Home to Roost (Part 1 of a mostly fictional tale)

Tomas clung to his bagel and eyed the Sheriff’s deputies who manned the metal detectors. Not safe yet. They’ll see me. And if they see me, they’ll KNOW. Tomas could not let that happen. He ducked behind the last pillar before the courthouse exit door and waited. The deputies pretended to check people’s briefcases as they slid through the x-ray machine. They took their time taking people’s buckets of metal belongings and plopping them on the other side to await their owners. But Tomas knew better.
The detector doorway had sniffed metal during an older lawyer’s third attempt to slip through without shrill beeping. A young deputy with a buzzcut pointed to his colleague, whose furious moustache guarded the exit door. Older Lawyer sighed, rolled his eyes, and dutifully took his place alongside the line with arms outstretched as Officer Moustache left his post to grab his metal-detecting wand.
Tomas shoved his bagel into one of the many pockets of his puffy Raiders jacket and sprinted for the exit door. Warm sunshine greeted him as he stumbled into the plaza out-front. Tomas looked back; no pursuers. I made it! Now they’ll never know! He shuffled to the cross-walk as he passed another older man with suit and briefcase trundling toward the courthouse door with the aid of an aluminum cane. Tomas felt his eyes on him.
“You never saw me, cane mother-fucker!”
The old man winced but moved on as though he had not heard Tomas. That’s right! Keep walking. Eyes are the windows to the soul, Tomas had heard once, and windows just let people in. Now he’ll never know!
Tomas crossed the street and returned to his home: Santa Asphalt City Park, in the heart of the city of Santa Asphalt, California. He passed by the familiar statue of William McKinley holding a top-hat. On that very spot during the election of 1900, McKinley had proclaimed his devotion to the Constitution as a sacred instrument; he had spent the remainder of his campaign warning against debt relief for poor farmers. His most famous accomplishment had been taking an assassin’s bullet and making way for Teddy Roosevelt; bronze replicas of mourning bouquets lay at the statue’s feet to assure people that, at one time, people cared about the loss of their President. A white mop of dried bird droppings hung from the statue’s bald head.
Tomas flopped onto his favorite bench and the birds noticed. They were his birds. His flock. The pigeons came to get their share before the big black crows muscled them out of the way. Tomas smiled and unwrapped the bagel that he had bought with his pocket change in the courthouse café. “Easy there amigos. I’ve got some for all of you.”
A mechanical whiz drew his eyes upward, with the first pinch of bagel crumbs still in his fingers. Above the trees came the eye, held aloft by four spinning propellers. The drone’s metal frame pivoted toward Tomas. The telescope lens wheezed as it stretched toward the bench.
Too late! Now they all see. Now they all know. Tomas leaped from the bench and bounded toward the nearby light-rail train as quickly as his limp allowed. Startled pigeons fluttered away as the braver ones stayed for the bagel dust that had fallen to the ground.
Oh yeah, baby.
Chip shared the basement of the Santa Asphalt Police Department with 4 other silent drone pilots. White noise from Chip’s headphones blocked the constant buzz and flicker of the fluorescent tube bulbs that ran in rows above their cubicles. Instead of dozens of other Air Force officers fluttering about relaying body counts in hushed tones into telephones, his handful of colleagues sat silently at their desks in their identical SAPD polo shirts patrolling the streets from their computer terminals.
It almost felt as though the war had not come home with him.
Chip had nearly completed his patrol of the streets that bounded the university campus. Science majors, Chip thought as he spied students with backpacks pushing their way through the dormitory dorms with the hustle that comes from being slightly late for an 8:00 lab. The women’s crew team, however, had left for the water 3 hours earlier. Now they swam upstream, returning home from morning practice, their deltoids barely contained by spandex strips.
And so, Chip had begun his final strafe of the dorm’s sixth floor. His screen showed the corner room and right on time, Ponytail peeled off her sweaty uni in preparation for her morning shower.
“Plain view” was the phrase that the District Attorney had sprinkled throughout their training. Anything in plain view was fair game; no effort to hide meant no right to privacy. And any effort to hide was a sign to keep watching until their target’s suspicious activity spilled into the public square.
From 50 feet above the street, the plain view of the 6th floor was fine indeed.
A gasp from the next cube. Chip jammed his joysticks to the left to change the view on his screen to nearby Serra Parkway before removing his headphones and peeking over at his neighbor.
“There are 3 eggs in the nest now!”
Angie clenched her joysticks, her voice giddy. Her drone hovered high above the old mission church on Santa Camilla, which ran parallel to Serra Parkway, lens trained upon the falcon’s nest atop the defunct bell tower. Three orange spackled eggs sat in a web of twigs. Angie’s fingers darted across the keyboard to capture the screenshot. Within moments, Angie opened the SAPD’s Instagram page and began to post the picture to the Department’s 20,000 followers.
Hearts and minds, Chip thought.
WHOOMP went Chip’s tinny computer speakers. Chip spun to see the view on his screen spinning wildly. His terminal blinked its red MALFUNCTION light, as though the situation were not obvious. Chip landed in his chair but hit the edge, causing the chair to roll away from underneath him. The back of his head hit the desk, tipping his enormous cup of coffee onto his side. Twenty steaming ounces of Americano popped the lid and sizzled down Chip’s face. Chip shrieked and flailed with closed eyes to knock the coffee cup to the floor. His hands found the control sticks first and shoved them aside.
Angie stepped on her file cabinet and swung one leg over the cubicle wall. She landed in a kneel, untucked her polo, and dabbed Chip’s face before helping him to his feet.
“Omigod omigod omigod, are you ok?!” Chip whimpered in reply with left hand over left eye. “Can you see?”
Chip gingerly peeled his hand away.
A scream rang through chip’s speakers, its pitch soaring so high that it turned to static. Chip and Angie shared a shriek before Chip ran to the bathroom clutching his face. On Chip’s screen Angie saw the drone’s view, spinning wildly against the dorm window of a terrified, topless co-ed.
Angie wondered for a moment whether this was Chip’s usual patrol route.
Thin snaps announced that one of the propellers had finally splintered; the drone fell and soon all Angie could see was an upside down view of 3 gawking college kids.
Angie walked to the breakroom and plucked her frozen lamb vindaloo from the freezer for Chip’s face. With her free hand, she replied to a text from her mom before looking for Chip. She found him in the men’s room gingerly prying his left eye open. But for the angry red drip pattern, Angie might have thought he was sunburned. Chip turned and gratefully took the instant Indian food and pressed it to his eye.
“I think I’ll be fine,” Chip said before thanking Angie for the cold compress. Angie led Chip back to his cube with cold dew dripping down his neck. He soured looking at his screen. “I’d better call Timmons.”

