And it is a town, not a city. Tiburon was originally incorporated as a city but for some reason prior to my tenure here decided that city was too strong a word and that town more accurate descriptor in the collective psyche of the 7000+ that reside therein.

The two lane that lead into town choke down to one lane at a big right turn known as Blackies Pasture which sits at the bottom of a hill and is often times occupied by a radar wielding officer. Cars driven by those unfamiliar with the lay of the land some flying over the crest of the hill into the waiting arms of the Tiburon PD who assess an entry tax based on the number of miles per hour over forty the car is traveling.

Our sense of impenetrability was recently pierced by the grizzly murder a local resident. She was in her mid-70′s with no known enemies. There had only been two murders that actually took place in the combined municipalities of Tiburon and Belvedere before when someone shot her in the head in her own yard. The combined effort of law enforcement did not nor have they ever developed any semblance of a suspect. 

The two prior killings that were committed east of Highway 101 and west of San Francisco Bay were fluke type of things that did not impact the secure feeling that permeates the peninsula. The first one happened in Belvedere and was obviously a contract killing on a big time drug dealer. The victim was left in a pile of narcotics and cash. The money and his collection of Himalayan art was divided between the City of Belvedere, County of Marin and the federal Drug Enforcement Administration. No one was ever fingered for the hit. The second one involved an adult son smiting his father using ordinary silverware that was destined for use at a dinner the two of them never shared. He was caught a few days later in San Leandro with the fork still in his pocket. The DA prosecuting the case asked me if I knew anything about the relationship between the two. I told him that I was acquainted with the father, did not know of anything going on between he and his son but that there would seem to have been issues.

The recent murder shook so at the roots of security that the call to take action took hold. A proposal for a camera system which would automatically photograph the license plate of each and every car entering town limits. For most bergs this would be an impossible task because the number of points of entry would necessitate too big of an expense without really establishing an impermeable barrier. It the case of our town these need be only 2 cameras, one on Tiburon Blvd. and one on the unlikely secondary means of egress, Paradise Drive. Baring an amphibious assault, no vehicle would be able to roll into town, do evil and then escape without detection. In the case of a heinous crime it would be a simple matter to go through all of the license plates of all of the cars coming into town during the relevant time period, working from the time it was committed, backward, and establish who has an alibi and who does not.

The potential for abuse and perceived erosion of our right of privacy cause a certain amount of controversy and gained our little borough a flash of national media publicity. It was a polarizing and therefore an interesting issue. It was the epitome of, “If you have nothing to hide you have nothing to worry about,” vs., “Don’t come crying to me when you wake up with numbers tattooed on your inner forearm.”

Examination of the pictures taken by the cameras would only be done in reaction to an event and not routinely just as the refs can’t call a penalty seen on an instant replay that wasn’t flagged during play. Skeptics saw this as an empty promise and also feared use in civil/family law situations to establish misbehavior on the part on an ex-spouse-to-be or an association with person and/or persons outside of the curtelage. 

One impassioned local asked to hire me to address the Town Council as a paid lobbyist of sorts to argue against installation of the cameras on constitutional civil rights grounds. He was the brother of a gal with whom I had an association so I listened, had a spirited discussion regarding the golden age of individual liberty and the imminent approach of the jack-booted thugs under color of office after which I politely declined the job and the retainer. It was explained to the prospective client that I could not in all good conscience accept a fee for a service that I would be ineffective in performing. My status as a criminal defense lawyer would result in the formation of an opinion that I was advocating out of self-interest. The hue and cry would be heard coming from behind as I addressed the five members of the community elected to make decisions of this sort, “We know what you do. You just don’t want your clients to get caught by the police.”

If the notion of self-interest was examined any deeper than the polish on a toe nail it would be apparent to anyone with two brain cells that happened to spark that my desires are quite the opposite. I actually want then all to be apprehended. I don’t make any money on perpetrators that are never nabbed. The perfect situation from my perspective is that they should be arrested and then exonerated by my exploitation of the tiniest of loopholes through which only the most supreme of legal intellects could slip.

The belief that the practice of criminal defense law renders one “pro-crime” is unevolved at best. It ignores the fact that we are actually people too and don’t like to see individuals injured by the actions of others as well as the above stated pecuniary purpose fundamental to our very existence. If no one ever gets caught we have to find another way to make a living.

