There was a bed – a small bed – that was the length of the room. At the foot of the bed a metal toilet, with no cover. Just beyond that the heavy metal door, with a slit for a window. The door was maybe 3 feet wide, if that. At the head of the bed, if you were laying on your right side, you’d be about half a foot away from an ugly metal desk with holes that pretended to be drawers. This could not have been more than a foot long. The bed was flush with one wall. The desk with the opposite.

The bed looked hard, cold and dirty. And that’s it. This particular cell happened to have a window at the head of the bed. A window looking out onto nothing. Any future inhabitant of this particular cell would have it good. It was a single. Across the narrow passageway from this cell was another, identical in every respect except two: it was a double cell and there was no window. (Here’s a post I wrote a while ago about a different take on prisons in a foreign country.)

I didn’t have the courage to ask my escort to have them close the cell door for a minute, locking me in. It was nauseating and claustrophobic enough as it is. Maybe I was having a panic attack, or maybe the air in there was dead, like the spirits of the men that inhabit these cells, but I thought I was going to faint.

I willed myself to stand there, though, for a minute. To look around at the bare walls, the bare desk, the dirty toilet and imagine someone “living” there.

I even briefly closed my eyes and tried to picture myself there, day in and day out, for months, which turned into years, which turned into decades.

Would I survive? How does anyone? Would I give up and stop bathing, shaving, eating? Would I maintain my sanity or would I quickly decompensate? How long would it be before I’d want to kill myself?

Luckily, my stint in a jail cell ended rather quickly. As I stepped out and waited for my escort to guide me to the next location, I peeked into the cell across the way – the double – and it was occupied. Two men, sleeping ramrod straight (for these “beds” are as wide as the human body and no more), in a dark, dingy cell. One lifted his head as I was spying and looked at me. I looked away. I didn’t want to see his lifeless eyes.

People in cells are lucky, though. The next portion of the tour took me to the dorm-style housing. Which is nothing like any dorm you’ve ever lived in. Imagine instead the makeshift MASH hospitals, or perhaps the busiest train station in your neighborhood at rush hour, except instead of standing, people are milling about a hundred bunk beds on that tiny platform.

There is no privacy, there is no solitude, there is no being left alone. You are part of a large crowd. You are in someone’s face and they are in yours. You are a collective. Day in and day out. You share your bedroom with 125 other people.

Leaving the prison, I asked my colleague: cell or dorm? There’s no debate. Cell. I’d rather lose my sanity by myself.

—

Parole has got to be a sham. There’s no way that a group of 3 or 4 “regular folks” can decide whether one inmate is worthy of release over another. How can anyone better themselves in those conditions? Is there any choice but to give in to the atmosphere? The aura of despair, rejection and failure? How can we reasonably expect a person to prove to us on the outside that they’re worthy of a shot, when we give them no chance at redemption?

Parole hearings last 30-40 minutes. In that time, the board will try to determine who the person is that is sitting before them, what they’ve done to “change” and whether they’ll reoffend. It’s a crock of shit. It has to be. We spend our lifetime trying to figure out who we are and yet we ask others to perform this act and convince us of the goodness of their hearts and the errors of their ways in the time it takes for me to absent-mindedly watch the latest episode of crappy sitcom after crappy sitcom. They don’t stand a chance. Parole is a guessing game, much like poker. There’s a lot of bluster and bluffing and saying the right things and avoiding doing the wrong things.

It’s like locking a man in a room for 5 years with only a bicycle tire and asking him to manufacture the Bugatti Veyron in that time period and then punishing him when he is unable to. Why are we surprised? Why do we blame them?

How can one fault the inmate who, having served 30 years of his 40 year sentence, has done close to nothing, when it is we who have taken the tools from him. We, who have told him in no uncertain terms that his life, his potential, his talents, mean nothing, who have sucked the spirit out of him and confined him into submission, cannot then turn around and hold that man responsible for his failure to meet our arbitrary standards of rehabilitation.

