Am I A Coward For Blogging Anonymously? and Hello Doppelganger

I was perusing favorite blogs this morning when I came across this entry from Bookslut’s Melissa Lion.  In it, she reviews a collection of “pretty good” essays. She disagrees with many of the authors’ decisions to adopt psuedonyms, however.  In her words: “[I]f you’re going to write something you think is controversial, but it’s a way you choose to live, then write about it under your own name. Give this thing some credibility, would you? Don’t just contribute to whatever it is that makes you want a pseudonym.”

This got me wondering whether, in fact, it’s hypocritical of me to blog anonymously?  After taking a very lawyer-like/statutory construction approach to interpreting her statement however, I have decided that, thanks to the phrase “but it’s a way you choose to live,” her criticism should not apply to PD bloggers. 

Although I do blog about my personal life a bit, I also blog about my professional life - and that’s something very different.  I think that people should know about my work, but I also recognize that my primary duty is to my clients.  The attorney-client privilege trumps all.  I’m sure that this is a large reason why, among PD bloggers, anonymity is the rule and not the exception.  Even if we didn’t care about whether the world at large knows who we are, anonymity serves as another layer of protection for our clients.   

And this has been a big issue for PD bloggers lately.  Woman in Black actually deleted her blog for a time, fearful of being discovered.  I’m a PD has commented on a string of PD blog deletions.  Apparently, one PD actually lost his job over his blog and, from what I can tell, it’s mostly about birds.  (In all seriousness, this news has really shaken me and I’m pondering deleting mine as well.  Stay tuned, I guess.)  

So no, I don’t think it’s cowardly or hypocritical for lawyers to blog anonymously.  In many ways, it’s the responsible thing to do.     

On another note, I see that another “underblawg” has emerged.  Why not?  There’s plenty of room, especially for those who write as well as she does. 

 

Come on Team, Let’s Right a Wrong!

“My name ain’t Lasheka Hawkins.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lashonda Wright.”

“Are you sure?”

“What you mean am I sure? I know my own damn name.”

“No. I know. It’s just that, people do this all the time and it never works out. It’s always them and then things get worse. The State’s offer gets worse. The judge gets annoyed. You could even be charged with another crime.”

“I’m telling you, I ain’t Lasheka Hawkins!”

“Ok.”

The clerk calls the case.

“Your Honor, this lady is not Lasheka Hawkins. She doesn’t know anything about this.”

“Alright. What do you want to do?”

“I’d like to have her fingerprints compared with those of the person who was originally arrested.”

“I’ll sign an order. Let’s hold it for one day. Why don’t you call the jail so that they know what’s going on?”

Ring. Ring. Ring. “County Jail.”

“Hi. I’m calling from the public defender’s office. I just wanted to let you know that the Judge has ordered a fingerprint comparison on Lasheka Hawkins for tomorrow.”

“We don’t do fingerprint comparisons anymore. You need to call the crime lab.” Click.

Ring. Ring. Ring. “County Crime Lab.”

“Hi. I’m calling from the public defender’s office. I just wanted to let you know that the Judge has ordered a fingerprint comparison on Lasheka Hawkins for tomorrow.”

“Well look here, we all know that judges are powerful, but they can’t order us to just drop everything like that. We’ll try to comply with the judge’s order, of course, but I can’t tell you that anything’s going to be done by tomorrow. I mean, do you even have the fingerprints that you want us to compare?”

“No. They’re at the jail.”

“You don’t have the fingerprints? How can you possibly defend somebody if you don’t have their fingerprints? You need to call the jail and get them to give you the fingerprints. Then we can start working on this thing.” Click.

Ring. Ring. Ring. “County Jail.”

“Hi. I’m trying to get copies of fingerprints …”

“You need to talk to records.” Click.

Ring. Ring. Ring. “Records.”

“Hi. I’m looking for some fingerprints …”

“You need booking. I’ll connect you.” Click.

Ring. Ring. Ring. “Booking.”

“Yeah. I’m wondering if you could please send me some fingerprints …”

“Send you fingerprints? Who are you?”

“I’m with the public defender’s office.”

“You got an order?”

“I’ve got an order directing the crime lab to do an analysis.”

“Well, then the crime lab has to request them.” Click.

[A deep breath. Another very deep breath.]

Ring. Ring. Ring. “County Crime Lab.”

