Miles's blog

Here I am in Oak Brook, Illinois, a very nice suburb of Chicago. I am staying with my brother Mark and his wife, Sue. Mark is my older brother. I also have a younger sister, Mindy. I am not sure most of you knew I had a brother and sister. Yes, all of us are M.M. and yes, this is why Meg is also M.M. My brother did not follow the tradition, naming both of his sons with “K” names. My sister, of course, is no longer a Madorin.

I made it to Chicago no problem. Lots of driving, but nothing interesting. Nothing even to take pictures of. No huge balls of twine. No massive Holsteins. Just lots of pavement, construction, and big trucks. I saw a license plate, EVL QEN. I think I dated her at one time. I passed right through Nebraska. Didn’t stop except for gas until I got to Iowa. I saw lots of red. Whizzed right by Lincoln. By the way, Nebraska plays Wisconsin tomorrow night. I have no love for Nebraska, and my brother is a Wisconsin alum. We will be cheering for the Badgers. Of course we will also be keeping an eye on the baseball games.

Yesterday as I drove through Iowa and Illinois, I passed the birthplaces of Bob Feller, John Wayne, Herbert Hoover, and Ronald Reagan. I should have stopped, but I failed in my mission to experience all the little peculiarities of the Midwest. I was a little too concerned about the weather to stop. I also decided not to go to the baseball diamond in a cornfield where they filed Field of Dreams. So I guess there will be something to see when I drive back to go back to work for the D.A.’s Office again. (Kidding!)

I am not sure how long I am going to stay in Chicago. There is a lot to see. Although I was born and raised here, I left a long time ago and have not made a lot of trips back. I am looking forward to seeing all the changes down by the lakefront. One of the nice things about not being on a schedule is the ability to take as much time as I like some place.

I know I need to write some more interesting blogs, and I will. Right now, though I am reveling in just enjoying my leisurely trek across America.

Greetings from Council Bluffs, Iowa, which is right across the river from Omaha, Nebraska. I am at the Ameristar Hotel after about a 9-hour drive from Denver. Aside from lot of construction the drive was uneventful. I listed to 119 songs on my iPod. I am listening to all my songs in alphabetical order. I made it from ABC by the Jacson 5 to Black and White by Three Dog Night.

I decided to stay at the Ameristar Hotel and Casino. When I checked in they said the hotel was almost full but they found me a room. The desk clerk informed me that if i joined the slot club and accumulated 10 bonus points I would get the buffet dinner for free. However my room had a distinct paint smell. I complained, nicely (who knew I could do that). They put in an air purifier and asked me to try that. I let it run while I went to the casino to get my bonus points. I won $13 and got the free buffet. Bonus!!! And yes, I pigged out.

When I got back to the room the smell was still pretty bad. So I politely compained again. The front desk clerk was so great. She upgraded me to a suite. OMG. You should see this. Fireplace. Giant Jacuzzi bathtub. I will try to get pictures on here. Wow. Like Meg said when I texted her the pics. "Great first day."

I do kind of feel like a jerk about one thing, though. Last night I was the guest of my friends Michele and Rob. They were terrific. They took me out to dinner (and insisted on paying when I was out of the room), put me up in their new home, gave me breakfast, and slipped me some more food in the car before I left. What did I do for them? Nothing. I know better. Any polite person would have brought them a gift and I failed. I am so sorry. I was so fixated on getting going that I was completely selfish. I plan to pay them back when they visit New York. They are a wonderful couple, and I am honored to call them my friends. And Rob, yes, I want to mention that I hope your surgery went well, and that you are a good friend. Thanks.

All in all things are good. I think I am going to take a bath.

I had to go into my former place of employment today for a witness interview. I am the witness. Monday afternoon I am required to be present for a hearing where the family of a victim has filed an action against the District Attorney’s Office for declining to prosecute a case. How do I know I am a witness? I got a subpoena.

Yeah, last night when I was sitting on my couch fat, dumb, and happy the phone rang. Much to my chagrin it was a process server accessing the buzzer from downstairs. (I think it is pretty cool that the door buzzer rings your phone and you open the door by pushing a button on the keypad. I can open the door from anywhere.) I could have told him to pound sand, I suppose, but I was planning on going to the hearing anyway. Still, I hated being served. Actually, because the subpoena came with a check for zero dollars, rather than the statutorily allowed witness fee, I think service was improper. No matter I am going.

Frankly, I am not too happy about it. First of all, we staffed this case and there were several people there, including Senior Chief Deputy Eva Wilson, who is also attending the hearing. The others could testify. I am only appearing because I handled the case from the beginning and my name is on the declination form. The D.A.’s Office offered to have me appear by phone, but the judge insisted I be there. So, I worked my plans around the hearing. I don’t know if I would have left Denver earlier or not, but once the hearing was set I didn’t really have a choice. (Does this sound like whining? Well, so be it. I am whining.)

The good news about the whole thing is that it gave me an excuse to stop by the D.A.’s Office and see some wonderful people for maybe the last time. I was invited to lunch by two of my favorites—Donna Reed and Eva Wilson, two career prosecutors who bring honor and respect to the profession. Donna, of course, is the brains of the office as chief appellate deputy, a job she has held for almost 25 years. Although I started in the office prior to her arrival, an office without Donna is unimaginable. I might be missed, but Donna’s retirement will be mourned.

Eva Wilson was Scott Storey’s smartest hire. Way smarter than hiring me, which was, of course, a dual-edged sword. Scott brought Eva in immediately upon taking office, and she arrived with a wealth of prosecution experience, tremendous legal skills, and one of the rarest of qualities for a prosecutor, the ability to supervise lawyers. Anyone who survived supervising me for four years deserves an award.

