Festivus for the rest'uv'us

As most of you may or may not know, I am running for Governor of the great State of Connecticut. You can follow my Gubernatorial overtures on twitter and in keeping with one of my many, many promises, I am bringing governing back to the people.

So, here’s a little contest for you common folk: help me design the campaign t-shirts that I will sell to you for a fee to fund my campaign. In return, I will receive your vote and make a donation in your name to the Human Fund.

What I need from you (besides your vote) is a witty slogan. Brian Tannebaum set things off in the right direction with this gem: “Gideon for Governor: Moving Connecticut in the Wainwright direction”.

Can you do better? Think Tannebaum’s a punk and want to show him up? This is your chance! Leave a comment and the wittiest slogan (or two) will make its way onto an extremely overpriced t-shirt [here's a sample].

God Bless Connecticut.

Every so often, because that is the nature of the beast, a judge will ask the lawyers during a pre-trial if they’re “ready to put numbers” on it. Either today, or next time. Numbers: the sanitized way of saying “let the dance begin”. When cases are thought of in terms of numbers, it’s easy to be dispassionate, to be detached from the sad reality underlying the wheeling and dealing.

Numbers are a way to numb yourself to the concept of incarceration. And numbers are common place. Sometimes I think numbers are thrown around without any regard to their actual value. Just as in science, numbers have no meaning if they don’t have units. Take this example:

Try this problem: a train of length 2, weighing 200, travels from Denver to Santa Fe at 15. How long did the trip take?

Yeah, that means nothing, right? Just as I feel that often “numbers on a case” mean nothing to the parties uttering the words. 10/5/3 is a common refrain. 20, 25, 30. As the numbers keep getting bigger, they shed meaning.

10/5/3, in our terms, is a sentence of 10 years’ incarceration, suspended after 5 years of jail time, followed by 3 years on probation. But when you say 10/5/3, you can avoid ugly words like jail time or incarceration. And we throw around numbers like candy. “Well the State wants 12/6/5. What’s your counter-offer? Make it reasonable.”

Reasonable. What’s reasonable? It’s a barter, a trading of liberties for wrongs committed. The whole thing is ugly. And yet it may be the only dignified way of resolving criminal prosecutions. Going to trial is easy. Declining to prosecute is easy. It’s this numbers game that the most difficult part.

What do we do when “put numbers” on a case? We assign an arbitrary value to the actions of one person, usually against another. What’s taken into account? The injury, society’s view of the heinousness of that act, the loss to the victim, the propensity of the offender to offend again and rarely the person who committed the act. But it’s still arbitrary in the end. Because they’re just numbers to us. None of us – the judge, the prosecutor or me – have to actually do the time. It’s easier to say “20″, when you don’t have to worry about what it really means.

It’s a struggle, honestly. A struggle between my acknowledgment that society has to exact its revenge for crimes committed against it, my duty to my client, my pragmatism and ultimately my utter horror that we are about to deprive someone of their freedom for any period of time.

I have a really difficult time telling a client to accept a plea offer that involves any jail time, let alone numbers in double digits. I do it, because I would be a lousy lawyer if I didn’t. But every time I hear a number, or utter a number, all I can think of is if I had to do that time: the things I’ve done over that time span going backwards; the things I will do going forward. And then I look at the man sitting in front of me and realize that there is no hope. That we’ve treated years of his life like chips in a game of poker. They wanted 5, I offered 3, we settled for 4.

There has got to be a better way.

Click here to view the embedded video.

For 19 spots, there were 120 applications, and rightly so. This program presents an unique opportunity: to get a high-level education and to attempt to rebuild one’s life and prepare for an eventual release into a world that won’t acknowledge their existence (for some).  There are several remarkable things about this program. One of them is that the crime of conviction is not a factor in who gets accepted into the program. So whether you’re a murderer or someone who was selling drugs, you have an equal shot at getting accepted. The second feature that struck me was that while there is no guarantee that graduates of this program will get a degree from Wesleyan, they will be entitled to access to career services upon release.

