So much was wrong about this crime, starting with the victim. Jerry wasn't supposed to die this way. Jerry was the guy who prevented murder. He was a peacemaker who happened to be a scary looking black dude, if you consider a tattooed and muscled Harley-riding biker from an outlaw one-percenter motorcycle club called The Wheels of Soul "scary looking". The kid who shot him felt "disrespected," in the language of the ghetto. He and his friends had been kicked out of the Wheels of Soul clubhouse at 61st and Market St. in West Philadelphia for fighting among themselves. One of them returned a few hours later, and fired a single shot when the door was opened to admit a woman into the clubhouse. My friend happened to open the door. He left behind behind a wife named Delores and a daughter named Taylor. He was a respected fine artist in Philadelphia. The tattoo parlor he owned and operated supported his family. The kid convicted of murdering him was not even half his age.

Since I was unable to tell the young man convicted of murdering one of the finest human beings I've ever known, I will tell you. It went like this:

"Good morning, your honor.
I speak as a white man on behalf of a black man who was my brother. And Jerome Robinson was my brother in the richest sense of the word. Being the man he was, Jerry had many brothers and sisters -- hundreds, perhaps thousands -- his potential family was limitless, including those who were moved by his published poetry, or his paintings and sculpture hanging in art galleries and private homes. Some of his brothers and sisters carry his artwork proudly on their bodies. Some of them are here today. I speak for them as well.

Three years and four months after his death, the shock of his murder, the pain and ache, the wrenching sense of personal loss, the homicidal fury aimed at his killer, the aweful anxiety of wondering if justice would be done -- all of those emotions have faded except for an indescribable emptiness. That part of our lives filled by Jerry Robinson. His smile, his laughter, his goodness. All that lives in precious memory, but that is no consolation for its absence today, tomorrow and every tomorrow.

You, Jameel Simpson, have been convicted of causing that emptiness, of condemning us to an eternity of hurt whenever we feel that dull void inside us, that icy place once warm and generous and fun. You have condemned us to the awful sound of a dying poet's last words, "The motherfucker shot me." There is nothing poetic about those words, nothing good and noble. He did not die with the name of his mother or his wife or his daughter or Jesus Christ on his lips. His last words were about you, and since he did not know your name, he gave you one.

You, Jameel Simpson, have been convicted of murdering my brother, our brother, and I want to hate you for it. I wish I could hate you because it would be a much more satifying emotion than what I actually feel. I'm not angry. Just sad. Sad for you, sad for me, sad for Philadelphia, sad for the people in this courtroom. I'm not sorry that you will spend the rest of your life in prison, but I'm sad because you are a cliche. Another young black male who will grow old behind bars. And all because of what? What were you thinking when you pulled the trigger? Were you thinking at all? Was your life so hopeless? Did you actually think you'd get away with it? Did you care if you'd get caught? Did you think you'd be a celebrity in prison because you'd capped a Wheel?

When I first met Jerry in 1988 he invited me to the Wheels of Soul clubhouse. There were vending machines along the brick wall, and one of them had a bumper sticker on the side that said, "Shoot a Biker. Go to Jail". I always thought that was funny, but I wasn't sure why. A few years later I mentioned to Jerry that I still didn't understand the joke. What's funny about "Shoot a Biker, Go to Jail"? Jerry replied, "Who's going to be waiting inside prison?" Oh, I get it. Bikers.

The sin of this crime, Jameel, the irony, the waste, is that you were exactly the kind of young man Jerry Robinson wanted to reach, wanted to help, wanted to demonstrate to what it means to be a man. Jerry Robinson was a father, a husband and a warrior who would have marched into hell for a heavenly cause. He had principles. He had courage. He had honor. He had fun. And he was fun to be with. You would have loved him if you had known him. And I need to believe you would have loved him. I need to believe that the way Jerry did. Because that is what my brother taught me. And that is who you have taken from us and from the world.

What I know about Jerry Robinson -- and I find this awfully hard to say to you, Jameel -- is that he forgives you. I can't say the same. But Jerry expects things from you. And if he had anything else to say to you, imagine Jerry lying in the rubble on the far side of the war-torn bridge that seperates brothers from animals. And there a gut-shot Capt. Jerry whispers to Private Jameel. "Earn this." Earn this sacrifice. By the end of your life, become a man your mother could be proud of. You can never repay me. But you can try to repay her. .

Or not. It seems to matter to Jerry, not me. He believes in you, I don't. I hope I never see your face again. Until you killed him, I thought Jerry might be an angel, almost too good to be true. I was wrong. Jerry was a mere human touched by God. Whose name is Allah. And Yewyew. And Jesus, And Wheels. And Delores. And Taylor.

Frankly, Jameel, I don't give a damn about you. You are a cliche. You are a bumper sticker. You shot a biker. You're going to jail. May God have mercy on what's left of your soul."