Not only are Donna and Eva great lawyers, but they are incredibly nice. I am honored to call them my friends. Thanks for lunch, guys. (If asked on the witness stand I will be required to disclose that two members of the D.A.’s staff purchased my lunch.)

Speaking of awards, I was told that Charles Tingle, a longtime chief deputy D.A. won the Sustained Performance Award from CDAC at their conference. This is a well-deserved honor, which continues a string of awards for the Jeffco office. Mark Randall won it last year. Mark Pautler won it in the past. Charles has been such a great prosecutor since he first started. I have never seen a better trial lawyer. Had I stayed with the office I would have been part of the trial team for an upcoming murder case. It would have been my first chance to work with Charles on a case, and I am sorry I never had that opportunity.

But as much as I miss all those people, I do not miss the job. Everything is on track for me to leave Denver next Wednesday the 28th. I will be taking my time driving to New York but I will try to blog, or at least post on Facebook, every day. My digital camera has plenty of batteries so I should be able to post pictures if I see anything. And no, I am not going anywhere near the world’s biggest ball of twine. That is in Kansas. I am going through Nebraska. I will try to find some other interesting stuff, though.

Apparently there is a hit record (#3 on Billboard) called “Pumped Up Kicks.” The lyrics of the chorus include the phrase: “All the other kids with the pumped up kicks/You better run, better run, outrun my gun.” At another point I think he says he wants to shoot his father. When the song was recorded the group did not have a recording contract, little surprise if this is the kind of tripe they put out.

However, through the ubiquitous influence of the internet, this thing caught fire. The writer and frontman of the band, “Foster the People” is Mark Foster. (He named the band after himself, what a humble guy.) In an Entertainment Weekly interview he first expressed his surprise at the success of the song in the only way most twentysomethings (excluding my daughter) seem to be able to talk. “It’s fucking weird.” I bet it fucking is.

Entertainment Weekly asked this rocket scientist (and I realize this guy I am ridiculing is probably going to make more off this song that I have made in the past five years) why his violent screed (my words, not theirs) touched so many people. His answer is truly frightening.

“I wanted to write the chorus like the lyrics to a hip-hop song (it is nice to know he has such impressive influences). Like, ‘Here’s who I am, I’m tougher than you and I’ll fuck you up.’ I think a lot of people feel that way.”

Forgetting his valley-girl manner of utilizing the word “like” (obviously a Clueless fan), and that the lyrics to the song are virtually incomprehensible, his sentiment reflects a generation whose priorities are completely, in his words “fucked up.”

A lot of people really want to show that they are tougher than each other and to demonstrate they are willing to shoot? Unfortunately, he probably is right. For some reason our society has embraced toughness as the primary attribute. Ideas like teamwork, cooperation, sacrifice, kindness, compassion, even basic civility, seem old-fashioned. Everybody has to be a tough guy. On top of it all, everyone demands respect. That respect needs to be earned, and that others also deserve respect are concepts lost to this “me-first” mentality.

I was riding with Sgt. Wagner a few weeks ago when the police were called out to handle a problem at a sketchy apartment complex. The complex’s security guard had gotten into a verbal confrontation with one of the residents over loud music. The problem boiled down to the resident’s perception that he was not treated with respect. I think to him respect meant a level of fear. He was not going to take that. Even from an armed security guard. So he shined his flashlight in the guard’s face while challenging him. Fortunately the guard acted with restraint and called the police. Had Mark Foster been working security I imagine his response would have been something like “You better outrun my gun.”

I have seen so many murders and assaults which are the direct result of this attitude. Gang members are particularly sympatico with Foster. They are willing to kill in cold blood (primarily from a distance or in the back) over their perceived lack of respect. The problem with Foster’s attitude is that this is a zero-sum game. In actuality, only one guy is tougher than everyone else, and that guy is certainly willing to fuck Foster up in ways the singer can only have nightmares about, with the barest of provocation. Before Foster, and the millions of misguided morons who are going to make him a millionaire, even forsee trouble coming, someone like Francisco Martinez (the killer of Brandy Duvall) and other sociopaths will prove who really is tougher, and who really can fuck people up, and by that I mean kill.

The problem, of course, is not Foster. He is just some, probably, suburban-raised mama’s boy who has adopted the common attitude of America today. The primary problem is the media, which promotes this “toughness above all” demeanor, and the do-gooders who think the main problem with disenfranchised youth is lack of self-esteem. Believe me, idiots like Foster and his fans, and the Francisco Martinez’s of the world have plenty of self-esteem. What they lack is compassion, empathy, self-sacrifice, and, oh yeah, respect for others.

I guess Foster has to fuck me up now to prove how tough he is.

Eva Wilson’s daughter is a senior in high school, and Nathan Dunlap is still on death row. Eva was assigned to Dunlap’s case while pregnant. Her boss Bob Gallagher said Dunlap would be executed around the time the unborn child would graduate from high school. It looks like Gallagher guessed wrong.

Dunlap’s lawyers were once again in front of the Tenth Circuit yesterday, raising yet another ground that appears from the outside looking in to be spurious. But when it comes to death penalty litigation all bets are off. There is no question that Dunlap murdered four people in cold blood at a Chuck E. Cheese’s pizza in 1993. He has appealed his case over and over; filed hundreds of motions, and claimed every lawyer who ever even talked to him was incompetent. But, despite the jury’s verdict, and repeated appellate defeats Dunlap lives.

