L conquers dc

L leaves the district, unconquered

2008-08-15T16:44:00.003-04:00

Yesterday was the last day of my internship and I'll be back to where I belong on Monday. As to the questions I've posed in my first post, here are my thoughts as of today:

1. What makes the Real World real?
The knowledge of your own mortality and mundaneness. The constant weight of your own responsibilities. And the alienation you feel from strangers.

2. How often are people convicted of crimes they didn't commit?
More often then necessary. More often than I thought.

3. What drives people to crime?
I now believe that anybody is capable great violence, but the circumstances of each are so varied that we can never really pinpoint and eradicate it. In many cases, I think crime is borne of humanness and that desire for others to recognize our humanness.

4. What is public defense and what is its purpose?
In other posts, I have spoken of my answer to this question, which is a mix of the virtues of the adversarial justice system and the recognition of the humanity of those we must defend.

5. Can justice ever really be served in the American criminal law system?
That depends on what justice is. If justice is the ability of a jury to render a verdict of "guilty" upon those who have committed a crime, and "not guilty" upon those who have not committed a crime, it's a question that no longer concerns me. I think my sense of justice is one where all of us recognize the humanness of violence and grant everyone the dignity they deserve as human beings.

As for me, I will be studying diligently for my LSAT and, maybe one day, I will return to these streets I have grown to love as an attorney.

All of this was made possible by my amazing benefactors, whose generosity and vision know no bounds. To them, and my wise friends who have offered me good counsel throughout the summer, I send my love and appreciation.

Thanks for reading,

L

L conquers the original

2008-08-01T17:39:00.002-04:00

An inmate once told me that the district is the original. We do everything different, he said. For one, the music is unique, he tells me, citing the go-go movement. And crime is different here too, gangs haven't really penetrated the district, because, as he put it, every man has to stand on his own two feet.

The lack of organized crime, however, is more frightening than comforting. With organized crime, there's a rhythm to violence. You know exactly who you need to appease to survive. You know exactly how much your life is worth to them. And you know when you might die. But the district specializes in random violence that isn't exactly random. Sure, those who live risky lifestyles are in more danger, but there are still too many who stumble onto violence unwittingly. I almost would prefer organized crime, where at least you know where the mines are.

In most ways, however, there is nothing original about violence. It's as old as time itself, and I often wonder if is stitched into our DNA.

L votes no on prison rape

2008-07-30T20:08:00.004-04:00

We've made prison rape into a joke. We've turned a traumatizing experience that countless inmates have to endure into a quick laugh. We've turned emotional pain into shame. And we have done nothing to combat it.

The truth is that prison rape happens. Probably often. And it's not just sexual, it's about power and pain and violence. And the consequences are far-reaching: it creates cycles of violence when men who have been traumatized must assert themselves through violence, it creates health problems through the spread of HIV/AIDS and STDs in prison populations, it destroys the rehabilitative penal system we need to strive for.

I don't know what the solution is, but it can't be to smirk and look the other way. As a society, we need to acknowledge that this is neither inevitable nor acceptable. We have to take this seriously.

L sees dead people

2008-07-30T19:56:00.002-04:00

The homicides are starting to pile up. I can see now why the cops play a little rough... there's simply too much death in this city. But frustration turns quickly into apathy, which is why I'm glad I'll be out of here before that happens.

Despite all the photos of dead people I've seen, it's the urban memorials that haunt me the most: Stuffed animals are duct-taped to a lamppost, their furs gray and tattered. A pair of shoes are strung on a electric line (also the sign for drug deals). A scrawl on a wall. But it's worse without the memorials, when we stand on the site where someone has disappeared forever, and there is no trace of his demise. I often expect to find the streets stained with blood, and it's saddening to discover that concrete doesn't remember death.

L goes to a methadone clinic.

2008-07-14T19:02:00.008-04:00

My internship has brought me to some interesting places: facilities for the criminally insane, jails, STD treatment centers (some convicts seem to find it amusing for us to chase false leads there), hospitals, police stations, school houses, and Maryland.

The crime scene of one of our latest cases happens to be near a methadone clinic in North East. Methadone is used as replacement therapy for those addicted to opiods, often heroin. The crime scene is swarming with people who frequent the area for their medication, any of whom could have seen something. We made an operation out of it; we got a staff investigator (read: legit adult) to come so we'd have more manpower, and we milled around the area, asking questions.

Within a three mile radius, dozens of collegiates are asking passserbys of busy commerical areas questions like, "Are you an environmentalist?" "Registered to vote?" "Got a minute for Obama?"

And I had the pleasure of asking passerbys, "Know anything about that guy who got stuck?" ("Stuck," as irreverent and uneloquent as it sounds, means "fatally stabbed." In the present and future tense, it is a conjugation of "to stick," as in, "I'm gonna stick you.") Yes, my internship rocks.