The time had come for Officer Timmons to pounce, but his foot had fallen asleep.
At 9:30, Officer Timmons had strolled into the lobby of the EZ-8 Motel with an extra coffee and croissant for Harpreet, the motel clerk. Harpreet offered his guest sign-in sheet, and Officer Timmons ran his finger down the list looking for familiar names while listening to how Harpreet’s kids were doing in school.
Timmons’ finger paused at the name Jorge Castaneda. Timmons knew Jorge. Jorge had just gotten off parole; Timmons had learned this the last time that he tried to search Jorge during a traffic stop. Timmons also knew that Jorge lived with his mom, which meant that he was probably up to no good at the EZ-8. Timmons had spent a half-hour in his squad car waiting for Jorge to leave Room 106 and return into plain view.
At around 8:05, the door to Room 206 opened, and Jorge Castaneda emerged shirtless, wrapped in a hotel sheet to smoke a cigarette. Timmons threw the car door open only to have his right leg buckle. He thumped it against the ground until the blood returned with the pins and needles of sensation.
And then his cell phone rang.
Jorge turned and saw Officer Timmons stomping and fumbling for his phone among his many uniform pockets. “Fuck you, Timmons,” Jorge called. A dragon tattoo coiled around his forearm, its fanged mouth open across the back of his hand, flames licking their way to the tip of Jorge’s fully-extended middle finger. “Come back with a warrant!” Officer Timmons mashed the screen on his phone as Jorge tossed his cigarette over the second-floor handrail and returned to his room.
“What?!” Timmons barked into his phone. It was Chip. His drone crashed. Timmons hung up and returned to his car.
The EZ-8 was close to the university campus; Harpreet advertised discounts for students and their families in town for graduation, but none had ever accepted the offer. Timmons turned onto Serra Parkway and passed the infamous pedestrian corridor that divided two competing movie theaters, between them the pedestal for a commissioned statue of an Aztec god that was blocked as an “ethno-centric waste of public funds.” Blocked, that is, after the pedestal had been built.
Crystal and opiates had become the drugs of choice for Santa Asphalt’s addicts, but a devoted following for crack-cocaine lingered around the downtown area. Many of its users have regular routes: a government office, a liquor store, a bench, a court date, a squad car. The empty pedestal sat at the juncture of several routes, and passers-by shared knowing glances and made swift trades.
Timmons thought back to four years earlier, when he had just been assigned to the M.E.R.G.E. unit. Municipal Engagement…something something or another. His first assignment was “recon” strolling Santa Asphalt’s semi-occupied downtown in plain clothes, getting to know the local fauna. Timmons had not had one meaningful conversation with anyone for the first 6 weeks of his patrolling. Timmons carried a Vitamin Water in a brown paper bag and sat next to a transient named Thomas on a bench in Santa Asphalt City Park. He listed to Thomas’ aches, pains, and religious convictions, and told Thomas that “we need to look after our people out here.”
Thomas snorted. His finger pointed to each of the pockets on Timmons’ pants and counted.
“You’ve got 8 fucking pockets. Eight fucking pockets on those pants. Only cops think they need to carry all their shit on them all the time!” Thomas raised an aluminum can. “No disrespect, Officer.”
He had ordered the pants online from a “tactical undercover” cop supply store. His Sergeant had gotten him a 20% discount.
Timmons stopped reminiscing, turned right, and then U-ed into a red zone near the dorm’s back entrance. Four students stood around the drone as it wheezed angrily against the sidewalk, the remaining two propellers scraping the ground. Nine months earlier, Chip and his colleagues had joined the department as civilian pilots for the Department’s new camera robots. M.E.R.G.E. used them the way that the team had used rookies; mapping the routes of the Department’s repeat customers between arrests and looking for patterns.
Timmons pressed his boot down on the Department’s hope for a bold new policing strategy and used his key to detach its battery. He stuffed the drone’s heart into one of his pockets and turned to the students. He pointed. “Put those cameras down, right now, all of you!”
Two students stowed their phones in their front hoodie pockets. A third held steady, his phone upright, fingers laced through the brass knuckles of a novelty phone case. Each finger snaked through a hole to the back of the phone, with each finger emblazoned with a letter: P A I N. Timmons aimed his finger while his left hand flipped down his lapel flap over his badge number.
“I said put the phone away!”
Still filming.
“It’s a public street, Officer. What have you got to hide?”
“Hey!” Timmons barked as he curled his bicep and pointed again. “I’m here to recover damaged police property, and now you’re delaying me, by being a smartass, and by showing a deadly weapon to me. Now put it away before you delay and obstruct me any further!”
Still filming.
“Well then stop delaying and pick up your drone, Officer,” the Third chortled as his fingers stretched across the screen to zoom the view. Timmons’ Krav Maga teacher had once disabled a Palestinian package courier who tried to cross a checkpoint while holding a boxcutter. Timmons remembered the lesson and seized the student’s wrist, pulled him close; he then pinched the student’s phone arm above the elbow between forearm and bicep. And now one quick twist, his teacher had said. Timmons refrained, but plucked the student’s phone from his flailing fingers and sent it skittering across the sidewalk. He released the student’s elbow, reached back, and clutched the student’s hoodie while sweeping his leg behind the student’s calf. The student clung to Timmons’ wrist to avoid being dropped to the pavement.
“Stop resisting!” Timmons yelled with one final shove. The student abruptly met the sidewalk, followed by Timmons. Timmons rolled the student around clicked his handcuffs around his wrists.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Trevor,” the student wheezed.
“Trevor, you are under arrest for resisting arrest.”
“The fuck?!”
“PC 148. Do some homework and write me an essay on it.”
High above, Angie’s drone whirled while Angie and Chip shared her monitor in the Department’s basement.
“Jeez, what did he do,” Angie asked. From that height, the drone’s microphone did not catch anyone’s words. Chip snickered in anticipation of his own quip. “When we find out, you should add it to the Insta blotter.” Angie glared but turned back to avoid Chip’s face. “Maybe not,” Chip said, “‘Emo kid fails the attitude test’ isn’t worth a post.” Chip peered into the screen. In the distance, above the horizon of Serra Parkway, a lone crow. Not moving. In mid-air. Chip gingerly opened his burned eyelid and looked again. The crow hadn’t moved. And it looked bigger than before.
It was flying straight toward the drone.
Below, Timmons sat Trevor down and left him to study the curb through his hair. He turned to the remaining students, their hands empty of anything but compliance. “Now, did any of you happen to see what happened to our drone before it crashed?”
A woman with a high ponytail hesitated before raising her hand, as though her professor had asked her a difficult question.
“Your name, miss?”
“What did you see, Tasha?”
“I…I was getting ready to shower before class when it slammed into my window,” Tasha said as she pointed six stories up to a web of cracked glass. Timmons squinted as sun bounced from the window down to his eyes.
Timmons nuzzled the radio clipped to his shoulder. “Hey Angie, can you get an eye up there?”
“The best view’s right there in front of you, Timmy.” Angie shoved Chip on the burnt side of his face and snatched back the microphone. She let her scowl linger as Chip cursed and rolled the cold beads from her Coke can across his forehead. As it was, Chip was about 5, maybe 6 weeks from a tense meeting with HR, and Angie made a mental note to write this down for when they started asking her questions.
“Disregard, Timmons. I’ll be there soon.”
“I’m used to disregarding Chip, Angie,” Timmons replied while watching the approach of Angie’s drone.
On the other side of the dorm high-rise, the big black crow dipped below the drone’s flightpath, but swooped up from underneath, talons first, and seized the drone by one of its propeller arms. The crow sank, but flapped until it flipped the drone upside down, with the crow perched on top.
From the SAPD basement, Angie double-mashed the buttons that told the drone to somersault mid-air.
The crow clung to the drone, and the two adversaries twirled like two spinning children holding hands. They twirled toward Tasha’s window, and the crow’s head hit the window with a sickening crunch; the bird plummeted to the sidewalk below as the drone righted itself and resumed a wobbly hover above the sidewalk. Timmons had not noticed the dozen-or-so crows and the handful of pigeons perched upon the dorm roof until they took flight and dove downward. Four crows seized a propeller apiece, leaving only the birds’ wings to slow its descent to the street below.
Tasha shrieked. The crows cawed with contempt as the biggest one parked atop the drone and pecked at the drone’s lidless, high-definition eye. The pigeons kept their distance, but puffed their chest feathers, spread their wings, and danced around the metal carcass. Timmons swung his arm to his left hip and doused the flock with pepper spray.
All eyes fell upon the writhing mass of damp feathers as it squawked in pain. Camera lenses emerged from dorm windows, parked cars, and taco truck customers. And above these, unnoticed and unheeded by the river of humans that spawned to their classes and jobs, dozens of crows, pigeons, rock doves and blue jays turned and tried to pierce Timmons with their eyes.
When that failed, they tried their beaks.
Caws and squawks rose from the trees and rooftops and powerlines and descended in fury.
“Get to my car!” Timmons grabbed Tasha by her shoulder and pushed her into the backseat cage. Timmons then turned and hoisted the captive Trevor and lowered him headfirst into the seat next to Tasha. Timmons scrambled around to the driver’s side door and slammed the door just as the flock descended. After a few manic pecks at the windshield and windows, they decided en masse to perch and wait on the hood, wipers, and side mirrors.
“Fucking Hell, you lunatic,” Trevor spat through metal webbing, “why’d you go and do that?!”
“How was I supposed to know that every fucking bird was going to try and murder us?!”
“Murder you,” Tasha said. “You’re the one that pissed them off!” Tasha’s eyes darted across the aluminum crisscross and tried the door handle, which did not open from the inside. “And why are we in here?! Why did you trap us in here with you?!”
Trevor crinkled his nose. “And why does it stink like bleach?”
Clorox wipes, to be exact. The plastic seat bench had no upholstery, which made for easy removal of…anything that suspects left behind.
“You are SAFE in here with me,” Timmons barked. He turned to the windshield, and then to the sidewalk. All the eyes watched, daring them to move. Timmons unhooked the radio mic from the center console.
“384 to station!”
Arianna Allende, Chief animal control officer for the city of Santa Asphalt, had never seen an honest-to-God arsenal. And she had never suspected that one lay in the old microchip plant that the Santa Asphalt Police Department had purchased 10 years prior after a quiet, unanimous vote by the city council to approve the funding. Her uniformed guide plunked the code into the keypad that tickled the lattice of belts and chains in just the right way to lift the ponderous metal door, and Ari saw the tools that a city needed to repel an invading army. Armored vehicles with treads lined the sealed doors that, at one time, probably received and unloaded freight. She might have mistaken them for small tanks but for the hydraulic pistons of massive battering rams in lieu of mounted guns. Old shipping containers had been repurposed as storage closets: for body armor, riot shields, bludgeons, batons, collapsible batons, and staves with openings on the bottom for power supplies and twin metal prongs on the tip. Ari winced as though stung by something. Another container had bins of “less than lethal” ammunition: beanbags, rubber shotgun slugs, and the like. One bin had a warning about the risks of phosphorus exposure.
Ari made a mental note to Google that later when she saw the Lieutenant approach, tablet computer in hand, seeming to speak aloud to nobody: her shoulders squared, her hair pulled tight across her skull and bound into a bun that bristled with bobby pins. Her boots squeaked across the floor; Ari glanced down at the brown clay that had dried on her hiking boots during yesterday’s walk around the reservoir and glanced backward to see if she had tracked any of it across the floor. Ari turned forward again just as the Lieutenant clicked the button on the Bluetooth in her ear and shot out her hand.
“Carla Escher.”
“Ari Allende. Nice to finally meet you in person.”
“You too. Let’s talk and walk; our officer and two civilians have been waiting and we’re ready to move.”
“We’re…moving?” Ari trotted alongside Lt. Escher as they approached a comparatively normal looking parking lot of police vehicles beyond the loading bay doors. “I was hoping we’d have a chance to talk before anyone does anything.”
“I don’t know what there is to talk about,” Lt. Escher said as she turned toward a pair of unmarked, black SUVs, flanked by four police officers in tactical vests and helmets. “I have an officer in danger from…” she paused because what she had to say sounded silly in her head, “…angry wildlife. Aside from that, some very expensive police equipment has been targeted by these animals for violent attack.” Escher gestured toward the black cars. “And we have the tools to deal with it right this moment, which is exactly when we need to be dealing with it.”
Carla finally observed the equipment that the officers were loading into the SUVs. Several large canisters with tail fins. Ari wondered. Rockets? A large metal tripod and a small crate of accompanying cables and switch boxes. A long metal tube that unscrewed for easy storage. Ari imagined what they might look like assembled, and news clips about mortar fire in distant warzones replayed in her mind. And finally, what looked like an oversized radar gun that Ari could only imagine being used to issue speeding tickets to a rampaging triceratops.
“With all due respect, Lieutenant,” Ari said, “Animal control is my department’s jurisdiction, and whatever happened to your flying robots, my job is to make sure that…conflicts between humans and animals are handled humanely.”
Escher opened the rear passenger door to the right SUV. “Did you bring your car here?”
“No. I took an Uber.”
“Then let us give you a ride. I’ll explain on the way.”
The rear gates closed, stuffed with gear, and one of the officers removed his helmet and climbed into the driver’s seat. Once they had been chauffeured past the chain-link gate, Lt. Escher woke up her tablet from the nap it had been taking inside its boxy carbon-fiber shell case. Even her computer has a bulletproof vest? “Let me show you what we have in mind.”
Ari held the tablet, and a video began to play. The screen filled with the torso of a man wearing a camo polo shirt whose cure for baldness had been shaving the entire surface area of his vast, shapeless head.
“Hello, and congratulations on your purchase of the Omni Corps Crab Cage 2XE, one of our most innovative rapid-delivery systems for non-lethal, temporary imprisonment. In this video, we will demonstrate the core functionalities of the Crab Cage 2XE, and guide you…”
Lt. Escher’s finger crossed into Ari’s lap and began sliding across the video progress bar on the bottom to move the video forward. “He goes on like that for a while,” Escher explained. She stopped once the screen displayed an animated man with no facial features amid beige buildings…one of which had the unmistakable silhouette of a minaret. An unmarked pick-up truck barreled toward the man; in the truck bed was, presumably, a “bomb.” It looked more like a giant black ball with a lit fuse sticking in the top.
“Is that Wiley Bin Coyote,” Ari chuckled. Lt. Escher missed the reference and scrunched her face instead.
The video continued speaking.
“The radar array on the 2XE can detect single or multiple targets, from the size of small animals to large vehicles, and accurately predict their trajectory. Once the target, or targets, reach a distance pre-determined by the user, the patented Omni Corps cage missile launches…”
At this point, the video’s hero covered the ears he didn’t have as the rocket left the tube, attached to the tripod. The rocket soared and then split, sending a bevy of spheres in all directions that fell to the ground around the truck, dragging with them a massive web.
“…and a flexible cage of tempered carbon fiber descends upon your enemy, rendering them immobile. Hostile vehicles will find a nasty surprise if they try to continue their attack.” At this point the truck dragged the patented Omni Corps carbon crab net with it only a handful of feet before its tires flared into blossoms of rubber. “The webbing features a series of barbs that are harmless to targets that have the good sense to remain motionless once trapped; however, you will find them capable of shredding most car tires with contemptuous ease.”
Escher closed the video just as the darker-skinned figure in the video found himself surrounded by faceless men with assault rifles.
“They probably won’t hurt the birds,” Escher explained, “they’re mostly at the base of the net so that they pop tires as soon as someone tries to drive over them.”
“Is this…really necessary? My department has people and equipment for dealing with birds. Nothing…flashy, like this, but this is well within our capabilities.”
“I’m sure you do, Ms. Allende,” Escher said, “this isn’t about your department or what it can or can’t do.” Their car had just pulled into the parking lot of the main SAPD station downtown. “But every year we get more of this military surplus equipment because we tell the city we need it, and if we don’t use it, we don’t get to keep our budget for next fiscal year. One bureaucrat to another, you understand?”
Escher tried the door handle. The driver left and walked around to open the door. “I forget these things don’t open from the inside,” Escher said. The door opened and both women slid across the seat to stand in the parking lot. “Here’s your stop. You’ll watch the whole operation from the drone command center in the basement. Go in the lobby and say that you’re there to see Angie. I told them to expect you.” Ari met Escher’s hand for a farewell shake. They agreed that it was nice to meet each other, and Escher returned to the car before Ari could protest that she had not been invited to see the action personally.
Ari had plenty of practice asserting herself in workplaces. But apparently, this was a battlefield.
“Look alive, Timmy! Help is on the way!”
Minutes of radio silence had felt much longer. Timmons patted himself, found an empty pocket, and slipped his phone into it. He peered into the side mirror as Trevor twisted and pressed his face against the rear window. Three crows appeared upside down from the car roof and squawked in disapproval.
A thin mechanical wheeze grew louder. The birds on Timmons’ roof craned their necks around just as another SAPD drone dipped low for a fly-by that mussed the feathers on top of the birds heads.
From below the SAPD headquarters, Ari scolded Chip. “Watch where you’re aiming that thing!”
Chip kept his eyes on the three monitors that he and Angie had set up at his command station, giving him a panoramic view of his flight path. “Those little bastards took out half our drones.” Chip turned then turned the burnt half of his face toward Ari in hopes of making her uncomfortable. “Blue robots matter, you know.”
“Then maybe don’t crash it into them before leading them to the trap site,” Angie snapped back. Ari left Chip to stand behind Angie, who herself had a triple-screen array that showed the view from her drone, far above the fray.
The flock took flight en masse to chase the interloper. Timmons turned the ignition, hit the lights and sirens, and gave chase before realizing that the green and white puddles of chunky bird guano blocked his view of traffic. Timmons pulled the lever to release a spray of washer fluid, but the wipers smeared it into a sickening mess of suds that was no easier to see through. But Timmons didn’t brake. The mess cleared just enough for Timmons to see the traffic signal turn red 50 feet ahead. Timmons gunned his engine and narrowly missed a Prius trying to complete its left turn. Trevor veered into Tasha, and Tasha shoved him back onto his side.
The windshield cleared enough for Timmons to see the swarm in hot pursuit of the drone as it weaved under lampposts and light-rail cables. The drone turned north onto Santa Camilla and the birds followed. Angie kept a safe distance. Timmons did not; lunchtime traffic on Santa Camilla could not pull to the right quickly enough, causing Timmons to lean into oncoming traffic in order to keep pace. It its haste to get right, one car hopped the curb and came to rest wedged in the doorway of the Old Mission Church. The hinges of the old doors groaned and popped in an instant. High above, the bell tower sighed with the slightest resonant tone.
Ten blocks ahead, Angie could see a police roadblock. Ari peered over Angie’s shoulder and saw the silhouette of the Lieutenant’s cage launcher, primed for what might have been its first use in an American city.
“Is that…” Angie turned the drone’s camera upward. “No way…” As Angie watched, a voice played inside her mind. A voice that had lulled her boyfriend to sleep many a weeknight as they cuddled together on the couch of their apartment watching nature shows: the kindly, sonorous voice of Sir David Attenbourough.
The Peregrine Falcon is among Nature’s most thrilling predators. From above Chip’s drone, the crescent wings of Santa Asphalt’s resident mommy falcon folded inward, and the falcon began to dive. The falcon’s prey rarely thinks to look for attacks from above, and this agile hunter can spot a vulnerable target from up to two kilometers away.

