This is a personal account of my own truth according to my memory, perspective and experiences.

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On Friday, June 7, 2019, my son, Josiah Hilderbrand, was murdered during a carjacking on the side of Highway 97, about thirteen miles south of Toppenish, Washington. Josiah and the driver of the vehicle, Jon Cleary, had stopped to help two men stranded on the side of the road. It was the last good deed they would ever do. Both were shot in the head, their bodies dumped, and their car stolen only to be abandoned 20 miles north in an orchard in Wapato. Josiah and Jon had been heading to the Gorge Amphitheatre to see Dead & Company who were playing a two night run at the venue. They never arrived.

The following day, not far from where their car was found, James and Donovan Cloud committed what would soon be referred to as the White Swan Murders. During that killing, five more lost their lives, a baby was held at gunpoint, a family was assaulted, their teenager almost kidnapped and many more were traumatized. It was the fourth largest mass murder in the United States that year.

All seven lives lost in the two separate killings were investigated as part of the same case as evidence tied them together. Bullet casings from the White Swan Murders matched bullet casings found in Josiah and Jon’s car as well as bullet casings in the vehicle James and Donovan abandoned on Highway 97 after it ran out of gas. Fourteen months later, Josiah and Jon’s remains were finally found by a highway worker, far down the embankment, but not far from where the Clouds had abandoned the vehicle they had been driving. This evidence alone seemed a solid foundation for criminal charges that would hopefully lead to a conviction.

I was assured throughout the investigation that charges for what happened to Josiah were coming. It seemed only a matter of when, not if. Then, when the decision was made to take the White Swan case to trial, I waited with bated breath through months of pretrial hearings for more charges to be added. Everyone was on the same page about the possibility—defense, prosecution, and the presiding federal judge, Judge Salvador Mendoza of the Eastern District of Washington. I listened in to every pretrial hearing via teleconference call eager to hear my son’s name finally spoken. Periodically, the judge inquired about where prosecution stood on charges for what happened to “JH” and “JC”, never speaking their full names unlike the victims of White Swan. Each inquiry was answered with uncertainty until eventually, federal prosecutors responded by saying they would not be filing charges, that if they ever came, it would be at a later date. I waited still, certain they would come. However, shortly before James and Donovan Cloud went to trial, a plea deal was offered which included immunity from charges related to Josiah’s killing.

The plea was offered despite my protestations, telling Troy, the FBI agent handling the case, “What you are asking me to do is to make a deal with the devil and I will not, I cannot, do that. It’s as if we are in hostage negotiations and you are asking me to trade my son’s life for a guilty plea. What happened to Josiah deserves to be discussed in a court of law.”

“And what if we lose?” he questioned.

“I don’t care if we lose!” I replied emphatically, pacing my office at work. “I want all of us to sit down in front of a judge and have a little talk. I want James and Donovan to be told that what they did was wrong.”

Later that day, I spoke to Tom Hanlon, lead federal prosecutor.

“I hear you asking me what I think, but I know you are going to do whatever it is that you intend to do and I want to make it very clear that I am absolutely against making any sort of deal with James or Donovan Cloud.“

“Ms. Hilderbrand,” Tom countered dryly, “The families want closure. They want justice.”

“Closure?! What about my closure? What about justice for Josiah??”

I did not believe our conversation to be anything more than a formality, but even if my words were falling on a closed heart, I knew his ears were open. I wanted there to be no doubt about where I firmly stood — I was not in favor of a plea deal that traded immunity for a guilty plea for White Swan. I never got word of their final decision, but I remained hopeful that what I said had made an impact.

James and Donovan were to be tried separately in back to back trials, each perhaps lasting as long as three weeks.

On February 28, 2022, James Cloud was the first to go to trial which lasted a total of seven days. I listened in each day via conference call to horrifying testimony, experts offering their opinions and lawyers on each side arguing their cases. By going to trial, I assumed that prosecution had rescinded their plea deal, but later found out that James had turned it down.

On March 9, 2022, the jury found James Cloud guilty on 4 out of 5 counts of 1st degree murder along with a slew of others, including carjacking and kidnapping. Later that day, Donovan Cloud plead guilty to brandishing a firearm and carjacking by accepting the plea deal offered to him. Immunity from charges related to Josiah’s murder were included.