I have spoken to Eva many times about this case. Every time you can see the pain in her face, and hear the angst in her voice. She still feels the pain of those victims’ families. Eva is a realist. She knows there is a chance she will see her daughter graduate from college before Dunlap is executed, if he ever is. That is the nature of death penalty prosecution. Dunlap is one of the few inmates still on death row after several killers had their sentences changed to life in prison based upon an unconstitutional statutory scheme.

No prosecutor relishes the execution of another human being, even the scum for whom juries impose the death penalty. But prosecutors do derive satisfaction that justice, as set out in the law and impeccably followed by the courts, is meted out. Society has allowed the use of capital punishment, and for those whom it is warranted, tears need not be shed when it is carried out. These are the most ruthless, most dangerous, most anti-social of criminals. While they live society is not safe. Even life sentences offer no assurance their sociopathic behavior will end. Murders are committed in prison on both inmates and staff.

Still, a death penalty verdict is rare, and an execution even rarer; in Colorado virtually nonexistent. The United States Supreme Court stayed the execution of a Texas killer yesterday. At first blush the case appears to cry out “injustice.” Apparently, an expert witness testified that black men have a greater risk of reoffending than others. (The defendant is African-American). Risk of prior criminality is a death penalty criteria in Texas. Oh my God. How was that kind of testimony allowed?

However, upon reading more about it, the issue is kind of murky. First of all, this was a defense witness. He actually testified that the defendant did not present a risk of future dangerousness. Only on cross-examination did he concede that his own research showed that statistically men commit more crimes than women and being African-American increases the risk of future dangerousness. The newspaper article does not say whether defense counsel objected or asked for a pre-trial ruling. However, what is clear is that the defense must have known what their witness would say. This was impeachment. The prosecution did not seek to have the death penalty imposed merely because of the defendant’s race, and did not so argue to the jury. What the prosecution was trying to do was show that the witness had just testified to an opinion contrary to his own research. That puts a different spin on this.

I am not suggesting that I think the line of questioning was acceptable, or even that the research was valid. What I do want to say is that when it comes to death penalty litigation things are not often as clear as presented. After all, lower courts have allowed this execution to go forward. Are all of them racist? I doubt it.

I will leave my personal opinion about the death penalty for another day. I just wanted to make clear that there is nothing immoral about imposing a penalty allowed by law. And death penalty issues are rarely as straightforward as the media might lead you to believe.

It just goes to show that what I have always said is true. It is not what you say, or even how you say it; it is just whether they like you or not.

Chad Ochocinco is a wide receiver for the New England Patriots. He is in his first season on the team, but achieved some notoriety previously for having success with the Cincinnati Bengals. Ochocinco, who was born Chad Johnson but legally changed his name to match his jersey number 85, also appeared on Dancing With the Stars. To put it mildly, Ochocinco is a self-promoter. This does not make him unusual in the NFL. I mean the guy doesn’t call himself “Prime Time” like Deion Sanders, or sign autographs on footballs he just carried across the goal line like Terrell Owens. However, self promotion is frowned upon by the Patriots who might be the most uptight franchise in sports. (Uptight does not mean law-abiding since the team illegally videotaped opposing teams’ signals and were sanctioned by the league.) That makes the fit between the old receiver and his new team somewhat imperfect.

On Monday night the Patriots rolled up over 500 yards passing, in what was apparently and impressive display of offense. (I confess I did not watch the game, I was watching baseball. However, I did watch the Bronco game. And yes, Wayne Nelson, I thoroughly enjoyed watching them get beat.) Despite the heroic display by the Pats, Ochocinco was a non-factor, contributing only 14 of those yards. He then sent a tweet the next morning which has incited controversy. But it is not what you think. He didn’t complain about not getting the ball. He criticized no one. He merely said he was impressed with seeing that kind of offense up close. Difficult for me to see what exactly is the problem here.

However, former Patriot linebacker Tedi Bruschi unloaded a barrage against Ochocinco, basically saying players on a team should not be in awe of what the team does, and that number 85 should concentrate more on contributing to the offense than being impressed by it. Sports talk radio, always more interested in off-the-field controversy than on-field performance, has seized upon this conflict and elevated it to the top story in football. In fact, I am pretty sure the media paying more attention to this than they did when the Patriots were caught cheating.

Because there is nothing facially controversial about being impressed by the quality of your teammates and their performance in a game, I can only assume Bruschi’s reaction has nothing to do with the tweet itself, but more about Ochocinco. There is probably some negative reaction perhaps to a Patriot tweeting at all, but since he has been doing that all along, I doubt Bruschi was reacting much to that. I am pretty sure this all springs from just a dislike of the guy. So it really doesn’t matter what Ochocino said, Bruschi wanted to rip him.

I am very familiar with this problem because I suffered from the same impediment. During my time in Intake I made a lot of enemies. I realize I am not the smoothest of talkers and my level of tact is only one step above Simon Cowell. I am blunt. I was rarely deliberately rude (I won’t say never because there were times I felt rudeness was justified), but I certainly did not attempt to hide my displeasure with what I felt was substandard work. Many police officers reacted negatively to this. Often they would complain to their superiors who would complain to my supervisors. Frankly, I never quite understood the problem. Police officers are trained to deal with physical assaults, weapons threats, mentally ill suspects, etc. If they have no problem fighting someone on the street, why did they get upset that the DA was mean to them? They put up with much more severe abuse.

But upset they were. And I heard about it regularly. My supervisors were always great about dealing with this. Initially they determined whether I was wrong in what I had said; whether my criticism of the case filing was warranted. Usually it was. Then I would be counseled on my delivery. I always said I would try harder not to piss people off. I always did try harder and I always pissed people off anyway.