“Chip! You’ve got a bogie above you!”
Ari looked over the cubicle at Chip. The police roadblock raced toward him as Santa Asphalt’s newest condo developments towered on either side.
Chip was humming the Star Wars theme.
The falcon’s signature hunting maneuver is the stoop. The stoop is among the most breathtaking displays of brinksmanship in the natural world.
During the stoop, the falcon can reach speeds as high as 200 kilometers per hour.
At the end of Santa Camilla, Escher’s team trained the mobile radar canon at the pursuing flock. The 2XE’s cage missile twisted automatically on its tripod to match the birds’ flight path.
Just before impact, the falcon tucks in its head, and delivers a tremendous blow of force into its prey.
Angie gasped as the falcon slammed into Chip’s drone, severing one of its propeller arms and sending it skidding across the empty lanes of Santa Camilla.
If the first impact fails to break the hollow bones of the falcon’s prey, the sudden impact with the earth will often finish the job.
“Mother fuck!” Chip howled.
The remaining birds scattered in all directions. Timmons’ police cruiser squashed what life remained in Chip’s drone and careened toward the roadblock. Escher’s team checked the radar screen, and gaped as the Crab Cage 2XE automatically selected its new target.
The 2XE launched its payload. As promised, the missile’s hull split midair and its patented mobile imprisonment system descended upon Timmons’ police cruiser. Timmons had no time to brake before his tires exploded. The stench of hot rubber flooded the passenger cabin as the police cruiser came to rest. Timmons gawked through his driver’s side window. Through the gray carbon webbing, Timmons made out dozens of construction workers on the open third floor of what would be Santa Asphalt’s newest condominium development, training their phone cameras on the fiasco that had unfolded beneath them.
“Well…that was something to see,” Angie said.
“Maybe we’ve seen too much,” Ari replied.
Several blocks away, at Santa Asphalt City Park, Tomas emerged from a light-rail train car. He had to. He had bought a round trip ticket. And only the benches at City Park had not been fitted with the small metal rails every 18 inches to keep transients from napping. Tomas kept his eyes to the sky as he trudged to the nearest bench. As he plopped down, a small gathering of birds fluttered down from the trees in expectation. Tomas looked up one last time. Clear skies. He removed a bag of Doritos from his bag, crumpled three chips in his fist, and sprinkled them across the ground.
“We’re safe this time, amigos. We need to look after our own out here.”

The Fall of Judge Persky: A Cautionary Tale

Today, voters in Santa Clara County will vote to recall Judge Aaron Persky. I predict that he will be recalled despite his cautious efforts to rehabilitate convicted sex offender Brock Turner precisely because of his unwillingness to use California’s dangerously bloated prison system as a remedy for sexual assault, and because his ouster will be expedient for the political establishment of which he probably considers himself a part.

This tale has four key actors: Emily Doe, Brock Turner, Judge Persky, and Stanford professor Michele Dauber.

I. The People v. Brock Turner

On January 18, 2015, “Emily Doe” and her sister attended a party at the Kappa Alpha fraternity house on the Stanford University campus. Both the victim and her sister consumed hard alcohol before and during the party. Outside the fraternity house, Ms. Doe and her sister met a group of male students. One of these students was Brock Turner, a 19-year-old freshman admitted to Stanford on a swimming scholarship. Turner had made aggressive overtures to several women at the party, and attempted to kiss Ms. Doe’s sister while outside the frat house. Ms. Doe’s sister left the scene to help a friend of hers who had drank too much alcohol at the same party.