Shortly after the trial concluded, I was told by Marissa, my victim’s advocate, that I would be able to write and submit a Victim’s Impact Statement (VIS). I was enraged by the plea deal, but found some solace in getting our day in court by addressing James and Donovan Cloud through reading a written statement. It was nowhere near a trial, but it was something. Sentencing was set for late July.

Less than a month later, my mother fell gravely ill and I traveled to the east coast to be with her. I spent the next six weeks by her side until she passed on May 16th, 2022. During that time, I thought nothing of what was happening in Washington. There was no space for it.

After returning home, I reached out to inquire about the VIS. It was Wednesday, June 15th.

“Hello, Marissa?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Hi. It’s Elizabeth Hilderbrand, Josiah’s mom. I’m calling to ask about the Victim’s Impact Statement. I was wondering if I can still write one.”

“Yes, but I have to have it by Friday.”

“Okay,” I answered, startled by the 48-hour time constraint, “I’ll get it to you.”

“Okay,” she said, “but you won’t be able to read it in court.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“It will be given to the judge and to the defense, but you won’t be able to read it in court. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do.”

I was devastated by her answer, however, I would not let it silence me.

In the early morning hours of Friday, June 17th, I poured my heart out into a 2000-word statement, submitting it before Marissa’s deadline.

Soon after, sentencing was continued to late September and then, more news came. Judge Mendoza, who had presided over the trial, was appointed to the 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals and subsequently replaced by Judge Stanley Bastian, someone I knew nothing of. This change brought about another delay and sentencing was then set for October 12, 2022.

With the new judge, my fears regarding the sentencing grew. Would Judge Bastian be more lenient than Judge Mendoza? Would he fully understand the complexities of the case? Beyond my questions, I still held hope that maybe, just maybe, Donovan would be swayed to talk now that he had immunity from Josiah’s murder.

I arrived in Yakima the evening of October 11th. My boyfriend, Brian, came with me stating that he did not want me to go alone. We spent the morning of the hearing visiting the spot where Josiah’s body had laid for 14 months, which I consider his grave. We also visited the cross Yakama Natives had placed in a pullout a quarter of a mile away in honor of Josiah and Jon.

We arrived at the courthouse early, shortly after 1:00 pm. We made our way through the security check and then up to the courtroom on the second floor. The building was old, framed with rich timbers and impeccably clean. Brian and I took a seat on one of the benches outside of the courtroom as family members of the victims from White Swan gathered. There was a woman among them, short and round with blond hair and a very friendly face. When she spoke, her voice was familiar to me.

“Marissa?” I questioned inquisitively, approaching her.

Her very round eyes got even bigger, not sure of who I was.

“Hi. I’m Liz, Josiah’s mom.”

“Oh!” she responded, taking a breath. “I wasn’t sure if you were coming.”

I was puzzled by her response having exchanged text messages only a few days before.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” she continued. “And again, I’m sorry you can’t read your statement, but if we even tried to let you, the defense would immediately object so there really isn’t any point.”

My eyes widened, digesting the reality of what she was saying.

It wasn’t a stipulation of the court like I thought. It was another decision made by the prosecution which effectively cut Josiah out of the process. It locked his name out of ever being spoken in court.

Her words stuck like a large lump in my throat.

Just then, Rick Burson and Tom Hanlon, Federal Prosecutors, whisked by with Troy trailing behind. Rick and Tom did not turn to acknowledge me, but Troy stopped, one hand holding the door and the other reaching out to hug me. Throughout the entire investigation, he had been the only one with a voice of true reason, the only one to show me any humanity or an inkling of a heart I hope we all bear. I looked him in the eyes as the flurry of activity stopped for just a moment, saying to him, “Remember, you are the only shining light in all of this. I said it before and it’s still true.”

Brian and I entered the courtroom behind him, taking a seat in the first pew, just feet from the short, cherrywood wall that separated us from the proceedings. On the other side of the wall was the long table where the defendants would sit.

Brian turned to me, whispering, “You realize where you are sitting, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I spoke back quietly. “I know where I am sitting. I want to sit here.”

“Okay,” he said, squeezing my hand, closing the few inch gap between us.

