Until last month, I didn’t know that there was a Kentrell Mitchell living in Columbus on E 16th Avenue. Ironically enough, decades ago, when I was a student at Ohio State, I’d lived on 17th Avenue. Kentrell, it turns out, had much better luck than his half-brother Jayden Mithcell. Jayden was only three months old November of last year when his biological father, Quindell Sherman, got in a terrible argument with Jayden and Kentrell’s mother and decided to express his displeasure by picking Jayden up and slamming him to the floor of their house’s porch. He then picked his three-month-old son up and hurled him into the middle of the street. Finally, he picked the child up and threw him headfirst onto the pavement. A few hours later the Columbus Police found Quindell holding his son’s body, hiding in a dumpster.
This past week, a judge sentenced Quindell to life in prison with the possibility of parole in twenty-five (young Kentrell was in court with his great-grandmother, who was about 50 years old. Do the math). For the sake of my sanity, I am profoundly grateful that I was not involved in his family’s case. Quindell agreed to plea guilty in exchange for the prosecutor’s office taking the death penalty off the table. I hope Quindell Sherman never makes parole, I hope that Kentrell’s mother exercises a bit more discretion in selecting her next “baby daddy,” and I hope Quindell is never anywhere near a child ever again.
Some of my friends occasionally express concern that I sometimes have a rather bleak outlook on life. Perhaps the story of the 16th Avenue Mitchell family will help explain why.