In the end fear prevailed as it is the emotion most effectively used and abused by government since the dawn of civilization. Time will tell if the cameras are the panacea they are touted to be but in the meantime, watch your ass when you come to our town.

Personally, it is my preference to render a prediction that is less than optimistic at the outset and upgrade the prognosis later on in the relationship than to initially paint a rosy picture only to yank the rug out from under their feet when things develop in an adverse manner. People are reluctant to accept my refusal to tell them that, “Everything will be all right,” even though I tell them that it would be irresponsible to for me to predict an outcome without knowing all the facts and circumstances. Many go elsewhere and write a check to the lawyer who is willing to tell them what they want to hear as an inducement to getting a person to write the lawyer a check. This tactic is oftimes followed by a recantation of the prior confident representation later on in the deal, pointing to some allegedly unknown and/or undisclosed fact that snatches defeat from the jaws of victory. This is bullshit in my mind since a lawyer should not render an opinion in the absence of a complete understanding of what lies ahead. Many individuals who have been victimized in this respect return many months and mucho dinero later to tell me that they should have listened to me when I told then that it would be a rough road with no guarantee of success.

Practically, it is not a good idea to commit to a particular result and focus in that direction at the outset because it may be not be the correct path. As Yogi Berra is quoted as having said, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” But don’t take it prior to reaching it. One should not choose from a number of alternatives unless and until it is necessary to make that choice. Litigants understandably want to know how much money they will get from an accident claim or how much jail they will have to do in recompense for a transgression. They are entitled to this information, but not until it is actually information and not mere speculation. Care must given in outlining various scenarios and putting actual numbers of dollars or days in custody in the equation. When integral to preparing a client for future possibilities, I will use absurd figures, most times unrealistically low when explaining how things may play out. I will tell a person making a claim after an automobile accident that if their medical bills total one dollar that they would likely be claiming a total of three dollars after adding in compensation for pain and suffering. A person facing a jail sentence will be told that if he or she is sentenced to six days in jail they would have the option of serving the actual jail with fifty percent time off for good behavior leaving three days in custody or of doing the entire six days in Lindsey Lohan jail, aka slave labor with no time off for good behavior. It is explained to them that I have refrained from using semi-real numbers in the equations because no matter how much of a disclaimer is given, they will fixate on that amount of money or jail as having been an actual prediction as opposed to an analogy for the purpose of explanation. Then when four months jail turns in to nine months jail or when ten thousand dollars turns out to be five thousand they say, “Hey wait. You told me it would be X.” No amount of, “I said that was just and example,” or, “I wasn’t using real numbers,” will shake a disappointed person from the belief that I somehow lied to them bout the predicted outcome.

Historically, it is unwise to point to center field because for every one Babe Ruth there are one thousand asses as is shown by most if not all of the great stories from mythology and religion Midas, Prometheus, Cassandra, Icarus, Pandora and Ramses to name but a few would testify under penalty of perjury that nothing in this life is punished more swiftly surely and severely than the sin of false pride. When asked to make an uber-positive prediction at any stage in the relationship I cite the above listed and others who have been relegate to the eternal damnation column and tell the inquiring individual that they really do not want me to be express undue optimism because, “God will smite me…excuse me, God will smite thee if i commit the sin of false pride.” That usually ends all inquiry in this respect.

The bottom line is that the result is the same whether I predict it with confidence or not. Bragging about it in advance does not make it more likely that we will achieve to the full potential of the situation. Many clients or prospective client have heard me explain that unfortunately I am not in the good news business. this is the reality business.

I am undoubtedly financially poorer but feel that I am spiritually richer for the path I have chosen this respect.

The first building of the actual prison is crowned by a parapet structure which bears the date of 1890 as having been constructed in that year. Main visiting takes place in a red brick blockhouse in which large timbers have been placed so as to give the illusion that the Frankenstein retrofit will brace the building sufficiently in the case of a seismic event.

Most of my encounters with clients take place in a speaker/telephone interview booth. Even lawyers are not allowed to take first aid type alcohol pads with which to sterilize the telephone receiver on the representation that they will be available at the second check-in desk. Rarely is this the case. In reaction to an expression of OCD quality germaphobia I have been given a blob of hand sanitizing gel on a paper towel.