But whatever strides the clinic is making inside, they are quickly erased only a few feet outside. A man with a heavy jacket approaches passerbys much in the same way we do, only he opens his jacket a little to reveal little plastic bags with white rock-like substances. And now and then, money is passed and a deal is made. I wish I could tell you I thought it was sugar. And I wish I could tell you that the clinic was changing lives and hearts.

Today's lesson: violence and narcotics are always intertwined.

L plays the race card

2008-07-10T21:28:00.006-04:00

This is the post I have been dreading. It's that touchy issue of race that has permeated every day of my internship here, but I have tried to avoid. So I'm going to be as frank and candid as I can.

All of our clients are black. Most of them are young and many have spent the majority of their lives in jail. There's a joke that everyone knows the exact number of white inmates at the jail (last I heard, seven out of more than a thousand inmates). The district is as divided racially as it is economically, and along the same lines. You know exactly when it is you've crossed from black to white neighborhoods even without looking at the people; the pavement beneath your feet, the trash on the streets, the buildings beside you... everything clues you in on the lines this city has drawn.

To the people I meet, I'm white (which is odd, because I've never been white before.) But white isn't really a skin color here, it's a way of life. Just like black is. Racial tensions run high here, making every encounter a racial one. Sometimes I feel like shouting, "Look at me! I'm not white! I'm not the enemy!" But, in all the ways that matter here, I am.

Before this internship, I was furiously opposed to affirmative action based on race, for all the basic reasons and traditional arguments. Today... I'm not so sure where I stand. It's an uneasy feeling-- not knowing where you stand on most issues--but, quite frankly, the world is never still, and I'm glad I finally understand it's OK to move with it.

Maybe the politicians that we so often accuse of flip-flopping are not spineless panderers, but simply wise, because they learn and change with every experience.

L hears the magic words, not guilty

2008-07-10T21:00:00.004-04:00

One of our attorneys (we have two) started trial last week on a rape charge (there were officially three charges, but let's not get into the details), and she was amazing. I can only fantasize about speaking and thinking half as brilliantly as she does. The trial drew quite a crowd: an assortment of law clerks from both sides, but, to my surprise, no one from either the complaining witness' side nor the client's.

The entire process itself is fascinating. There is so much that goes on when the jury is not present. The judge and counsel set the rules for the game before the trial begins, and when it starts, it becomes a show for these 14 men and women (there are usually 2 alternates). I don't say "show" to cast the trial process as deceptive or trivial, but the trial is a brilliant performance on the part of the legal counsel, who create riveting and compelling arguments that merit strong praise. The trial is taken very seriously because the stakes are high... a man's life is at stake. The lawyers know this and practice their arguments carefully. And they argue not only with expertise but with passion.

There are tears. Testimony of the complaining witness and the defendant are emotional. There are fancy posters and displays. And there are phone records and medical records and experts and detectives.

And after hours of deliberation, the jury found our client not guilty on all three charges. I was happier than I expected upon hearing the verdict. (Contrary to popular belief, after a "not guilty" verdict, the defendant does not walk out, he is actually put back in handcuffs and sent back to jail to sort through paperwork. Quite anti-climatic, eh? Also, the client had served a year in jail before his trial. So much for the right to a fair and speedy trial.) Verdicts like today's are rare, however, I am told. But that doesn't kill our happiness for the day.

Combined with the recent overruling of the handgun ban, this week has reminded me of one of my favorite movies, Runaway Jury. And it's a week that has revitalized an admittedly waning faith in our country's criminal justice system.

Today, I believe in the adversarial criminal justice system more than ever. But I think the truth, that elusive prize, is so much more than "guilty" or "not guilty;" it is neither property of the defense nor the government. I think it lies somewhere in the gray, that in-between that no one can really ever see, not even those involved. And I think the more I am here, the more I have come to understand that the truth matters very little when the lives and hearts of men are concerned.

P.S. Unfortunately, my laptop, Moo, has passed away. I am using a public computer in Georgetown. Shh... don't tell them I'm not a student here.

L learns about herself

2008-07-06T18:39:00.003-04:00

Despite only working with me for two months, Z knows a lot about me, most of which I've never noticed about myself. According to him, I am:

1. A moral relativist. I'm glad he's finally put a legit name onto my "no judgment" way of life.

2. Optimistic only when impractical. And a "Debbie Downer" at all other times.

3. An asshole. I take that as a compliment considering Z only says that about me when I'm right.

4. Irrational. I never make statements that can be backed up by evidence.

5. Blind. I am useless on a stake-out.

6. Consistent. I eat peanut butter and jelly with banana sandwiches every day.

7. A conspiracy theorist.

L tours the jail.