Time slows down in prison. A minute seemed like an hour to me. I bet an hour seems like a year and a week like a decade. What of sentences of 5, 10 and 40 years? I can’t imagine what that must feel like. Hearing an imaginary clock tick every second of every day in your head, loud and unstoppable. Thinking about it is agonizing. Living it must be unbearable.

Why are we surprised that the lifer has given up? That he sleeps on the floor and not the bed, that he doesn’t eat or exercise or bathe or cut his hair? That he’s resigned himself to dying in prison? Because that’s what will happen. We’ve made that decision for him.

I do not believe that there is anyone who will not change, who will not repent or grow out of their childish bravado. Yet we send scores upon scores of our fellow human beings to these warehouses with no meaningful review of their development and growth for decades and decades.

Maybe it’s a self-fulfilling prophesy. They cannot change because we don’t let them. Because if we did give them the tools to “better” themselves and they did, our draconian system of punishment would seem barbaric.

We cannot be wrong. We are never wrong. We are not them.

—

There is so much wrong with our criminal justice system: the way we treat inmates, the disparate sentencing of minorities and whites, the witchhunts of sex offenders. Yet there is nothing that you or I can change about this. And that’s a pity. Fear has won and will always win. Stereotyping still rules the day and will do so for eons to come. We are wonderful at recognizing the heterogeneity of those close to us and the homogeneity of everyone else.

Lots of people have lost faith in the goodness of the human spirit and have forgotten that man, at his core, is a fallible being. But he is not his actions; rather he is how he responds to them.

I could be snarky and say that visiting a prison cell should be required for all prosecutors and judges. Or I could be honest and say that it should be required for all defense counsel. We need to see where the people we represent live and how they live. We need to understand that they are unhappy when they come to court and we forget to see them. That our failure to do our absolute best eliminates any chance another human being has to escape these horrid conditions.

It is a sobering reminder of the consequences of our work. We must all place ourselves in our clients’ position and be aware of the awesome burden that is placed upon our shoulders. Prosecutors and judges may not care. We must.

No doubt those in jail have transgressed against our social and moral code. But we, on the outside, have abused that code and disfigured it beyond recognition. Just as those in jail may be responsible for pain and suffering and loss of human life, so are we.

Here‘s a 2007 Sentencing Project report on children with incarcerated parents. These are the highlights:

• In 2007, 1.7 million minor children had a parent in prison, an 82% increase since 1991.
• One in 43 American children has a parent in prison, with particularly broad racial/ethnic variation.
• One in 15 black children and 1 in 42 Latino children has a parent in prison, compared to 1 in 111 white children.
• In 2007, there were 809,800 parents incarcerated in U.S. state and federal prisons, an increase of 79% since 1991.
• In 2007, half (52%) of all incarcerated men and women were parents.
• In 2004, 59% of parents in a state correctional facility and 45% of parents in a federal correctional facility reported never having had a personal visit from their child(ren).
• Two-thirds of the incarcerated parent population is non-white.
• From 1991 to 2007, the number of incarcerated mothers increased by 122%, compared to a rise of 76% for incarcerated fathers.

If you want to get involved by mentoring kids with parents in jail, read some details here.

Whether this is a product of reduced funding, of lengthy sentences coming home to roost, of a zero-tolerance “tough on crime” policy enacted years ago or of the sheer overcriminalization of our society is an open question (my guess: a mix of them all). When a small state like CT has 1663 crimes defined in its statutes (and that’s in 2006; several more have been added since) and when books are written warning us that we commit three felonies a day, it’s time for someone to sit up and take notice. And by someone I mean those with the power to change the direction we’ve gone in: legislators and voters. So you, all of you.

The repercussions of too many people in the justice system are beginning to reverberate throughout the country: Georgia is on its 4th lawsuit to force indigent defense spending; Michigan is being sued by three defendants who claim that the lack of funding forced their public defenders to pressure them into entering pleas of guilty; the Missouri Supreme Court recently allowed public defenders the nuclear option of shutting down their doors and refusing cases if caseloads got unmanageable; the costs in Ohio are rising quick; the Fresno public defender’s office got permission to lay off 6 attorneys before the end of the year to balance their budget; and contract attorneys in Nebraska have been receiving a $100 flat fee instead of $50 per hour for all misdemeanor cases.

