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An Illinois jury has convicted a former sheriff’s deputy of second-degree murder in the shooting death of Sonya Massey, a Black woman who ca
PEORIA, Ill. (AP) — An Illinois jury on Wednesday convicted a former sheriff’s deputy of second-degree murder in the shooting death of Sonya Massey, a Black woman who called 911 asking for help.
The jurors, though, did not convict Sean Grayson on the first-degree murder charge that prosecutors sought and that carries a prison sentence of 45 years to life. The 31-year-old Grayson instead could be sentenced to up to 20 years in prison, or probation. Sentencing is scheduled for Jan. 29.
Grayson and another deputy arrived at Massey’s home in Springfield, Illinois, early on the morning of July 6, 2024, after she reported a prowler. Grayson shot the 36-year-old woman after confronting her about how she was handling a pot of hot water she had removed from her stove. Grayson and his attorneys argued that he feared Massey would scald him with the hot water.
Massey’s killing raised new questions about U.S. law enforcement shootings of Black people in their homes, and prompted a change in Illinois law requiring fuller transparency on the background of candidates for law enforcement jobs.
Grayson originally was charged with first-degree murder, but after the seven-day trial, the jury was given the option of considering second-degree murder, which applies when a defendant faces a “serious provocation” or believes their action is justified even if that belief is unreasonable.
I went to court but the entire jury, defense, judge and my lawyer were all fish. The sentence? I had told someone that fish fingers weren’t actually fishes’ fingers. I was found guilty and sentenced to death by lawn mower. I still don’t know what that means.
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This was sitting in my notes app for a few months now and now that I've been exploded at the peer review I'll slap this here
TWs for blood, trauma, very long descriptions of injury, pain, sensory overload, and phycological distress, reference to dismemberment and character death, what's technically passive suicidal ideation.... Yeah this is just me kicking one of my characters y'all.
_ _ _ _ _
One moment, the world was spinning around him, nauseating and confusing, a whirlwind of indistinct, overwhelming sensations all blurring together into a sort of panicked numbness that only demanded that he run. The next, his vision swam, and suddenly, everything teetered sideways as his legs gave way beneath him, and he went down. A shuddering, broken sob was torn from Dream's burning ribcage as the adrenaline up and abandoned him too, leaving him to crumple to his knees as it finally became too much to bear standing. Maybe he scuffed his knees on the rocky ground as he went down, he wasn't entirely sure of much right now, but he shakily drew them to his chest as he curled in over himself, chest spasming as his breaths came in uneven gasps, struggling just to catch his breath.
It was too much. Everything was crashing down around him and it was too damn much and Dream couldn't take it any longer.
Everything hurt.
His legs hurt, sore from running for stars-only-knew how long by now. He didn't know where he'd been trying to run to; it wasn't like he had any place else to go or stay, he'd spent his whole life in that orchard and in that town and had never really had the time nor the reason to wander too far out between all the time he'd wasted helping those bastards. But on some level, it didn't matter, so long as he got away. Not that anywhere felt far enough; Dream hadn't stopped moving up until now, just fleeing until he couldn't, and he wasn't sure how far or for how long, but any being with a horse could probably catch up in no time at all, if they really wanted. Nobody cared to, though. Everybody who knew him was too distracted right now. The thought of what made him feel sicker and sicker, made his stomach drop and blood boil and soul ache more than it already was.
His arm hurt-- what was left of it, anyway. Dream had been keeping his hand clutched to that up until now, trying to stop the bleeding. The golden ichor dripping down from the cracks had been reduced to a slow seep, now, staining and smeared on his clothes and fingertips, and if there was still any dust, that had been stained by now too. The pressure made pain shoot up his shoulder and down his spine, but so did every other way he tried to move it, and at least the touch was marginally distracting and useful. Maybe he'd get lucky, and hadn't gotten away just to pass out from blood loss. He wasn't counting on it at this rate, though.
His eyes hurt. His sockets felt both wet and dry all at once, stinging with hot tears that blurred his vision. He couldn't see much through them, the world indistinct and dark, broken up only by the light that shone through from the cracks in his own bones, and the stars above blurring together to give the sky a sort of foggy look.
His head hurt. So bad he almost felt numb instead, dizzy and stuffed full of cotton as his mind raced and stalled and raced again with thoughts he'd long since lost any control over, and that wasn't even the worst part. He felt everything-- things that weren't his to feel. Distant jubulation and revelry that weren't his and would never be his why are they happy about it please stop just let it end flooded his mind and coiled about his soul, overwhelming him with foreign sensations that felt like screaming and scraping but hurt like needles and burns, sharp and loud and grating and painful.
His chest hurt worst of all. He hadn't really been hit there, but his ribcage was being burned from the inside out by whatever dynamite that apple had set off in place of his already aching soul. Each breath was a labor, every accompanying shudder sending jolts and sparks through molten blood and scorched marrow-- wracking his spine, up to his eyes, down to his fingertips and toes. The cold sand and stones felt compassionate in comparison, the frigid night air surrounding him probably the only embrace he'd find any comfort in.