2008-07-01T19:44:00.005-04:00

In the District, there are two jails, which are side-by-side. The detention center is managed by the District's Department of Corrections; the treatment center is operated by a private company. Both house inmates of the District, many of whom are awaiting trial.

The treatment center (which we toured today) is a lot nicer than the detention center. It's newer, and its purpose includes rehabilitation, which means that it has programs for inmates, including academic and vocational schooling, as well as drug rehabilitation. Also, because it is privately owned, more attention is paid to deterring riots by servicing the inmates (as opposed to reactionary tactics often used at the detention center, where the riots occurred last week).

But not everyone gets to go to the treatment center. All female inmates of the District go there; and snitches (those who are testifying against other inmates and have protective orders against them) are housed at the treatment center. Other inmates are also incarcerated at the treatment center (because the detention facility has overflow), but only low to medium threat inmates. This is because the treatment center is not equipped to handle high threat inmates.

High threat inmates (who are not snitches) must be housed at the detention center, which has barbed wire and a guard tower (with an armory inside).

In all jails, The Count is the most important part. The Count is when every inmate is locked in his or her cell, and counted. The Count occurs six times every 24 hours at the treatment center. At the detention center, The Count occurs three times during the day, and every hour on the hour at night. Since inmate populations are quite large (the treatment center has more than a thousand inmates), The Count can take anywhere from 45 minutes to two hours.

Between counts, during the day, many inmates are allowed to have free time in their own cellblock, which may contain TVs and showers. Many inmates also have certain hours they can use The Yard, go to churches, attend classes, or use indoor recreation centers.

The cells themselves are tiny. There's a toilet and a sink and a bunk bed. At the treatment center, the cells were originally made for only one person, but because of prison overcrowding, a bed was added on top of the original bed to make each cell a double. The beds are small and uncomfortable, with a mat for a mattress (so small that even I would have trouble fitting!)

Both jails have solitary confinement, known as The Hole. After the riot last week, as many as 30 inmates were put in The Hole.

Rumor has it the riot occurred over cold meals (The inmates get three meals a day provided by--none other than the same company ousted two years ago at my own sweet college--Aramark). Apparently, a few inmates were fighting (code blue) before dinner was served, and the officers sent everyone back to their cells.

After a few hours, the inmates were finally let out of their cells and into the cafeteria, only to find that their meals were cold. They asked for the meals to be reheated, but the officers simply pretended to reheat them. This upset inmates, who felt that this was the latest of a long series of grievances and maltreatment, and the inmates refused to return to their cells for The Count. Knives tied to broomstick handles may have been used by inmates who "demonstrated." The officers decided to break out the tear gas. The inmates were quickly subdued (and probably beaten).

Riots spread quickly, so after the riot, both jails were put on lockdown for a week.

All in all, I think my tour, and recent experiences with the jails, have convinced me that we need to privatize corrections in order to better service inmates and still maintain the safety of the community.

L wants to treat every encounter as our last.

2008-06-28T00:59:00.004-04:00

In training, we learned that we need to treat every encounter with a witness as our last. This is because once someone knows you're looking for them, they disappear. They ignore your calls, refuse to answer the doorbell, and even change their habits so you will never see them again.

That's why it's crucial to make your first, and last, encounter count. We usually subpoena the witness and try to get any information we can during that time. We go through each second of the encounter trying to make it last a second longer.

I've wondered what it would be like if we lived our lives with the same vigor. What if we treated every encounter with a stranger, friend, loved one or family member as our last? What if we just said everything we've ever wanted to say today, not for some phantom tomorrow? What if we didn't take our mundane encounters for granted, and instead acknowledged them as happy collisions of fate and humanity?

L sees the devil in the details.

2008-06-28T00:48:00.002-04:00

I spent three hours steaming dress clothes today. One of our cases is going to trial on Monday, and court clothes for the defendant are one of our many responsibilities. Our firm has closets filled with court clothes and we pick out the right clothes for the client.

It's odd, but I think the clothes make a difference. Most of these cases are all about perception; can you see this man committing this crime? The jury is made of people, and people are all about appearances.

And while Z and I are excited and nervous for our first trial, in a cell in the cage across town, our client is afraid because his fate is in the hands of strangers and the rest of his life will be decided in a few short days.

L drags you back into The Life.

2008-06-28T00:33:00.005-04:00

After violence, sometimes, there are those who see they must get out of The Life. Violence grazes them, and they realize they can no longer live so near it, that the lifestyle they have led is all too dangerous. These people get out of the District. They go to Maryland. They try to get their GEDs, go to technical or vocational schools and get jobs. And just when they think they've left The Life behind, just when fear does not occupy their every living second, we drag them back.