At approximately 1:00 a.m., two graduate students cycled past the Kappa Alpha house and saw Emily Doe lying unconscious and motionless behind a dumpster. They also spotted Turner thrusting his hips on top of her. The students – Peter Lars Jonsson and Carl-Fredrick Arendt – called for Turner to stop. Turner stopped and fled; Jonnson and Arendt gave chase and held Turner on the ground while other students found Emily Doe and called the police.

Emily Doe was found unconscious, her underwear removed and her dress pulled up to the waist. Police took her to Valley Medical Center, where she regained consciousness at approximately 4:00 a.m. Two nurses performed a forensic examination of the victim’s body, finding “penetrative trauma” to the victim’s genitals and abrasions and erythema on various places on her body. A woman’s blood was also found under Turner’s fingernails.

Judge Aaron Persky presided over Brock Turner’s trial in the Palo Alto branch of the Santa Clara County Superior Court. Turner’s trial began on March 14, 2016. On March 30, the jury unanimously found Turner guilty of assault with intent to commit rape and digital penetration of an unconscious person.

II. Turner’s Sentence Goes “Viral”

Prior to Turner’s sentencing, Santa Clara County’s Adult Probation Department prepared a sentencing memorandum for Judge Persky’s consideration – as it does in every felony case. As required by law, Deputy Probation Officer Monica Lassetre interviewed both Brock Turner and Emily Doe.

Turner’s statement to Probation revealed flashes of genuine remorse. He stated:

“Having imposed suffering on someone else and causing someone else pain – I mean, I can barely live with myself. I can’t even get out of bed in the morning. I think about it every second of every day. Her having to go through the justice system because of my actions just…it’s unforgivable.”

However, Turner also attempted to blame “campus drinking culture and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that” for his actions rather than placing the responsibility upon himself not to sexually assault an unconscious person. Turner went on to say that if Judge Persky were to grant him probation supervision instead of a state prison sentence, he would comply with all the terms and conditions that would apply, including sex offender treatment and registering his address as required by law of all convicted sex offenders.

Emily Doe also gave a statement to probation on what she felt would be an appropriate sentence for Turner. In her statement, she stressed the pain of having to testify at Turner’s trial. “I still feel a lot of anger because of what he put me through at trial…He attacked my personal life in whatever way possible and in the end, it didn’t work.” However, the victim also expressed skepticism as to what good, if any, would come from sentencing Turner to prison:

“I don’t feel like I won anything…I want him to know it hurt me, but I don’t want his life to be over. I want him to be punished, but as a human, I just want him to get better. I don’t want him to feel like his life is over and I don’t want him to rot away in jail; he doesn’t need to be behind bars.”

Across California, judges routinely rely upon such sentencing memorandums and often adopt their recommendations in their entirety. At the conclusion of her report, Ms. Lassetre cited Turner’s lack of prior criminal record, strong family support, and low probability of re-offending as a legal basis to grant Turner 3 years of probation supervision and impose a moderate county jail term – in lieu of a longer period in state prison – as a condition of his probation.

However, very little about Turner’s actual sentencing hearing was “routine.” In stark contrast to her earlier statement to Ms. Lassetre, the victim impact statement that Emily Doe read in court was more than 7,000 words. Emily began by recounting the horrors of waking up in the hospital, covered in dirt and pine needles, after having lost any memory of the past few hours. She described the awful experience of having to learn the details of her own assault from news reports. Emily then blasted Turner for claiming, during his trial testimony, that he believed Emily to be a conscious, willing, consenting participant in her assault behind a dumpster.

Most of Emily’s ire, however, was focused upon Turner’s lack of contrition and having to go through the process of testifying at Turner’s trial. Emily Doe claimed that Turner’s attorney had “pummeled” her with “narrowed, pointed questions that dissected my personal life, love life, past life, family life, inane questions, accumulating trivial details to try and find an excuse for this guy who had me half naked before even bothering to ask for my name.”

Although Turner’s trial had already gathered substantial attention from local news media by this point, Turner, Judge Persky, and Emily Doe attracted national attention when Buzzfeed published Emily Doe’s statement within hours of the sentencing hearing. The campaign to recall Judge Persky began almost immediately after Persky followed the probation department’s recommendation and sentenced Turner to 6 months in county jail as a condition of his 3 years of probation supervision. In the days that followed, Emily Doe’s statement was republished on countless websites and read aloud, in its entirety, on numerous news programs and by elected representatives.

III. The Role of Professor Michele Dauber

The effort to recall Judge Persky cannot be understood without accounting for the role of Professor Michele Dauber, the Chair of the Recall Persky campaign and its most prolific spokesperson. Ms. Dauber teaches at Stanford Law School, despite never having practiced law as an attorney (though she holds a doctorate in sociology). She and her husband, Ken Dauber, an engineer at Google, made their first foray into local politics in 2011. Mr. Dauber won a seat on the local school board by agitating for reforms in the wake of a rash of teen suicides; the couple founded a non-profit called We Can Do Better Palo Alto to push for these same reforms. An avid supporter of Hillary Clinton’s bid for the presidency, both she and Judge Persky attended the same Democratic Party fundraisers.

However, one of Professor Dauber’s chief preoccupations has been eroding the due process protections given to Stanford students accused of “sexual assault” in Title IX hearings. Professor Dauber has publicly leveled two main complaints. First, Professor Dauber believes that Stanford’s definition of “sexual assault” – an offense whose penalty is expulsion – is too narrow. Sexual assault, according to Professor Dauber, should include more than forcible penetration and penetration of an incapacitated person. Sex with an intoxicated person, sexual battery (non-consensual touching of the breasts or buttocks), and sex without affirmative consent would also fall under Professor Dauber’s definition of “assault” and would warrant expulsion. Second, Professor Dauber opposes requiring a unanimous vote among hearing officers to sustain findings of sexual assault. Professor Dauber has publicly described herself as a “family friend” of Emily Doe, Brock Turner’s victim. Her interest in the Brock Turner case blossomed into a signature gathering effort toward Judge Persky’s recall within weeks of Turner’s sentencing.

Throughout the recall campaign, Professor Dauber has taken it upon herself to act as Emily Doe’s public voice. Having previously relied on The Guardian and other news outlets to take her grievances with Stanford Title IX procedures beyond the Stanford administration, Ms. Dauber plied her media savvy to submit Emily Doe’s victim impact statement to Buzzfeed and other media outlets. Emily Doe’s statement, as previously mentioned, echos many of Professor Dauber’s grievances about having to submit claims of sexual assault to cross-examination. In her written statement to Glamour magazine – in response to being named their Woman of the Year, Emily Doe shared an almost verbatim affection for journalist Ashleigh Banfield as Professor Dauber expressed in her 2016 interview with Democracy Now. When Stanford chose to convert the site of Emily Doe’s attack into a “scenic spot” with a memorial plaque, Stanford proposed the following quotes from Emily Doe’s famous letter:

“I’m right here, I’m okay, everything’s okay, I’m right here.”

“You are beautiful, you are to be valued, respected, undeniably, every minute of every day, you are powerful and nobody can take that away from you.”

“On nights when you feel alone, I am with you. When people doubt you or dismiss you, I am with you. I fought every day for you. So never stop fighting, I believe you.”

Emily Doe’s “representatives,” including her lawyer, rejected these and proposed an alternative quote that a Stanford counselor feared would be triggering for sexual assault survivors. Professor Dauber demonstrated her familiarity with these discussions by confirming to media outlets that Emily Doe had decided to not allow any quote at all to be used. At nearly every turn, Professor Dauber has exerted ownership of Emily Doe’s words.

IV. Silicon Valley Democrats Exploit “Me Too”

The Recall Persky campaign has vigorously exploited the Me Too movement and channeled it toward Judge Persky’s recall. Me Too sprang from the revelations of movie mogul Harvey Weinstein’s decades’ worth of sexual harassment and assault of Hollywood actresses. These allegations lead to a host of others leveled at various public figures, including former NBC Today host Matt Lauer, former Minnesota senator Al Franken, comedian Louis C.K., actor Kevin Spacey, and former CBS This Morning host Charlie Rose. The hashtag #metoo was popularized by actress Alyssa Milano, and since then thousands of women have shared their stories of sexual harassment and assault on social media. However, no activist within the movement has highlighted the plights of the millions of women who work minimum wage jobs in hotels, restaurants, or retail outlets; several actors and actresses have toppled looming media figures with their stories, but little has been said or done by this movement in places where most women actually work.
In her 2016 interview with Democracy Now, Michele Dauber proudly declared that Emily Doe’s victim impact statement was a “harbinger” of the Me Too movement. Recall Persky rode this momentum to collect over $1,200,000 in donations; many of these donations have been made in amounts of $1000 by residents of the affluent alcoves of the San Francisco peninsula and Marin County.

The local and national Democratic Party leadership has seen Professor Dauber’s war chest and has lined up at the proverbial trough. Senator Kirstin Gillibrand of New York – considered by many to be a front-runner in the coming 2020 presidential primaries – has endorsed the Recall Persky campaign, along with more than four dozen national, state, and county level Democratic lawmakers. Silicon Valley’s labor aristocracy – SEIU Local 521 and the South Bay Labor Council – have also endorsed the campaign and have fully adopted the same tactics as the Recall Persky campaign in their own election mailers by smearing its disfavored candidates with sexual harassment allegations, rather than touting the importance of unions to working class well-being and contrasting the working class’ interests with those of right-wing candidates (as one might think a labor union would do).

V. An Uninspiring Opposition

Pre-election polls suggest that the recall campaign enjoys a tremendous lead going into election day.

A major reason for this has been the speed and skill with which the Recall Persky campaign has skewed and distorted Judge Persky’s record. The Recall Persky campaign has combed through the thousands of cases that Judge Persky has handled as a Superior Court judge, found 6 that could serve as fodder for campaign mailers and talking points, and distorted them to sound as though Judge Persky has routinely showed leniency in sexual assault cases, especially where the defendant is white or otherwise “privileged.” The opposition’s website debunks these claims in some detail, but the best example comes from an op-ed penned by Michael Vitiello of McGeorge School of Law and published in the Stanford Daily:

“According to recall supporters, People v. Ramirez involved a minority defendant, similar to Turner, but whom the judge sentenced to a three-year term of imprisonment. A part from many other factors that may have explained disparate treatment (not visible based on the sentence), Ramirez pled guilty of a crime that required a mandatory term of imprisonment; Turner’s crime did not require prison time. The other examples cited by the recall supporters also failed to support a claim of Judge Persky’s racial bias.”