Should I even go near the financial black hole that is the death penalty?  How, in times where basic rights of defendants may be in jeopardy – ordinary run of the mill defendants, mind you – can we even consider sustaining the machinery of death?

This will not end anytime soon and even if there is an alleviation of the financial crisis, the impact on the criminal justice system will be temporary. More crimes will be committed, more knee-jerk reactions will be induced and harsher sentences will be given out. The burden continues to build until there is a fundamental change in the way we think about the numbers, the crimes and the system.

A report from 2000, that I’ve mentioned before, seems to have gotten it right. Too bad no one is listening. I’ll reprint the salient points:

Prison overcrowding has a cyclical pattern in Connecticut — reaching a crisis point about every 10 years. The committee report showed most of the causes of prison overcrowding occurred outside the administration and jurisdiction of the Department of Correction and these complex issues and problems cannot be addressed by a single state agency. Specifically, the program review committee identified five main causes of prison overcrowding. They are:

• Despite the decrease in arrest and crime rates, the number of offenders in prison or jail continued to increase due to the “war on drugs”, increased funding for police, increased role of victims and victim advocacy groups in the court process, added bed capacity in the correctional system, recidivism and technical violations of probation and parole, harsher penalties for certain types of crimes, and narrowed eligibility for community release and alternative sanction options.
• Convicted inmates were remaining incarcerated for a greater portion of their court-imposed prison sentences as a result of the shift from an indeterminate to a determinate sentencing structure, elimination of “good time”, creation of time-served standards for parole eligibility, and the enactment of several “truth in sentencing” initiatives.
• The aggressive “tough on crime” approach supported by the legislature and adopted by the executive and judicial branches allows the criminal justice system to narrow its use of discretion and take a more conservative and less controversial approach to punishment.
• A lack of prison beds, especially high security and pre-trial beds, forced DOC to operate at capacity.
• Poor planning and a lack of an accurate population projection and offender needs analysis contributed to the cycle of overcrowding and hampered DOC’s efforts to adequately plan for new or expanded facilities.

In reviewing options available to manage and control growth of the inmate population, the committee found Connecticut cannot build its way out of a prison overcrowding crisis. However, prison expansion is one model to address prison overcrowding. This strategy has been Connecticut’s primary response to prison overcrowding over the past 20 years. It is the simplest but least effective and most expensive approach. Services in this model are concentrated primarily on the small percent (25 percent) of the offender population in prison.

And yet here we are: more crimes, longer sentences and an almost unmanageable burden. We’re still fighting the absurd war on drugs and on parolees and probationers. While our prison population has seen somewhat of a slight decline from the record numbers of last year, it would be a tremendous mistake to consider that an improvement. The record numbers were the result of the Governor’s ban on parole. But don’t let that obscure the fact that even prior to the ban, the population numbers were already at the breaking point.

And it’s not going to get any better. Per the OPM‘s most recent projections, the population is expected to increase from its current numbers to around 18, 942. [Here are the Dec 2009 monthly indicators.] The most recent breakdown of inmates by crimes is this one from 2007. And here’s the most recent recidivism study [there's a wealth of information in there if you're interested].

So how is this to be done? Over the years, I’ve made many suggestions: legalize marijuana, get realistic about prison sentences, divert all non-violent offenders into treatment and community based rehab, address the problem at its root, etc.

[Update: This NYT editorial makes the case for smart reforms, pointing to a slew of legislation pending in NJ to make the prison system more rehabilitation centric. Among some of the proposals is one akin to the ban the box idea implemented in New Haven earlier this year.]

