People. Drawing out stories and echoing back the beauty of that recollection--be it a slice of victory or vulnerability or wonder. I love that moment when the person you're talking to suddenly becomes familiar: his eyes no longer remind you of another's--they're his alone; her voice is a voice no longer strange, but one now comfortably nestling into her own space in your brain. It's as if all of their features explode and in a moment rearrange themselves into something so wholly and holy themselves alone. I like taking photographs of people then, when my preconceptions drop and I can see a bit of their true and remarkable selves.<br /><br />This is what makes me come alive when interviewing "people who got away with it," "people who were caught," and all of the conversations in between.
There have been countless moments in my life that have shaped (and continue to shape) me--like the roots and rocks along a creek's path to the ocean. But one conversation with one man in particular humbled and enraged me, shifting the way I viewed my legal advocacy and, more broadly, myself.<br /><br />I met Anthony at a legal clinic a few years ago when he was seeking a second chance--an expungement of a criminal record. I was embarrassingly dismissive of his concerns; it was only when he began to cry that I realized just how jaded and warped my view of redemption had become. <br /><br />We Are All Criminals is the result of a confluence of conversations, clients, frustrations, and events; one of the most powerful and important of those for me was that moment in that government center basement with Anthony.
When I was a public defender, I represented a young man on a probation violation. He was 19 and facing a prison sentence after drinking and driving; it was his third alcohol-related incident following a drunken fight at 15. The court (or any other government body or anyone else in a position of power for that matter) had never considered treatment--or even a chemical dependency assessment--despite this young man's obvious addiction. Instead, in my opinion, he was viewed from day-one as a throw-away. Over the course of several months of visiting my client in jail and speaking extensively with his mother, I came to care deeply for him and his family; after a while, he trusted me enough to not only tell me about his past, but his hopes for a future. So when the court ordered revocation--and prison--for my client, I couldn't begin to imagine his devastation. I turned to him to offer my sincerest apologies for failing to keep him home, but he spoke first: "I'm so sorry, Emily. This isn't your fault, it's mine." And with that, the bailiff took away one of the most generous, kind, mature, and humble people I've ever met.
I would like to advocate on behalf of an individual on death row.
Listen.