They will be coming home or going to a relative's home or a friend's place. They'll pull up into the driveway, and we'll get out of the car we've been waiting in. They'll see us coming and they'll know what we're here for. They'll try to walk away and then try to convince us they don't know anything. We'll nod along and apologize as we serve them the subpoena ordering them to appear in court.

They show up in court and testify. And they are watched by those in The Life they left behind. And someone in The Life they left behind will not like their testimony. And they will drag them back into The Life.

I think it's hard to leave The Life, and it's harder to leave The Life for more than a year or two. I think the past catches up to us no matter how hard we try, or how much we change.

L is broken.

2008-06-26T21:17:00.002-04:00

Things that broke in the last three days:

1. My air conditioning

2. My lamp

3. My laptop

4. My wireless

5. My faith in someone

L heard it in the hood.

2008-06-24T22:19:00.000-04:00

Canvassing always gives us a chance to smell the sweet scent of marijuana.

Mr. X after being asked about a shooting: Now, I have a question for you. I bought this helicopter off the Internet. And now I want to return it. How do I get my money back?

L: I'm not sure our lawyer can help you with that... Sorry... Have you tried calling the Internet people?

Mr. Y after exhaling marijuana smoke into our faces: I'm sorry about that weed I just hit you with.

Z: Nah, it's good. You do what you do.

L misses a jail riot.

2008-06-24T19:54:00.000-04:00

Prison riots apparently are not just in movies. Spears? Really? Oh, DC Jail.

L gets tips from a drug dealer.

2008-06-18T20:26:00.001-04:00

Inmates, especially those in solitary, have nothing better to do than chat. I’ve learned they offer great advice on life. Here are some of their tips to me:

1. Never put out too soon. Men are all about the chase.

2. I am in the wrong business. Big time drug dealers can make up to 5K... a day. Read it again. 5K in a single day. Apparently, a brick of coke can be bought wholesale for around 22K, then mixed (through a process involving a whisk and baking soda that makes a totally different sort of cake) to make a brick-and-a-half of crack, which is then cut and sold to distributors.

3. You have to live the life in order to The Life. This one’s a bit cryptic, but substitute “live the life” for “treat your business as a way of life” and substitute “The Life” for “enjoy the lifestyle of a drug lord,” and you’ll get a message of how hard work pays off.

4. Loyalty above everything.

P.S. I love the comments I've been getting because they remind me that all of us have a unique conception of our universe, its moral order, and what truth and justice means. What I've learned is that my universe is constantly changing, with each new person I meet and every experience I have. My universe is hazy, at best. It's a place where morals mean nothing and society's interests are subordinate to individual needs.

I think that maybe there's not one universe, but countless universes, each defined by our respective minds, bound by our experiences and knowledge. That's why death is so tragic--one person's universe is erased forever. That's why children are important in our society--an individual believes he can pass on his universe to his children.

L thinks we are all capable of murder.

2008-06-16T19:27:00.000-04:00

"We all have that shit in us," a detective says.

We like to distance ourself from violence. We use words like "senseless" or "meaningless" to describe violent crimes. We call the perpetrators of these crimes"monsters" or we label them insane.

But I think that the detective is right, we all have it in us. It's not only the ability to kill, but the capability to end the life of a fellow human being. Not just in self-defense or accidence, but in desperation, in passion, in hatred, in greed... in any trait that makes us human. I think that's what scares us the most; the revolting realization that neither you nor I are above the murderers, rapists and robbers we despise.

My brother once told me we hate those who reflect who we are. In the souls of murderers, we find ourselves, and it is a reflection so terrible, we refuse to acknowledge that it as our own.

But I can't stand words like "senseless" or "meaningless" to characterize violence; violence is human. I don't say that to glorify violence or to demean humanity or even to meekly accept a reality of violence. I say that because I am deeply and truly in love with humanity--all of it--and true love means seeing flaws and accepting them, unconditionally. Not in the hopes that your love will change, but with the certainty that what you love lies wrapped in every flaw.

L goes to jail. again. and again. and again.

2008-06-14T00:09:00.000-04:00

The jails have become a second office to us. (The car is our primary mobile office; the actual Intern lab is our third). We go there to speak to our clients or witnesses, who are much more easier to find and talk to when incarcerated.

As investigators we can speak to inmates in official legal visits, where we're placed in a visitation room with the inmate, any time of the day we want, as long as we want. Visitors, however, such as friends and family, can only talk to inmates during visiting hours, usually once a week, for a certain period of time.

Z says he finds the children in the visiting halls most unnerving. Almost all the visitors are baby's mamas, who dress their children in their Sunday best to see their fathers. The children shout, "Daddy!" when they see their fathers (through a pane of glass) led into the visitations hall.

