Clare Bronfman could have taken repentant action, either before or after her plea bargain, and she could have made statements to disavow her ties to Keith Raniere.
Clare could have sought and maybe even completed some sustained therapeutic efforts, during the past two or so years.
Unless there is a surprise coming from Clare Bronfman, she is still very much identified with Raniere and the nauseating, steaming shitpile of their “human potential” movement, with all of its scandals and outright horrors, plus its inbuilt, trenchant abusiveness.
This reminds me of the old saying, (her) taste is in her ass. How come Clare doesn’t see that and reckon with it?
She was born more or less an orphan of wealth and didn’t learn self-respect. She seems to have no relation with her own core beingness. She is impoverished as a self and haphazardly grasps fake paste, trinkets made to copy real jewels, without even seeing what she is doing.
If only she could come back to life.
Ask yourself, did anyone ever care about Clare, anyone who could have exemplified to her, as a child, how she could have learned to love herself and others UP, instead of dragging herself and her associates down, down, down?
This is one of the curses of the entitled, rich, psychological messes: personal investment into their own misery. I have seen this “curse” manifest itself, over and over again. It is nothing new.
Her life is never going to be the same again. Clare is notorious now.
The overly eager civil suit might still be waiting for her, whether she becomes a prisoner for more than 27 months or not. This was the cutoff point of the amount of time that Clare offered to accept, without appealing her sentence. But again, her life as she knew it is already over.
Her money can buy her a degree of isolation and privacy, until she can find her way out of the United States entirely, like her sister. If she has any survival energy left in her, Clare will get the F out of Dodge. She can be dissolved into the stricken anonymity of a disenfranchised character, as in a short story by W. Somerset Maugham, who gossiped relentlessly, almost as superbly as Proust, as he blatantly shamed dolled-up, grotesque hypocrisy.
Judge Garaufis, do your thing. This is what we have left, so far. I (try to) trust the Judge to do his best to come in just right, with his decision about Clare Bronfman’s length of prison time.
Even more so, the Judge will explain his decision when he delivers it. It is a chess game. He is a representative of humankind itself, wearing a chamber robe and interpreting, imitating our multi-faceted conceptualizations about justice. Emotionalism cannot have much more than a cameo appearance.
So far, Clare Bronfman is stuck with herself. Apparently, she isn’t prepared to make any significant changes for herself. That is really too bad. How ironic it is that horses are healers, very, very often. She had a much more wonderful chance at a happier life before her sister introduced her to a new position, a front row, catered table in hell.