Sick Justice: Inside the American Gulag

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I COVERED THE CRIMINAL JUSTICE SYSTEM FOR SEVERAL DAILIES, INCLUDING the old Kansas City Times and later the Washington Post. I walked through prison yards, took notes at trials, ate burgers with cops and prosecutors, and even reported a tiny piece of the Watergate stories. Later on I became a boxing writer and wrote about fighters who’d turned pro after doing time in prison and others who were locked up after the sport was through with them. I’ve paid dues to boxing gyms where a prison record is no more remarkable than an Ivy League degree at a Wall Street bank.

One day someone close to me was scheduled for a hearing on a drug charge, and I showed up to offer moral support. While I waited for that particular hearing, I heard the judge rush though other cases on his roster, one after another, no time to lose. Plea bargains had been settled on most of them. Still, defendants had to confirm in open court that they understood and agreed to the terms, and the court recorder had to get it all down. The judge and the prosecutor shared the chore of reading it all aloud and prompting the defendant to assent from time to time. Defendants were whisked in and out. Few had made bail, so most were in jail jumpsuits, their hands shackled behind them. Relatives looked on with a mixture of concern, resignation, and uncertainty.

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