Chapter 51
Nobody knows I’m coming today—not my parents, not Lesli or Greer, not Mick. It’s something I need to do for myself. And for Erin.
I step into the courtroom and take a seat in the back row, watching as a somber couple files past me.
I assume they’re his parents. I feel a stab of pity for them, but it fades when I spot Russ slouched at the defense table.
He looks smaller than I remember, his shoulders rounded, his hair thinning.
The judge enters. We all rise.
He settles behind the bench, peers over his glasses, and begins in the deliberate cadence I’ve come to associate with Wisconsin courtrooms—measured, restrained, relentless.
He lays out the case history: the charge of homicide by intoxicated use of a vehicle, Russ’s blood alcohol content, the guilty plea. Dates. Statutes.
Facts stripped of feeling.
He shuffles his papers, looks up, and says, “The court will now hear victim impact statements.”
I nearly lose my nerve. Then I think of Erin, and my legs straighten.
I step forward, my shoes echoing on the tile.
When I reach the podium, I don’t look at Russ. I keep my eyes on the judge and clear my throat.
“My name is Billie Wright,” I say. “I was Erin’s best friend, and I am now her daughter’s legal guardian.”
I take a deep breath. “Erin was generous. She was funny. She loved fiercely, and she trusted people. I think that’s part of why this is so difficult to accept—that her life ended because someone didn’t protect her.”
I press on. “Erin didn’t get another sunrise. Her daughter, Phoebe, didn’t get another bedtime story. She didn’t get the chance to kiss her mother goodbye.”
I let that sit.
“This case isn’t about a single moment on a road at night. It’s about years of grief and absence—a mother burying her child and a little girl growing up without her mother. No punishment can undo that, but it should reflect the weight of what was taken.”
I step back and return to my seat, eyes lowered.
After that, Russ gives a brief statement—a halting apology filled with trite phrases.
Next, it’s the judge’s turn. He talks about accountability. About sentencing goals: punishment, deterrence, protection of the public. He names Erin. He names the damage.
And then: ten years.
The words land without drama. No gasp. No collapse. Just a number, spoken aloud, then written down.
Russ lowers his head, like he’s bracing against a strong wind. When the deputy places a hand on his arm, he stands. As he’s led away, he doesn’t look back.
The judge adjourns and I head straight for the door.
—
Back in the car, I take out my phone. There’s a text from Phoebe, asking if we can have breakfast for dinner.
I write back: Sure. Pancakes or eggs?
She replies: Both, please!!
I slip my phone back into my purse, knowing that justice has been served—at least in the way the system understands justice.
But nothing about today fills the space Erin left behind. Nothing about it makes Phoebe’s grief any lighter. That work lives somewhere else entirely—in small acts of love, in the ordinary days we’re building around her, in the ways we keep her mother’s memory alive.