But it got to the point where no matter what I said or how I said it, there were many cops who did not like me. With them I had the Ochocinco problem. They didn’t like me and they were going to complain. So I understand, Chad. You said something you thought was complimentary and flattering to your teammates, and all you got was grief. I noticed you have not tweeted since. I am sure you think silence is the answer. But somewhere there is someone who is going to complain that you are saying nothing. Believe me, if they don’t like you, you can’t win.

Two fighter jets were scrambled on Sunday to escort a passenger plane after a security concern was expressed by the pilot. The flight crew was alarmed because two men who had been sitting in the same row spent an extraordinarily long time in the bathroom. Ultimately they were escorted off the plane in handcuffs, along with a woman who happened to be seated in their row, but who did not know them. Apparently, after being convinced none of the passengers presented any security risk, the authorities released them.

As far as I am concerned I want them prosecuted. If there is no federal crime for monopolization of an airplane lavatory I want one. I am a frequent user of the bathroom and availability is important to me. There are only a few on the plane, anyway, and even fewer when the plane has a first class cabin with its own bathroom. (A good reason to fly first class.) On top of that, one cannot just get up and go when you need to. Right after takeoff and right before landing the captain turns on the “fasten seat belt” sign and everyone is supposed to remain in their seats. If the flight encounters turbulence, the pilot keeps that damn thing illuminated most of the flight, putting a premium on restroom time.

As it is, we always have to stand in the aisle, next to the poor passengers in the back rows who try their best to ignore the long line of people hopping up and down inches from them. Airplanes are not built for lounging. Basically they have become Greyhound buses with wings, comfort being the least of Boeing’s concerns. I am fine with that. I don’t want to make the plane any long-term address. I am fine remaining in my seat, trying to ignore the seat in front of me reclined into my lap while the guy next to me overwhelms the narrow middle seat, and my chance to look out the window taken away by the window-seat passenger ignoring the spectacular view to pull the shade down, the better to see the in-flight movie of some poorly-reviewed romantic comedy and reruns of The Office.

But I need my lavatory time. I make sure to go right before boarding the plane and then eschew the free soft drinks so as not to create any more need than necessary, but when it is time to go, I want a chance to go. I will wait if necessary, but I expect all lavatory users to be considerate of their fellow passengers. I mean, really, two toilets for 150 people. I expect that the guy in front of me won’t plant himself in there while he finishes the next chapter of the salacious novel he picked up in the airport newsstand. Quick in and quick out is my motto.

The federal government has passed laws about airlines leaving the planes parked on the tarmac for hours; why can’t they criminalize excessive lavatory occupancy? Smoking in there is a federal offense, why not abuse of privacy? Don’t get on the plane if you are sick. The pilot has authority to make an unscheduled stop in Des Moines when a passenger is unruly, he should make the same call for lavatory abuse. Airline staff should have a key. Give these inconsiderate jerks a two-minute warning and then send in the swat team. Don’t just scramble fighters when this happens, follow-through. Make arrests and prosecute to the fullest extent of the law.

I don’t care if these people are connected to al-Queda or not. You want to see some real terror? Keep me away from the lavatory the entire flight. Believe me, I am in more fear of that scenario than bombs in shoes and incendiaries in visine bottles.

At least I don’t have to worry about this on my next trip east. I am driving.

So Michele Bachmann thinks the HPV vaccine causes “mental retardation.” Apparently this is based on a sample of one. First, in the Republican debate (which I did not watch) she slammed Rick Perry because he issued an executive order mandating HPV vaccinations for 11-year old girls in Texas. Bachamann asserted this violated the children and their parents’ right to privacy. I don’t know exactly what the order said, but it probably was related to school attendance. Later, Bachmann related that one lady came up to her after the debate, claimed her daughter received the vaccination, and forever after suffered from “mental retardation.”

I am tempted to say that if the woman is a Bachmann supporter, any developmental disability her daughter has is probably genetic. But that evades the issue. Why is Michele Bachman, and indeed so many on the far right wing of the Republican Party, so anti-science? They deny global warming is human-caused despite an overwhelming majority of scientists demonstrating that it is. They demand that “creation science,” an oxymoron, be taught in the public schools. And now Bachmann is anti-vaccination? At least Rick Perry, who I probably don’t agree with on anything, is not to backwards on this point.

Does Bachmann really think the road to the presidency is paved with anti-vaccination sentiment? Too bad she cannot engage in a discussion with former President Franklin Roosevelt, who lost the ability to walk from contracting polio, a disease now almost non-existent in America thanks to the Salk vaccine. Is Bachmann against other common childhood vaccines? Anyone with the only the most passing knowledge of history knows how childhood vaccinations have dramatically improved the health of American children. (This leaves out Jenny McCarthy, a person whose celebrity was achieved on the strength of her bust size and her willingness to share those assets with the world through the pages of Playboy. McCarthy is virulently anti-vaccination. Why anyone would give her credibility on a medical question when Nobel Prize winners are on the other side is a mystery to me.)

I have my problems with the Democrats, too. At least my disagreements with them are on policy grounds. I never have to wonder whether the President of the United States, a graduate of Harvard Law School, is making a stupid decision because he is stupid. I might disagree with him, but I know his IQ so far exceeds my own that if we engaged in a moot court I would be lucky to score any points. On the other hand, every time Michele Bachmann, who attended O.W. Coburn School of Law, a distinguished institution which survived for all of six years, opens her mouth I have to wonder how anyone of this diminished mental capacity passed the bar exam. (I never wonder about how someone of such limited intelligence gets elected to Congress because I spent five years working for a lobbying organization and had significant involvement with elected officials.)

