Last night I took my anger for a walk. This is what I usually do when it wants to take the helm. I take it outside to avoid saying things that are hurtful and unproductive and also to determine what it’s made of.
Last night, I knew what triggered my anger; it was not only missing the memorial dedication for Sherin Matthews but not even knowing about it. (Part of my self-care regimen involves not watching or reading the news, but I have a network of folks, including my husband, who usually alert me to relevant stories.) So I knew the trigger but needed to walk a while to find out what my anger was made of.
The dark and the cold helped me sort things out pretty quickly. The Sherin Matthews case caused me and countless others to feel infuriated, disgusted, outraged and saddened. What stood out most, though, as an advocate, was the all too familiar feeling of helplessness. Missing the memorial reminded me of how helpless this case made me feel.
In 2013, our community lost another child. We call her Baby Abby. She was an infant murdered by her parents. This act of violence didn’t receive much attention, but it rocked our community of Fire Fighters/EMT’s, Law Enforcement, Child Protective Services Caseworkers and Advocates. When a detective asked about a memorial service, our lead advocate made one happen. Everyone needed a place to come together and grieve. They needed to be around those who understood. I will never forget the sight of detectives and paramedics carrying Baby Abby’s tiny casket; it confirmed that the smallest caskets are indeed the heaviest. Organizing a memorial was the only thing the advocate could do, but it was a powerful something.
The case with Sherin Matthews exacerbated that feeling of helplessness because as advocates, there seemed to be nothing we could do. The level of communication was nearly absent; we relied on the news like everyone else. The parents’ lack of cooperation and lies infuriated me as others. Then her body was discovered, and I felt disgusted, knowing the little girl’s body was left to rot somewhere, discarded just as she was in life.
So many aspects of this case shined a light on the ways victim advocates can feel helpless. We desperately want justice, yet there is very little we can do to help achieve it. When we know where suspects might be, we can pass that information on to law enforcement, but we cannot make officers go slap the cuffs on them. When officers do make arrests and file charges, we often watch as prosecutors reduce them to something they consider a slam dunk. We know the laws as they are written in the criminal code, but prosecutors decide how to move forward (or not) based on what insiders call “The DA’s Law,” which seems arbitrary and lazy but allows prosecutors to stay in their comfort zone. And we watch in disbelief as judges reduce bonds or dole out ridiculously sympathetic sentences, often causing us concern about how these judges conduct themselves behind closed doors. All we advocates can do is remain behind the scenes, helping victims put their lives back together and deal with this system, usually by lowering their expectations.
In the case with Sherin Matthews, we couldn’t do anything. We couldn’t reach out to anyone to offer help. We couldn’t even 
create a memorial service for her. We felt utterly helpless and useless.
I’m thankful for the community’s commitment to honoring Sherin’s memory and for the gentleman who donated the bench. But when the time came when I could at least join the others who felt helpless throughout this ordeal — the only thing I could do — I missed it. It’s no one’s fault but my own, but it sure stings.
D.W. Dobbs 