“Hi. It’s me again, from the PD’s office …”

“You have the prints?”

“No.”

“You see? You expect this to be done by tomorrow and you still haven’t gotten me the prints. We’re not following instructions. We’re not going to do anything at the crime lab until we start following instructions.”

“Alright. What’s your name?”

“Al.”

“Al, you’re not in a position to instruct me to do anything. Let me explain. I’m an attorney. It’s my job to convince people of things and, I’ve done that. This morning, I convinced a judge to sign an order instructing you to conduct a fingerprint analysis - by tomorrow. You are a crime lab. It’s your job to analyze fingerprints. If you don’t do that, then tomorrow it will be my job to convince the judge to hold you in contempt. I know that my judge is not all powerful, but he is a little bit powerful and, let me assure you, he’s powerful enough to do that.”

Thirty minutes later: Ring. Ring. Ring. “Public Defender.”

“It’s Al, from the crime lab. You remember that comparison you wanted us to run?”

“Yes Al, I remember.”

“Well, it’s not a match. They’re not the same person.”

Punto de Control

The old bus bobbed along the pockmarked highway, the rough diesel engine gasping up the inclines. Outside, green blurred past. Every so often someone would point out a herd of goats or a clump of hitchhikers, thumbs lazily outstretched. This far out of Havana, there were no cars, there were no lights. Soon, it would be dark.

“What happens if we break down?” asked Joan.

“Call AAA,” answered Roger as he popped up and down in the back.

“No, seriously.”

“Don’t worry,” said Steve. “I’m sure someone will come find us.”

“That’s right Joan,” said Roger. “Don’t you know what a ‘bandido’ is?”

Steve turned to me. “Did you know that Joan’s mother is Icelandic?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes. Joan actually speaks a little Icelandic. In fact she was telling me that it’s a very old language.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Apparently, it’s so old that, if you can read Icelandic, you can understand Beowulf in the original language.”

“A useful skill,” said Roger on an upward bounce.

“Someone should really take a picture of this,” Joan whispered.

“Of what?” asked Steve. “There’s nothing there.”

“Exactly. It’s so … unAmerican. There’s no farms, no houses, no signs, no lights, no nothing. It’s completely undeveloped.”

“There’s a sign,” I said pointing.

In the distance, a small rectangle glistened feebly in the van’s yellow head light. It got bigger until we could all see in large red letters: PUNTO DE CONTROL. 1000m.

We were all silent for a moment, then Roger said “Hmmm.  Sounds friendly.”

Joan giggled nervously.

“I’m sure it’s just routine,” said Steve. “Just remember what we were told before we left Havana. If we’re stopped, let the driver do the talking.”

I looked at the driver. He looked young to me. This is the guy who’s supposed to talk me out of police trouble in the quiet night of the empty Cuban countryside.

Another sign: PUNTO DE CONTROL. 500m. Then, 200m.

Two policias were leaning on their motorcycles under a large umbrella.  One of them perked up when he saw the bus.

He walked to the edge of the street and raised his hand. The driver slowed, but did not stop. He looked at the driver for a moment and then he glanced at the rest of the bus. As the bus edged by, the policia waved the driver on. The driver waved back and coaxed the bus up to speed.

“That wasn’t so bad,” said Steve. “They didn’t even stop us.”

“Still,” said Joan. “It’s a little off-putting. Just stopping people at random. Imagine if they did that in the States? That would be terrible.”

“It’s true,” said Roger. “It’s amazing the things you take for granted. I know the government’s gone a little bit nuts with the borders recently, but at least we can still move around freely within the country.”

We all agreed that that was one thing we appreciated very much about our country.

Sadly, I learned today that we were being a little bit too hard on the Cubans.

Florestan and Eusebius at The Floridita

“My favorite is the one on the left.  The one with the maracas.”

“She plays the flute too.”

“I know, but the maracas are why she’s my favorite.”

“I prefer the one next to her.  The guitarist.”

“You would. How about another round?”

“Ok, but that’ll do it for me. We’ve already had four.”

“Four? This music really is intoxicating. I feel pretty spry for only two daiquiris.”

“That’s because we’ve had four apiece.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, I want to write about this trip, and I want to start with the music.

“Good luck. Writing about music is hard. Who was it that said ‘writing about music is like dancing about architecture?’”