But it’s all a futile exercise. It’s never going to happen unless there’s a fundamental shift in the thinking. That shift may well be driven by the financial engine. So how about taking a different tact. How about we keep detailed statistics: how many people end up going to jail for a violation of probation for drug problems instead of to a treatment facility? Let’s keep a record of that for 3 years and calculate the cost of sending that person to jail. How about defendants sentenced to 7 years in jail where 5 years would have been just as good. Keep a track of the costs there. How many inmates were denied entry into programs for lack of beds and so instead were forced to take a prison sentence? Let’s keep track of that.

At the end of 3 years, let’s add it all up and look at the staggering cost of our penal system. Let’s put it into real numbers and compare it to the budget shortfall. Extrapolate that over the last 20 years and I bet we will see that these “tough on crime” policies have come at a significant, tangible cost to us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(H/T: the local listserve)

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

Major ingredients for a successful speech to a judge include:

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

Do not:

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

Not only does one have the normal problems of communicating with a person who may be hearing voices, or who may believe that he is an FBI recruit who has to save the world while the Russians are tracking him with embedded micro-chips, but one also struggles with the failings of a system that has no room for clients like that.

While I usually decry the heartlessness of prosecutors and judges on this blog, I have to say my experiences in this area have been to the contrary. While they don’t get in the way, they do join the defeaning chorus that reminds us of the futility of our efforts.

There’s just nowhere to put clients with mental health problems. And I’m not talking about short-term facilities for 30 or 90 days or the mental hospital, but a true long-term residential program where patients are treated for their mental health problems. Could I get a client into a 90 day program? Sure, but that doesn’t address anything. 90 days is too short. The clients are given some meds; the voices stop and they’re sent on their way. You and I both know that isn’t going to solve or address the underlying problem and as soon as the medications stop working the voices will return.

So without a place that can house such a client for a year or two or three, there’s only one alternative: prison. The worst alternative of them all may be the only one. Prisons may be the only place capable of housing these patients with supervision for an extended period of time. Like there aren’t enough people to fill our prisons already.

And what happens when someone with severe mental health issues goes to prison? Nothing productive. They’re given some meds, kept barely sane and then released when their term is up. There are no plans in place, no treatment, no structure and no support. Released into the wild – like all other prisoners, I must add – but with an added disadvantage.

The State of CT has some mental health facilities, but none really equipped to house patients long-term and give them psychiatric care. And the Governor talked recently about closing one of those facilities and removing its 150 or so beds.

So when a judge agrees with you that your client shouldn’t be in jail, but then follows up with: “what’s the solution?” and you have none, it is a frustrating feeling of failure.

There is no solution, currently, and there doesn’t seem to be one on the books in the near future. And so our prisons will continue to be populated by people who have no business being there and who will continue to get ignored. Who wins in this scenario, really?

A question no more

I have long complained about the failure of governments to engage in any sort of meaningful re-entry for inmates. For a vast majority of released felons, prison is a revolving door. Without any training, education or skills, job prospects are dismal. With no job, there is no money and where there is no money, there is the lure of crime to make some quickly.

Which is why I was pleasantly surprised this morning, while listening to Where We Live on NPR. The guest was John DeStefano, mayor of New Haven, and he was discussing the policy he seeks to implement in the city: ban the box. No, this is not some traffic related policy, as I first thought, but a clever scheme aimed at integrating ex-felons back into the community.

Ban the box refers to banning employment applications from listing a “box” that asks applicants whether they are ex-felons. This allows ex-felons to be on the same footing as any other applicant, by preventing would-be employers from discarding them at the get-go.  I’m embarrassed that this story has escaped my attention for three months now, but the wonderful New Haven Independent is all over it:

The proposal directs the city not just to remove the box, but to refrain from asking applicants about their criminal history during job interviews. If the city decides to offer an applicant a job, then the human resources office will do a criminal background check. If a conviction shows up, then the applicant will return for a subsequent interview to determine whether or not that background renders him or her unfit for the job.