Imagine that! Inmates will have somewhere to go, armed with an education and the possibility of a degree and get assistance in finding a job. The State should be ashamed of itself.

Reading this article, I learned some things about Wesleyan and its tradition and history:

But the university has a long history of civic engagement that traces back to its Methodist roots. It is named after John Wesley, an 18th-century minister who championed prison reform and helping the downtrodden. Two students, Russell Perkins and Molly Birnbaum, who had volunteered in prisons as students, revived the idea last year when they were seniors and figured out a way to finance it.

What’s even more stunning is that this proposal was scheduled for a vote the very same day that a student at Wesleyan was gunned down in a bookstore. The school merely postponed the vote 2 weeks and during that subsequent vote, it was approved. Goes to show you that to recognize that not all “criminals” are the same, you merely have to have your head screwed on straight.

Of course, this brings the usual din of dissent and cries of “wah, you’re helping those scum criminals” from the usual suspects. I don’t have very many good things to say about the State’s victim’s advocate (none, really), so I’ll just quote her and let it speak for itself:

Crime victims and their advocates question whether the investment will be worthwhile. “I appreciate the need to educate offenders, but I’m saddened we don’t spend that kind of money or take that kind of time to rebuild the lives of crime victims,” said Michelle S. Cruz, Connecticut’s independent victim advocate.

Private institution, private funds, state spends enough money on incarceration and “retribution”, blah blah.

Sam Rieger, a Waterbury man whose 19-year-old daughter was murdered by a man now incarcerated at the Cheshire prison, agreed. “This does not make sense to me,” he said of the Wesleyan program. “What is the point?” He said the money should be spent on victims or on trying to help young people make better choices.

I have not met Mr. Rieger, nor do I know who he is, but I understand his sentiment. The point is this: many “young people” are already lost by the time they come to prison. There are programs attempting to help them before they get there, but there are few. In prison, they have nowhere to go. They are, in a sense, forced to be attentive. If this programs takes those same men and provides them with the education that they didn’t receive earlier, what’s the harm? I can only see a benefit to it. Lets not forget that there are well defined roles in prison among the inmates as well. Lifers are usually looked on with some reverence and do carry some amount of clout (or used to, at least). If you educate the ones that are going to be there for a long time, they can pass that on to the young whippersnappers rushing through on their latest tour.

The bottom line, though, is that education can never be a bad thing. Some might argue (including myself) that providing better education to our underprivileged youth might be the best way to attack the crime problem. But I’m just some liberal nut who would love to take these classes at Wesleyan.

(H/T: the local listserve)

Convicted of murder in 1992, Fernando Bermudez has wrongly been in jail for 17 years. Interestingly, it took only a year from his conviction for the eyewitnesses to recant citing police and prosecutorial pressure and manipulation:

A year after Mr. Bermudez’s 1992 conviction, five witnesses who had identified him as the killer at trial recanted, saying in sworn affidavits that, they were coerced or manipulated by the police and prosecutors to identify Mr. Bermudez as the killer. Several of those witnesses reiterated their recantations in September at a hearing before Justice Cataldo.

Not only that, but all 5 testified at the most recent hearing that they viewed his mugshot as a group and discussed his likeness to the killer: a big no-no in photo array identifications. All the science in this field shows that we have a tendency to compare pictures to each other and to what we think the suspect looks like and pick the one that most closely resembles the person sought to be identified, instead of picking the person who actually is. If you don’t believe me, try this simple test from expert Gary Wells‘ website.

In his 79-page decision, Justice Cataldo wrote that Mr. Bermudez’s rights were violated because the police had allowed prosecution witnesses to view Mr. Bermudez’s mug shot as a group and to discuss his resemblance to the killer. Justice Cataldo also found that the prosecution should have known before sentencing that one of its cooperating witnesses, Efraim Lopez — a teenager whom Mr. Blount had punched at the club — had given false testimony.

