Regina's GJP Story - A clients perspective

Regina Sullivan (N.B. not our client’s real name) planned to be the chain-breaker, the one who wasn’t afflicted by the generational curse. “I thought, ‘there’s no way I’d ever let a man get me there,’” she says, still seemingly baffled. She was smart, college-educated, and the mother of a daughter she adored. And she was headed to jail on a domestic violence charge.


As an abused child, and later abused spouse, Regina’s life story is in many ways typical. In others, it defies every stereotype of the genre.

The only child of an artist mother and a wealthy, alcoholic, bad-boy father, Regina grew up in an affluent but violent Midwestern household, where her father regularly abused her mother. Her mother, in turn, abused her. “She found me to be cumbersome” says Regina. Her father, though, defended her from her mother’s assaults. “He was a terrible husband,” explains Regina, “but a great dad.”

Unlike her mother, Regina was a tomboy, and at a certain age, her abuse morphed into anger and she began to defend herself. “I’ve always felt inadequate,” she says, yet she was always a high achiever. She moved away from her abusive family and graduated from college in Atlanta. She earned a Master’s degree in Education and taught for several years. But she, too, fell for a charming man with his own baggage: unbeknownst to her, he had several domestic violence arrests in another state and an uncanny ability to deflect blame. When he began to abuse her, she fought back. As things became worse, she told him to leave.

In a move calculated to thwart her independence and assert his own control, he picked another fight. The altercation escalated; she fought back; and he called the police. Because her blows had left marks on him, she was arrested as the perpetrator. Two days in lockup gave her time to think clearly. “The hardest thing for me was when I realized, he has never been nice to our daughter,” she says. “I was making him more important than her.” It was time for a change. She asked for legal assistance and referrals for counseling.

Georgia Justice Project seldom accepts domestic violence cases. “But my case was so crazy,” she says, “they called back and said they would.” Her counseling started even before her trial. She was sentenced to six months probation, and eventually her record was expunged. But with no place to go, she and her daughter had to move back in with her abuser. Still, Regina was motivated to make the break. “When I look at my daughter,” she says, “I know I don’t want to be my mother.”

Regina participates in a domestic violence group but finds Georgia Justice Project social worker Julie Smith’s approach to be even more beneficial. “I wanted to learn from the experience, become a better parent and move on,” she explains. “And Julie always hits me with the ‘and now what?’ question. She’s totally honest and supportive.”

Of her experience with Georgia Justice Project, Regina says, “They saved my life and my children’s lives.”

It’s been six years since her arrest, and Regina and her children are happy and healthy and living on their own. It fills her with pride when Julie tells her, “It’s amazing what a centered parent you are,” and points out that she’s doing a good job. Still, she worries about what effect it will all have on her daughter.

“Being abused affected me in so many ways,” she says. “But now we have resources and options. She’s more resilient than I’ll ever be.”

Ernesto's Story

This was a mistake. It had to be. He’d been at home all night, drinking and partying with friends in a neighborhood not far from where he’d grown up. “I’m thinking I’m about to get out,” says Ernesto, “that it must be a joke,” because what else could it be?

No joke, Ernesto Green (N.B. Ernesto Green is not our client’s real name) was in serious trouble.

Locked up in the the county jail’s notorious seventh floor, facing felony murder, aggravated assault and armed robbery charges, he had no idea where to turn. “I didn’t know the system,” he says. Why would he? At 42, he had no prior criminal record, and he’d spent the previous 15 years caring for his elderly mother, doing the odd painting job for extra cash. She had died a little over a month before.

The crime was a home invasion, a horribly violent crime in which three men broke into the neighborhood “liquor house,” intent on robbery. As one man stood back and directed, the others ransacked the house, beating and kicking their victims viciously. One later died of his injuries.

When police arrived, the thugs were described as young men between 19 and 30, all unknown to the victims. No one professed to have seen the lead man’s face; they heard only his voice as he directed the other two assailants.

Yet, hours later, the bootlegger called to tell police he knew the main assailant. He named Ernesto Green. In a police lineup, he identified Green, as did one of the other victims, although tentatively. The victims collectively changed their initial descriptions, detailing men in their 40s and 50s and claiming to have seen all three faces clearly.

Green was arrested, denied bond, and sent to prison to await trial.

His first public defender didn’t show for his hearing. Two weeks later, the second did, but had no background on the case, made no appeal for bond, and told Green “not to worry about it.” Back to the seventh floor, where his cellmate was a convicted murderer. “Every day, I felt like my life was on the line,” Green says. “There’s always trouble, people trying to get you to fight. I kept thinking, ‘If I mess up just one time….’”

Then another inmate told him that sometimes lawyers take cases pro bono. Green wrote down everything the man said and passed it to his good friend Sharee, asking her to search out the details. Eventually she stumbled onto the Georgia Justice Project. “I wrote them a long letter,” says Green. “When they took my case, I was so relieved. For the first time I felt comfortable, like I had a family with me.”

He credits his GJP attorneys with helping him keep his sanity. “They connected with me regularly, came to see me, and wrote me letters,” he says. “They focused on my case and communicated everything that was happening.” When other inmates told stories about working with their public defenders, about long stretches with no communications, about feeling like no one was working on their behalf, “They told me I was blessed to have Georgia Justice,” says Green. He agrees. “I had faith in them. They told me there would be obstacles and helped me take it day by day, so I could stay balanced and spiritual. It’s like they were right there with me.”

It took 18 months for his case to come to trial. Green says GJP lead attorney Marissa McCall Dodson and second chair Deborah Poole “handled it like soldiers. I felt like I had an army on my side.” They came in prepared, he says, and explained every point and procedure. They stressed that his case was strong, but that no outcome was certain. As Dodson explains, “He was either going home or going to prison for life. There was no middle ground. That’s pretty scary, because you never know what a jury will do.”

With no physical evidence tying him to the crime and the witnesses’ stories rife with inconsistencies, Green was acquitted in a nerve-fraying four-day trial. As is customary, he was sent back to his prison cell to await final release, which usually takes a matter of days. When he heard the guard call “Green, pack it up!” later that afternoon, he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. “I just couldn’t trust it. I was afraid he might be fooling me.”

Not trusting people is just one of the many long-term side effects of Green’s incarceration. In the year and a half it took for his case to come to court, he lost the home he’d inherited, all his possessions, and his Social Security benefits. With no money even to call for a ride, Green walked the many miles from the jail to his mother’s old neighborhood, where it seemed “so peaceful” he says, “that it’s still hard to believe.”

With help from close friends and family, Green is learning to adjust. Denied adequate medication for months, he’s working on stabilizing his blood pressure. He’s attending church, and trying to look ahead, not behind. Still, he says, “These charges will be on me the rest of my life. Anybody can say my name, pull my name up on the computer, and have reasonable doubts. It’s like a scar on me.”

He’s right. Ernesto Green’s criminal record will follow him for life. In Georgia, acquittal does not clear the record, nor are those records eligible for expungement. From now on, every time a potential employer, landlord or anyone else checks, Green will be identified with those horrible, violent crimes.

A trim, handsome man with a warm smile and a firm handshake, Green admits his future “looks shaky,” but reiterates that he’s not going to focus on the past. “God is my protector, he says. “I’m just going to keep myself clean and stay spiritual. Whatever God tells me, I’ll stick to it, and I hope it will all fall into place. I have nieces and nephews, and I have to be there for them.”



Anyone who had been through Ernesto Green’s experience could be forgiven for feeling dark, depressed or angry, but he works hard to look upward and ahead.



“There’s a beautiful side to it,” he says. “When the sun came out, there was a rainbow.”