Against the lies and distortions spread by the Recall Persky campaign, the opposition effort has never received as many microphones with enough time to refute them in the minds of most voters. To paraphrase an old cliché, lies travel halfway around the world before the truth finishes putting on its shoes.

However, the main reason for the recall’s (anticipated) success is this: the political establishment and its affluent, upper-middle class voter/donor base has demanded Judge Persky’s ouster. The recall’s opposition has not rallied a working class voting base to outweigh the recall’s supporters.

The opposition to Persky’s recall include Jeff Rosen, Santa Clara County’s elected district attorney, Molly O’Neal, the county’s appointed Public Defender, the Santa Clara County Bar Association, retired Judge LaDoris Cordell, and a host of attorneys and sitting/retired judges. Their chief argument against the recall resonates with all the platitudes one would find in a high school government textbook; an independent judiciary, one that upholds the rule of law and apply it to individuals regardless of public pressure, is necessary to our scheme of democratic governance. “Judicial discretion” is the banner most frequently waived against an “unprecedented attack.”

However, criminal defense lawyers, their clients, and their clients’ families have seen “judicial discretion” ruin lives and tear families apart. Before 2012, California’s Three Strikes law and later legal decisions gave judges “discretion” in deciding whether to dole out life sentences for felonies that were neither “serious” nor “violent.” California’s prison population swelled and increasingly skewed toward elderly inmates in need of major medical care as they aged. In 2006, the prisons’ healthcare system was placed under federal receivership as one inmate died per week, on average, for preventable medical reasons. “Judicial discretion,” historically, has been no friend to the minority and working class people on its receiving end.

Furthermore, the recall of Judge Persky is hardly “unprecedented.” In 1982, the voters approved Proposition 8, the so-called “Victim’s Bill of Rights,” which repealed any and all protections under the California Constitution against illegal searches and seizures and required judges to presume the defendant guilty for purpose of setting pretrial bail. In 1986, reactionary forces lead the campaign to oust California Supreme Court Justice Rose Bird during her judicial reelection bid in response to her commutation of too many death sentences. In 1994, California passed two versions of its Three Strikes law. The existing voting blocks in California have always voted to erode the rights of the accused, often in reaction to one sensational news story involving a photogenic victim. These laws almost always have a victim’s name attached to them and have wrought unintended havoc on poor, working class, and minority communities. Alternative voting blocs had to be energized among these marginalized groups, and the anti-recall campaign has done nothing to do this. Instead, both the recall campaign and the opposition hosted a single debate at an affluent Los Altos country club, in which a professor of high finance stepped in for Professor Dauber to debate Judge Cordell.

And so we are left with the ultimate question. A victim of sexual assault had her claims taken seriously and investigated by law enforcement. Brock Turner, the perpetrator, was brought to trial and found guilty by unanimous jury verdict. Although Brock Turner’s sentence was highly unpopular, it was not only legal, but recommended by Adult Probation after interviewing both Emily Doe and Brock Turner. Brock Turner will now live in perpetual infamy as a registered sex offender for the rest of his life. After the sentencing, the California legislature amended the Penal Code to stiffen the penalties for the felonies for which Turner was convicted.

How is this not a success story? The Democratic Party in Silicon Valley needed a scapegoat to energize the affluent, petit-bourgeois voter/donor base in light of its demoralizing 2016 loss of the presidency to David Duke’s favorite gameshow host. As always, the people who will be sentenced more harshly by judges afraid of being “Persky’d” at the ballot box are far removed from this upper-middle class social milieu. Due Process and the rights of the accused are of little interest to Professor Dauber in particular and her social class in general. This voter base seems to labor under the notion that stiff prison terms will serve as tough medicine for sexual assault and rape culture.

Because there is no sexual assault or rape culture in prison.

Dear Norm: How Do You Defend Those People? (Part 3,223)

Dear Norm:

How do you defend those people?

No, I don’t mean “how can you live with yourself ensuring due process for people who have done really really bad things” or anything like that. I mean, how do you actually do it? When you have a client accused of something awful, and he/she has next to nothing by way of a defense, how do you defend them anyway?


Asking for a Friend


Dear Asking:

This question hits close to home. As mentioned in previous posts, I’m in the midst of the most serious trial tour that I’ve ever had. Every so often, you hear a story in the news where your jaw drops and then you check the locks on all your windows and doors… and then you call your grandma to tell her to check the locks on all her windows and doors… I will spare you the details, but suffice to say I have a new client who did something very, very bad. Because he was arrested at the scene of the crime, there is no identification issue or shoddy detective work that will let me claim that someone other than my totally innocent client must have done this heinous thing.  With all of the different charges and enhancements, this client faces a sentence of more than 100 years to life.

So where does a public defender start in defending this client?

First, I mentally prepare myself for the very real possibility that I will be stuck taking this case to trial, despite the lack of defense and withering, death-ray stares that my client and I will face from the jury during the entirety of the trial. The assigned prosecutor may not want to make my client any sort of plea bargain. “This defendant is the worst of the worst,” Mr./Ms. District Attorney may say, “and he deserves nothing short of a life sentence.” This may be true, but it does not relieve me of my ethical obligation to safeguard my client’s rights unless he is offered something in exchange for giving them up. It is not in my client’s legal best interests to simply plead to a life sentence out of hopelessness, and I will never tell him to do so.

Second, I drastically recalibrate my sense of what a “victory” would be in a case like this. I assemble all of the facts that weigh in favor of conviction, find the handful of “good facts” that weighs against a particular charge/allegation, and then decide which charges or enhancements I can argue against with a straight face; even in the deeply horrendous cases, prosecutors still overreach and charge more things than they might be able to prove. Then, I ask myself “so if by some improbable happenstance I manage to beat the charges I’m contesting, what does my client get?” For the client described above, I define “victory” as beating the two enhancements that carried a mandatory life sentence so that, in theory, I can try to convince a judge not to impose a discretionary life sentence on the remaining charges. Yes, “victory” is a relative term.

Third, I must earn enough trust from this client so that if an opportunity does come for him to save his own life, he’ll heed my advice and seize that opportunity. I sit with him in the jail interview room and listen to his half-hearted denials of guilt. Rather than cross-examine him and dissect his claims for implausibility, I gently remind him that ultimately, a jury would be asked to compare the victims’ word, the medical evidence, the photographs, and the client’s first version of events that he shared with the police to this new, second version of events that he now offers me. I see his face sink, ever so slightly, with realization; I have succeeded in grounding my client in the reality of the evidence against him without moral judgement or direct confrontation.

Fourth, I must give the client something that he gets to decide for himself. Clients hurt themselves most when they feel out of control over their legal situation; such clients feel “railroaded” and see their public defender as just another piece of the machine that is pushing them toward a certain outcome. When this happens, the client resists the public defender’s advice just for the sake of resisting the process as a whole. I remind the client that the decision to go to trial and the decision to testify are his and his alone, but I also remind him that he has the power to set a more realistic goal for himself. For example, for a client looking at a life sentence, pleading to any kind of determinate prison term, even if that sentence is dozens upon dozens of years, is still better than a “life” sentence; prisoners with (theoretical) release dates are categorized differently and are housed in less restrictive settings; such a situation would still guarantee a “life” sentence as a practical matter, but the quality of that “life” in prison would be substantially better. With this in mind, I tell the client that he has the power to “offer” the district attorney a plea to many dozens of years in lieu of a life sentence in exchange for not making the victims testify in court.

Before trial is the time to get creative to do whatever I can to make my client’s experience better for him. Like I said above, any sentence with a number is better than “life.” But there might be other things to consider. A coworker once told me a story of a man accused of felony child abuse causing death, a charge that carries a sentence of 25-life. Unlike first or second-degree murder, the crime of fatal child abuse does not require any particular intent, let alone the intent to kill that is required for a murder charge. Regardless, my coworker’s client agreed to plead to one count of second degree murder. Why? Because not only does second-degree murder carry a lesser sentence (15-life), but the charge itself would guarantee a less dangerous time in prison than a charge of child abuse causing death. This was arguably a better outcome (When your cellmate asks you, “So whadda ya in for?” What would you prefer to tell him?), and the client had the clarity of mind to make this deal because it was something that he felt he had the power to do in the universe of drastically-narrowed possibilities in which he found himself.

Fifth, I can make a pitch to the District Attorney on behalf of my client. The key is to remind the DA that a person is not born with the urge to…God, I can’t even say it, but such a person can only be made. Granted, most people with terrible childhoods and mild mental retardation do not go on to do the things that my client did. However, a substantial part of my client’s childhood was spent holding a gun in a closet and listening for signs his mother’s john was getting out of control. We can’t pretend that this had no impact at all on the adult he became. I can make the argument that if my client does not deserve mercy now, he probably did at some point in his life, and the things that happened to him in between were rarely, if ever, under his control to prevent.

Sixth, if this case does go to trial, there are a handful of tricks for losing with style and dignity.

  • Consider waiving opening statement; opening statements can be treacherous things in that if you promise the jury that the evidence will sound a certain way, there is a real possibility that the evidence will come in much worse than expected. Sometimes it is best to say nothing up front, let the wave of awful wash over you, and then attempt damage control during closing argument. Also, defenses sometimes “pop up” if the district attorney screws something up.
  • During the victims’ tearful testimony, get the information you need from them as gently as possible. During closing argument, accuse the district attorney of exploiting emotion and sympathy while holding yourself out as the sober, rational alternative.
  • Make objections under the United States Constitution, and not just the California Evidence Code; maybe your client will have a chance at tying up the system in federal post-conviction litigation if he preserves a “federal issue” in the record.