They, meaning the CO’s have actually lost people I was intending on seeing on at least two occasion. You would think that keeping track of the whereabouts of all of the prisoners at all times would be #1 on the agenda at a prison. San Quentin however has a huge influx of new conscripts into the system on a daily basis. It is no longer the high security, maximum danger place that it once was. The so-called Reception Center is but a transfer station which begins ones prison experience from any of a number of counties in the Northern California area. When someone arrives on a bus from county jail they necessarily install him in a cell and ask questions later. It is a minimum of a week and sometimes as long as two or three weeks before any given inmate is booked into the system with a CDC number so that he can be located on request. Inmates are then sized up on a point system and generally moved to other appropriate loci on the CDC travel brocheur. A stay in the Reception Center is only supposed to be ninety days but in some cases is much longer because once CDC has someone they are in no hurry to do what ever they are going to do with him.

Cells in the Reception Center are approximately 9′ x 12′ inhabited by two stink-ass guys with little or no yard time outside thereof. After waiting an hour and a half for them to find one of my people the CO suggested that maybe this guy was refusing the visit but the word just wasn’t getting back to the visiting area. I opined that this was unlikely since he was in reception and my understanding of the conditions there leads me to conclude that if he was going to be out of his cell for as short a time as a half hour but he was told that he would have to first eat a dog turd he would probably do it. The CO failed to see the logic and/or humor in that observation and told me I was lucky I only came from Tiburon and not Los Angeles or San Diego for nothing. That may be true but did not make me feel any better about the past ninety minutes that were better spent elsewhere.

The prison authorities are very particular about the color and cut of the clothing worn by visitors, legal and non-legal, alike. Not to mention the fact that one must pass through a metal detector that if airport security were set to the same level of scrutiny the line to board an airplane at SFO would end somewhere near Chinatown. The regulations are far too numerous and tedious to inflict upon an otherwise engaged reader. Accordingly, only the high spots will be touched upon. I can bring in my case file but it must be devoid of all paper clips and staples, which is unreasonable. Usually I bring with me only fax confirmation of the visit upon which to take notes. Only a finite number of one-dollar bills can be taken behind the walls with which to avail oneself of the commissary vending machines. One car key can be in my pocket but no fob or remote is permitted. No blue jeans are allowed because some of the prisoners wear blue denim. One would not want to be mistaken for a one of then, now would one. Navy blue slacks on the other hand are perfectly acceptable. No green of any shade, tint or tone is allowed. The guards wear green and despite the fact that it is highly unlikely I would be mistaken for one of them, green is strictly verboten. I consider it a minor victory if I am sent back to my car only one time on any given visit to relieve myself of an offensive item. 

The color coding came to point one day when I worn a pair of pants I routinely wore to San Quentin because the were drawstring as opposed to belt loop type trousers. This meant one less item to remove for the X-ray machine along with my shoes and jacket. the CO at the check-in desk asked me what color the pants were. I told him they were gray or if one wanted to get very particular, slate colored. He specifically inquired if they were green to which I responded, “No, they are dark gray or slate, take your pick.” He then informed me that he was color blind and they could be green from his sensory perception. I took pause with amazement that the CO’s union possessed such drag so as to be able to preserve the job of a color blind member in a position where color determination was crucial. Another CO not so afflicted was called over to make a final determination as to color of my pants. I explained that I had worn this particular pair of pants into the prison on dozens of occasions and had never been mistaken for a guard. The precedent I cited meant nothing to CO Black&White who summoned a colleague for a ruling. The second set of eyes was initially ambivalent provoking additional argument for my position that the pants where many thing, but not green. Discussion ensued and I was ultimately allowed to enter with the admonition that I should select another item from my wardrobe next time. I did and the pants in question were relegated to leisure wear.

One need look not farther than the parking lot to see the blatant and intentional caste distinction between those allied with the prisoners and those aligned with the guards. The staff parking lot is newly paved, freshly stripe and perfectly level. The lot that to which legal and personal visitors are relegated has not seen fresh blacktop in decades, is worn down to the bedrock in some areas and has ankle deep potholes in others that fill with rainwater providing for a steeplechase run from the car to the check-in counter every winter.