As any movie featuring a prison will tell you, a glass pane separates inmate from visitor, and both must use phones to speak to one another. The scenes in the movie where inmate and visitor put their hands up to the glass as if to touch are entirely too real. In fact, all of our visits seem like a movie to me.

Whenever I enter the jails and get pat down, I want to say something cliche, like "whoa, they usually buy me dinner first!", for the audience I am certain is watching. The bright orange jumpsuits must be costumes. And that intense, soulless look of an inmate who has been in custody far too long must be an act.

When I watched a video the other day of detectives interrogating a suspect, I had to check a few times that somebody hadn't switched our tapes with a movie.

I am convinced it's all a movie because it can't be real. Human beings can't live like that. Human beings can't treat other human beings like that. Human beings can't be locked up like animals.

But I knew all of it was real because no one can pretend to be that scared, that sad, or that hopeless.

L and the stakeout.

2008-06-12T19:04:00.001-04:00

The worst part of my internship is the stakeout. We sit outside someone's address in a hybrid car in a sketchy part of town, sticking out like a sore thumb. It's hours of boredom, punctuated only by a few seconds here and there of fear of getting carjacked. It's no wonder why police officers eat so much... when you're sitting in a car, unable to read or sleep because doing either may distract you from watching the streets, all you really want to do is eat food.

Last night was one of the worst. We had been on this guy for weeks. The previous investigators had been trying to find him for about half a year. We had reason to believe we were finally closing in on him. We started at 8 p.m. and watched his house until 11:30 p.m. He never showed. It was exhausting, boring and frustrating.

Z drove me home. We were both upset and tired, so when someone in the car across from us was gesturing at us and shouting, Z gave him the finger. Later, we realized that our headlights were off; the man in the car had been trying to help us.

In that moment, I found a little bit of my answer to that age-old question, why violence? Take what happened in that car to an extreme. Imagine a life of frustration, exhaustion, and even boredom. Then you perceive someone disrespecting you, and suddenly you have a target to focus all that frustration on. You're angry at your life, your bad luck, your circumstances, and you can pour all that anger into a person at that point in time. And maybe that anger is transformed into an action. And if you have a weapon, a very grave action.

Why violence? Maybe it's a product of the lives we have led and a simple misperception at an unfortunate moment in time.

P.S. A new roommate, R moved in today. He's a graduate student at the same university my brother attends. He seems nice.

L attempts to reign in her OCD and learns a little about living with men.

2008-06-10T22:59:00.000-04:00

I caught myself trying to smuggle trash out of my partner's car today. My obsession with organization has hit new heights this summer without newspaper layout to take the edge off. It's funny how that little uneasy feeling I get when items are misplaced or surfaces disorganized has grown here.

I'm not exactly sure why that is; maybe because I have more control over my surroundings, I feel more of an obligation to organize them. Or maybe during the school year, I can divert that unhealthy energy to straightening up newspaper layouts. Whatever it is, this is probably the first time in my life that I've seen my odd tendencies as a bit of a problem. Hopefully, it'll pass.

I think I've also finally gotten the trick to living with boys. The thing is, just like disorganization doesn't bother most people, men aren't bothered by the unclean. So if the trash isn't taken out, or the dishes unwashed, men don't care. But if you do, then don't ask someone else to fix the problem, just fix it yourself, because your roomie not taking out the trash is not the real problem; the real problem is that you care that your roomie is not taking out the trash.

It's not J's problem that he places the sponges so that they're not parallel to the sink; it's my problem because I care. In the same way, ladies, when your son, brother, husband, boyfriend or lover, doesn't pick up his clothes, leaves the toilet seat up, doesn't take out the trash or cook or do the dishes, it's not really his problem because he doesn't care if he lives like a slob.

So my message to the ladies is that most of us think differently than most men, and it's hard for us to understand men because of that. We think that actions and words are the same across genders, but, a lot of times, it's not. Maybe it's like me and my OCD; what bothers some people doesn't bother others. Maybe he hasn't called not because he doesn't care about you, but because he doesn't care about calling you. Maybe he doesn't help clean because he simply doesn't care about how unclean it will get, not because he doesn't care about you. It's a communication problem, really.

In conclusion, if something bothers you, be it the parallel nature of sponges and sink or the dishes in the sink, don't harass someone else to fix the problem because you're the problem, not the person who doesn't really care.

L loses two housemates in two days.

2008-06-02T20:31:00.000-04:00

On Sunday, A moved out. He called me to tell me that he was moving into his girlfriend's house and was going to sublet his room to a female graduate student, who was moving in on Monday. I was excited... finally, I would have some female companionship (and someone to see Sex & and the City with).

