Ten minutes after 10 a.m. Friday, Sean “Diddy” Combs walked into the federal courtroom — the familiar one he sat in for his eight-week trial — one final time for his sentencing hearing. The music mogul hugged his attorneys, waved to his family sitting in the pews, and sat down for what would be a dramatic six-hour hearing that determined his fate for the next four years.
“I don’t care about the fame or the money or making records or performing,” the award-winning rapper declared in his first remarks to the court. But his legions of fans, both inside and outside the courthouse, had already been presented with a show — the last act of his farewell tour. I had a prime seat.
The sentencing hearing consisted of multiple speakers, a high-production video, guest stars, and concluded with the headliner himself. Emotions were running high and the drama was in full force; the day was filled with tears, gasps, and palpable anxiety.
Even three months after the blockbuster trial ended with his conviction on two prostitution-related charges, the 55-year-old convicted felon was still the hottest ticket in town.
Line holders and ardent fans began queuing outside the downtown Manhattan courthouse on Thursday afternoon. When I arrived this morning, still hours before the hearing kicked off, hordes of people, camera crews, and police officers lined the block.
Even before most people had their coffees, the crowd outside seemed energized to see the final stage of the high-profile case. Some people were guessing his sentence length. Others wondered which victims, if any, would make an appearance. Others, still, quietly asked if there was any chance he’d walk free today.
Ultimately, there were enough spectators to fill up at least three overflow rooms in addition to the main courtroom.
As if you were at a theater being asked to silence your phone before the movie starts, a courtroom deputy asked for silence before the judge and defendant entered the room.
Within minutes of the hearing starting, however, drama ensued.
“Mia,” Diddy’s former assistant who had asked to read her victim impact statement at the hearing days earlier, no longer wished to address the court, prosecutor Christy Slavik said. Diddy’s attorneys’ had objected, accusing her of lying on the stand. “Mia’s” change of course was “at least in part because of the letter submitted by the defense” which can “only be described as bullying,” Slavik said.
Judge Arun Subramanian scolded the defense team, calling the tone of the letter “inappropriate.”
Minutes later, the judge outlined a sentencing range of 70-87 months, saying he saw “no basis for a departure” from the guidelines. The statement seemed to make the defense lawyers sink in their seats ever-so slightly. But, despite the seemingly inevitability of the outcome, the show was just warming up.
Slavik then took the reins, urging the court to consider the harm done to the victims in this case. “Today is about accountability and justice” for the public and for the victims whose “lives have been shattered by the defendant’s abuse and exploitation,” the prosecutor said. The government asked him to be sentenced for 135 months behind bars.
The defense team took the stage for the rest of the day in a showing that included five attorneys, a reverend, and an 11-minute campaign video over the space of four hours in a desperate last-ditch attempt to prove the rapper’s life and character wasn’t what had been heard in the courtroom months earlier.
Nicole Westmoreland, one of his attorneys, spoke about how the mogul inspired and helped so many people through his music career and businesses and charity work. Diddy “dedicated so much to breaking the chains of systemic racism,” she told the court. She suddenly, and unexpectedly, broke down when discussing his media company Revolt. One person walked into the overflow room and uttered: “Is the lawyer crying?”
When the rapper’s six adult kids stood up to speak, suddenly it wasn’t just Westmoreland in tears. Their words were powerful and emotional. Quincy called his father a “superhero.” Chance pleaded: “We’re just daughters who need our father.” D’lila concluded, speaking through sobs: “We cannot watch our baby sister grow up fatherless the way we grew up motherless.”
Diddy, who had remained composed throughout the day, buried his face with his hands, as if signaling his heart was breaking for his children, and then wiped away tears from his eyes. I certainly sniffled. Others around me shook their heads, acknowledging how moving their remarks were. At least one person sitting near me had tears running down their cheeks.
Then the tone changed — dramatically. The defense team played a montage of their client’s life, complete with clips of him running a marathon, early 2000s home videos, and excerpts of his interviews with the media. The production value was high; the music in the background was low. It was reminiscent of footage shown before a concert begins, getting the crowd to warm up before the headliner appears. Instead, the mogul slouched in his seat, emotionally coping with the personal footage.
His defense attorneys argued that he’d undergone enough punishment. Brian Steel remarked on the “hundreds of civil lawsuits” against his client and the media storm that has followed the criminal case, the rapper’s dark secrets — from his drug addiction to sex life — put on public display.
Arguing for his release, Marc Agnifilo similarly said: “This has been a devastating, destructive case for this man on the largest of stages.”
At 4 p.m., five hours after the hearing began, the hotly anticipated act stood up and took a deep breath, and told the judge he didn’t want any more stages.
As he spoke, the room was rapt. No one was whispering to their neighbor or rifling through their bag for a pen. Everyone was leaning forward, anxious to finally hear what Diddy had to say about his own trial.
He apologized to his ex-girlfriends, Cassie Ventura and “Jane,” for his violence and abuse. The mogul repeatedly underscored how he was a changed man. Instead of performing, he wanted to take care of his family, he said.
Diddy, who had been facing the judge, turned around to face his family sitting in the pews. He apologized to his children and then to his mother, his voice breaking as he said: “Mom, I failed you as a son. I’m sorry. You taught me better. You raised me better.”
The fame and the drugs are behind him, he said: “I got lost in my journey of life. I’m not this larger-than-life person, I’m just a human being.”
Speaking to the judge directly, Diddy vowed: “If you give me another chance, I won’t let you down.”
The court broke for just five minutes. Unlike the verdict day, when people stood up in anticipation of the jury’s verdict, when Subramanian returned, everyone remained seated.
The mood was somber. The judge’s sentencing estimation from earlier in the day was still seemingly imprinted in everyone’s mind, as were the victims’ testimonies of domestic violence that Slavik had quoted.
“Nothing about this case was good — except the victims who came forward,” Subramanian said, later praising their bravery in sharing some of the worst moments of their lives.
The sentence was, in part, “to send a message to abusers and victims alike that exploitation and violence against women is met with real accountability,” the judge added.
Diddy was given 50 months in prison and a fine of $500,000. A few people in the room cheered. Both teams of lawyers sat in their seats looking dejected; neither side were handed what they’d asked for. Diddy pinched the bridge of his nose, apparently disappointed. His kids appeared upset, but their tears had dried from hours earlier. They wouldn’t respond to a braying press pack outside who asked them how it felt that after their “daddy got four years.”
“The court is adjourned,” Subramanian said. And just like that, the show was over.
Push notifications about the mogul’s fate popped up on my phone as I headed home from the courthouse. Forgetting I was still wearing my press pass, someone glanced at it before asking me: “Wait, are you press? Were you at Diddy?”
Diddy might be done with fame, but there are no signs it’s done with him.