What this does is gives ex-felons a fighting chance at reintegration. And this also gives the city of New Haven some hope. DeStefano has long been complaining about the dumping of released inmates into his city, without any support or supervision from the State. He’s stepped up and taken a route that might lead to a reduction in crime. On the show this morning, he explained his reasoning thusly (and I am paraphrasing):

People say that everybody deserves a second chance – and yes they do – but that’s not why I’m doing this. If the ex-felons are positively engaged in the community and have the hope of a job, then there’s a greater chance that they won’t return to a life of crime and won’t be running around our streets shooting other people.

The numbers are telling. An estimated 70 percent of non-fatal shooting victims and 50 percent of murder suspects have criminal records. Studies have shown that ex-cons who have jobs are less likely to commit new crimes. And banning the box is the first step toward reducing crime and re-integrating felons back into society. It gives them hope and when they have hope, we have hope.

One person after another testified that having to confront the box creates a sense of hopelessness for ex-offenders. “I can’t even tell you how I feel just to even look at that box on an application,” said Derike Anderson. “It’s almost like all hope is lost, because I gotta answer that question … I feel if that question wasn’t there, I’d have half a chance, just to get myself in the door and into an interview, I think I can sell myself very well.”

Kudos, New Haven, you’ve done it again.

photo credit: jepoirrier

Just like the economy, however, this failure of the legal system should come as no surprise. Back in May, I wrote about the mess in Minnesota (and followed up with a June post about Florida) [full coverage here] and our sister blog PD Stuff has been covering money problems for years. Nevada will face some problems starting next year. Things don’t look all rosy in Connecticut, either, as legal aid is taking a hit.

The NYT piece is rightly drawing a lot of attention in the blawgosphere. Bob Ambrogi and J. Craig Williams devoted their recent podcast to this problem by interviewing the Miami public defender Bennett Brummer and NLADA research director David Carroll. [The podcast is at the end of this post.]

This is a very serious problem. As funding for indigent defense declines with no corresponding declines in prosecutions, defendants will experience greater wait times for their trials, resources will be stretched thin and the criminal justice system will produce far more wrongful convictions. There will not be enough time to conduct proper investigations, to hire experts and, frankly, to go to trial.

If a public defender has an obscene number of clients, a number which grows every day, there will a lot of pressure to resolve cases without much advocacy. This is where the rest of the justice system needs to step up. Prosecutors need to take their duty to seek justice more seriously and drop the pursuit of “wins”. Judges need to take a more mediation-oriented approach and broker fair deals and not permit the State to demand the moon.

From the NYTimes piece:

Mr. Jones, in between hushed conversations with clients in the hallway or the holding pen, said he wished he had more time to investigate cases and could go to trial more often, rather than accepting the police version of events and then, after a short discussion, helping his clients make a life-altering deal.

“I’d love to have time to visit the crime scene and do more legal research,” Mr. Jones said.

No defendant should ever have to put up with this. No lawyer should ever be in a position where he is advising a client based on incomplete information. This is not only a money issue, but a Constitutional issue. Skimping on public defenders offices now will only postpone the problem, because there will be a greater number of successful habeas corpus petitions or appeals, which will result in new prosecutions.

Or worse: Federal courts will have to step in and force the state to pay for adequate funding, something no one really wants. So you know, might as well bail them out now, right Prez-elect Obama? Seriously, who better to give federal money to? The banks that set up their own downfall? The auto-industry that refused to innovate? Or the hardworking public defenders that protect your and my rights, day in and day out, doing a community service for little money?

But these are tough economic times. Money is drying up. Perhaps this is a very appropriate opportunity to look at truly reforming the criminal justice system. Let’s provide more alternatives to incarceration and true rehabilitation, let’s not keep non-violent offenders in jail any longer than we absolutely need to. As costs of the prison complex go down, there will be more money to fund the defense of the innocent man. We should start to look at the exorbitant sentences handed down by judges. Do we need a 40 year sentence when a 15 year sentence should do? Do we have to be punitive in our punishments? Must people be on probation for 35 years? A true reformation of the criminal justice system would go a long way towards alleviating these woes.