So I rushed home today after work, already planning a meal with what I knew would be my new best friend, and found her stuff in A's old room. J and I chatted a little (longest conversation I have ever had with him), awaiting our new housemate. Finally, she arrived, introduced herself... and told us she was moving out.

She had a family emergency; she was flying back to Chicago the next morning and had just quit her new job.

An hour later, she was gone, A's room was empty again, and I had resigned myself to living in the land of men for the next 3 months. (Unless, of course, A attempts to sublet again, and finds a female renter. There is still hope for me yet...)

L and Z get out into the field, looking for your baby daddy.

2008-05-30T19:31:00.000-04:00

Getting out into the field entails interviewing witnesses, canvassing the crime scene, serving subpoenas, retrieving documents from police stations, locating witnesses... basically all the investigations that occur outside the office, the jail, or the courtroom. Our field is the District's South East, and getting into the field may only be a few minutes drive, but it's an entirely different world.

Z, my partner, and I haven't logged too many hours in the field, but most of what I've seen so far leaves me wondering if I've stepped into a movie or one of those crime TV shows. The only reason I know the field is real is because it's so much worse than any movie I've seen. Violence, drugs, alcohol, sex, lies, money... it's all there but so much more complicated in any movie. And the worst part is that, unlike a movie, it never ends. You never figure out the truth. You never stop anything. You never get to feel at peace with the world.

But being out in the field has redoubled my love for humanity. I've never seen so much devotion, passion, hope, determination, love, loyalty, or vigilance anywhere else. Everyone I meet, no matter what he or she has done, I can't help but love and respect.

I've never feared anyone I've met. I've learned to fear the situation, the drugs, the weapons, the alcohol, the circumstances... but never the person.

I will probably never learn the truth about anything I investigate. It seems like after every witness interview, every piece of evidence uncovered, every investigative task, I know less and less of what really happened. I can honestly say I only know one thing to be true: every one I meet is human. And, for whatever reason, I think that's all I need to know.

When we leave the field and head back into the office to process our paperwork, sometimes I wonder at the fact that what we call "the field," others call "home".

L, J, and A dance the Avoi Dance

2008-05-25T01:17:00.000-04:00

J and I have grown quite skilled at avoiding each other. In fact, we have perfected the Avoi Dance to the minute in our daily routines. J gets up at 7:30 a.m., I wake up at 7:40; by the time he's out of the bathroom, I walk out of my room and into it. By the time I'm out of the bathroom, he's out the door. (I'm not quite sure what J does for a living, but he does have a regular job, it seems.)

I get home by 6 p.m. and finish making dinner by 7 p.m., J walks in the door (at which time I am conveniently in the kitchen to avoid all contact), goes to his room, changes, and then leaves for his girlfriend's. I'm in bed by 11:30 p.m., when J gets back.

A is on a college schedule (and more devoted than J to his girlfriend, it seems) so I don't need to worry about trying to avoid him.

The weekends, however, seem to be a bit of glitch in our Avoi Dance. I almost walked in on J changing this morning and had to pass by him multiple times tonight... It's kinda hard to avoid someone when you live in their room.

Both A and J are Spaniards (J was in Spain visiting family for the first two weeks I was here), which has become annoying because I have no clue what they are saying or singing. It's not really a problem because I can count the number of times I have talked to A and J combined on one hand. But they both have a tendency to sing in Spanish for no reason. And, to my knowledge, they don't see or talk to each other.

I also just realized that I don't really know what J looks like, per se. I know he's as old as A (late 20s or early 30s), but the first, and only time, I've actually seen J's face is when I first met him. I was getting out of a shower, had already taken my contacts out, and walked into his room to get to mine. I basically just blinked in his general direction while he introduced himself, not really understanding what was going on and unable to see anything but a blurry white dude.

The good news is that we seem to be getting pretty good at this...

L gets assigned and canvasses a crime scene.

2008-05-19T18:29:00.000-04:00

Sounds of movement and light from the room next door woke me up late last night. J was back.

When I woke up at 7:30 a.m. the next day, I tiptoed out of my room (and into J's) as quickly and quietly as I could. This whole "living-in-J's-room" thing is not so fun.

Work, however, is.

I received my assignment today: Felony I. That's murder, assault with intent to kill, child sex abuse... basically, the big bad of criminal law.

My caseload is like the devil's laundry list: double homicide, school shooting, murder with drugs involved and pedophilia.

My partner assignment is temporary; S is a staff investigator who's been with the agency for about three years, after interning here during his undergraduate summers. My permanent partner will be an intern, like me; I'll get that assignment next Monday, when he or she finishes training.

S and I canvassed the crime scene and neighborhood during the afternoon. We had a brief encounter with FBI, but, other than that, it was just legwork and door-knocking.