No where is the intentionally unhygienic infliction of dehumanization more evident that in the visitor’s restroom. While the commodes and other fixtures are kept in a reasonable state of sterility sitting on a slightly corroded stainless steel is a bar of soap. Every other public accommodation in the state contains some type of liquid soap dispenser which has to date failed to find its way into the San Quentin visitor’s restroom. And not any type of anti-bacterial soap. Just a basic white greasy ass bar of soap with a couple of dirt veins running longitudinally. 

I cannot imagine what I would have to get on my hands which would compel be to lay my profane paws upon that bar of soap. If I had my own shit on my hands I would leave it be as opposed to lathering up a bar of soap that has presumably suffered atrocious acts at the hands and other body parts of friends, family and associates of heinous persons who can be assumed to have heinous traits themselves if only by association.

What would it take to put a little plastic bottle supported by a chrome bracket and button valve so that an individual who is probably thoroughly intimidated prior to pissing on his or her own fingers can lave sus manos without fear that heretofore undiscovered microbes will be introduced into the bloodstream via dermal osmosis and creating an internal chain reaction rendering their host a poster child for a George Romero film?

How much would it cost to place a ubiquitous dispenser on the wall so that a false perception of benevolence could be maintained. It’s my understanding that the soap company will give you the plastic dispenser so long as you agree to fill it up with only their product. It is my further understanding that liquid soap is actually more economical in the long run, excepting I guess if we are talking about a bar of soap that has been there the last five years because no one has had the guts to touch it. 

So if you happen by the San Quentin visitors restroom, be careful when you pee.

There were two alternatives to having ones room and board covered by the County for a period equal to 2/3 of the actual sentence after taking into account time off for good behavior. If a person was sentenced to 44 days or less, an application could be made to perform community service work known as AOWP, Adult Offender Work Program. A jail term of 45 days or more pushed a sentenced individual into applying for county parole aka home detention aka ankle bracelet. 

In trying to convince Judge D’Opal to cut this guy a term which was less than the one recommended by the probation department I argued that 60 days on ankle bracelet sitting home watching cartoons would not make nearly as significant an impression on him as would some old fashioned physical toil without pay. In doing so I referred to the proposal as ‘slave labor’. Judge D’Opal wrapped in the rainbow flag of political correctness called me to the for a brief off the record parley. She told me that there were some African American persons in the courtroom who probably did not appreciate my use of the terms ‘slave labor’. I grabbed the right lapel of my jacket upon which my diamond Rotary Club past-president’s pin sat. I told her that we in the Rotary Club did not appreciate calling it community service because it equated an involuntary situation with the volunteer work we did. I also pointed out the historical fact that African Americans did not have market on slave labor cornered and were hardly unique in that experience.

Always the diplomat I added, “Never the less, it’s your courtroom and I will refrain from using that term in the future.” I walked back to counsel table without further comment and continued my presentation. If an apology was what her honor was seeking, she is still waiting.

I never refer to an individual I am representing as “my client”. Not in open court, not in legal filings and never in correspondence. First of all it is inappropriate to profess to possess a person in any manner. This is a matter of abstract philosophy. They are not mine or anyone else’s at least since adoption of the 13th Amendment. As a matter of advocacy, use of the third person tends to dehumanize, depersonalize and objectify which is something to be avoided, especially in criminal defense. Much better to state that, “Mr. Wrongly accused was nowhere near the scene of the crime,” rather than, “My client was….”

Similarly I never refer to the opposite side in a criminal case as “The People”. To the judge I most often refer to my opponent as “The Prosecution” or “The Prosecutor”. In front of a jury it is “The Government”. I can’t call them “The People” because we are people too. In actuality it is not “The People” but The Government or at least one arm of government. This also helps to depersonalize the opposition.

Neither myself nor anyone I represent are allowed to wear leather in court at any time, under any circumstances, except for shoes. No matter how nice or what the cost, leather garments look hoody. I have sent people back to their car with a thousand dollar leather coat from Nordstroms.

Men in custody tend to mess around with their facial hair for no other reason than sheer boredom. They can do all they want but whether in or out of jail they are not permitted to attend any substantive court appearance with a van dyke/goatee. Full beards, outrageous moustaches are acceptable along with of course, a clean shaven look. My absolute bar on the goatee is founded in fact not superstition because it makes a man look evil. There is subliminal sinister quality to that particular configuration because every single visual representation you have ever seen in your entire life of the Devil, he is sporting a van dyke. I cringe every time I see a news report of a high-profile defendant with this configuration of facial follicles. Sometimes the big city lawyers aren’t paying attention to obvious detail.

