They come fresh-faced from elite law schools, leather briefcases unscuffed and starched white shirts, ready to “do justice” by putting the bad guys where they belong. Some leave after their commitment. Some remain for the duration of their career. They’re prosecutors and they believe that what they do is both right and necessary.
But the closest they ever get to the life of a defendant is a social distance away in a courtroom. For years, I’ve urged that every new prosecutor spend a week in prison, eat Nutraloaf and stare at walls when they aren’t dodging an angry guy with a tattoo across his forehead that says “kill.” Continue reading