L gets a routine.

2008-05-18T16:48:00.000-04:00

When you are living on a budget, the first rule is to never enter a grocery store while hungry. The delicious array of donuts, strawberries, juices, and ice cream will only remind you of your own financial constraints (and may cause you to weep incessantly).

By now, I have a routine of sorts established. Sundays involve grocery-shopping (on a full stomach) and then cooking the pasta and rice I will need to survive the rest of the week.

After work, I'm usually starving, so I try to tackle dinner as quickly as possible. Usually it takes me 30 minutes to an hour. Sometimes, I'm too tired after work to cook, so I eat a snack, take a nap, and then make dinner. I try to only eat out once or twice a week for dinner. For lunch, I pack a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a snack, which I eat at work.

The internship, as promised, is amazing and I say this as someone who has thus far only gone through a week of training. I can't really write down the details of what I've learned, or the specifics of what I do on a daily basis; this is an internship that requires confidentiality. But I am enjoying it immensely and that is all that matters.

I keep "adult hours" here; I wake up around 7:30 a.m. and I get dressed and breakfast-ed by 8:20 a.m. I catch the 8:30 a.m. bus a few blocks away and transfer once to get to work by 9:30 a.m. The commute is horrible. Without traffic, it takes less than 30 minutes to get to our office building (near the Capitol); but with traffic, it's an hour.

I get off work around 5 p.m. and it's another hour in traffic until I get home at 6 p.m. If I don't take a nap, I can finish making dinner by 7 p.m., and eat while reading my LSAT book or in the company of my laptop. I take care of some housework after that (doing the dishes, entering receipts into my budget, cleaning, laundry, etc). I usually pass out before 11 p.m. Although there technically is a great deal of time between work and bedtime, I can't really do anything productive during that time because I'm too tired to. After work, all I really want to do is sleep.

J is still missing, but I'm not too worried because A doesn't seem to be. I can count the number of times I've seen A this week on one hand because he keeps "college hours;" I rarely see him since I'm asleep or at work when he's in the townhouse. It's a little scary to think that I keep "adult hours" and he keeps "college hours" when he's actually almost ten years older than I am.

L gets oriented.

2008-05-12T21:00:00.001-04:00

Public defense work is hard to justify.

Consider a world made of simple archetypes: the Good Guys and the Bad Guys. There must be occasions when a Good Guy is mistaken for a Bad Guy, and a public defender does his job and rescues the Good Guy. But these occasions must be rare, a public defender is one who defends a fair share of Bad Guys as well. And a good public defender is one who can set the baddest of Bad Guys free. In this world, then, the public defender must be two men in one: the Good Guy who saves Good Guys, and the Bad Guy who saves Bad Guys.

But we do not live in such a world; ours is far more nuanced (and, quite frankly, I don't believe in good or bad.) Public defense has a very real purpose: to force the government to meet its burden of proof. The results vary: an innocent man may be set free, but a guilty man may be set free as well.

I think in reality, though, despite all of this philosophy of rule by law, fair governance and burden of proof, public defense work is all about humanity. It is social work, if anything.

The work done by the public defense is an expression of faith; whether or not one believes in the innocence or guilt of a client (i.e. defendant or alleged perpetrator) is negligible. The public defender believes not in guilt or innocence, but the dignity of man and the humanity that lies within the client. With that comes respect for the client's rights as a human being and faith in his inner humanity. The work done-research, investigations, evidence gathering, etc-is not done for the court or for the prosecutor, but for the client. The defense work and effort that is demonstrated in a trial shows the client that although he may feel inhumane-alone, alienated, untrusted, undeserving, and unwanted-there is at least one person in the world who has faith in his humanity. The respect accorded to the client is respect for his rights as a human being and the acknowledgement that all humans must be treated with a certain dignity.

We all make mistakes. And whenever I have made one, I am always reminded of true friendship and love from those who have acknowledged my failings as a mistake and not an fundamental flaw in my character. When we fail, I think we all need someone to honestly say, "I still respect and love you." My friends and family have always done that for me. And I think that's the role of the public defender: to love a fallen man's humanity.

(One week today exactly, and no J.)

L goes to the zoo.

2008-05-10T22:03:00.000-04:00

As a child and a teenager, I had always loved the zoo; I envied the carefree lifestyles of seals and tigers who sunbathed, napped, and played their days away. So I went to the zoo today to chase away the gloom of the last two days of rain (I do relish gloominess, though; there is nothing quite like a cemetery on a rainy day.)

As an (almost) adult, I found the zoo depressing. It's simply unnatural to keep animals in confined spaces. There are two kinds of zoo animals; the ones who nap every second of the day and are content with their lives of ease, and the ones that prowl the perimeter of their cages and feel their souls suffocating without the thrill of death upon them. (I like to think of myself as the latter.)