Seating during a jury trial is very important. The prosecution would like the defendant as far away from them and the jury as possible. I like to seat my client between me and the prosecutor. In Marin courts this has to be conceded with an in-custody defendant because the security concerns of the Sheriff mandate that they sit in a certain chair that is not in fact furniture but part of the real estate. It has special hardware in the back so that an unruly individual can be chained to the chair without the jurors seeing the steel wrapped around his waist. As a point of honor I once sat in that chair for a portion of the trial so that the accused individual would not be isolated at the end of the table. We subsequently had to switch seats when he failed to show midway through the proceedings and got himself remanded into custody for the duration.

In the appropriate case I like to sit before the jury with as little paper in front of me as possible. The prosecutor will wheel in a cart full of files while I sit beside one or two manila folders and a writing tablet. This is done subliminally to convey my feeling that the whole thing is no big deal. Every once in a while I get caught short without the correct police report for the present witness but what the hell, that’s what improvisational skills are for.

During a trial I will eat lunch anywhere but the courthouse cafeteria. If the defendant is in custody we go to great lengths to insure that the jury is not informed of this fact. If I am seen dining without the client the natural conclusion is that he or she is chomping down a baloney sandwich at county expense out of view. While the jurors probably figure it out at some point, it is not a good thing to remind them of it at every turn so I take my repast elsewhere. Even with the luxury of an out-of-custody defendant I try to avoid dining in the vicinity of the jurors to avoid the possible mis-speak in their presence which may present an image which differs from the one we are portraying in the courtroom.

Whatever beastly acts the individual sitting next to me may be accused of is no excuse to treat him or her as anything other than a family member. I always take an opportunity to touch the shoulders or arm of the person on trial to convey the thought that he is not the disease that the government alleges he is.

I never use the word ‘victim’ except after guilt has been established and then only as an expression that the accused is accepting culpability for this actions in a ploy for mercy. The V-word has no place in a courtroom prior to that. There is no crime and therefore no victim unless and until there has been a jury verdict or a plea of guilty. I have a standard pre-trial motion which asks that the prosecutor to refrain from use of the V-word. This motion was routinely granted because the authority behind it is solid. The prosecutors are so married to the concept that they are there to make things right and that there must therefore be a victim would inevitably violate the order by uttering the V-word usually on direct examination of a police officer. I would then scream for a mistrial which would be denied and used later by an appellate lawyer seeking to overturn a conviction. Lately the local judges, having heard this play out no longer grant the motion but politely ask the DA to do their best to avoid use of the V-word.

People naturally fear misfortune and long for good fortune, but if the distinction is carefully studied misfortune often turns out to be good fortune and good fortune to be misfortune. The wise man learns to meet the changing circumstances of life with an equitable spirit being neither elated by success nor depressed by failure. – Buddha

 The following day I was accosted by my colleagues Doug who asked me if I was taking the Gerard case. I told him that Mary had first dibs on it so I let it go to her. Doug said he had represented Gerard on a case when he was a baby public defender some twenty years earlier. I then heard of his recurring nightmare of his initial interview with Gerard in the Marin County Jail during which recounted the facts of his crime which consisted of full on fucking a nine year old girl. The worst part was that Gerard licked the salacious grin on his lips and expressed zero remorse for the acts which eventually landed him in prison for an all too brief period of time.

 Come to find out that Gerard had, imagine this, done it again. It came to light that he had preformed a variety of sex acts on a number of neighborhood girls which undoubtedly will adversely affect their ability to have normal physical and emotional relations for the rest of their lives. As with a lot of cases of child sexual abuse, the family of one of the girls reported it to the police then after the allegations became public, more came forward.

 The evidence against him was damning but he refused to accept any sort of plea bargain. Not that the offers were any actual bargain because the government was not going to repeat the prior error by ever letting him breath fresh air again.

Mary, ever the professional, drug him through a jury trial, the result of which was largely predetermined. The speculation was that Gerard wanted to see the little girls one last time, during their court testimony, so he could take with him a final memory with which he could masturbate himself into the eternal oblivion of a lifetime behind razor wire.

When it came time for sentencing a report and recommendation was issued by the Probation Department which set the tally at 250 years in prison for his sins. Mary made various legal arguments which lowered the penalty to 150 years.