The main problem with this kind of outburst from Bachmann is that she has many followers, maybe millions, who will believe things she says. Now parents will refuse to let their daughters get the HPV vaccine claiming they want to save their children from losing their mental faculties. Ironically, if they preserve their mental faculties they will want the vaccine.

Today is the first day of the district attorneys’ conference. It is not all that unusual for me to miss it. I didn’t go in 2006, but I have been to the past four. I am sorry to say I am not really missing the conference. I do miss seeing the people I have come to know for the past 30 years. I don’t care what the media says, or the defense bar or popular culture, or anyone: as far as I am concerned prosecutors are the greatest people in the world.

I always had fun at the party. (Younger prosecutors have taken to calling it the “prom” but I have never figured out why.) For several years I made a point of having too much to drink. (I had to stop that the last couple of years because my room was so far away I had to drive to the party.) It was always fun to see everyone. Through my work at CDAC I got to know D.A.’s from all over the state. At the party I was able to catch up. Plus after enough alcohol I found my way to the dance floor. Many of the women at the conference were kind enough to dance with the old man and not laugh—well, not out loud.

Tonight will be a tailgate party, I assume. We started this when I was at CDAC and the Broncos game was on Monday Night Football. We had hot dogs and hamburgers while the game was on. The Bronco game doesn’t start until 8, so I suppose that will mess things up somewhat. I assume there will be music and dancing. It will still be a good time.

The best time I ever had at the party was in 2009 when Scott and I went kind of crazy and paid $2000 for a signed picture of the 1980 United States Olympic Hockey team. I wrote a blog about that which I will post again here. That was a fun night. Of course, now that I am unemployed I wish I could have my thousand bucks back, instead of having a poster sitting in an office which I will never go into again. It seemed like such a good idea at the time. And I wasn’t even drunk. (I am kidding. I am glad that poster sits in intake, and will for a while. I hope the next D.A. will leave it there.)

But other than the party, the conference had less and less to offer me. I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but after more than 20 of those things, the classes had lost their utility. I have said for years that CDAC needed trainings which were more topical, more up to date, and more interactive. I believe the defense bar has done a better job at using their conference to set out specific motions and strategies for defense attorneys to use in light of modern case law. I think CDAC has been welded to the old ways of thinking for too long, and they end up rehashing the same topics over and over.

I do believe things are going to change, however. CDAC’s new director, Tom Raynes brings a fresh perspective to the position. Tom is a good friend, and a man I respect immensely. Not only is he personable, knowledgeable, and perceptive, but he possesses the ability to visualize the world in new ways. I believe he has the ideas and drive to bring a new era to CDAC. I hope that means a new direction for the conference.

Although I don’t think moving the case law update to Wednesday is the right direction. I understand the motivation to provide incentive for people to stay through the entire conference but I think this move will backfire. I hope I am wrong.

I was privileged (imposed upon?) to teach the case law update four times. Giving this presentation is an immense amount of work. I would start preparing in April. Why so far in advance? I had to read all the weekly AG updates, put them in an outline (often, thankfully, with the help of CDAC staff), and then read case after case after case. After all, I had to read lots of cases I wasn’t going to present. Then I had to prepare a Powerpoint. I am no George Brauchler nor Mark Randall, so my Powerpoints were pretty dull. That was a conscious choice. I decided that unless you can do a Powerpoint as good as the ones Mark and George put together, you are best to stay bare bones and have it just highlight what you are talking about. This of course puts more pressure on your speaking ability, but in truth, I did not have to be much of a speaker because everyone was so interested in the subject matter. The case law update is probably the only part of the conference where the material carried the presentation no matter how bad I was.

Mostly I just tried to give everyone an idea of which cases they needed to read. I did try to give them some perspective on how the law had gotten to that point, and I did sometimes offer practical advice, but I never tried to pontificate. I have found (the hard way) that when you set out to prove how smart you are, the most likely outcome is demonstrating how smart you are not. So I did not try to get in the way of the subject matter. For the same reason I told very few jokes. Unless you are truly funny, like George, the harder you try to be funny the more painful it gets for the audience. I tried to be funny for a minute or two in the beginning and maybe once or twice the rest of the time. The bottom line is that everyone in that room is crying for the information. If they want entertainment they will go to Vegas.

Teaching that session was the most fun I would have all year. Yes, it took well over 100 hours of preparation for two hours of speaking, and all those Saturday mornings were not a trip to Disneyland, but standing up in front of 600 people was an incredible rush. To see the faces of that many people listening to you is an incredible experience. And you can see faces. This is not a situation where everyone is anonymous. Standing on that platform you can make out individuals. You can see who is sleeping, who is taking notes, and who is shaking their head indicating you have your head up your ass. Primarily those were the lawyers from the Attorney General’s Appellate Section. They knew if I got something wrong.

Of course, speaking to 600 lawyers, many of whom I knew, came with risk. I have blogged before about the evaluations. I knew that if I sucked everyone in the prosecution community would know it. A bad presentation would completely blow my credibility with everyone and constitute a major embarrassment. (Worse even than the drunk dancing.) That was why the 100 hours of preparation. I must have done ok or they would not have asked me back. Still, I did not mind passing the torch last year. I hope it goes well this year. And I hope people actually stick around to listen.


This is the blog I wrote in 2009 about the 1980 U.S. Hockey Team picture auction.

Not every CDAC conference leaves me with a lasting memory. I have been to maybe 20 of them since 1985 and I could not tell you even where they were. I remember when Bill Ritter was thrown, fully clothed, into the pool, and when a DA passed out on the golf course in Estes Park. I remember the year Judge Po gave the keynote and the time we made the “Planet of the Apes” movie. Most conference memories run from me in a drunken haze or under the cover of, frankly, boredom. This year though, something happened which I will not soon forget (barring Alzhiemer’s, lobotomy, or closed-head injury).