Finally, I document every decision that I make in the case as well as the reasons for it. My client will be convicted, an appellate lawyer will be running a fine-tooth comb through the record of the trial, and if I screwed something up so badly that my representation was constitutionally defective, then appellate counsel can (and should) argue this to the appellate court. Before actually presenting this argument to the court, appellate counsel will contact  me informally and ask me questions about why I decided to conduct this client’s defense the way that I did. As unbelievable as it may sound, this will not be my last truly awful case, and not every decision or its rationale will burn itself into my mind. If can’t defend myself, my client’s next lawyer will argue that I didn’t defend my client either.

Does that sound simple enough?


Respectfully Submitted,

Norm DeGuerre

Three Years Ago Today…

Happy Anniversary to me! Chasing Truth, Catching Hell turns 3 years old today. Year 3 will begin with a different tone and focus. The theme of the blog won’t change, but the style will be more fiction and less polemic. I’ve enrolled in a creative writing class (online, open to all) from the University of Iowa to expand my skills as a writer. I am now trying my hand at short scenes and stories, some of which I will share in the near future. I have noticed more than one literary-minded person follow Chasing Truth within the past year; I would love to hear your honest feedback on what you read.

Wish me luck,

Norm DeGuerre

Brushing Off the Dust

To my readers, passersby, and criminal justice enthusiasts:

Many of you have noticed that Chasing Truth, Catching Hell has been in a state of hibernation for the past few months; it has been too long since I have updated this blog. Without getting into needless detail, I will say that once in a while, my personal life becomes more exciting and eventful than my professional life, and I must divide my attention accordingly.

That being said, nothing “bad” has happened to me. Expect new posts in the very, very near future.

Thank you in advance for your continued interest.


Norm DeGuerre

How Do I Know if my REAL Lawyer is Doing a Good Job?

Dear Norm:

I was arrested recently, and my family pooled their money together to hire a private attorney. He sure sounds persuasive when we talk to him, and we really believed him when he told us that we made the right call hiring him instead of being represented by the public defender. He seemed genuinely outraged for me when I told him that I was being falsely accused, and promised that he had much, much more time to devote to my case than the public defender had. Since he’s bilingual and speaks the same language as the rest of my family, he convinced them too.

But now this lawyer is telling me that I should probably take the deal from the district attorney. I told him again that I did not want to take a plea bargain. He got really frustrated with me and told me that I was risking YEARS in prison if I didn’t. Then he told me to waive some sort of hearing, and then he set my case for jury trial. This week, he told me that my family had not paid him enough to do a jury trial and that he will drop me as a client. After all this, I’m going to be a public defender client anyway.

Did my lawyer screw me? How are people in my position supposed to know if their lawyer is doing a good job for them? And why is this blog the #4 Google search result for this question?


Abandoned Client


Dear Abandoned,

In July of last year, I wrote a post entitled How Do I Know if My Lawyer Is Doing a Good job? This post, with its accurate-but-uncreative title, was meant to give readers an idea of whether their public defenders are actually representing them well even when they fail to practice the niceties of customer service.

Since writing that post, more readers have found my blog by asking the internet “how do I know if my lawyer is doing a good job” than have by any other method. This question is my biggest source of web traffic. The worried defendants who toss this question into the ether find their way to my blog because it appears to be one of the only websites that attempts to answer this question. The American Bar Association has almost nothing on the subject. The other top search results for this question are advertising for private lawyers who so badly want my despondent readers to hire them.  These readers are better served by searching “bad lawyer” on Yelp! and reading the horror stories.

If you or a loved one are being accused of a crime, my heart goes out to you and you have my deepest sympathy. If you don’t have a legal education, knowing whether or not your lawyer is “screwing” you (another popular search query for this site) may be something you find out only after the important decisions have been made and the money has been spent.

An honest lawyer will tell you the truth about your case up front, not just what you want to hear, before any money is exchanged. Public defenders are probably the least likely to “oversell” what they can and can’t do with your case. You can’t compare your public defender to the lawyer on the billboard or commercial who promises to make all your problems go away. If you find your private lawyer is going just a little too out of his or her way to bash public defenders or court-appointed-attorneys, first ask yourself why this person wants to poach public defender clients, and then ask yourself how this person makes any money representing clients who don’t have a large income. It may be possible that this attorney, who appears at first to be a passionate warrior who wants justice, is actually scavenging for dimes by telling frightful canards about their local public defender’s office.

The decision to go with a public defender or a private attorney shouldn’t be that hard; if you can afford an attorney, then you should hire one. Public Defenders are for those who cannot afford their own attorney and who have no other choice. That being said, a public defender client may have a relative who is willing to cash out their retirement account, take out a mortgage on her home, or sell her car in order hire a private attorney who promises (loudly) to give his case more personal attention than the public defender will. The right to court-appointed counsel is meant to prevent this type of financial ruin. Unfortunately, some regions in the US have inadequate resources for indigent defense and clients living in these areas must make this kind of difficult choice.

Although I never intended Chasing Truth, Catching Hell to be a resource for those trying to figure out how to vet legal counsel, the universe has otherwise failed to provide helpful information. I have seen for myself the kind of damage this type of ignorance causes, so I will attempt to add some information to help those going through this difficult task. Remember that I cannot offer any legal advice over the internet. Although I am flattered that this blog has inspired complete strangers to sing the sad songs of their cases, a reader in need of legal advice should not make major life decisions solely based on the word of anonymous internet sources.

The following are all-too-true tales of clients who became clients of the public defender after being used and thrown away by private counsel:

First Tale of Woe

George was on parole after being released on a felony domestic violence charge. Regardless of the stern warnings and urine tests provided by his parole agent, George really, really liked crystal meth. However, crystal meth can be expensive for the regular user, and George soon ran out of TVs to sell; however, buying enough meth to resell solved both his supply and cash flow problems. Furthermore, crystal meth made it very, very difficult for him to interact with his wife in a constructive way during their divorce. Soon, George had another felony domestic violence case that carried a maximum of 8 years state prison. George also picked up a possession-for-sale case; however, although he had been selling, the police only caught him with 3 ½ grams of the stuff (an amount so common that police use the term “eight-ball” to describe it, since it is 1/8th of an ounce).

I represented George on his domestic violence case; since the DA had accused George of several “strike” offenses, no private lawyer would touch it. George also had a top-shelf public defender on his dope sales case; however, any lawyer worth his or her salt could have talked the DA into reducing that charge to possession for personal use. Unfortunately, George’s fantastic public defender failed to visit him at the jail because she had the gall to be in trial on another client’s case for two weeks. In response, George sold his car in order to hire a hack private lawyer. This private lawyer frightened George with awful tales of what happens when a public defender fails to spend enough time with an individual client, swooped in, took his money, and got him the exact same deal that anyone with a passing familiarity with the metric system could have gotten him.

George realized this prior to his sentencing on the case that I had with him, and wholly without instigation from me. George should have watched out for the following red flags:

  • Only a very special type of lawyer makes the bulk of his money by goading public defender clients to pay more than they can afford: the type that can’t market skills and who thus resorts to marketing fear.
  • This same type of lawyer will push hard to be hired for some of a defendant’s open cases but not others: they want the easy ones whose consequences won’t cause them to lose sleep.
  • If a lawyer promises to fight for you but asks for less than $50,000, this lawyer is not actually planning on fighting for you. If you are innocent and you want your day in court, a felony jury trial represents tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of legal services. If a lawyer talks a big game while arranging for a client to pay his $4,000 retainer at $85 per month, this lawyer will dump you before any “fighting” begins.


Second Tale of Woe

Joaquin was brought to the United States by his mother when he was 7 or 8 years old. Joaquin started hanging around with gang members in his neighborhood due to the usual combination of too much idle time, absent/abusive family dynamic, and constant threats to his safety in the poor neighborhood in which he lived. When Joaquin turned 18, an older gang member with a prison record coaxed him into helping with a home invasion robbery. Joaquin and this other man barged into a home, threatened the owner with a stun gun, and made off with whatever outdated electronics they could carry. This experience frightened Joaquin enough to inspire him to leave the gang lifestyle; he got a job as a plumber and was soon expecting a baby. However, years later, fingerprints taken from the scene of the home-invasion robbery matched the fingerprints that Joaquin gave when he was arrested for misdemeanor DUI two years after the home-invasion robbery.

Joaquin’s mom borrowed and sold as much as she could in order to hire yet another hack lawyer. This lawyer told Joaquin’s mom that he would explain that Joaquin was “just a kid” when this took place and that his behavior in the interim proves that Joaquin had changed his ways enough for any judge to cut him a break. Months later, Joaquin is a client of the public defender facing a life sentence because thanks to Hack Esquire, the district attorney added “gang” enhancements to the charged home-invasion robbery.  

Joaquin and his mom learned the following lessons much too late to be of any help:

  • It is natural for a defendant who does not speak English to want an attorney who speaks his language; the family finds it comforting for the exact same reasons. Sadly, some lousy lawyers know this and leverage their foreign language skills to earn quick trust.
  • If a lawyer tells a client exactly what he was hoping to hear and then quickly changes his tone when advising the client to take a plea bargain, one of several awful things might be happening. At best, the lawyer’s rosy sales pitch is meeting the jagged shoals of reality; if this is so, the client needs to ask the lawyer to explain why, after promising to fight for the client, he is now yelling at client in court’s attached holding cell that he is “screwing himself” by not taking a 16-year offer by the district attorney. At worst, the lawyer has just then decided that his client’s case requires much, much more work than his client’s meager finances can pay for.
  • A defendant should always get an explanation of all the stages in a felony case and clarify, before ever cutting a check, what stages in this process are covered by his retainer fee.
  • Finally, a defendant should never be afraid to ask why a proposed plea bargain is worth taking. Seek second opinions if necessary.