 The next day’s headline read, “Convicted Child Molester Gets 150 Years In Prison.” I ran into reporter Gary Klein, the author of the newspaper, on the courthouse floor a few days thereafter and registered my objection to the biased point of view.

 ”Why didn’t the story read, ‘Brilliant Lawyer Saves Man 100 years in Prison’. You reporters are so unfair. Always focusing on the negative.”

I am certainly not advocating that there should not be criminal consequences for drunk drivers and wife beaters but do take issue with the lack of discretion given to judges and prosecutors in fashioning the appropriate societal remedy and in the case for those accused of domestic violence, the blatant sexism attached to the political agenda flies in the face of equal protection under the law as guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States of America and the State of California.

It may be the case that the male of the specie holds some undetermined edge in the perpetrator category when compare with offenses committed by the distaff portion of the population but the persistent skew in response, analysis and reaction to incidents of alleged domestic violence stands in the way of anything near an accurate compilation of that statistic.

The police who are the first responders in such situations are obliged to make a snap determination as to which party was the dominant or primary aggressor when called to the scene. More often than not that decision is made by taking the word of the first person to the phone or as to which person is perceived to have suffered the more significant injuries. No credit is given as to who may have been the initial aggressor or as stated in playground terms, “Who started it?”

The organization in our area that is involved in not only assisting true victims of partner abuse but also operating the 52 week batter’s program mandated by state law for all those caught under the net was formerly know as marin Abused Women’s Services or MAWS. The presupposition of this name was ignored for three decades before they cloaked the she-wolf in sheep’s clothing by changing its name to the Center for Domestic Tranquility. The change was in name only and not in any substantive manner.

The sexual bias runs deep in the system despite professed efforts to put forth a face of gender neutrality. I have had the displeasure and amusement of cross-examining the government’s expert on domestic violence on three occasions testifying under Evidence Code §1107. The law provides for testimony by a so-called expert on domestic violence who knows nothing of the specifics of the case or the parties thereto but rather espouses a purely political agenda that all men are oppressors and all women are victims. This “expert” is not a psychologist or sociologist but rather a lawyer who reacted with disdain every time I addressed her as “counsel” which is the mannered and proper albeit depersonalized way lawyers refer to each other in the courtroom. She points to charts entitled the “Wheel of Control” and “The Cycle of Domestic Violence” through her expertise as author of a 1000+ page compendium of essays on the subject. When I asked her how many of those pages concerned violence by women on men she answered, “None.” The reason given was that she considered it extremely rare and not worthy of consideration. Kind of like an orphan disease.

I was personally punched so hard in the side of the head by my first ex-wife during her blind drunken rage that I saw stars but had no time to shake it off because there was another one on the way. I caught it with my right hand at which point she went for the phone with her left. A moment of clarity must have occurred when I asked her, “What are you going to tell them, that I skinned your knuckles on my cheekbone.” She put down the phone and we resolved our difference without government intervention.

 So I tell that story to clients who tell me that they were just defending themselves from 135 pounds of fighting fury and add that I sympathize with their plight because I have personally been with enough volatile women to understand their potential as sex partners. Unfortunately Newton’s Law eventually comes into play, that being the law of action and reaction. “You got the action and now we’re in the reaction.”

Sometimes I get a guy that is relatively new to serious crime but facing a gob of time one way or the other who expresses an opinion that it would be easier to do the same amount of time in state prison rather than the Marin County Jail. While it is certainly true that prison has some freedoms that are non-existent at our jail such as actual yard time in the open air, more varied commissary items available and the opportunity to work outside the gate on a Caltrans crew or something similar. Our jail is a highly restricted environment that afford nothing close to out door time or meaningful jobs. 

When a greenie, so to speak, who has never enjoyed the accommodations at San Quentin State Prison, suggests that he would rather be in prison than our jail I usually push my reading glasses to the end of my nose, if I am wearing them, make direct eye contact over the top rim and respond as follows, “Listen asshole. I understand that you don’t like it here. You’re not supposed to like it. But guess what, it’s clean and you’re safe. I can’t say that about #1 East Sir Francis Drake. I can personally guarantee your anal sanctity in this jail. If you go across the street you’re on your own.” And then I wait and let him speak. It’s usually something non-sequitur and the subject of any net benefits of prison never comes up again.