This is a personal diary, probably the most personal I have written here. I generally keep my most personal business to myself here, but in this case, I'm asking for a hand.
This story touches on a number of political issues--the ongoing disaster mistakenly called Katrina, the horror story that passes for criminal "justice" in Texas, race, toujour l'race--but for me, it's just the story of my friend, and a plea.
I can't even remember when I met Justin. It must have been way back, as he was barely a teenager then, a gentle boy with a sly smile, boundless curiosity and the quiet, cautious manner of a young man without affiliation in a city ruled by gangs and sub-gangs.
He was so wary of being identified with any group that, when asked the question that started nearly every conversation among young people in New Orleans--"What ward are you from?"--he'd lie and say he was from out of town. He just didn't want to mix it up in the turf wars.
His specialty was a different kind of turf. He was a garden hand. Starting with just a weed-whacker, he prowled the neighborhood, knocking on doors and always looking for new clients. Soon, he'd saved enough for a power mower, new line trimmers, and was running a crew of younger guys, always pushing.
And always learning. Our "lawn," such as it is, doesn't really have grass to cut so much as it has strange plants to cut around. GF is one of those native species/bird and butterfly sanctuary gardeners. Rather than blow us off in search of easier lawns, Justin loved coming here, always asking the names and purposes of each new plant, delighted with the idea of a yard that did more than just sit there, looking flat and green.
Over the years, we became solid friends. He'd often be over for dinner, telling us about school (not his favorite pastime), his mom, fishing on the lakefront with his best pal, which really was his favorite pastime.
Late in high school, two events came to pass that darkened Justin's world. First, his friend and fishing partner died of an undiagnosed heart ailment, in Justin's arms. Not long after, his mom moved them from Mid-City down to Chalmette in St. Bernard Parish. While he kept up in school, he was losing interest and concentration. Even though he finished and passed out of Chalmette High, he failed the state LEAP test and was never given credit for graduation.
When the flood came, he and his mom made their way out of the parish to the Superdome, where he waited with thousands of others in a hot, domed Hell. Like so many others, he ended up in Texas, where, also like so many others, he was looked down on as a refugee.
Last year, outside the town of Stafford, Texas, a Taco Bell was held up by a man wearing a ski mask. A month later, a cashier at the Taco Bell saw a car in Southwest Houston which she said was used in the robbery. She called the police and gave them a license number. (No license number, detailed description of the car was given at the time of the crime. No was there any significant description of the subject, other than that he was tattooed. Justin had no tattoos.) The car was Justin's.
On the basis of the testimony of the cashier, whose boyfriend had been arrested in the crime at one point, and the manager, who testified that Justin was the perpetrator, though he did not match the manager's initial description, Justin was sentenced this year to 14 years in state prison.
This is, as I said, a personal diary. I am not a lawyer, a cop, a judge, an investigator or a stickup man. I will readily admit that my personal relationship with Justin colors my view of this case.
All that said, I just don't think he did it. Nothing about the crime fits what I know about this man. Nothing.
I don't know how the justice system in Texas works, other than badly. The one lawyer we were able to speak with who was connected with the case (pro bono) wasn't making much effort, as the state did not pay him until the charges were filed, long after the arrest. As near as we've been able to find out, there really isn't much of a public defenders' program in the state.
If you know anything about how this system works, or know someone who does, please let me know. You can also forward the information to Joyce Black, who is trying to coordinate appeal efforts. Her phone and email can be found here, part of a site she has set up to get Justin's story out. I don't know much about Ms. Black's experience or efficacy in these cases, but I'm grateful to anyone who's trying to help my friend get justice.
If I have been of value to you here over the years, made you laugh, made you rage, made you smile, then I'm asking for a little back now. You've put me on the stupid rec list for making fun of John McCain, for ranting about language abuse, heck, even for blogging about why I hadn't been blogging. If you would, please give this story a little visibility.
Let me make clear: I am not soliciting any money, goods or services, but rather the most precious treasure: information. If you know something or someone that can help, let me know. If you have knowledge or contacts that you wish kept private, my email is at my profile.
Make my day. Get my friend home to him mom and his son.
That's all for me today. I may not be able to respond to all comments, but I'll read them all and forward any useful info.
Best to all this holiday.