Family members of the White Swan victims filed in, some carrying photos, others wearing shirts with images of their murdered loved ones. I sat upright wearing a Piercy Volunteer Fire Department shirt, the crew Josiah started his fire training with. I also wore his belt buckle from the belt I gave him for his 17th birthday, the one he was wearing when he was killed and then laid there with him for 14 months, the one that positively identified him long before DNA results came back. Around my neck hung my mother’s necklace and on my finger, her ring. Earlier, I had spritzed my chest with two pumps of her classic perfume, Chanel Gabrielle. I wanted both her and Josiah with me, holding me in that treacherous space.

My eyes darted back and forth between Marissa to my left and the federal prosecutors to my right. Did they even give my statement to the judge? I wondered. I had no way of knowing and did not fully trust them.

The courtroom started to fill up. Half a dozen lawyers were present on the Clouds’ side, some for James, the rest for Donovan. James was then brought in in shackles. He had put on a startling amount of weight, his skin was peaked, his hair long, his eyes dark, his face emotionless. He barely resembled the man I had seen in mugshots.

Judge Bastian started the hearing by introducing himself, expressing that he knew many might be confused as to why Judge Mendoza was not there, explaining the necessity of the replacement, and then reassuring everyone that he had read through and studied the entire trial. It was obviously important to him that everyone trust his capability to give thorough consideration in sentencing. He then went on to state that he had received multiple Victims Impact Statements and began to list the names of the people who had written them, one by one.

“And lastly,” Judge Bastian said, “we have a statement from an Elizabeth Hilderbrand.”

Lorinda Youngcourt, James’ defense attorney, immediately stood after hearing my name, placing her hand over her chest.

“Your honor,” she began in the same whiny voice I had come to deplore while listening to over two years worth of hearings and the trial. Loathe is such a strong word, but I can tell you that it fits in describing my feelings for her.

“As much as I feel for Ms. Hilderbrand and what happened to her son… I mean, I really do… But what happened to him doesn’t pertain to James Cloud.”

Gasps came from behind me. They were so loud that I can’t imagine she didn’t hear them, but still, she went on.

“So, I have to object to her being allowed to speak,” she continued as she backed up her position, leaning into her words, hand still over her heart, feigning concern with a pitch that only raised with each word. I did not believe that she had concern for any human life beyond the one of the murderer who sat beside her.

Judge Bastian seemed unfazed by her words and replied briefly and inconclusively. I sat there, as still as I could be with Brian next to me. Minutes passed and Lorinda stood up again.

“Excuse me, your honor, but you didn’t respond to my objection.”

“No, I did not,” Judge Bastian replied quickly. “I heard your objection and will take it into consideration.”

Both his words and the tone of his voice brought me hope. 

I leaned towards Brian and whispered, “Maybe he’ll let me speak.”

Brian squeezed my hand, responding, “Maybe…” He did not want me to get my hopes up and felt sure that the roadblocks placed in front of me up to that point were impermeable.

I opened my phone, looking for my Victims Impact Statement. I had saved a copy there. Then, one by one, family members filed forward to the front of the courtroom, standing in front of the judge, flanked by two tables, one to their left with James Cloud and his attorneys and one to their right with Troy and the prosecutors. They were each given the same direction, “Please keep your statement to five minutes and begin with stating your name.”

Each person spoke, some with tears and shaking voices, others erupting in anger, turning and calling James a coward or spouting threats fueled by dreams of retribution. I sat behind them all, watching in detached awe laced with envy for the opportunity to stand in court while the whole process, everything that was going on around them, resounded in a loud cry that said,

What happened to your loved ones was wrong. We see you. We hear you. You matter. Your loved ones mattered.”

I wanted that too.

When everyone had finished, Judge Bastian looked out into the pews and spoke directly to all of us.

“Thank you everyone for coming today. What you did took courage. Before we move on, I would like to know if there is anyone else here who would like to speak.”

My eyes widened and somehow beneath the drowning weight of all of the injustice—the murder, the desecration of Josiah’s body, the lack of charges, the use of his brutal murder as a bargaining chip in a plea deal—two plea deals offered, one taken — the unwillingness of the prosecution to allow me to have a moment in court—to even try.

From beneath all of that, I was able to find my shaky voice and drag it up to the surface.

“I…. want…. to…. speak,” I muttered, pointing to the place in my chest where what strength I could muster was coming from. The entire courtroom turned and looked at me as the judge’s eyes zeroed in on me.

“I.. want.. to.. speak,” I stammered with a little more strength, still pointing to my chest.

“I. Want. To. Speak,” I repeated.

