Who is the Restorative Lawyer?
A LAWYER WHO IS
seeking Healing after harm
REBUILDING Relationships AFTER DAMAGE
The restorative lawyer is the lawyer who dedicates their practice helping clients locate opportunities for healing after they have been harmed. The healing creates bridges between relationships and in doing so, strengthens communities. The restorative lawyer understands that when clients come to them with legal problems, they are often seeking help in recovering from one of the most difficult events of their lives and are seeking help to get their lives back.
“Being a restorative lawyer means having the capacity to sit in stillness beside a client on her porch. Watching the rain—not taking about anything. “”
WHO IS THE RESTORATIVE LAWYER?
A LAWYER WHO IS AN ORDINARY LAWYER…
Who has dedicated their practice to healing clients who have been harmed.
Who contemporaneously works to strengthen the lawyer and client’s community.
Who understands that the clients often come to them seeking help recovering from one of the most difficult events of their lives.
Who infuses their work with respect, for the clients, opposing parties, and all collaborators.
Who accepts the importance of relationship in creating resolutions to legal problems.
Who embraces collaborative and inclusive processes.
Who appreciate opportunities for apologies.
Who understand that “both sides” are often harmed and have needs.
WHO IS A RESTORATIVE LAWYER?
WHY BRENDA WAUGH BECAME A RESTORATIVE LAWYER (IN HER OWN WORDS)
As I recall, it was October, 1999.
This was worse than going to a funeral." The young girl's uncle explained to me (speaking matter-of-factly) as we walked up the steep marble courthouse steps. I listened to his proclamation as we climbed upwards. Towards justice, I assumed. But did these worn, sagging steps create obstacles to justice? Did they direct us to a source of shame or even the situs of recurring tragedy?
"Worse than going to a funeral."
On that crisp, cool October morning, we walked side by side, the victim's middle-aged uncle, wearing a brown polyester suit, the pants hemmed perfectly to break over his cowboy boots. He looked back at me without expression. I asked him, "Worse than a funeral?" I rambled. "It's going really well. It's a hard case; we didn't have any physical evidence; it was her word against her grandfather's. But the jury seemed like they were going along with me. The opening went well. Our witnesses were good. Going to a funeral?"
"Yes. Worse."
We opened the double doors into the oldest courthouse in the state. Past the tiny hexagon-tiled vestibule. Past plaques lining the entrance, honoring the local fallen soldiers. Up the stairs, we opened the double doors leading to the courtroom.
I was acutely aware of where I was, who I was, and what I was doing there. I was just over forty, married, with three kids under fifteen. I had been practicing law for twelve years, advocating for children and women. This was a difficult case. We had no corroborating physical evidence. I was prosecuting Darrell Walters for five counts of sexual abuse against his great-granddaughter, Anna.
By then, Darrell had abused three generations. When he molested his daughter, the family denied the abuse, shamed the victim, and moved on. When his granddaughter disclosed the molestation, the family believed her. The family sent him to counseling, to be “fixed.” That day, the jury heard the case of his offenses against his great-granddaughter. The jury served justice. I felt confident.
As we walked through the heavy, double wooden doors, down the center aisle of the courtroom, the funeral analogy distracted me. I tried to dismiss it.
Two weeks later, on my last day as an assistant prosecutor, the judge sentences Darrell to an indeterminate sentence of one to five years in the penitentiary. It feels good. Finally, someone recognizes the tiny man wearing a shiny black suit for who he is. Someone sees the pain he caused. It feels good.
At the same time, it doesn't feel good. I won. To win, I brought this family into a process that was “worse than a funeral” and produced a shallow outcome. Darrell went to prison. A few years later, he died. He never apologized. He never accepted responsibility.
I subscribed to the VOMA newsletter. I went into private practice and took courses in mediation and collaborative law. And finally, in June, 2007, I began my studies at Eastern Mennonite University’s Center for Justice and Peace. I learned that restorative justice is not a program, a course, or a specific practice. Rather, restorative justice is a group of principles and values. As I learned more, I realized that those principles and values may be just the way to create a new practice of law. A new way to be a restorative lawyer.