...Blazes, what Dream wouldn't give to collapse into somebody's arms right then, curl up and bury his face into somebody's shoulder and sob or maybe just scream until he was hoarse. He hated those lying, traitorous bastards back home with the few remaining fibers of his being that weren't crying of hurt and loss, but maybe he could tolerate just one more lie, one last facade of kindness and care, just until he ran out of tears.
Not that it was them he really wanted that (or anything else) from. Every last one of them could go rot in hell for all he cared, and he wouldn't miss them, nor feel a shred of sympathy. No, they'd lost that child, that bright-eyed youngster that had been so eager, too eager to please, gouged out the part that was kind and had cared and gave so selflessly and liberally and had so stupidly believed that his 'friends' would be kind in return.
He just knew that the one person he did want right now-- couldn't. Nightmare couldn't hold him right now and he never would again and Dream missed him so bad it hurt in it's own right, deep like a cut and cold like a blade and silent like he was bleeding from his very soul. Even if Dream wasn't being held down, even if he wasn't wounded, even if this sixth sense hadn't come crashing over him so relentlessly he could barely think, he'd been too stunned to move, limbs falling heavy and useless and still as he could only watch in silent horror as his world split open and his soul was torn in two. Now, he could hardly scrape together a coherent thought without hearing shouting and jeering and gunfire and desperate pleas for help, without every pain in his body bringing faces of those who had afflicted them upon him plauging his mind, without seeing viscous black blood and smoke and weapons and crushed bone and that small, terrified, but so kind and appologetic smile that Nightmare had just barely managed to flash him in the moment their gazes met one last time. He'd hated seeing that smile then almost as much he longed for it now.
Dream wasn't sure what he'd thought would happen when he bit into that apple, one of the golden ones that he and his brother had attended, that gleamed in the sunlight. Perhaps he wasn't thinking at all-- a spur of the moment decision, a last ditch effort to save the two of them. There were stories he'd heard about them-- that they held great power, that they would grant whoever had one in their possession the confidence needed to surmount any obstacle, seize any goal, without fail and without rival. Dream might have laughed, maybe even fallen into a fit of hysteria over it, if he had enough left in him to manage more than whimper-- he sure as hell didn't achive anything back there, and he sure as hell didn't feel confident right now. He felt small and terrified and lost and angry and grief-stricken and betrayed and broken--
...And so, so very alone.
...This wasn't fair. None of this was fair, none of this was right. They weren't even fully grown yet, what could they have possibly done wrong during their short existences to deserve this? What did he do so wrong that he deserved to be beaten down, forced to flee the only home he'd ever known, and have his only family and closest friend ripped away from him? What had his brother done that was so vile and unforgivable that he deserved to be torn apart and put to death--
...The anger was new, so was the hatred. It was one of the few emotions that he could recognize as his through the cacophony, along with his anguish and grief. Sure, he'd been frustrated before, but never like this, and a small corner of his mind was terrified at the notion-- he'd never considered himself a spiteful person. That small corner didn't want to stay angry, but it just wasn't going away; it had only gotten worse this whole time. It was disconcerting and dangerous, and a tiny part of him was so afraid he'd lost something else, that his mind had been broken beyond repair to feel this way, finding itself suddenly armed and unable to drop the blade again.
And another, louder, resigned part of him figured that maybe it was just what those selfish lowlifes deserved.
Dream shifted, now, biting down on the inside of his cheek to suppress the whimper that accompanied the motion as he wrapped his good arm tighter around himself. The pressure made his ribs ache and throb and burn again, hiccuping over a breath and choking out a sob, but he just needed something solid under his fingertips, or maybe he needed to be held-- just something to futility teather him to reality.
He just wanted the pain to stop, just wanted to go home and be with his brother. He didn't want to think anymore, he didn't want to hear anybody else's sentiments echoing in his head anymore, he just wanted to be numb and for the world to go quiet and dark and to not feel for a while. He was so exhausted, and his eyes hurt and felt so heavy, and the cool ground felt so, so pleasant against his scarred bones, easing the furnace in his chest a little.
...The canyon was shelter enough, wasn't it? Surely, he could just nestle himself amongst the crevices here and stay out of sight, out of the elements. And he didn't need to actually sleep, that was a bad idea with his arm still bleeding anyway. He could just... settle in, and close his weary eyes so they'd hurt less, and rest under the stars like he always enjoyed. Maybe when he finally opened them again there'd be trees above and soft grass below and Nightmare next to him, and he'd find that this was all just a bad dream and Nightmare would laugh at him for worrying so much about him.
...Or maybe, he simply wouldn't wake up. Maybe he'd loose enough blood that oblivion would take him quietly, and he wouldn't need to worry at all anymore and he could make some vulture's day instead. He and Nightmare could meet then, too, and maybe they'd even forgive him for not knowing sooner, for not being there.
He couldn't find it in himself to have preferance as he let himself slip down, secumbing to the aches and exhaustion, soothed by the cold. It'd only fall on the universe's deaf ears, anyway. As long as he was there when he woke up, he could be content...