“I WANT TO SPEAK!” I said much more emphatically.

“And who is this?” the judge said, looking at the prosecution.

“Your honor, that is Elizabeth Hilderbrand,” Rick Burson, the federal prosecutor answered.

“Your honor,” Lorinda Youngcourt said, standing. “I’m sorry your honor, but I have to object…”

Judge Bastian interrupted, stopping her, “Now look, I heard what you had to say and I understand, but she deserves to speak. What we are going to do is allow her to speak and it will not go on record, but she wants to speak and she has a right to.”

“Please go and get her,” he added, motioning to the prosecution.

Marissa started digging through her book bag, the one that had contained everyone else’s printed Victims Impact Statements. I knew mine was not there, but still, she dug, finally stating, “I’m sorry I don’t have it.”

“I have it,” I responded. “It’s on my phone.”

Rick Burson was in full character, looking me in the eyes for the first time and what became the only time, stating, “Do you want to speak?”

“Yes. I want to speak,” I replied.

“Okay, well, I’m going to work it out then,” he said, feigning both authority and care.

The judge was calling for me, calling me to walk past one of the men who had abandoned my son’s dead body on the side of the highway and to walk past the two men who had abandoned my son’s dead body on the side of the legal system tasked to prosecute people for the crimes they had committed.

I turned to Brian, shaking, knowing that if I stood, my legs might collapse beneath me.

“I need you to come with me,” I said with eyes wider than they had ever been before.

Brian stood, grabbing my arm while bracing my elbow and walked forward with me. We went through the swinging, low wooden doors, past the US Marshals guarding the courtroom, past James Cloud and his defense attorneys backed by Donovan Cloud’s defense attorneys to my left and past the prosecutors and Troy to my right, up to where the tall, thin microphone sat on a table in front of the judge.

“Hello, Ms. Hilderbrand,” Judge Bastian said, welcoming me. “I’m glad that you’re here. I know that you’ve written a Victims Impact Statement and I want you to know that I’ve read it. I’m going to tell you the same thing that I’ve told everyone else, you have five minutes.”

I paused, looking at him with the same three-year-old eyes that had peered from behind my mother’s skirt, speaking with a voice that sounded almost infantile, forcing out, “My statement is really long,” referring to my 2000 word VIS.

“I know,” he responded, “I’ve read your statement and I am going to tell you again that you have five minutes.”

“Okay, I’ll read it really fast?” I questioned in a high shrill, not knowing how else to utilize the time given to me.

“No,” he said, smiling. “I’ve read your statement several times. I know what it says. I don’t want you to read your statement. I want you to speak from the heart.”

My mind went absolutely wild. It was racing, jam packed and completely empty at the same time. My eyes darted back and forth, frantic to find something to latch onto.

“I haven’t prepared anything,” I said, stunned.

Judge Bastian looked at me warmly, nodding, urging me on.

I remembered the direction he had given to everyone earlier, Begin with stating your name.

“Well,” I began, dragging my voice up out of the pit of my belly. “My name is Elizabeth Hilderbrand. I am the mother of Josiah Michael Hilderbrand.”

Judge Bastian nodded in approval. Hearing my son’s name spoken by my own voice caused energy to well up in every cell of my body. My hands were shaking and I felt the meekness of my three-year-old self still present, she was present in my tone and my facial expressions, but the 49 year old mother in me was the one running the show.

“On June 7th, 2019, my son was murdered when he and the driver of the vehicle he was in pulled over to help two people who were stranded on the side of the road. And my son mattered,” I said, turning towards where James Cloud sat. Brian put his arm around me, turning me back towards the judge.

“Ms. Hilderbrand, I’m going to remind you to not look at the defendant, but to direct your statement to me. I know this is hard, but I want you to speak to me.”

“Your son did matter,” he added firmly.

“There was a plea agreement offered to both James and Donovan Cloud, and part of that plea agreement was that charges will never come for what happened to my son. James did not accept the plea, but Donovan did, so Donovan will never be charged for my son’s murder and whether or not James will remains to be seen,” I said, pausing nervously.

“In my mind, my son was used as a transactional object twice. Once by the Clouds as a vehicle to get to where they wanted to go and again by the prosecution as a vehicle to get to where they wanted to go which was a guilty plea from Donovan Cloud.”