The following are general tips that do not have accompanying annecdotes:

Lawyers tend to be persuasive, smooth-talking people. Don’t hire a lawyer because he or she sounds convincing; convincing a potential client is easier than convincing a judge or a prosecutor.

Be mindful of prejudices that might steer you away from a great lawyer; younger lawyers, female lawyers, and lawyers of color often run circles around the middle-aged white men who lurk about my local courthouse.

The best private attorneys are often former public defenders.

The number of jury trials that a lawyer has done is not a perfect or complete metric of that lawyer’s skill and experience; however, it is in fact one very good metric. Don’t hesitate to ask.

As noted previously, don’t retain counsel without a clear understanding of the stages of a criminal case and which of those stages are covered by the lawyer’s retainer fee.

Before paying a lawyer anything, have a serious conversation about your goals for the case and how your lawyer will help you reach them. If you don’t like what they say, seek a second opinion. Depending on the advice you receive, be open to revising your goals in the face of reality.

A good lawyer will not ask you surrender any of your Constitutional rights unless you will receive something from the state of equal or greater value. Ask your lawyer what this is before agreeing to “waive” any of your rights. For readers in California, a preliminary hearing (or “prelim” for short) is a particularly important right, and one of the most common rights tossed away by private counsel. A prelim is your first chance to see witnesses testify against you, hear their testimony, and see how it withstands cross-examination from your attorney. After the prelim, the judge will decide whether there is enough evidence to warrant a trial. The right to a prelim is also the last right that many private lawyers convince their client to waive before dumping them on the public defender. Sometimes, waiving prelim is a good idea, primarily in cases where the evidence at prelim would allow the prosecutor to add more or worse charges; for example, an assault with a deadly weapon can very quickly become an attempted murder depending on how the witness testifies. More often, private lawyers encourage their clients to waive prelim for the sake of dropping the client faster. Again, your Constitutional rights are valuable; idealists might even say that they are invaluable. Do not waive any of your rights unless you are receiving something of equal or greater value in return.

If you find yourself becoming a client of the public defender after having been previously represented by private counsel, be prepared for a very different bedside manner. A public defender will almost always have done more jury trials than a private sector counter-part; if she encourages a person to accept a plea bargain, it is probably because she is thinking of how your case will look in front of a jury and not because she just wants to dump your case as soon as possible. The public defender will not be able to see a client as often or return phone calls as quickly as anyone would like, but this is not necessarily a sign of poor representation. Also, be prepared for some bad news in the event that the private lawyer fouled something up in your case.

And one last thing, and this is something that is as difficult to say as it is to hear: feelings, especially those related to unfairness, have no place in the justice system. In my experience, I have found that the more that clients struggle with feelings of unfairness, the worse decisions they make. You can be offered the best legal counsel in the world, but you may not be able to accept or receive it if you are stuck on how “unfair” your situation is. Instead, you may be tempted to give away your hard earned money to a lawyer simply because he or she did the best job sympathizing with your feelings. You may even lose a good plea bargain that you rejected because it felt “unfair.”


Good luck,

Norm DeGuerre

Criminology 201: Selected Topics in Disorganized Crime

Criminology 201: Selected Topics in Disorganized Crime

In my last post, I discussed a client whose life experience failed to square with the accepted narratives that are taught to police, probation, and corrections officers during the course of their training. I now have a vision of what it would look like if my client were given the chance to communicate his life experience in a classroom setting. If any criminal justice class actually would let this client teach the lessons that he had learned just by living his life, the final result would probably be a wonderfully educational public relations disaster for the school in question. It might climax in a conciliatory letter of some sort to the aggrieved student body, with a short explanation of how little their textbooks had prepared them to comprehend life on society’s margins.

Like this one:


From the Office of the Academic Dean, William H. Taft Institute of Criminal Justice and Weight Loss:

A number of students who were enrolled in last semester’s Advanced Criminology seminar have petitioned for review of their grades and disclosure of the grading criteria used by last semester’s guest lecturer. Our guest lecturer has provided a complementary set of explanations for the final exam that was given at the end of the term. He hopes that you will then use the lessons contained within his explanation to  figure out what went wrong with the remainder of your assignments, and assures you that “life is hard, but it isn’t complicated.”


Question 1: Multiple choice, choose the correct answer.

You are a probation officer supervising a juvenile ward. He is often truant from school, and his urine has never tested negative for THC, suggesting daily marijuana use. To aid in this minor’s rehabilitation, you should:

a)    Violate the minor’s probation and advocate for his detention in juvenile hall – the

       minor must cease his violations of state and federal drug laws

b)    Order the minor to enter residential drug treatment for what is clearly a crippling

       addiction to a Schedule 1 controlled substance

c)    Get the minor drug counseling and something, anything, worthwhile to do with his day

d)    Wait until he gets arrested for something more serious, and then figure it out

Half of the class chose answer choice (a), the other half chose answer choice (b). Clearly, neither half had experimented with marijuana in high school. If you had, you would know that marijuana is not a reason to skip school; the decision to skip school is made completely independently of the decision to smoke pot. School holds nothing for a huge number of these children. They often have learning disabilities, or anger problems, and largely-inherited substance abuse patterns. They need far more help to succeed in school than they receive, and many predict their own failure early and throw in the proverbial towel. And with all this free time these kids now have, why not smoke pot?

Of course teenagers shouldn’t be smoking pot. It interferes with their brain development, screws with executive functioning (very relevant for someone debating the merits of stealing a car), and creates a lifestyle that makes it very hard for them to interact with professional adults (teachers, employers, customers, etc). But pot isn’t dangerous; in fact, it has no known fatal overdose. Depriving them of freedom for smoking it is counter-productive at best, and completely self-defeating at worst. Of course, some sort of intervention is necessary, and without it, this minor will likely end up in serious legal trouble: not because of marijuana, but because of the people in his life who also happen to smoke it. Those who reside in the real world will answer with choice (c). Those who are already employed in the system might answer with choice (d), but that’s not the right answer either.

Question 2: Multiple choice, choose the correct answer

Which of the following can be considered as proof that a juvenile has joined a gang?

a)    Wearing baggy jeans

b)    Living in a neighborhood that is controlled by a gang

c)    Spraying gang graffiti on a highway overpass

d)    None of the above

To those who chose an answer other than choice (d), consider for a second that the word “gang”suggests a semi-disciplined criminal conspiracy. Wearing certain styles of clothing, even if that clothing bears the colors or logos that gangs use to identify themselves, says nothing about whether a person is a member of any such organization. Anyone can wear a certain color of clothing, and clothing can be shed at will when the social group dynamics cease to reward the teenager for wearing them.

Like conformist fashion tendencies, mindless vandalism is also common to at-risk youth. Anyone can spray anything on any surface; the vandal does not need to have been given orders to do so in micro-writing that was smuggled out of a maximum security cell block in the anus of a corrupt corrections officer.

Finally, while many gang members have the misfortune of growing up in neighborhoods that are already divided into gang rivalries, no sane person chooses to live there. People are born there, stay there, have no hope of ever leaving there, and will probably die there. These kids have roughly the same life expectancy as someone living in the Middle Ages. Gang membership is assumed by rivals just by virtue of that child’s neighborhood. Before the child knows it, he is choosing his bus routes to school so as to avoid “rival” territory. He is already suffering the drawbacks of gang membership; wanting to accept the benefits is an easy sell, especially if they have no other alternative for safety. Again, the correct answer is choice (d).

Question 3: Short answer

What does it mean to “hold someone accountable” for his actions?




Holy shit. As often as I heard you say this during our class discussions, very few of you seem to know what this phrase actually means. Holding someone accountable doesn’t mean showing them that their actions have consequences: anyone who has witnessed a car accident understands this. It doesn’t matter how many years of prison a person receives; the Convicted does not need you to remind him, repeatedly, in varying tones and volumes, that his own actions resulted in tremendous loss to himself and others. I suspect that many of you relied – to your detriment – on the thesaurus, which lists the following as synonyms for this phrase: attack, brand, blame, denounce.

Holding someone accountable for their actions entails building empathy for those affected by their actions; these parts of the brain may have atrophied from years of mistreatment in childhood, so we need to be patient. Holding someone accountable includes teaching them about alternative choices that could have been made. Extensive work needs to be done with those who – with or without reason – felt that they had no choice in their actions. Too many of your answers would have fit on bumper stickers, let alone three lines. Put more thought into phrases that are used so frequently. And for God’s sake, stop thinking in slogans.

Question 4:

Describe a situation where a person might plea “no contest” to a crime that they did not commit.




Again, a disappointing number of blank answers for this question. The students who confronted me about this question after class insisted that no one in their right minds would do such a thing. During the course of these conversions, I inferred that none had ever been given poor legal advice by an attorney that either did not have the time to care, the ability to care, or the retainer to care about that person’s case. A depressing number of Accused plea because, quite simply, they do not have confidence that their attorney has heard, understood, or investigated their defense. And without a defense, why wouldn’t they plea?

Do not underestimate the frightening penalties that follow trial, especially in jurisdictions where the criminal sentencing laws (and the judges tasked with imposing them) are left to popular vote. Many, many innocent people (or people who have a colorable argument for their innocence) surrender their rights simply to minimize risk.

Finally, don’t underestimate how often the district attorney uses a “devil’s bargain” to coax a plea from a defendant who has a strong defense. In fact, the deals become more irresistible as the prosecution’s case weakens. For example, a defendant who is in custody on the day of trial will find a “credit for time served” offer irresistible. An 18-year-old will plea to terrible things in exchange for minimal time. A good lawyer will sometimes advise him or her not to take the deal, but the defendant will always respond by asking, “But I get to go home today?” In California, an 18-year-old becomes a walking life sentence if the charges to which he pled happened to be “strike” offenses; his next felony case might result in a life sentence. The DA gladly cuts time up front with the expectation that they will get him later; and if his record is made serious enough early on, that “later” can last the rest of his life.

I know that the premise of this question hurt some students’ tender sensibilities, but taking my lectures seriously would have given you plenty of material for to answer this question.

