Perversion of Justice by Melissa Mummert
(Borderwalk Productions)
Note: An updated version of this documentary will be released this spring.
One would hope most feminists know by now that leaving an abusive relationship is no small feat. There’s shelter to think of – where will you (and your children) stay? In which city? With which person? There’s money – survivors of abuse may not necessarily have much or any income for bus tickets and food. There’s health – maybe your abuser has broken you down emotionally, or maybe you have good reason to believe that he’ll come after you (and your children) if you escape. We all know the problem with “why didn’t she just leave?!”, right? Great.
So when you actually manage to escape an abusive partner and the family members with whom you’re staying ask you to help out a little with their source of income, are you going to refuse? They’re putting you up, after all. Maybe they don’t have much room. “Could you do us a favor?” they might ask. “Could you run a couple of errands?” You want to repay their kindness. You want to earn your keep.
I’m generalizing, of course, but Hamedah Hasan is one of the survivors who has lived this story. In her early twenties, after several unsuccessful attempts to extricate herself from an abusive relationship, she and her two daughters managed to leave her partner for good and find shelter with her cousin. She helped out, taking care of children, holding onto packages, and wiring money when asked. But eventually, her cousin was arrested for a drug deal that she had no connection to (in fact, she was no longer living there, having moved on to a welfare-to-work program) and she was charged as a coconspirator. In a criminal justice system that cares little about domestic violence and even less about domestic violence aimed at women of color, escaping abuse and repaying kindness had landed Hamedah in jail.
That actually isn’t the issue, though. “I did commit a crime and I must pay for that,” Hamedah writes in an open letter to her supporters. “I do accept responsibility for my actions that lead me here.” You could argue about the definition of conspiracy or the question of what constitutes a crime, but she knows her own situation best. What’s really outrageous is what happened to her when she was convicted. Faced with charges ranging from distribution and possession to interstate travel in aid of racketeering, Hamedah was sentenced to 2 life sentences – with 109 additional years on top of that. For holding a few packages. For wiring some money. Meanwhile, white men who commit murder in front of a trainful of witnesses or leave women without food or water for days suffer no more than the loss of their jobs – if that.
Rev. Melissa Mummert’s Perversion of Justice tells the story of Hamedah and her daughters’ struggle to find justice – real justice – amidst the warped logic of mandatory minimums. The system of mandatory minimums (sentencing guidelines that judges must adhere to in drug-related offenses) was introduced by congressional democrats in June of 1986 in order to bolster their chances at reelection by touting a tough attitude toward drug abuse. (Notice the gendering of the law with the word “tough?” Notice, also, the national hysteria over the abuse of drugs, but the listlessness surrounding the abuse of people?) Although some argue that in theory, mandatory minimums reduce crime and ensure fairness in the courtroom, in reality, they’ve never worked that way – nor were they ever really meant to. Mandatory minimums are, and have always been, a way to protect white supremacy by imprisoning people of color. And they’re quite effective: since 1983, prisoners serving time for drug-related offenses have jumped from 38% of all inmates to 60%, and women make up the fastest growing segment of prisoners. The way sentencing plays out really is stunning in its incompetency; because suspects can trade names and information for lower sentences, those who have the least knowledge about the operation they’re involved in (like wives, girlfriends, or relatives who agree to run an errand) or who have the highest sense of morality (like someone who refuses to testify against family members) end up with the longest sentences, while those closer to the top can shave dozens of years off their prison time. Furthermore, coconspirators are responsible for the actions of every other person involved in the operation, which means that no matter how minor your role, you can be – and are – charged with the crimes that every other coconspirator commits, regardless of whether it was committed with your knowledge or consent. When the sole purpose of a law is to round up as many offenders as possible, the concept of actual justice seldom plays any meaningful role in proceedings.
By far the greatest strength of Perversion of Justice is the honesty and shrewdness that Hamedah, her children, and the lawyers and judges involved in her case bring to the camera. Virtually the entire documentary is presented through interviews conducted after the fact, yet as each of the players tell their aspect of the story, the chronology unfolds as naturally as if it were happening in real time. The sense of outrage and heartbreak is palpable; even those who have most likely only met Hamedah briefly are outspoken in their disgust for the system that tore her away from her family. (Notably absent are interviews with the prosecution or supporters of mandatory minimums. It might have been informative, although perhaps masochistic, to hear them speak.)
The good news is that mandatory minimums have undergone reform over the years; Hamedah’s was reduced from life to 27 years when the guidelines were changed. But the progress is glacial and under attack by opportunistic politicians (again concerned with looking “tough”). Even worse, the most dramatic reform in 2005, when the Supreme Court ruled that mandatory minimums were, in part, unconstitutional, was not made retroactive. Finally, individuals like Hamedah often suffer their own personal setbacks. One of the most heartbreaking moments in the film occurs when, in 2003, Hamedah is successful in getting her sentence reduced from 27 years to 12, only to find out that prosecutors have successfully overturned the appeal because it went outside of the guidelines.
One troubling aspect of Hamedah’s case is that most of her strategies for lowering her sentence revolve around proving herself to be “an extraordinary person” and “completely rehabilitated,” not challenging the actual logic of her conviction. While she garners letters of support and her daughter Kasaundra travels to DC to advocate for her release (a scene that in itself is inspiring), women and men with fewer resources continue to serve out farcical sentences. Still, there is some good news: after the documentary was produced, the Federal Sentencing Commission made the new sentencing guidelines retroactive. According to the Perversion of Justice website, Hamedah and her lawyers have filed a motion to reduce her sentence and are waiting for the results.
Although the narrative is centered around the drug conviction, it presents Hamedah’s case as a tight nexus of issues – domestic violence, racism, the self-perpetuating drug war – that can’t be pried apart by activists looking for a quick fix. “On the one hand, we state this noble intention to eradicate drugs in our community, and at the same time, we pass laws that turn children into orphans and say, why do they turn to gangs and drug dealing?” says Susan Koenig, Hamedah’s original defense attorney. Mandatory minimums aren’t the problem in and of themselves; even if they were abolished tomorrow, the same patterns of oppression would recreate themselves in some other form. Perversion of Justice deconstructs not just one unjust law, but a massive, complex system of apathy and hatred – and in this, Hasan and Mummert have created a moving and incisive film that should spur anyone who cares about justice to action.
See www.perversionofjustice.com for ways to help.