But that doesn’t deter prosecutors. In fact, they’re so wedded to the notion that once a conviction is obtained it must be defended at all costs – and certainly one where the reversal is based in part on misbehavior by one of their own – that they utter nonsense like the following:

“We don’t think the defense has shown anything wrong with the verdict,” Mr. Dwyer [the chief assistant Manhattan district attorney] said.

I’m not sure what world Mr. Dwyer lives in that 5 recantations don’t imply something wrong with a verdict, but wherever it is, I don’t want to live there.

What cases like these ought to do is put more focus on SCOTUS’ upcoming decision in Pottawattamie County v. McGhee [oral argument transcript here; scotusblog recap here]. The issue in Pottawattamie is whether prosecutors should enjoy immunity for intentionally coercing false testimony in the investigation phase of a prosecution and then introducing that same testimony at a trial that leads to conviction. In that case:

In 1978, Curtis McGhee and Terry Harrington were convicted of murdering a retired police officer in Pottawattamie County, Iowa and sentenced to life in prison. Twenty-five years later, the release of new files in the cases revealed that prosecutors had fabricated the testimony of a lead witness at their trials and failed to disclose evidence about an alternative suspect to the defense. The Iowa Supreme Court vacated Harrington’s sentence, and McGhee pleaded guilty to a lesser charge in exchange for time served. Both prisoners were freed.

The oral argument in Pottawattamie is something to read. It shocks the mind that something so simple as intentionally framing an innocent person is a phrase never once uttered by any party (not that I remember anyway). Some of the justices were more concerned with the chilling effect on prosecutors. Look, we all acknowledge that most prosecutors try to do their jobs fairly and very, very few of them wouldn’t be bothered by a wrongful conviction on their conscience. But how does removing immunity for intentionally framing someone produce a “chilling” effect on their prosecutorial function? It seems bass-ackwards. If anything, wouldn’t it make prosecutors more careful in whom they pursue and whom they charge? Would  removing such immunity not provide the very result which we seek: no wrongful convictions and certainly none that are obtained by intentional falsification of the evidence? [Listen to NPR's Morning Edition's coverage of this case last week, which includes listener calls from prosecutors and public defenders.]

For me, the answer in Pottawattamie is simple: If you’re a prosecutor who intentionally frames an individual, you should be sued. Not only should you be sued, but you should be disbarred. The latter is less likely to happen than I am to become the next Chuck Norris, but the former should be a real threat. The power of a prosecutor is awesome and that power should be wielded with great care and never with malice or dishonesty.

Had police and prosecutors not pressured 5 people into falsely identifying Mr. Bermudez, he probably wouldn’t have spent 17 years in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. That’s the real moral of this story, not the legal fiction of “opening floodgates” or “chilling effects”. Anyone who gives any weight to such an argument needs to spend 17 years in jail in his place.

And because it’s a Sunday night, I give you this little joke:

Get it?

The latest installment, Chapter 3, is of particular interest to me, because in it he writes about “The Public Pretender”:

I still cannot decide if I had decent representation within the parameters of the “McJustice” doled out via the overworked Public Defender’s office and the backroom horse trading that goes on. If I could have afforded a real lawyer, one with “connections,” would I have done as much jail time? I do not know the answer to that. I tend to think that I would have gone free sooner. But I will never know for sure.

I am taken from my block and brought to a room back near the dreaded holding tanks, meeting with the person with whom I am to entrust my life. And here, in front of me, is Clarence fucking Darrow, himself – all bluster and a bit cartoonish, reveling, it seems to me, in being the center of attention. He is surrounded by assistants, interns, law students – almost all of whom, I am strangely curious to discover, are attractive young women.

…

The Pretender tells me that I am not the usual kind of person he represents, since I am apparently well-spoken and educated. But that does not prevent him from launching into street lingo, some of which I ask him to translate for me. He speaks this way out of habit, I am guessing, to try to win the trust of his usual crop of clients.

