Jaymelea’s Story

Hi, I’m Jaymelea.

My father was murdered in May 2009, when I was 17.

He was walking through a park where he was attacked and subjected to a prolonged assault where the offender ultimately tried to drown him in a lake before running off. People tried to stop him, witnesses pleaded and cradled my father until emergency services arrived, but ultimately he passed hours later due to his injuries.

I was informed a day later when the police knocked on my door. In that moment, my life changed forever. I remember thinking how we’d argued about university and I’d told him I hated him only days before. I didn’t hear anything else the officers told me. I just remember looking at my mum and I could see my pain in her eyes. I ran out of the door and collapsed at the end of the street, feeling like my lungs had filled with concrete.

Days passed and the police had finally found a suspect. I couldn’t see my dad because his injuries were so severe it was better for me to have the memory of him alive. I never got to say goodbye, hug him again, hold his hand or tell him I love him.

A few months passed and we held his funeral. We laid flowers at the park. We remembered the wonderful man, father, son and brother he was. We told stories from his love of horses, computers and trance music. How he’d visit my gran nearly every day.

Then December came and we finally had a court hearing. His killer took us through a week-long trial where he pleaded not guilty to murder. We sat in Preston Court and listened to all the evidence, the gruesome details of my father’s injuries, while the 16-year-old smirked at us in the dock. His friends threw our belongings and spat at us.

Then finally, the jury deliberated and after less than an hour they unanimously gave a guilty verdict.

11 years without the possibility of parole… finally, we had closure.

Or so I thought.

As time passed, I found myself Googling my dad’s name, finding websites calling my father a weak white man and infidel. I’d heard rumours that there was more than one person involved and trying to get answers took over my life. Even after the birth of my son, I couldn’t let it go. I became angry at the world. The ‘why’ ate me up. ‘Why my dad?’, ‘Why me?’

Then one night, as I was sat up looking for answers, I decided I needed to write to the person that did it. Anything. I just needed to know.

Then I found restorative justice. I emailed immediately.

A week or so passed and I got a phone call from Jonathan. He came to see me and talk to me about RJ and what it meant, how the process worked and if I was in an appropriate place to take part. In the weeks that followed, I visited the prison, went through my questions and Jonathan even ensured I could take my dad’s box with me. It’s all I had left of him: a blood-stained hat and some broken glasses wrapped in a brown evidence bag. They still smelt of him…

On the day of the restorative conference, Jonathan picked me up and my friend who came with me, and I held my dad’s box on my knee the whole way there. I had never felt nerves like it in my life. We arrived at the prison, went through the security process and I sat waiting in the chapel room. I remember my legs bouncing so hard off the floor, I was shaking head to toe. When Jonathan asked me if I still wanted to do this, I stood up with everything in me telling me to leave. My body was in fight or flight and I wanted to run.

Then in walked the now man who had murdered my father. He was a few months younger than me.

At first, he couldn’t look at me and he began to cry. The anger in me erupted and I shouted, “What are you crying for?”

I spent 2 hours in that room through tears, pain and anger, to even laughing at memories of my dad. I showed him what was in my box, what I had left and how was it fair. I showed him the park filled with flowers and tributes of where he killed my dad, and then I showed him a picture of my son kissing his grandad’s photo. I sobbed that he would never meet him, that he took that from me. He took my dad’s chance to be a grandad, to see me ever get married or do all the normal things in life.

Did I get an answer to my why? No.

Did I get closure in the sense you’d expect? No.

But what I did get from that day was so much more. I gave the pain back to where it belonged.

I didn’t forgive him. I set myself free from guilt and pain and harbouring anger that I didn’t need to hold.

I got home that day and watched my son play on his trampoline, and I watched the sun twinkle through the trees. And for the first time in the 5 years since my dad was taken from me, I felt lighter. I felt able to carry on. I knew I wasn’t going to pass this pain down to my children. I wasn’t going to be angry anymore. Still grieving, yes, but in a healthy way. I could remember my dad for more than just how he died.

I stopped laying awake at night wondering if he was in his cell feeling any sort of remorse. I no longer let the image of some scary figure control me because seeing him that day, he didn’t intimidate me. I wasn’t scared of him. I pitied him.

I went on to finally complete my dad’s wish of attending university and got my BA HONS degree. And for a girl who left school without a single GCSE, I felt rather proud on that stage, knowing I did it for him.

I’ve also gone on to talk in schools and prisons, be a proxy victim, and attend open days sharing my experience of RJ. Even now, I’m really good friends with Jonathan, who facilitated my RJ process. He supported me through it all, even things like the parole hearing and fighting to keep my dad’s killer inside. He was one of the most vital people through the whole process and I couldn’t thank him enough.

I now manage a supported accommodation for care leavers and youth justice, and RJ is close to my heart. I’ve even developed my own training programme to help young people and reduce youth violence and promote RJ that I’m hoping to pilot soon.