For three days in late February, Ashbey Beasley woke up in the biting cold, hopped into her friend Michael Cohn’s car, and together, they made the 30-minute drive from Highland Park, Illinois to the Lake County Courthouse.
Cohn and Beasley got to know each other in the aftermath of the 2022 Highland Park mass shooting, which killed seven people and wounded 48 more. This winter, they drove to court for jury selection because they wanted to see, firsthand, who would decide the fate of the person that had caused them and their families so much grief. It was yet another proceeding in an almost three-year string of court dates that, with time, grew even harder to tolerate.
Highland Park survivors have said that the shooting — and the gunman who fired more than 80 bullets into the quiet community’s Fourth of July parade — shattered their sense of safety. “It’s important to understand that when the shooting is over, if your shooter didn’t die,” Beasley said, “there’s a whole other fight and battle you have to go through.”
One of those battles typically plays out in court. Survivors of gun violence say the judicial process can be difficult because they’re asked to revisit their darkest hour over and over again. On top of living through that difficulty, survivors like Beasley and Cohn said the court proceedings opened their eyes to the pain felt by Chicagoans who experience gun violence more frequently. Their interactions with the criminal legal system are fueling advocacy for gun reform. Among other efforts, they’ve traveled to the state capitol to advance legislation that bans assault weapons and supported policies that remove firearms from people deemed dangerous.
Facing trauma in court
Court proceedings for the man charged in the Highland Park shooting began almost immediately after the parade. Since then, defense attorneys attempted to throw out the shooter’s confession; his father pleaded guilty of sponsoring his son’s firearm permit, and, last summer, the shooter backed out of a plea deal, though he eventually pleaded guilty.
Every time Beasley sees him in court, she’s hit by a wave of anger and sadness. This man, she said, was responsible for making her 6-year-old son’s first experience at a parade terrifying. “You have to sit in the room with the person who caused your community and your personal family so much trauma and heartache,” she said. “It’s another form of trauma that’s being put on survivors and their families.”
Josh Novick, a gun violence trauma specialist who previously worked for Highland Park’s school district, said survivors need support before they enter the courtroom, during the proceedings, and after each visit, so that they can process their emotions.
Like other Chicago-based survivors of gun violence, Delphine Cherry, a gun reform advocate, knows the impact lengthy trials can have on grieving families. In 1992, her daughter, Tyesa, was shot at age 16. During the subsequent trial, Cherry relived her pain multiple times. When Cherry saw her daughter’s killer, she was angry, but also sad, because he was only 14. While the court connected her with a victim advocate, Cherry said she needed significantly more help than they could offer.
In Chicago, survivors have said they don’t receive enough time with court advocates because there aren’t enough of them. Often, Cherry said, she’s informally filled that role to help other survivors.
Cohn said he and his family felt supported by the Lake County State Attorney’s Office. There was always a victim specialist on hand, and the family could access safe spaces when they needed to get away.
On top of understanding confusing litigation practices, survivors have to face the person being prosecuted, someone who is often the source of their grief. Based on what they saw in court, Beasley and Cohn thought the shooter wasn’t taking the proceedings seriously. Last summer, when he backed out of a plea deal, Beasley said, he looked at the courtroom and smiled. “We all felt like this was a big game to him,” Beasley said.
Even though bearing witness in court was hard, Beasley showed up because every bit of knowledge helped her. “It’s part of my healing process,” she said.
As Beasley sat in court, she thought about the ripple effects the shooting had on her community and wondered why the shooter had not been charged with terrorism. Her courtroom visits inspired her to work with legislators across the country to try to introduce a federal law that would charge mass shooters with terrorist offenses.
“We should be making sure that anyone who’s thinking of doing this knows that there’s a no tolerance policy in this country for these acts of terrorism,” Beasley said.
Like Beasley, Cohn’s recovery includes learning as much as he can about the shooting. His cousin, Jacquelyn Sundheim, was killed in the parade. He sat next to her and saw her head slump when she was shot. He’s gone over several videos and photos, trying to make sense of it all. Going to court, he said, was another step toward closure.
Cohn said he learned about how the shooter obtained a gun. “These guns are just too easy to get,” he said, reflecting on the proliferation of firearms in the U.S. “This kid should have never been able to get his hands on a gun like this.”
‘An incredible act of bravery’
Cohn and Beasley braced themselves for the shooter’s March 3 trial date.
Some families, Cohn said, “may not have wanted to know all of the gory details, what happened to their loved one, but they were going to have to hear that story repeated over and over and over again for each victim.”
That day, though, they finally caught a break.
To their surprise, instead of proceeding with the trial, the shooter pleaded guilty to 21 counts of first-degree murder and 48 counts of attempted first-degree murder. Though he made his plea orally, he signed his trial waiver as “Donald Trump.” He now faces life in prison without parole. His sentencing is scheduled for April 23.
When Cherry heard the news, she said she was glad the Highland Park families were spared the ordeal. She also said the shooting — and the litigation and advocacy that followed — brought the communities in Highland Park and Chicago closer together. “They might have not understood my pain before that happened,” she said.
Spending time in court, Highland Park survivors said, made them realize that experiences like theirs are much more common in less affluent communities. Now, they’ve found solidarity in their cause, said Novick, the trauma specialist, and understand that their ongoing trauma is shared.
“Much of what we do in trauma work is about moving forward,” Novick said. “When survivors are asked to come to court, obviously, it’s an incredible act of bravery and resilience, and it also is a stark reminder to survivors that this is still ongoing.”