As I am sure you know, if you are a loyal reader of Miles from Nowhere (which you must be) that the prosecution community, in an effort led by Eva Wilson and Kathy Holscher, held an auction for the benefit of the Sean May memorial fund. Contributions poured in from around the state, ultimately exceeding 300 separate auction items. Lots of sporting event tickets, wine, food and other coupons and a myriad of other things including a gourmet meal cooked by chief deputy DA’s Mitch Murray and Emily Humphrey of Larimer County (which I wish I had bid on, not for the food, but for the company). The auction raised more than $22,000, a pretty incredible amount when you figure only about 500 even attended the conference; and we are not the highest paid lawyers around.

During the tailgate party (or prom, if you will) there was a live auction, featuring an art print donated by the Arvada Police Department, a Todd Helton autographed baseball, a Joe Sakic autographed stick, and a John Elway autographed jersey. I believe the latter went for just under $900. The final auction item was a photograph of the 1980 Olympic hockey team (and if you don’t know why that team is legendary you might as well stop reading now). The picture had been signed by all 20 members of that team. And although it was announced at the auction how this item came to be included, let me reiterate.

The captain of that team, and the one who scored the game-winning goal against the Soviets, was Mike Eruzione. He was a 1977 graduate of Boston University, where he starred on the hockey team. I was a 1976 graduate of Boston University, where I covered the hockey team for the school newspaper. We were not friends, really, but certainly I talked to him a lot, and often right after games would find ourselves in the same social setting (the drinking age was 18 at that time). Since my graduation I had had no contact with him at all. Remembering that he was one of the nicest guys I ever met, I took the chance to ask him for a donation. He works for BU and, amazingly, his office number is on their internet site. I called on a Friday afternoon and left a message, asking for a donation and explaining what it was for. I hoped perhaps for a return call from his assistant offering an autographed photo or something. The next Monday morning, however, Eruzione himself called me first thing in the morning. We chatted very briefly, and he said he did not remember me at all (and why should he). But he remembered the school newspaper, and he wanted to help. He offered the signed poster and said it had on other occasions raised a lot of money. Mike gave me his secretary’s number. When I spoke to her about shipping arrangements and payment she indicated that I need not worry about the cost. The signed photo showed up about three days later.

It arrived rolled up. I bought a cheap frame just to stick it in for display purposes. It did not look like much, but to anyone who remembered that team the emotional impact of seeing the picture with those signatures was volcanic. When I gave the picture to Eva I remember thinking that this was only a loan and I was determined to get it back. Knowing our audience was bunch of underpaid lawyers with huge student loans, I figured about $500 should do it. (Meg, being in Europe, could learn to live a more Bohemian lifestyle for a while, I figured.)

When the photo was offered at the auction the room was pretty crowded, and I had positioned myself near the front. I knew Chris Phillips from my office wanted it, but she has to send four kids to college, which gave me a significant edge. The bidding quickly went up from $100. I offered maybe $400 at one point, but hands shot up at $500, $600, $800. Before I could even contemplate spending enough for a big-screen tv for a single picture, the $1000 barrier was broached and exceeded. The most aggressive bidder was my boss, Scott Storey. Although having served as an elected district attorney for the past three and a half years, Scott is still a trial lawyer at heart and he was determined not to lose this competition. He turned to me and said if he won the auction the photo was going to be hung in the office. “Good,” I thought, “this should belong to us.” (Arrogant I know, but I still have some trial lawyer in me and I was caught up in the heat of the moment.) I felt an affinity for this poster which in a few minutes had leapt from merely sentiment to deep and abiding affection. I wanted it as much as Scott did.

Still, the hands kept shooting up as if we were bidding with Monopoly money. Without even slowing down, the auctioneer called $1400, $1500, $1700. Others, it seemed, were committed to ripping away what by now had become my (not-quite-yet, but destined-to-be) prized possession. The auctioneer turned to Scott. The room had quieted, pretty much, the dollars involved stilling even drunken lawyers on their annual fling. Scott turned to me and asked me if we should split it. My adrenaline racing, and competitive fires burning like trying a first degree murder case (from my vast experience of handling one of those) I nodded. Scott called out “Eighteen hundred dollars” in a voice filled with hubris. This certainly would shut the door on the interlopers. The amount had now roused the drunken bystanders from silence to raucous cheering, similar to how the Romans must have sounded when the lions were introduced into the arena. Without even a missed beat, whoever was bidding against Scott responded with a bid $100 higher.

By now the money meant nothing as money. It was just a measure of guts and desire. Scott has lots of the former, and I was filled with the latter. Two thousand dollars. Even typing it causes my palms to sweat. Two thousand dollars buys a lot. Two thousand dollars buys a year or more health insurance premiums, tankfuls of gas, or an HD tv large enough to count the blades of grass at Yankee Stadium. A $2000 commitment should make any rational person hesitate, but I was far beyond rational. All I could see was that framed picture in the lobby of our office. Scott turned to me, and I gave him both thumbs up. Again, in a voice loud with authority Scott shouted out our bid. The auctioneer froze, then proclaimed the auction over. Scott had won, we had our prize.

