Lynchings, Poverty and Executions

I'm only recently back from my annual pilgrimage to Gerry Spence's Thunderhead Ranch near Dubois, Wyoming.  Sara and I went for the capital punishment seminar.  Sara is returning as an intern for the Trial Lawyer College this summer.

I have attended since 2001.  The top defenders in death penalty cases come from around the country to work on their cases.  

A week of death is not exactly a cheery prospect, but the weather is cool, the surroundings are peaceful.  Because there is no internet or cell phone access, we have an enforced isolation that allows reflection.

This is a very unselfish group of lawyers.  Lawyers in other fields often hide their secrets of success.  Professional jealousy and the competition for clients may result in protecting what little is known to make sure some other lawyer doesn't get the case.  Capital punishment defense lawyers do not do this.  No one ever knows if the next case is the one that will result in the type of melancholy that ends a career.

So skills and ideas are shared freely, making it an easy field to enter.  And of course poverty and crime are a growth industry.

One interesting discussion is the relationship between slavery and the death penalty.  States with a legacy of slavery are far more likely to have the death penalty.  To the extent the lynchings were used to enforce slavery and then Jim Crow laws, those areas continue with the death penalty.  A map provided to me by my scholarly friend, Phillip Cowen, darkens the counties that had lynchings; Phillip argues there is a correlation between the lynchings in past and legal executions today.  Cameron County is of the darkest color.

Why would either be necessary?  I think they are rational.  If you want to terrorize an underclass to keep them from challenging people in power, lynchings and legal executions are a tool in the arsenal.    Because Cameron County has an extreme divide between rich and poor, we would expect many death sentences.  And we get them.

Tricycling Brownsville

So Jeff now daily rides his bicycle to the federal courthouse and parks under the awning while he presides for the Brownsville division over the defense of the huddled masses yearning to breath free. Anyway, with the usual dollop of mimetic desire, I too wanted to ride a bicycle to the courthouse.

Kathy, though, insisted that I could not walk without falling so the risk of a bicycle was too great for the meager amount of life insurance I had purchased. Because I suspected I was unable to qualify for more life insurance, we compromised on the adult tricycle. As it happens, Jeff had purchased the tricycle for his suegro who it seems is even more feeble than I am and he had only been able to ride it once.

Kathy and I headed for the island in Sara's truck, fighting all the way. My daughters thought it was fine if I rode a tricycle, but only if I wore a disguise, so no one would recognize me as their father--Groucho nose, glasses and mustache.

On the way back, somewhere along the way, the flag, you know, orange on a tall fiberglass pole, blew away.

Back on the ground in Brownsville, I raised the seat and tightened things up. Kathy insisted I ride around in the parking lot behind the house some before I ventured out. I also dug up an old bicycle cable with a lock on in that belongs to some long since stolen bicycle. I did fine in the parking lot so I ventured out into the larger world, humming the tune from Indiana Jones.

The first problem is car driving in downtown Brownsville is a blood sport and there are extra points for bicyclists. There was no way I could go on the busy streets. The next problem is that tricycles are wider than bicycles and it takes some calculation to make sure I didn't get stuck on a curb.

I soon discovered 8th Street, low traffic and a nice parking area halfway between the state and federal courthouses: a light pole perfect for locking up an adult tricycle. There wasn't a lot of other traffic.

This particular adult tricycle has a basket of a perfect size for my old beat-up leather briefcase.

However, there is the problem of sunburning the top of my bald pate. My usual straw fedora won't stay on with the blazing speed of an adult tricycle. I dug a gimme cap out of the closet that says "Relax" on the front and it seems to work.

The neighborhood kids are also out on their bikes and when I drive by they come out and join me for a couple of blocks. A half a dozen kids on bikes, one pulling another in a sort of bike trailer filled with yet another kid, cruising the wrong way down 8th street. It may appear to be an odd gathering, but outside of inmates, it has become the larger part of my contact with the world.

Jeff tells me this is a good green thing to do, but then he is much more hopeful about life. I just keep thinking how much money I could save if I could raise enough money to be able to afford to sell the car.