Judge Bastian continued to nod as I spoke, but after those words, my train of thought started to fall apart and my voice weakened with it. I scrambled to remember bullet points from my VIS which I had read many, many times even though with each reading, my confidence in what I had written weakened.

“Josiah was my only child. I was a single mom. It was just he and I. I will never have grandchildren. I will never see him get married. He will not care for me when I am old.”

Judge Bastian gave what felt like a final nod.

“My son mattered.”

And with those last three words, I ran out of steam. I had come to the crux of all of it. I was back to the only point, and that is, that my son mattered. Josiah mattered. What happened to him matters.

Judge Bastian then responded, “Yes, he mattered.”

“Ms. Hilderbrand, you are an eloquent writer and speaker and I’m so glad that you are here today. You’re right, your son mattered. Thank you for having the courage to speak today.”

As the hearing wore on, first James’ and then Donovan’s, Judge Bastian continued to bring what justice he could to what happened over three years prior. He questioned prosecutors as to why they didn’t charge Donovan with accessory or aiding and abetting. They stammered when trying to respond.

“If you want to tell me that it was part of your strategy, you can tell me that,” Judge Bastian offered, “but I want an answer as to why.”

Rick Burson, nodded and let out a garbled response, affirming the judge’s suggestion.

The judge also questioned why prosecution put a cap on how long Donovan could be sentenced for, stating that many in the courtroom would agree that he deserved a far longer sentence than the 27 year, 3 month maximum they had assured him.

As he said “many in the courtroom,” I raised my hand.

“I see you back there raising your hand,” he acknowledged.

Prosecution responded, saying that they wanted to offer a plea he would accept.

It felt as though Judge Bastian was scolding them for all of their cowardly and unjust moves. I once had great hope in their capabilities, but they had been dashed by easy-outs and tail-tucking behavior.

I had come to Yakima because I felt it was most likely the only sentencing I would ever attend. I felt obligated to see that part of our journey through to the very end, but had no idea what the end result would be. I imagined it would be filled with disappointment, but it isn’t what I felt at all.

That Judge with those words, vindicated me. He validated my anger and disappointment by allowing me to speak and by questioning the decisions that had been made by the prosecution, he brought sanity and justice to an insane and unjust process. There I was, the mother of Josiah Hilderbrand who had been cast aside and sacrificed by the people who killed him and also by the people tasked to stick up for him and the man who lorded over all of us that day, Judge Stanley Bastian of the U.S. District Court, Eastern District of Washington, was on Josiah’s side, on my side, and in my mind, on the right side of the law.

If I could do one thing, it would be to thank him for giving me what felt like justice. I had been confused by that word since the beginning. In our society, justice is used interchangeably with “punishment”, but when I thought of justice, I pictured Lady Justice with her balanced scales and I did not understand how punishment could somehow bring balance to what happened to Josiah.

But, to have a man of his position come in at the very end of all that we had been through and effectively say what happened was wrong, the way it’s been handled is wrong, Josiah mattered, his mother and her voice matters finally brought some semblance of balance.

Afterwards, the prosecutors, Rick Burson and Tom Hanlon, never approached me, they never looked at me. They stood and shook hands with the other victims’ families less than ten feet away from me. They did not acknowledge me nor had they acknowledged my son, but Judge Bastian did and for me, that was more than enough. In a sense, their collective actions set me free. I can now tell the story of what happened, divulge every detail.

I no longer have to be afraid that my words will somehow harm the investigation or that there will be some sort of retribution. Tom Hanlon and Rick Burson’s threats were empty, as empty as their promises. Some of the family members yelled out, calling James Cloud a coward that day, but I would attest he wasn’t the only coward in the room.

Philosophically, there was no difference between what James and Donovan did and what the prosecutors did. Not to me. Josiah was used and discarded. His name not spoken. Compassion not given. Accountability not taken. You can say that the judicial system is broken and you would be correct, but not completely. I would argue that people are broken, our values are broken, our integrity is lacking and our society is breaking beneath the weight of it all.

When I spoke to my father later that night and told him what happened, he responded, “They had too much shame to look at you.”

I left Yakima feeling free. Judge Bastian had the final word and his sentiments were in alignment with my own. And beyond that, the secrets I was tasked to keep for 40 months, the storylines masked by my own shame, the writing that came to a screeching halt after Tom Hanlon and Rick Burson demanded that I stop, was over. 

This story is for everyone who has ever felt silenced or lost. 

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