“I know. But I have to write about it. It’s just too amazing. So, here’s my idea: you ever heard of Richard Wagner?”

“Who?”

“You know.  The guy with the big operas.”

“Ha ha. I like that. I wonder if ‘opera’ is the German word for ‘maraca?’ Sorry. Anyway, what about him?”

“Well, a while ago he came up with this idea called Gesamtkunstwerk.”

“What?”

“Gesamt … the name doesn’t matter. The point is that he had this idea of making a supreme form of art that encompassed all other arts.”

“What?”

“Like his operas. You know. Think about it. They have everything. They have music of course, but they also have theater, they have dance, the have visual art in the costumes, the sets. There’s literature in the story …”

“Why are you telling me this? I was having such a good time.”

“Well, look at them. Look at those girls. There it is. Wagner in Cuba. I mean, there’s music. Incredible music. It’s rhythmic and makes you happy, you can’t help being happy. And they’re singing. Who knows what they’re saying, but it sounds like poetry to me. And look at them. They’re beautiful. They look beautiful. They’re wearing like these orange silk dresses that shimmer magnificently in the light. I mean, there’s definitely an artistic component to their look. And finally - and this is the most amazing part - they’re dancing. And while they’re dancing they’re actually making music. Do you see that? Their dancing creates music. Look at the maraca girl for example. Seriously. The movement she’s making with the maracas is a dance, but it’s also percussion for the music. The drummer girl is doing the same thing. What an amazing thing. I’m speechless. What do you think?”

“Here’s what I think. You want to write about Cuban music? You write about those women and the way they make you feel. Write about their svelte … you know. Write about how their whole side of the bar oozes with -  as a good friend of mine said once - a ’sexual vitality that eats you alive.’ That’s stuff worth reading. But please, whatever you do, leave Wagner out of it.”

After Cuba Feeling

Cuba. A beautiful word for a beautiful place. I have come home lamenting the gulf that separates us and wanting to play a small part in bridging it.

To that end, I have decided to speak about it here, recognizing that to many, the topic is highly charged. Nonetheless, nothing is accomplished by avoiding it. The rift between us is too tragic. If we are ever to mend it, we must talk.

First, a caveat. I spent four days in Cuba. I’m no expert. Sadly, however, few are. Part of the problem is that four days in Cuba is remarkable for any American.

Those who wish to hear from someone with far more knowledge of Cuban life than I, should visit Generation Y which, amazingly, is actually written by a Cuban resident. Even more amazingly, not only does the blog’s author sometimes write posts that are critical of Cuba, she actually provides her identity. I learned of Generation Y shortly before I left, and its mere existence suggested that my prior perception of Cuba as a completely closed totalitarian society, was overly-simplistic and unfair. My trip only confirmed that suspicion; there is much more to Cuba then I had been led to believe.

For example, they don’t hate us. One girl, noting my accent, asked me where I was from. When I told her the United States, she was obviously surprised. Then, she smiled broadly and said “Oh! What a great country!” No doubt, not every Cuban is so magnanimous. Still, at no time during my trip was I ever treated with disdain. This leads me to believe that the continued animosity between our countries is not the will of the people. It perpetuates because of our governments, which is absurdity. What’s more, it’s folly; both sides have suffered for their half-century of antagonism.

Cuba is a poor country, in large part because of our embargo. And yet, as the propaganda that is displayed throughout Havana makes clear, the Cuban government would rather have us as foe than friend. I suspect that’s because it’s easier to distract the population’s attention away from your own corruption when you can exhort them to unite against another, greater, threat. In that sense, our embargo actually assists the Cuban government by strengthening the argument that we are, in fact, a malicious nation. And both governments are to be derided for their refusal to engage in any sort of dialog. By doing so, they are depriving their citizens of the life enriching experiences that would naturally flow from the interaction of two of the world’s most vibrant cultures. They do us a disservice by failing to accept that we are all diminished by the lack of each other.

In the next few posts, interspersed with the usual fare of life and law, I hope to try and make sense of what I saw in La Habana and its environs. I do so in the spirit of promoting discussion. If one person spends even a few moments thinking about these issues, I will have achieved my aim.

Before we cross the gulf though, I want to take a moment to reflect on the feeling that I have as Cuba recedes into my past. Four days is more than many get, but it’s not enough. It angers me that I may not be allowed to go back. As I look back on those days, it is with a sense of gratitude and loss.