I have mixed feelings about my Pretender. Do I want what appears to me to be a snake oil salesman representing my interests in these felony cases? Maybe this is exactly the kind of person I need on my side. The lawyer in my misdemeanor cases seemed much too timid for me – in fact, agreeing with the prosecutor in court.

But there’s more. For instance, this handy guide to writing a successful “speech to the judge”:

Major ingredients for a successful speech to a judge include:

1. Apologize to the court, to the community and to any victims harmed and admit your mistakes.
2. Talk about what you are doing while in jail to further your education, help the jail community or help control destructive behavior (AA, Alternatives to Domestic Abuse, GED, etc.).
3. Discuss your job possibilities after you return to the community and the support system of family and friends that awaits you.
4. Mention family members, teachers, members of the community who might have written letters to the judge on your behalf.

Do not:

1. Insist you are innocent.
2. Tell a hard-luck story about yourself and your family.
3. Fail to address the court clearly and with respect.

Yes, that was a very convoluted way of saying that the GA Supreme Court heard oral argument in the case of Jamie Ryan Weis, who’s sat in pre-trial confinement for 4 years awaiting a death penalty trial. For the first two years of his confinement, he didn’t even have counsel. The reason? GA has no money. Not for him and not for the 70 or so other capital defendants.

The state high court’s decision, expected next year, will set an important precedent. Numerous death-penalty trials across the state have been delayed because there has been no money to pay defense lawyers, investigators, expert witnesses and mitigation specialists.

In recent weeks, the state Office of the Capital Defender has not had enough lawyers to fully defend all of the approximately 70 death cases pending statewide. This includes two defendants charged in the July 26 slaying in Atlanta of former pro boxing champion Vernon Forrest.

Georgia court rules call for a capital defendant to be represented by two experienced attorneys. But because of overwhelming case loads, the capital defender office has been able to provide only one lawyer each for Charman Sinkfield and Jquante Crews, two of three men charged with Forrest’s murder.

Not only “Georgia court rules”, but ABA standards as well require two lawyers on each capital case. Anything but is sure to result in a reversal. So why doesn’t Georgia have any money to pay for an adequate defense? I’m glad you asked:

The lawyers, Bob Citronberg and Tom West, asked for funds from the Georgia Public Defender Standards Council at a time when the case against courthouse killer Brian Nichols was almost single handedly bankrupting the state defender system. The state wound up paying $2.3 million of Nichols’ total $3.2 million defense tab.

That’s why. One of the most publicized death penalty cases in recent history, which ended without a death sentence. Back then, observers were already commenting that the Nichols case might spell the end of the death penalty in GA and it seems that it may come true, but in a different way.

There really is only one option here, for the GA Supreme Court, although not being a follower of that court, I don’t know if they’ll take it. That, of course, is to halt death penalty prosecutions until the state can afford to pay for competent defenses. No one should be burdened by the yoke of a death sentence obtained in violation of basic Constitutional rights (although that hasn’t stopped other states before). The Court has a unique opportunity here to put a stop this ridiculous drain on resources and let the money be utilized in more productive ways.

The implications of this case are tremendous and may be a foreshadowing of what is to come in other states that are all too eager to pursue this most barbaric of penalties.

If you want to watch the defendant’s lawyer argue before the Supreme Court, click here (interestingly, it seems that one can utilize visual aids in the Georgia Supreme Court. I’m not sure how many other appellate courts permit this: certainly not SCOTUS and not here in CT either. Does yours?).

So, it’s probably unnatural and unhealthy to be so giddy upon learning that Gov. Rell has decided not to seek re-election, but as most of you know, I can’t stand the woman. And that’s putting it mildly. I let out an audible yell yesterday when Ann Nyberg tweeted that she wasn’t going to run. My colleagues looked at me, much like they always do, like I had three heads. So maybe my disdain of the American Idol Governor knows no bounds.