L visits old friends and discovers the hive of adulthood.

2008-05-07T22:44:00.000-04:00

There is something horribly contrived about the national monuments, I thought to myself today, even as I took the obligatory snapshots of the memorial parks and national mall area. It's as if each is designed to evoke patriotic fervor, but fail, only producing a transitory response. Everyone seems to know that the monuments should illicit some--any, really--feeling of pride, and then goes through the gestures of displaying it, be it through an utterly pointless photo shoot of the monuments or a recounting of American historical mythology to a child. The whole touristy thing did, however, give me the chance to visit two old friends who symbolize Washington D.C. to me: Ellie the Elephant and Wooly the Wooly Mammoth at the Natural History Museum. I've seen the two every time I've been to D.C. since I can remember and, as I've gotten older, I've made a point of visiting. I could hear them chuckling over Man's silly attempts to make his mark on this world and wondered about the "desire for recognition" Hegel and Fukuymama were so obsessed with.

In an attempt to distinguish myself from the tourists, I bought a SmarTrip card (these things are amazing! And, at $5 a pop, they should be) and entered the Metro, where adults travel in flocks of black suits and white collared shirts. (I call it the Hive because it looks like one.)

And it was the Hive--not the Capitol against a setting sun or the American flags waving graciously under the Washington monument--that offered the message to define our days:

Always.

(Still no sign of J... Should I be worried?)

L falls in love, gets a card and tackles the kitchen.

2008-05-06T22:12:00.000-04:00

I wandered the streets of Georgetown (the town, not the University) today and I have decided I am madly in love. In three hours, I cooled my heels in a babbling brooke, fulfilled my cosmopolitan window-shopping dreams (H&M and Urban Outfitters on the same street? Be still my beating heart!), admired a classic New England cemetery and set eyes on the mighty Potomac. It's suburbia, city and forest all in one gorgeous town. I suppose that's why, when I masqueraded as a Hoya in Georgetown University's student union tonight, I couldn't help but wonder what my life would be like had I made a different choice...

I also attained a card crucial to adulthood today: the Safeway Card. (Safeway is the Ralph's of the East Coast.) Nothing says maturity like a Safeway card; purchasing one's own groceries is the cornerstone of adulthood. Which is why I spent hours at Safeway, agonizing over which groceries I could afford to purchase and if I could screw up the courage to touch raw poultry. I've learned that fresh fruit and vegetables are for the wealthy; it's good ol' canned fruit for me. And the dessert and snack section is to be avoided; sweets are a luxury I (apparently) can't afford.

I spent the afternoon turning the kitchen from "health hazard" to "tolerable." For dinner, I made chicken al fredo. (Yes, I did touch raw poultry; it was slimy and gross.) It was bland, which either reflects upon my cooking or the palates of white people in general.

I have still yet to meet J. I don't think he's come here since I've arrived.

L arrives, commutes, and settles in.

2008-05-05T23:15:00.000-04:00

A plane ride, a bus ride, and a taxi ride later, I was standing in front of the townhouse that I would call home for the next four months. A, the grad student who leases the townhouse, opened the door and our meeting was as awkward as expected. The townhouse is two floors, and larger than I had imagined. It's quaint, New England-y, and old, bricks and hardwood floors.

The three bedrooms are on the second floor. My room was quite a surprise. For one, it's sort of conjoined to J's room. (J is the third of the housemates, who I have yet to meet. A says he has not seen him in days, and he may be "caught up at the library.") I have concluded it was added to the house after it was built because it's not quite level. It took me a while to figure out why I felt so slanted in my room, but the whole room is actually tilted. But the skylight makes up for it (I've always wanted a skylight). Every room on the second floor has a skylight, including the amazing bathroom, which is larger than my room and has one of those gorgeous, old school bathtubs.

The neighborhood is the perfect mix of suburbia and city that reminds me so much of my hometown. It's eerily quiet here, but just a block away are two necessities: a Subway and a CVS. Open late. Perfect.

And, of course, on the way over, my steel metal lamp broke.

But I think I'm going to like it here.

L asks the Big Questions

2008-05-03T17:55:00.001-04:00

For 12 weeks this summer, I will be in Washington DC, working in a criminal law internship, living in a townhouse with two male graduate students I have never met before, eating under a budget, and experiencing the Real World for the first time.

But it's not all fun and Ramen noodles. This summer is also about answering some Big Questions:
1. What makes the Real World real?
2. How often are people convicted of crimes they didn't commit?
3. What drives people to crime?
4. What is public defense and what is its purpose?
5. Can justice ever really be served in the American criminal law system?