Maybe I'm missing something, but what's the big deal about privacy? I know I shouldn't feel this way, but ... I guess I feel ambivalent about the 4th Amendment.
The Christmas day bombing has reignited the debate between privacy advocates and security wonks who want to put in full-body scanners.
What's the big deal? So you get scanned. It's a "digital strip search." I don't really agree, but maybe I don't know enough about the technology. Whatever. Even if it is. If it deters some form of explosives or weapons-carrying, then great. Digital strip search. Fine with me. When women go to the gynecologist, the doctor looks at our privates and stucks a speculum up there. What's the big deal. It's a professional. Same with security.
Whether it's cost-effective or effective is a different question. But whether privacy concerns should trump security concerns? In my book, ... it's not much of a debate.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
So It Goes
A repost, from my other blog:
Following my supervisor, MA's advice, I went to bed early the night before the hearing. 11:30pm, a new first. Even then, I could barely sleep and woke up several times during the night to find myself reciting lines from the closing statement. In the morning, we trudged through disgusting slush to have some last quick prep sessions with two of our experts, packed up our box of documents, and drove through the rain to Hartford for the hearing.
The hearing itself was an adrenaline-packed whirlwind. We caught so many lucky breaks, starting from the government attorney who walked through the door. (Instead of Spawn of the Devil Bitch, who we'd been expecting, it was Much More Reasonable Dude, who at times seemed unsure that he even wanted to contest this case.) The judge unexpectedly let all four of our witnesses testify without much complaint. Our client gave an incredibly compelling, genuine, and sympathetic testimony on cross-examination. "[client] = awesome," I wrote to MA on a Post-It note, to vigorous nodding. Our experts all came through for us, for the most part. Our psychologist ripped apart opposing counsel's cross-examination questions and turned each one to our benefit. Even the expert we were worried about managed to limit the damage on cross.
And then at the end of the hearing, the judge turned to the government to ask whether it had conducted a background check and to ask what its position was -- both unusual moves, as background checks are usually done prior to release, and the Respondent usually gives the closing first. Taken off guard, the government attorney gave their closing first. Then I gave our closing, the judge told the law students we had done a great job, and the case was over. An incredibly intense four hours.
Much to our surprise, everything had gone exactly as we had planned -- in fact, way better than we had planned. (The only ridiculous occurence was that ICE had decided not to bring my client to his own hearing, owing to the slush. My client was not present at his own fucking hearing. Due process violation, anyone?) I had been told repeatedly to expect to lose, and I tried to tell myself that to lower my expectations. MW (another clinical professor) had been overheard saying something along the lines of, "Those guys are pouring in hundreds of hours into that hearing and they have zero chance of winning." Our judge has one of the lowest asylum grant rates in the country and had only recently denied a similar claim to ours.
But the damage had been done. The hearing had gone better than our expectations. The judge's unorthodox behavior at the end of trial had kindled a spark of hope. He had almost seemed to be turning to the government to ask if they were going to concede. For two days I was completely jittery and could think of nothing but the hearing. I dared to hope.
Two days later, my clinic partners and I sat in MA's office sitting through forty-five agonizing minutes as the judge dictated his oral decision. (In a cruel twist of irony, ICE had finally gotten its shit together and brought my client to his hearing, but we had been unable to drive up to Hartford and were only present by phone.) For most of that time, we could not tell which way the judge was going to rule. There were facts the judge picked up on, and facts that the judge completely overlooked. We had won the judge over on specific intent. But when the judge started to get into severity, things took a long dive downhill. In another cruel jab, the judge ended his decision with a shoutout/nod to how the case had been "exceptionally well litigated" by Respondent's counsel.
But we'd lost, and our client had been all alone in the courtroom as the judge read to him his fate. We had put our best case forward and put all the pieces there for the judge to pick up. If he had wanted to rule our way, he had all the parts he needed. But MW had been right, I guess. Zero chance. Refugee roulette--a losing game. And perhaps because I'd dared to hope, I had fallen that much harder.
It's hard to describe the aftermath of the decision. I tried not to cry in front of MA, but in the end he was the one who teared. I felt shock, anger, devastation. Like the bottom had dropped out of my stomach. Like injustice was served. Like I could at once understand: (a) how those who had worked in immigration for a long time could see the actors as so polarized, so black and white, and see immigration law as completely unjust and inhuman; (b) how the nuances in the middle ground where I currently see myself would fall away with repeated interactions with the harshness of the law; and (c) how I would probably never have the emotional fortitude to survive a long career in immigration law.
Expressions of sympathy were welcomed, for the most part, I guess, though I'm not sure I quite felt anything. Assurances that we would appeal were made. But by an empty, shell-shocked law student who felt she's just had the rug pulled out from under her. Instead, I retreated to my clinic partners and sought commiseration with MA or JP (the clinical professor who had lost a similar case in front of the same judge). I went home and cried. At random times. I felt cut off and alienated from anyone who had not shared such an experience.