Then, of course, there’s the death penalty.

[display_podcast]

Back in March, the Vermont Supreme Court issued a very curious opinion reversing a conviction for failure to prosecute in a timely fashion. The Court held that the three-years spent by the defendant awaiting trial violated his right to a speedy trial. Which would be fine if that were all to the story.

The reason for the delay? The defendant’s various public defenders.

In arriving at this decision, we acknowledge that much of the delay in prosecuting defendant resulted from the inaction of several of the assigned counsel who represented defendant during the three years he awaited trial.  As we discuss in detail below, however, the inaction of assigned counsel does not relieve the state of its duty, through implementation of the criminal justice system, to provide defendant with a constitutionally guaranteed speedy trial.  Indeed, the defender general’s office is part of the criminal justice system and an arm of the state.  When, as in this case, a defendant presses for, but is denied, a speedy trial because of the inaction of assigned counsel or a breakdown in the public defender system, the failure of the system to provide the defendant a constitutionally guaranteed speedy trial is attributable to the prosecution, and not defendant.

The Court finds that

irrespective of the reason for the delay, egregious delay in bringing an incarcerated defendant to trial must be factored against the state in a speedy-trial analysis because, as the Supreme Court emphasized in Barker, it is ultimately the government’s responsibility to bring a defendant to trial in a timely matter.  See 407 U.S. at 529 (holding that “the primary burden [is] on the courts and the prosecutors to assure that cases are brought to trial”)

You can read the facts for yourself, but what is important to recognize here is that Vermont is not the only state facing such problems with its public defender system. Normally, a lawsuit would be the appropriate way to remedy the lack of funding, but this certainly may make some ears perk up.

I will reserve judgment on whether the VT Supreme Court was right or wrong, but I get the sense that what the VT Supreme Court tried to remedy was what happens to every client in almost every system (albeit not to this extent), and that everyone accepts as the price of doing business.

Well, everyone except the legislature and the voting public, who are generally outraged that things take so long to go to trial. Maybe they shouldn’t take so long? Or maybe we shouldn’t be creating so many new laws and calling for “hard on crime” policies that clog our systems and lead to overworked public defenders.

Babel babble

One of the hurdles we have to deal with as criminal defense attorneys is the language barrier between us and our clients. A fair percentage of our clients don’t speak English or don’t speak it well enough for us to effectively communicate pertintent information.

The Court system provides for this by employing interpreters who stand next to defendants and translate anything that is being said verbatim. But that’s not good enough and doesn’t cover all communications between client and attorney. It’s also not fool-proof.

I could regale you for you hours with stories of interpreters that stretched the limits of their job description and started conversing with the clients. But I won’t – you’ve all been there.

Translating in court isn’t all that an interpreter is required for. What about letters to clients or phone calls or visits in person? Here, in CT, the interpreters office will send interpreters along on legal visits (if you ask for one) and will translate letters for you. This practice has inherent problems: the most important being confidentiality.

Any time you have a conversation with a client where a third party is present, confidentiality is waived. Anything you say at that meeting can be repeated in court. So what do we do? What do you do? Short of becoming fluent in Spanish and spanish-legalese, are there any options available? Without the assistance of the interpeter, one cannot communicate with the client, but if one does, then the conversation is not confidential.

Perhaps for those of you in private practice, there is an out. You use your own investigator who is fluent in Spanish. Those communications are probably still privileged. But for those of us in the public defender system, it creates a difficulty.

Ideally, there should be an independent interpreting service that enters into a contract with the pd’s office, wherein one of the conditions is confidentiality.

With the judicial interpreter’s office, there is only an implied confidentiality and, in reality, there is none whatsoever.

No one would actually try to use the information gained from such a meeting (or from “confidential” visiting rooms and telephones in prison) because the outcome would be a massive lawsuit and lots of headaches for the State, but that doesn’t mean that if push comes to shove, there actually is a cloak of confidentiality.

How does your State do it? For those in CT, how do you do it? Have you found a suitable workaround? Please share.