Hi, Mom? I'm in federal custody.

I just finished a conversation with my housemate, RB. In the parlance of our times, she's totally in the tank for Obama. Yesterday, she spent 12 hours en route to and from Obama's final campaign stop in Manassas, VA. Tonight she has a slate of 3 election parties to attend. Our conversation covered a lot of electiony topics, one of which was whether the Republicans would attempt to rig the outcome by challenging provisional ballots. She was generally opposed to provisional ballots, while I said they helped both sides. For example, I argued, wouldn't the Democrats want to challenge provisional ballots if a judge kept polls open to support a Republican candidate?

Maybe, she conceded. Nevertheless, she didn't trust the Republicans, and wouldn't lower her guard until McCain conceded. Then she went to bed, so as to be peppy during her full evening of Obamamania.

After she left, the question of federal judges and their politics sent my mind to wondering. However, the question of federal judicial politics is boring, so I ended up recalling my own experience working for a federal judge. Which brings me to the story I really want to tell you:

Politics play a very small role in a federal judge's job. Mostly, they handle apolitical cases, or are handcuffed into imposing statutorily required sentences that prevent "liberal" judges from "letting criminals off easy." However, nestled in a judge's humdrum day of initial appearances, warrant-granting, discovery hearings, and pre-trial conferences, there sometimes appears a real gem of a case. For example:



I once worked for Judge B, a federal district court judge. Every day after lunch, we'd go down to the courtroom for an afternoon of work - some civil, some criminal. The criminal cases were almost always drug-related and featured a young man wearing the latest in gangland haute couture or federal-issue orange. Except once.

One afternoon, as the other clerks and I entered the courtroom with the Judge, I looked at the defendant's table. There sat a young white male in his late teens or early 20's. He was decked out in preppie fall classics: wire-rim glasses, green sweater over white button down, jeans, and birkenstocks. Oh, and handcuffs and leg irons.

'Hm,' I thought to myself, 'this is out of the ordinary.' I looked questioningly at my fellow clerk, but he just shrugged. We took our usual seats next to the bench, and the courtroom clerk announced Judge B and opened the proceedings.

"Your Honor, first we have the initial appearance of Topher McWhitey," the courtroom clerk, Mark, announced.

"Very well," Judge B. said. She looked at the U.S. Attorney at the prosecutor's table. "Mr. U.S. Attorney?" she prompted.

The U.S. Attorney stood and cleared his throat. "Your Honor, Topher McWhitey is here on his initial appearance," he began. "Federal agents apprehended him in class at Boston University this morning, and he is being charged with 28 counts of international drug trafficking." My eyes widened, my co-clerk and I looked at each other, and we both sat up in our seats.

"Go on," said Judge B.

'Yes, do go on,' I thought, pen poised above my yellow legal pad.

"Your Honor, Topher McWhitey was arrested this morning after his co-conspirators were arrested while attempting to bring 2000 pounds of marijuana from Canada into Idaho. Upon their arrest, they identified Mr. McWhitey as the central figure in the drug trafficking scheme. I have prepared for the court a list of the 28 charges Mr. McWhitey faces, and have also provided the list to Mr. McWhitey's counsel."

Mark handed the list of charges to Judge B. She pursed her lips as she looked over it. "Mr. U.S. Attorney, what punishment does Mr. McWhitey face?" "Well," said U.S. Attorney, "he faces a mandatory minimum of 25 years, and statutory maximum of 40 years."

Geez! They yanked him out of class?! 25 years minimum?! A freaking ton of marijuana! And his buddies already rolled on him, so no plea bargain! This dude was way, way up Shit's Creek, and nary a paddle was in sight.

"Mr. McWhitey, please stand," said Judge B. He stood, as did his attorney. "I need some information for your packet, Mr. McWhitey. What is your address?"

He gave an address off Commonwealth Avenue. "You go to Boston University," said Judge B. "Is that your permanent address or your school address."