I'm still in that lonely aftermath. I've been trying to make sense of it, but there is no sense to be made. I've been trying to think of how we could have done things differently, but there isn't anything I would change. I've been trying to figure out what lessons there are to be learned, but I'm not sure there are any. In the meantime, my team has spent this entire weekend digging in and working on other parts of the client's case (in a different forum). I would say not all hope is lost, but that would be a mischaracterization. What I mean to say is: not all avenues of relief are closed to us, but hope has nothing to do with it anymore.
Following my supervisor, MA's advice, I went to bed early the night before the hearing. 11:30pm, a new first. Even then, I could barely sleep and woke up several times during the night to find myself reciting lines from the closing statement. In the morning, we trudged through disgusting slush to have some last quick prep sessions with two of our experts, packed up our box of documents, and drove through the rain to Hartford for the hearing.
The hearing itself was an adrenaline-packed whirlwind. We caught so many lucky breaks, starting from the government attorney who walked through the door. (Instead of Spawn of the Devil Bitch, who we'd been expecting, it was Much More Reasonable Dude, who at times seemed unsure that he even wanted to contest this case.) The judge unexpectedly let all four of our witnesses testify without much complaint. Our client gave an incredibly compelling, genuine, and sympathetic testimony on cross-examination. "[client] = awesome," I wrote to MA on a Post-It note, to vigorous nodding. Our experts all came through for us, for the most part. Our psychologist ripped apart opposing counsel's cross-examination questions and turned each one to our benefit. Even the expert we were worried about managed to limit the damage on cross.
And then at the end of the hearing, the judge turned to the government to ask whether it had conducted a background check and to ask what its position was -- both unusual moves, as background checks are usually done prior to release, and the Respondent usually gives the closing first. Taken off guard, the government attorney gave their closing first. Then I gave our closing, the judge told the law students we had done a great job, and the case was over. An incredibly intense four hours.
Much to our surprise, everything had gone exactly as we had planned -- in fact, way better than we had planned. (The only ridiculous occurence was that ICE had decided not to bring my client to his own hearing, owing to the slush. My client was not present at his own fucking hearing. Due process violation, anyone?) I had been told repeatedly to expect to lose, and I tried to tell myself that to lower my expectations. MW (another clinical professor) had been overheard saying something along the lines of, "Those guys are pouring in hundreds of hours into that hearing and they have zero chance of winning." Our judge has one of the lowest asylum grant rates in the country and had only recently denied a similar claim to ours.
But the damage had been done. The hearing had gone better than our expectations. The judge's unorthodox behavior at the end of trial had kindled a spark of hope. He had almost seemed to be turning to the government to ask if they were going to concede. For two days I was completely jittery and could think of nothing but the hearing. I dared to hope.
Two days later, my clinic partners and I sat in MA's office sitting through forty-five agonizing minutes as the judge dictated his oral decision. (In a cruel twist of irony, ICE had finally gotten its shit together and brought my client to his hearing, but we had been unable to drive up to Hartford and were only present by phone.) For most of that time, we could not tell which way the judge was going to rule. There were facts the judge picked up on, and facts that the judge completely overlooked. We had won the judge over on specific intent. But when the judge started to get into severity, things took a long dive downhill. In another cruel jab, the judge ended his decision with a shoutout/nod to how the case had been "exceptionally well litigated" by Respondent's counsel.
But we'd lost, and our client had been all alone in the courtroom as the judge read to him his fate. We had put our best case forward and put all the pieces there for the judge to pick up. If he had wanted to rule our way, he had all the parts he needed. But MW had been right, I guess. Zero chance. Refugee roulette--a losing game. And perhaps because I'd dared to hope, I had fallen that much harder.
It's hard to describe the aftermath of the decision. I tried not to cry in front of MA, but in the end he was the one who teared. I felt shock, anger, devastation. Like the bottom had dropped out of my stomach. Like injustice was served. Like I could at once understand: (a) how those who had worked in immigration for a long time could see the actors as so polarized, so black and white, and see immigration law as completely unjust and inhuman; (b) how the nuances in the middle ground where I currently see myself would fall away with repeated interactions with the harshness of the law; and (c) how I would probably never have the emotional fortitude to survive a long career in immigration law.
Expressions of sympathy were welcomed, for the most part, I guess, though I'm not sure I quite felt anything. Assurances that we would appeal were made. But by an empty, shell-shocked law student who felt she's just had the rug pulled out from under her. Instead, I retreated to my clinic partners and sought commiseration with MA or JP (the clinical professor who had lost a similar case in front of the same judge). I went home and cried. At random times. I felt cut off and alienated from anyone who had not shared such an experience.
I'm still in that lonely aftermath. I've been trying to make sense of it, but there is no sense to be made. I've been trying to think of how we could have done things differently, but there isn't anything I would change. I've been trying to figure out what lessons there are to be learned, but I'm not sure there are any. In the meantime, my team has spent this entire weekend digging in and working on other parts of the client's case (in a different forum). I would say not all hope is lost, but that would be a mischaracterization. What I mean to say is: not all avenues of relief are closed to us, but hope has nothing to do with it anymore.
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