Of course the cold light of day often brings regret and remorse about an item purchased in a haste fueled by emotions (I had had nothing to drink). When I woke up the next morning, the enormity of my $1000 obligation hit home. Wow. All for a poster which I won’t even get to take home. I will be forced to see it at work, shared with 200 or so others. I should be sorry. I should be kicking myself. I should feel stupid. I don’t. Of course, overpaying (if we did) in an auction where the money will go to such a good cause is not something to regret. But I am also glad that Scott and I have brought to our office something that represents the best of what people can be; the most of what people can achieve; a source of pride. Perhaps there is symmetry between the team we celebrate and the person we mourn.

So, while Meg might have to forgo a Christmas trip to Gstaad, and I may have to eschew extravagant lunches, those “sacrifices” mean so little compared to what this money might mean to Sean’s widow and child. I am happy to share this with everyone. We need to get it nicely framed. When we do come to our office and take a look. And then decide if we were crazy.

Today was a beautiful day for a ballgame and I was lucky enough to have a Rockies ticket. The game was unusual. The teams combined for nine homeruns and at one point the Reds hit back-to-back-to-back homers. Nevertheless, the Rockies managed to prevail 12-7 in a game reminiscent of the old pre-humidor days of Coors Field. Rockies starting pitcher Alex White gave up five home runs but secured the win. Reds started Bronson Arroyo gave up seven runs while only managing to get three outs.

I spent the last couple of innings with my friend Ashley, one of the district court deputy D.A.s. Ashley sent me a Facebook message about the game, a wonder of social networking because I don’t think she had any other way to get ahold of me. Ashley is a big baseball fan, and one of the funniest people in the D.A.’s office. Admittedly, humor is not in long supply, but the office is not humorless. There are several pretty funny people, some unintentionally. Ashley is one of my favorites because she is not afraid to say what she thinks, a trait we have in common. Ashley is a good lawyer and is excellent at evaluating a case.

Right before I left I screened a case which was fileable but not fully investigated. I filed the case but wrote Ashley a long note saying I understood that I was giving her a case which needed some work. (I cannot go into further detail because that is privileged attorney work product.) She laughed at my note, completely understanding what I did. Thanks, Ashley. It was nice to spend a little time with Ashley. She is one of the people I am going to miss, but she is now a Facebook friend.

She was one of the county court lawyers when I returned to the office in 2007. Through their chief deputy at the time, Chris Phillips, I was made an honorary member of their unit. I used to call myself the intake liaison to county court, and that was my excuse to attend their team meetings. In truth I kind of made that up. I just liked those guys, and I enjoyed their meetings. All of those prosecutors were great. Not only were they hard-working and conscientious, but they are good lawyers. Watching them develop as prosecutors has been a great experience. Most of them have now done a murder trial, and they have matured into experienced felony prosecutors.

One of my tasks in intake was reviewing cases where the defendant was charged with a misdemeanor, but the county court lawyer thought a felony would be more appropriate. We did some trainings with the group and told them what to watch for—primarily deadly weapons and serious injuries. Sometimes we would go around and around, with me refusing to file a felony and Chris and her troops cajoling me to change my mind.

Adam Kendall was the most persistent. It got to the point where we called trying to raise a misdemeanor to a felony “pulling an Adam.” Sadly Adam, a really good lawyer and a nice guy, deserted the office to go into private practice and make more money. They guy has seriously screwed up priorities. Whenever I think of Adam I remember my favorite case where he pulled an Adam.

The defendant was the manager of a car wash. One of those assembly line kind of things where you give your keys to the employee and they take your car through the wash. One of the employees was not too careful and caused an accident between two of the customers’ cars. When the police responded a different employee came out and claimed to be the at-fault driver. The customers told the cops that was not right. Ultimately the real driver was determined. The one who had claimed responsibility told the police that the manager had ordered him to claim responsibility because the actual driver was in this country illegally. Adam got the case against the kid for false reporting, but he was outraged about the manager. When Adam relayed the story to me, I was too.

Lying to the police undermines everything we are trying to do. This sort of behavior cannot be tolerated or treated lightly. I decided to file the felony of Attempt to Influence a Public Servant against the manager. I made a note that Adam wanted to keep the case. Even though he was not yet a felony prosecutor he received permission to keep the case. If memory serves (and often it does not) Adam got a plea to a felony from the manager. Good work.

Last night (and into this morning) I went on a ride-along with my friend Sgt. Michele Wagner of the Lakewood Police Department. I have ridden with Michele several times on patrol. I had fun, but, as usual, nothing eventful happened. In the four hours I rode we checked on a burglar alarm, handled a dispute between a security guard and an apartment resident, talked to a couple of hitchhikers, and woke up a couple who had decided to sleep in their car on the shoulder of 6^th Avenue. The biggest thing that happened the whole night was going to Starbucks where Michele had been selected “Customer of the Week.” When you work a shift that runs from 9 at night to 7 in the morning you drink a lot of coffee.

Last night, however, was way more exciting than the last time I rode with Michele. Then, all we did was drive around Lakewood and listen to the radio. I am minimizing. Michele did engage in a foot pursuit with a pair of uncooperative suspects who managed to get away. There were two small dogs, maybe 10 pounds, running loose around the neighborhood. Trying to keep them from getting run over Michele tried to catch them. However, the tiny beasts refused to answer her demands to stop, and flaunted her authority by running the opposite direction. Michele took off after them, first on foot, and then in the police car. I did not try to help. I was not about to get bit by a couple of mangy mutts.

This lack of excitement is common when I ride with Michele. You would have thought that the Saturday night of Labor Day weekend somebody would have committed some crime we could have responded to. Actually we did respond to a robbery call where a guy in a skull mask held up a motel, but other officers were handling that and we really didn’t get involved.

