Why I Asked The Judge To Reduce The Sentence Of The Teen Who Shot Me

When the judge asked me why I wanted mercy for the teenager who shot me, the entire courtroom was staring at me.

The prosecutor looked irritated.
My brother wouldn’t look at me at all.
Keon sat at the defense table with his head down, hands trembling inside a pair of handcuffs that looked too big for his wrists.

“Mr. Reynolds,” the judge said, “this young man shot you at point-blank range. You nearly died. He is facing twenty years in prison. Why would you ask this court to reduce his sentence?”

The truth didn’t start in that courtroom.

It started three days before the shooting.

I own a small convenience store on the corner of Maple and 8th. It’s not glamorous, but it’s mine. I built it from nothing after my divorce. It paid the bills. It gave me purpose.

Three days before I was shot, I noticed a teenager pacing near the baby aisle.

I watched him on the security monitor.

He picked up a can of formula. Put it back. Picked it up again. Looked over his shoulder. Slipped it into his backpack.

I stepped out from behind the counter and stopped him at the door.

He froze.

Didn’t run. Didn’t fight.

Just stood there shaking.

He was thin. His hoodie sleeves were too short. He smelled like cheap detergent and stress.

“What’s in the bag?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

I unzipped it myself.

Formula.

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