Topher looked green around the gills, althought it might have been his sweater. "That's my school address, ma'am," he said, looking at the table in front of him.

"Please address the court as 'Your Honor', not ma'am," said Judge B. "Sorry," mumbled Topher. "Now," said Judge B., "do you have roommates in Boston?"

"I live in a house with 5 other guys." said Topher. His lawyer nudged him. "Oh, uh, Your Honor," he said.

Hm, a house with 5 other dudes? I could only imagine things in that house that evening:
First Dude: "Hey guys, anyone seen Topher?"
Second Dude, playing XBox: "No, haven't seen him all day."
Third Dude, watching Second Dude play XBox: "You didn't hear? The fuzz dragged him out of Econ this morning. Heard it was the Feds."
First and Second Dudes: "Shit, man, no way."
Third Dude: "I know, right. Think Topher's a terrorist?"
First Dude: "Nah, it's probably drugs."
Uncomfortable pause in conversation while XBox bleeps and blorps.
Second dude drops XBox controller, exeunt rapidly.
Moments later follows the sound of marijuana being flushed down toilets.

"Ok, Mr. McWhitey," said Judge B. "And what is your home address?" Topher gave an address in Idaho. "Is that your parents' house?" asked Judge B. "It is," said Topher. "Have you been in contact with them?" asked Judge B. "I called my Mom this morning, after, well, this whole thing," said Topher. "She wasn't home, though, so I had to leave a message."

Awesome! Beep. "Hi Mom, this is Topher. I just wanted to let you know I got those socks you sent me. They're really great, thanks. Have I said I love you recently? Because it's really important you know how much I love you. And Dad too. And also Uncle Chuck. He's a lawyer, right? Could you call him for me? I kind of got a little bit arrested this morning. It's not like a big deal or anything, but I think you should really call Uncle Chuck. And, if you could, see if he knows anything about international drug trafficking charges. Ok? That'd be really great. Thanks. I love you guys."

"That's ok, Mr. McWhitey," said the Judge. "You'll be able to call home later. Now, you recognize you're facing some very serious charges, don't you?" "Yes, Your Honor" said Topher, looking up at the Judge, and then sighing as he looked up at the ceiling. Maybe he was hoping for a bolt of lightning to strike him dead before his first night in federal lockup. I know I would have been.

Judge B. looked at the sheet of charges. "Mr. McWhitey, I have no idea how you got your hands on so much marijuana. Nor do I have any idea what you planned to do with it once you got it into this country. However, I counsel you to cooperate with the U.S. Government and give them as much information as you can. If you do not cooperate, you could be in prison for the next quarter century, or longer."

By this point, I was riveted and bursting with questions: How'd you get into this, Topher? Paying gambling debts? Adventure? Medical bills? What? And who's your connection? Are you just a dopey kid that grew a bunch of weed in the woods and tried to sneak it over the border? Or does this go higher? Unfortunately, no answers were forthcoming.

Also unfortunate, for Topher anyway, was his list of options. Either he was the mastermind of this operation, which meant he was going to jail for 25-40. Or, he could flip on his boss to get a reduced sentence, but spend the rest of his life in witness protection. Either way, it wasn't likely the outcome he planned with his buddies back in Idaho.

Judge B. wrapped up some formalities, and the U.S. Marshalls collected up Topher. He did the leg-iron shuffle as he followed them out the door and back to the holding cell where he'd wait for a prisoner transport van. From there, if he was lucky, he'd get a con-air flight to Idaho that night. If he was unlucky, Judge B. said, he'd trade his J. Crew threads for a jumpsuit, spend the night in holding, and get a prison bus to Idaho.

Gah, a prison bus to Idaho? I suppose if there's anything worse than a regular bus to Idaho, it would have to be a prison bus to Idaho, but still. Poor Topher was F-U-K fucked.

And that's why I voted to decriminalize possession of 1 oz. or less of marijuana in Massachusetts. The end.