Our American Spring

I've been called many names by prosecutors, judges, cops, clients. But the one that stung the most, that stuck in my brain and required a passionate, reasoned response was "anarchist."

Perhaps it was the setting. I was in the midst of jury selection in a criminal trial, trolling for fair and impartial minds, when I found myself attempting to rehabilitate a juror who had no faith in the system.

"The system is rigged. Too many innocent people in jail. I know," said the weary, and not inconsequentially middle aged black man.  "I don't want to be a part of it."

I pointed out that jury service was not only a civic obligation, but that, finally, he could be a part of the solution.  "What if all the people who agree with you that the system is unjust found themselves on American juries and actually held the prosecutors to their burdens.  Maybe that wave of 'not guiltys' would restore their faith in the system --"

"Mr. Bloomsday," the judge interrupted. "I'm not going to let you call for anarchy in my courtroom. Move on."

I did move on.  I never gave the passionate, reasoned response required by the judge's ignorant assertion.

Until today.

I am no anarchist.  My belief in the rule of law as a system of governance is stronger than my belief in God.  It is a belief that is superlative to all, except one: that you judge a society by how it treats the least among its citizens.

However, I also belief that the rule of law in American society has been perverted by self-serving frauds, racists, criminals, through an assortment of institutionalized methods so removed from public view and common understanding, that to articulate them gets you labeled an anarchist.

In that moment in the courtroom, I hinted at a restoration of order, not it's annihilation.  I attempted to breathe life into the rule of law, not suffocate it.  I offered a prayer for Justice, not a curse upon it.

Maybe I'm some obscure mutation of lawyer, and my beliefs about the American justice system are too volatile for public consumption.  I don't think so.  I think if you begged for justice and mercy in the Poverty Capital of America as your father did before you before he died of a liquor-soaked, broken heart, you'd be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that you were on to the truth of things, too.

Welcome to Our American Spring. May it last a thousand years.