Work Hard. Play Hard.

“Indeed there is a limit,” said Georges, “but it is only there to be exceeded. If one has not given everything, one has given nothing.”

That’s a noble sentiment but it has its limits, as Georges discovered when, in an effort to execute his homicidal duty, he was executed by someone else’s homicidal duty. It must be tempered I think, by what Billy said to James: “Do what’s good for you, or you’re no good for anybody.”

So, I’m taking a vacation. I’ll be back next week. Until then, there will (hopefully) be no jails, no desperate phone calls, no motions to be researched/written/filed/denied. Instead, there will (hopefully) be heat and sun and the quiet, gentle monotony of surf. And mojitos.

There may be a crime, but it will play itself out in words on pages and there will be some brilliant, hard-drinking detective to sort it all out and the story will end in a satisfying cadence of justice, before there is any talk of lawyers or mandatory minimums.

My problems will wait for me. They will wait in perpetually-lit concrete rooms. They will complain and be jealous. They will feel aggrieved. But, all this they would do anyway.

If I stayed, nothing, neither their predicament nor my ability to confront it, would change. So, I am leaving. When I get back, they will be the same, but I will (hopefully) be different - a better manifestation of the advocate that they need.

La Famiglia

“It was beautiful figlio mio. Beautiful ceremony. Rachel looked just gorgeous.”

“Rachel?”

“I know. Your aunt’s very upset. ‘I understand if he can’t find an Italian,’ she says, ‘but could she at least be Catholic?’ I told her, ‘this is the world we live in. This is America.’ Anyway, what do I care if she’s Jewish? She could be anything, what do I care? She loves him.”

“That’s not why I asked mom. I just didn’t know if that was her name.”

“Rachel, yeah. Beautiful girl.”

“Well, I’m sorry I missed it.”

“Me too. Everybody misses you. Your aunts keep asking about you. You know how they love you, always asking ‘how is our little boy?’ But, I have to say, figlio, I was a little sad this time. More than usual. I was the only one of the sisters without her son here.”

“You’re the only sister whose son lives outside of Florida.”

“I know. My sisters all had good Italian boys who stayed close to their mothers. Of course, it’s my son who leaves.”

“I was pursuing a career.”

“They have careers here. What, there’s no careers in Florida?”

“Mother …”

“All right, you had to leave, but really, you can’t make a wedding for your own cousin? You can tell me. What was it? Money? You couldn’t afford it?”

“Look, I don’t have a lot of money and I don’t have a lot of time. It’s nothing personal, it’s just that …”

“But figlio, you’re a lawyer. Lawyers are supposed to have a lot of money.”

“I’m not that kind of lawyer.”

“A lawyer with no money? Who ever heard of such a thing? Your father tells me that your cousin Manuel just bought a condo in Manhattan for $900,000.00.”

“Manuel works for a white-shoe law firm. My clients wear white shoes, but theirs are county-issued.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I have Manuel’s debt, but not his salary.”

“You talk so strange sometimes. And that’s another thing. People here think that you think you’re better than they are.”

“I don’t think that.”

“That’s what they think you think.”

“Well, that’s their problem …”

“Don’t get angry. I’m just saying the family’s starting to talk is all.”

“Fine. After you remind them that I went to the first wedding, please tell them that I’m sorry that I couldn’t make the second. Tell them that I’ll be at his third.”

“You’re horrible. What a thing. Now wait a minute, there’s someone here - here he is! He’s here. He’s on the phone now. Figlio mio?”

“No mom. Please don’t put someone else on. Wait …”

“Here. Here she is. Your cousin’s here. Here. Here it is.”

“Hello?”

“Hi. It’s Nicoletta. Your mother just handed me the phone. How are you?”

“Good. I’m good. Yourself?”

“Good. I’m good too.”

“Great. I understand that you had a baby. Is he walking yet?”

“Yes, she’s walking. She’s five.”

“I see.”

“So, what are you up to these days?”

“Oh, you know. Just hoping that I’ve seen the last of the snow for a while.”

“Snow? You’re not in Florida? When did you leave Florida?”

“Well, it’s been about eight years now.”

“Oh. Well, it’s been good talking to you.”

“You too. Say ‘hi’ to … your husband.”