But there’s good reason. After all, she has singlehandedly done so much to create such a disregard for the law and the rule of law, that sometimes I wonder who is worse: the law-breaking “criminals” she sought to protect our white community from or the law-ignoring bureaucrat.

She was the most dangerous of the “tough on crime” pols: sweet, nurturing, grandmotherly. She would lull everyone into sleep with her gentle affect and then decree the most outrageous acts of lawlessness this State has seen this decade.

First, there was Cheshire. Oh boy was there Cheshire. The brutal crimes in a white suburban neighborhood served not only to rouse the Governor from her mid-term siesta, but also had the side-effect of completely blinding her to common sense, and well, the rule of law. So the first thing she decided to do (well, sort of) was ban parole. That lasted for 4 months and resulted in severe overcrowding and a tremendous burden on state resources. That’s when Colin McEnroe coined the moniker “The American Idol Governor“. I still can’t get enough of that. She then proposed some truly scary and not very well thought out “reforms” of the criminal justice system, some of which unfortunately made it into law. Then she wanted CT to have a three-strikes law, in the face of all scientific research on its uselessness. Then came the unhinging, aka, “The David Pollitt Project“. I’m not even going to touch that. And finally, the veto of the death penalty abolition bill.

I write all of this, not to disparage her, but to remind myself and you  – voters all – of the absolute effing nonsense we’ve had to put up with these past few years. Will any of the people who’ve announced they’re running for Governor be any better? They almost have to, don’t they, because it can’t get much worse than this.

So while I wish her well in her personal life and hope that her health remains strong, I will not be sad to see her become former Governor Rell. I’m not sure there was a person less equipped to take on that job.

And now, on to the big question. What needs to be done? The first response is obvious: abolish the death penalty. But there are so many more things that need to be changed about the criminal justice system in our State. In my mind, there’s only one candidate who is qualified to do that. So, you guys can be the first to hear it: I am hereby announcing my candidacy for the Governor of the State of Connecticut and I will be running on the Smart on Crime platform for the “It must be easy; she did it for so long” party.

More details about the, well, details of my platform will follow in subsequent posts. I’m now going to go and do a cartwheel.

trying to figure out?

H/T: 4th, via who else

As someone who stands in a room of judgment, day after day, and watches society impose its collective morality on those that it deems the outliers, I cannot help but believe that there is something fundamentally askew with us. That our desire to control, to bring order, to inject sense where there may be none has blinded us. That we have drawn lines so sharp and clear in the sand that we have forgotten that there is no such thing as good or evil. I believe that it is our perception of acts that classifies them as good or evil.

I believe that the man who is about to spend the next 5 years of his life for shooting someone else has the same capacity for evil as the man who is sending him there. I believe that there is none among us who could not lift a finger to hurt another; just as there is none among us who wouldn’t lift a finger to help another. I believe that our actions are the product of our circumstances and thus, we are capable of anything: good or bad.

I believe that there is no act, however good or bad, that cannot be explained by the circumstances preceding or surrounding it. I believe that if we only chose to pay attention to those circumstances, that we would understand that. I do believe that the majority of us are better at controlling our base desires, of having better hold on our emotions and it is merely that which we are punishing in others: the lack of self-control.

I believe that we all have a breaking point; a point at which “we” become “them”. Some of the nicest, most docile men that I have met are those that have taken another life. Some of the angriest, most close-minded men are those that seek to judge others without recognizing the same capacity in themselves.

I believe that in order for us to evolve as a society, to have more “good” than “evil”, we must stop judging. I do not believe that people should not be punished, but that punishment must come with understanding and with mercy. I believe that it is easier to paint those that do not conform to our notions of “good” with the same broad brush of “evil”, but that it is more damaging. I believe that it is harder to look behind the acts that we are judging and recognize that capacity for good, but that if we tried – sincerely – we would all take a step forward toward making ourselves “better”.

I believe that it is difficult to believe this, but believe it I must.