Question 5: Essay

Part I: Consider the the following hypothetical. The minor described below is a ward of the juvenile delinquency court and you are his probation officer:

    Jaime is a 15-year-old high school freshman. His mother probably should not have had children until she had a stable relationship and/or living arrangement. Jaime’s mom probably should have tried to have all of her children with one person, rather than several people. Jaime’s father should have attended his domestic violence classes like his probation officer wanted to. He also shouldn’t have died when Jaime was 9 years old. Jaime’s mother should have finished her drug rehabilitation program and should not have relied as heavily upon her own mother for child care. Jaime’s mom should not have dropped out of high school, because Jaime’s mom should not have had to settle for working a graveyard shift at the front desk of a shady motel by the freeway. Even though she insists upon working this job, Jaime’s mom really should be getting home in time to make sure that Jaime and his little brother are getting to school on time.

    Jaime should never have failed his first semester of high school. Jaime should have studied harder and placed a greater emphasis on his education. Jaime should not have gotten himself suspended for fighting; Jaime should learn to control his seemingly irrational bouts of anger. Jaime should not take his anger out on his family by punching holes in the wall. Most importantly, Jaime should not be cutting class to smoke marijuana.

Part II: Please comment on the following, and show how it would influence the way you would approach Jaime’s supervision:

When you use the word “should,” you are arguing with reality.

Unfortunately, I have no sample answers to discuss because none of you attempted an answer. This was disappointing given the preoccupation that most of the class expressed concerning criminal street gangs. Several students expressed interest in stopping violent gangs, mainly because of some awful episode of Lockdown: Life on the Inside that they insisted upon mentioning in class.  However, none of you realized that little Jaime is a prime candidate for gang membership. Kids love group identity, and young men love a sense of feeling power and control.

Imagine the many, many niches in Jaime’s life that would be filled by a gang. He would have family, safety, financial opportunity, and a steady drug source within one social circle. Eventually, Jaime will get caught. He will be arrested. He will be sentenced according to the astoundingly severe sentencing laws that Californians put on the ballot. As a result, Jaime will possibly serve 10, 15, or 20 years in prison on his first case. And with nothing to do for 10-20 years, and with no social capital other than gang membership, what do you think will happen once he gets to prison? Prison gangs are the Frankenstein of California’s criminal justice scheme, and fixating on what someone should do, taking decades from their lives for things that they should not have done won’t actually fix anything.


Well, readers? What is your answer to Question 5? How would our approach to criminal justice issues change if we addressed the real world as it is, and not how it “should” be? Anyone? Anyone?

Please share your thoughts in the comments section. I would love to hear some new ideas.

Respectfully Submitted,

Norm DeGuerre

A Brief Foray Into Self-Promotion

Dear Readers:

Chasing Truth, Catching Hell has been selected to join the ABA Journal’s “Blawg 100,” the Journal’s annual list of the 100 legal blogs that it recommends to its readers. I am honored that someone up there has found things worth reading on Chasing Truth.

And of course, whenever a list is made, a ranking must follow. The Blawg 100 has listed all of its suggested blogs and has encouraged readers to vote for their favorite. For those who have enjoyed Chasing Truth, Catching Hell on at least one occasion this year, consider voting for it on the Journal’s website. You can do that by clicking here or by clicking on the Blawg 100 badge that has just been added to the sidebar of this site.

Chasing Truth has been quiet lately; surely my fellow public defenders understand how busy things get. But the next post is coming soon, and this one will be part one of two.

Thank you again for reading.

Respectfully Submitted,

Norm DeGuerre

Reasonable Courses of Action for Those Who Might Not Come Home Alive.

“This isn’t a court of justice, son. This is a court of law.” – Billy Bragg

When a jury of six people found George Zimmerman not guilty of murdering Trayvon Martin, I found myself utterly unable to respond to the verdict in real time. For those who have spent the past couple of months hiding in a cave with their eyes closed and ears plugged, George Zimmerman was a neighborhood watchman in Florida. Trayvon Martin was a teenage pedestrian who passed through the fiefdom over which Zimmerman stood vigilant against all the “punks” and “assholes” with his concealed 9mm pistol. Martin carried only Skittles and iced tea that he had bought from the store. Within seconds of spotting Martin, Zimmerman called 911 to report that he had seen Martin, in his neighborhood, doing nothing in particular. Although the dispatcher advised caution and restraint, Zimmerman lamented (in the recording of the 911 call) about how “assholes” and “punks” like Martin “always get away” and he decided to pursue. Zimmerman then followed Martin until Martin physically confronted the stranger who was following him for no apparent reason. In response to the nominal danger that he himself provoked, Zimmerman shot Martin dead.

I found myself unable to muster outrage because, frankly, I wasn’t surprised at the outcome. I also found myself unable to have any sort of conversation with anybody about it because those who either lamented or celebrated the verdict suffered from the same core delusion: that Court-With-a-Capital-C is a place for justice to happen.

Anyone who has spent one minute in an actual courtroom understands that a court is a machine; it has moving parts that fulfill their functions within predictable degrees of verve, skill, and enthusiasm. The list of possible outcomes for a case is limited, as are the possible options that the machine’s players can choose from prior to the case’s final outcome. And when the courtroom deputies radio to the basement to send their “bodies” (in-custody defendants) up to a courtroom for their court appearances, we receive a crude reminder of what this machine processes; it processes human beings. At no point during this process will the victims get their loved ones back, nor will this process heal any wounds or scars. Sometimes property is recovered, but more likely it will be repaid pennies on the dollar through the pittance that the defendant earns for his prison labor. At no point along this route does an accused receive the job training, addiction counseling, and/or long-term psychotherapy that would prevent a huge majority of all crime if they were freely available. At what point does anyone expect justice to squish through the sausage funnel at the end of this process?

Every final outcome in a criminal case represents an outcome that the system was designed to produce. Many years of lobbying by the firearms industry and self-defense enthusiasts produced Florida’s self-defense laws. These laws require no retreat and make no issue of who first instigated the violent encounter or why he did so. All a person has to do is claim that he feared for his life and kill the only other witness to the contrary. And when a person does this, faces trial on national television, and walks out the door afterward, the system works exactly the way that it was designed to.

Now, I have made no mention thus far of the races of either Zimmerman or Martin. The system flatters itself fair and impartial because–on paper–the race if the individuals involved should not matter. But if race does not matter, why was 71-year-old Trevor Dooley (African American) denied an acquittal when he claimed that he shot a man thirty years younger, four inches taller, eighty pounds heavier, and did so in self defense?  Why is a black defendant 354 times more likely to be convicted of murder than a white defendant in cases alleging “self-defense?”  A law that claims to be race neutral while producing racial injustice is, regardless of its intent, a racist law. The courts that enforce racist laws produce racist results.

The courts in Florida and elsewhere enforce laws that make it dangerous for young black males to walk home from the store and dare to defend themselves against a stranger who decides within seconds that they are “assholes” and “punks.” This is not justice, but justice is not what these machines produce.

The solution for law abiding citizens who want to come home safely from the store is to stop relying on courts to produce justice. For the past four weeks, a group of students calling themselves the Dream Defenders have been staging a sit-in protest at governor Rick Scott’s office seeking redress for the laws that allowed Zimmerman to legally kill Trayvon Martin; they are trying to stop the gears of the machine with their bodies. In response, Florida house speaker Will Weatherford has announced his intention to hold hearings on Florida’s self-defense laws. The Dream Defenders clearly understand that justice is something that must be sought outside the courtroom.

Please don’t think of this as a tardy Trayvon Martin piece; I prefer to think of this post as a timely piece in support of those actively resisting the systemic racism of our court system as though their lives depend on it.

Their lives do depend on it.

Respectfully Submitted,

Norm DeGuerre

Where Did All You People Come From?

So I started this blog (or blawg, get it?) with the goal of it being equal parts catharsis and creative writing project. I’ve been pleasantly surprised at the number of people who stumble upon this blog and at the number of truly fascinating individuals who have shown an interest in what I have to say.

So thank you to my community of bloggers, of other public defenders, private lawyers, writers, thinkers and those interested in the US justice system and how it actually works. From whatever side of The Bar or bars you happen to be looking from, I’m glad we can connect here.

Specifically, I appreciate the support of my first blog friend, Dan Mullin, at the Unemployed Philosopher’s Blog; Gideon at A Public Defender; the folks over at Popehat; Scott Greenfield; my appellate friends The Squawk and Jeff Gamso; Windy Pundit; and everyone who has emailed, tweeted, or terrorized Facebook friends with my posts.

And Canada! Canada is home to a surprising number of regular readers. I love the shit out of you, Canada.

And to readers outside of North America: Welcome! Velkommen! Willkommen! Welkom! Maligayang pagdating! Vítejte! Bun venit! Boas-vindas! Bienvenida! and Bienvenue! This blog has had visitors from 22 countries on continents other than my own. I have no idea how many visits were the result of Google-related accidents (at least one reader was looking for “jailbait”), but many have clicked around to different posts upon arrival. I think that’s pretty neat.

Finally, to the folks who googled “Chasing Truth” in search of the Christian metalcore band from Gilroy, California; you’re almost there. The truth you’re chasing can be found at their Myspace page. I can’t promise that all of your future spiritual inquiries will have such tidy answers. Please come back any time. We’ll discuss.

My “Dear Norm” posts are composite questions I’ve been asked over the years, but I am interested in responding to actual reader inquiries, especially from those trying to understand the legal system from the outside and from overseas. You can connect with me via comments on my blog, on twitter @NormDeGuerreEsq, or by email at NormDeGuerreEsq(at)gmail(dot)com. Of course, the only legal advice I can give you is not to take legal advice from someone whose credentials have not been properly vetted.

It’s awfully nice to know that when I look through my computer screen to the internet, there is someone, somewhere on the other side looking back. It makes me want to write stuff worth reading.

Respectfully submitted,

Norm DeGuerre