“Richard.”

“Richard. Right.”

A Presentation

“Thanks for coming out this afternoon, it’s good to see so many of you. I see some familiar faces among the judges, I worked with many of you back when you were prosecutors, and there are some prosecutors here, some defense attorneys and, oh, some public defenders here as well as defense attorneys, that’s good. It’s nice to see you.

For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Tom Simmonds. I’ve been a police officer for the past twenty years and I’ve been asked to speak to you today about the county’s new alcoholic offender management system. I’m holding it here in my hand. As you can see it’s very lightweight and has a very non-intrusive, non-obtrusive design, as you can see. Would you mind passing that around? Thank you.

Basically, the way it works is like this - it works in a similar way to the breath operating machines that you’re familiar with except, instead of measuring breath, it measures sweat, ok? What we do is we put it on the offender’s ankle - and our people are trained and certified in how to put these things on. Let me make that clear. These people are certified monitors with this thing. And then, the offender basically keeps it on, round the clock. They shower with it on, they sleep with it on. It’s on all the time - constantly monitoring their alcohol intake and, if they drink anything, the unit sends us a report and we tell the State right away and that’s how a violation happens, just like that.

Now people always want to know how accurate the unit is. For example, if eating certain foods will set the unit off. Well, the unit accounts for all of that. I mean let’s be honest folks, if you eat enough food, you might get a reading, but you also might be in the hospital, right?

And we get all sorts of excuses for why things obstruct the monitor, because that’s what offenders do - they put a piece of paper in there or something and drink thinking that the paper will obstruct the testing. We even had a guy put a pork chop in there once. But there’s a sensor that measures how far the monitor is from the skin, and if that ever gets too far, the monitor reports that as violation, so none of that’s going to work. But man, I tell you that we have heard it all.

Anyway, that’s basically the overview. And let me finish by telling you how glad we are that the county has adopted this program, and let me say thank you to the big Mr. State’s Attorney in the back for supporting this program and taking it on the campaign trail. We need to increase offender accountability, right? The goal is to help the offender get treatment so that they can become a meaningful part of society. These days, we’ve got a lot of tools that we didn’t have when I was starting out. I mean, I’m still trying to figure out how to program my TiVo, seriously. But, in terms of offender monitoring, we’ve got home detention devices, we’ve got GPS devices. We can know where these people are 24/7 and now we can make sure that they’re drinking what we think they should be drinking. So, it’s a very exciting time. Some very exciting things are happening.

Well, that’s it. Thanks for listening. Be sure to take a look at the unit, its making it’s way around. Thanks again.

Any questions?”

A Prosecutor’s Duty; or, Of Creeps, Weirdos, and Those Who Are Special

This weekend, I discovered this video for “Creep.” It reminded me of the condescending and uncharitable way in which many people look at my clients. One memory, in particular, came to mind.

I was in my first few months as a PD, handling misdemeanor domestic violence cases. One morning, a strange man was led into the courtroom. Short, bald, round. Hands like flippers. Skin white as lime and draped in the jail’s orange jumpsuit, he was as garish as a creamsicle. He spoke in a voice so high and shrill he reminded me of Owen Meany, but without the brains.

He was in his forties and still living with his mom. They got along pretty well, but she wouldn’t let him have something that he wanted and he got angry and gave her a shove. He was sorry about it. He wanted to go home. Very soon he was going to move out of his mom’s place and get a girlfriend.

I asked the prosecutor for an offer. Like many prosecutors, she was beautiful and privileged. Also like many prosecutors, she was supremely aware of the former and shockingly unaware of the latter. She wanted him to stay in jail for another two weeks.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Look at him. He’s pathetic.”

“I don’t want to look at him,” she said. “He’s gross.”

In 1923, Akira Kurosawa and his older brother stole away to view the carnage left in the wake of the Great Kanto Earthquake. Appalled by what he saw, Kurosawa tried to turn away. “If you shut your eyes to a frightening sight,” his brother told him, “you end up being frightened. If you look at everything straight on, there is nothing to be afraid of.”

I think that prosecutors don’t have the right to look away. To look away is to dehumanize, and that’s something that prosecutors must never be allowed to do. No matter what, they should always acknowledge those they prosecute as people.

My prosecutor refused to look. If she had, she might have seen that she’s not the only one who belongs here.