done the right thing by turning back. Could I, should I have helped? I tried to concentrate on those questions, because the ones that rang loudest in my mind were the scariest. Was this coordinated? Will there be more? Am I safe?
Amidst the chaos that consumed me, I remained composed externally. I called my family in Houston to let them know I was unharmed. I checked with all of my friends to make sure they were alright, doling out hugs where needed. I texted everyone I knew near the finish line. I called my two friends that were actually participating in the marathon. Then I decided to go to my fraternity’s house in Wellesley, a safe seventeen miles west of the city.
Once I was alone in my car, I broke down. There is nothing more unsettling than the sight of armored vehicles lining the same streets you previously walked in the twilight hours without hesitation. Tears streamed down my face. No sobbing. Just uncontrollable tears, each one another silent prayer. After turning on my car, I called my dad. “I know you’re busy,” I said, voice trembling, “but we don’t have to talk, I just need you to be on the phone.” He willingly obliged. He listened as the National Guard asked me where I was headed and proceeded to direct the traffic. A ride that usually took thirty minutes, forty if congested, prolonged for over an hour. My dad stayed on the line the entire time. No music played in my car, just the intermittent, “How’re you holding up?” or “You okay? You’re okay,” from a concerned father.
I would go on to stay at my fraternity’s house the rest of the week. We were given the next day off from work, and with the suspects still at-large, I figured Wellesley was the safer option. That Wednesday and Thursday, we were asked to work at a leisurely pace from home. Thursday night, activity began to pick up again. The fear that had consumed me earlier that week returned in a more debilitating fashion.
Andrew Kitzenberg, one of my former college roommates began tweeting.
Shoot out outside my room in Watertown. 62 Laurel st. #mit #boston #shooting pic.twitter.com/Lvk7rtx1gV
Bullet hole through our wall and the chair #mitshooting #mit #boston pic.twitter.com/1MyuMduM7T
The news connected his tweets to a shootout between police and the bombers. The credits on this real life horror film were not yet ready to roll. And it was becoming more and more personal. Not only was my friend’s apartment shot, but this incident was also a mere two miles west of my office, steps away from a common lunch destination. The shooting at MIT that preceded, just two miles east of my office.
Tamerlan Tsarnaev, older and coordinator of the two brothers, died that night.
That Friday, a full workweek of fear after the initial bombing, we were instructed to shelter-in-place. That day in my fraternity’s house, I witnessed a group of guys ages 18–21 sit glued, attentively watching the local news with a newfound solace in the seventeen miles that separated them from Boston, Cambridge and Watertown. I watched, feeling as if I would never be able to return to my home, my office, my life. The day drug on with no news. Somehow, with all the resources of Boston Police, Massachusetts State Police, FBI and the National Guard, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev managed to elude capture. Without explanation, the shelter-in-place was lifted with no results to show for it.
Two hours later, a Watertown resident, whose awareness was rightfully heightened, noticed someone had tampered with the cover of his boat sitting in his driveway. The second Tsarnaev brother was found and taken into custody.
A tepid variation of peace returned. If you listened hard enough, you could hear a collective sigh of relief. A battle-weary city rang out “Boston Strong,” its new rallying cry. The next day, David ‘Big Papi’ Ortiz captured the city’s spirit and provided it a much-needed laugh. More importantly, he let Boston know as of Saturday, April 20, 2013, we, the people of the city, were pressing forward.
Residents throughout Boston and its surrounding towns can share similar stories. Everyone has an account of what they were doing that fateful day, where they were when they saw the news, how the felt that week. Beyond the shared experience, we also share a general sentiment: Dzhokhar Tsarnaev should not have been sentenced to death.
Massachusetts performed its last execution in 1947. Capital punishment, however, remained legal in the commonwealth until 1984; it had gone unused for nearly four decades.
The last Boston Globe poll conducted before the verdict was handed down was abundantly clear. Of the Boston residents asked, only fifteen percent believed the remaining Boston bomber should be put to death.
Bill and Denise Richards, parents of eight-year-old victim Martin and maimed seven-year-old June, penned an op-ed asking the life of Tsarnaev be spared. In the end, one of the two charges for which Tsarnaev received the death penalty was the killing of their son.
I understand it was a federal case, so Massachusetts’ laws were superseded. But this has left me with a question: for whom does the justice system work? Without question, the verdict of guilty or not guilty gives merit to the system itself and reaffirms the rule of law. But shouldn’t the sentencing work to serve the victim and the community? If a certain verdict comes with a range of sentences, shouldn’t the wishes of the victim or their family be given strong consideration? If we’re treating this case differently because it impacted a community, should not the community’s preference of sentencing be taking into account?
I am so proud of the city I called home for six years. If ever there was a time to let emotion clout morals, this was it. But the city held to its principles. They said declaratively, “we don’t believe in the death penalty.” But the jury took it upon themselves to dismiss the will of the families and community.
The Tsarnaev brothers had the blood of four slain on their hands. Thanks to this sentencing, we, the people of the Greater Boston area, share in that. Innocent and guilty blood both leave the same crimson stain.