One of the reasons riding with Michele is so great is her desire to learn about prosecution. Many police officers are very good at police work, but lack the experience or desire to find out how cases progress after the arrest is made. Ultimately, this works to their and the system’s detriment. Cops who have sat through several felony trials, especially major cases, realize why the DA’s ask the questions we do. Seeing how a case unfolds (and sometimes folds up) in front of a jury gives a cop insight into what is necessary to sustain a conviction. Translating this to the street raises the officer’s level of performance.

I met Michele when she was a detective in the major crimes unit. She constantly asked questions about why I was asking for more investigation, or what was the importance of the detail I asked about. Through this process Michele became an excellent detective, and it was no surprise when she was promoted to sergeant before her 30^th birthday.

While we ride Michele and I talk about criminal prosecution, investigations, and personalities of people involved in the system in Jeffco. It is difficult to talk to her while she drives the patrol car, keeps track of the calls and officers on her computer monitor, listens to the radio, and answers her phone. But she manages to do it. I am always afraid I am going to get in her way, but she never tells me to shut up. When I was a DA she encouraged me to get involved with what they were doing if I thought I could help, and on occasion I did. However, as a lay observer I don’t think that is my place.

I have been riding in police cars since 1982, when I was an assistant city attorney in Aurora. The first cop I ever rode with was a veteran named Dave Cummings. Dave was a big man who had been around police work since the pre-Miranda era. He carried big baton and a giant flashlight. I will never forget when, during the first few minutes I was in the car, Dave turned and talked to me around the shotgun which was anchored just to the side of my left knee.

“If we start taking fire,” he said, “here is the emergency radio button and here is the release for the shotgun.”

Wha?????? Taking fire????????? Hey, wait a second, I thought, I just wanted to go for a ride, I have no desire to actually have to get involved with any real police actions. Then it occurred to me that wackos occasionally do start shooting at police cars, and here I was sitting in the front seat in the dark armed with nothing more than bottle of water. That was the first time I got scared. But it was also one of the last times.

The officers I have ridden with have always taken good care of me. Even when I have recklessly not taken care of myself. I was riding with Dave another time (I rode with him several times, and he taught me a lot about police work) when we responded to a robbery with a gun call. We raced over to the Pizza Hut and as soon as the car stopped I jumped out and began to run inside. “Stop,” Dave shouted. He had not left the car yet, and here I was racing to see if I could confront an armed robber. Yeah, stupid. But I learned.

The only time I got really scared in a police car was when I was riding with a sergeant who had been the victim of some incompetent lasik surgery. So incompetent he sued the eye doctor. But he continued to work patrol and invited me to ride with him. One night he had to respond to a scene with his lights and siren on down a still-busy Colfax. So while we were weaving in and out of traffic I thought to myself “I am running code with a guy who admittedly can’t see.” I began to wonder if that $100,000 payout to the families of peace officers killed on the job would apply in this situation. He did fine and we had no problems. However, I didn’t ride with him again.

Last night might have been the last time I ride along with a police officer. I will miss that.

Guess what I just found? The VHS tape of me on Jeopardy. I knew it was around here somewhere but I had lost track of it. The beauty of moving is that you sometimes stumble on stuff you thought you had lost.

At this point, the thing is a relic. After all, who has a VHS player anymore? (I mean actually hooked up, not stuck in some box in the back of the garage.) Candace Cooledge wanted me to bring the tape in to the DA’s office, but I had no idea where it was. I don’t know what she expected to do with the thing, anyway. I tried to make a DVD out of it and even bought one of those side by side recorders, but the thing never worked right.

I never really cared very much, though. I have no desire to watch it. Ever. First of all, I lost. That bothers me on several levels. Obviously, I hate to lose. Even when Meg was little I never let her win when we played Chutes and Ladders. I wanted her to learn that winning has to be earned, that no one is going to give you anything in life, and a lot of the time, no matter how hard you try, you are going to lose anyway. I think, perhaps, this lesson may have backfired. Meg is one of the least competitive people I know.

I am better about losing than when I was a kid. My brother and sister and I would play Monopoly all the time. I hated it when I lost. I would throw the dice, the pieces, the money, even the game board around the room. That is when my brother would beat on me to get me to stop and my sister would start crying. No wonder our parents never played.

On Jeopardy, I should have won. Really. You can take a look at the game online. In double jeopardy I was doing pretty well. At one point there was a question about a harmonica. (Actually an answer was given to us with the correct question being “what is a harmonica?” This whole question/answer thing on Jeopardy can be confusing to write about.) However, although I knew the correct response was harmonica I did not ring in because I was not sure, and I had guessed wrong so often in the first round that I was skittish. The other two did not ring in either. Had I done so I would have gotten it right, proceeded onto the next answer which was a daily double, and which I knew. I had decided that I went there to go big or go home and that if I got a daily double I was going to wager everything. I never had one. Had I gotten this one I would have had an insurmountable lead, and my failure to remember Fat Tuesday is the day before Lent would have made no difference.

But the main reason I hated to lose it that I could not continue the next day. Being on Jeopardy was fun! After a minute I completely forgot about the crowd and the tv cameras. All my attention was on the video board in front of me with the answers, Alex’s voice, and the light which indicated it was time to respond. Push the button before the light comes on and you are locked out for two-fifths of a second. Wait too long, and almost certainly one of the other contestants will beat you out. For most questions, all of us knew the answer (I mean for most answers most of us knew the questions, damn). The key is anticipating exactly when that light will come on. As the game goes on you get into a rhythm, and soon it is just fun. Losing meant I had to stop. I wanted to keep going.

I am pretty sure the next day I would have gotten my ass kicked. The woman who won that game went on to win three more. She was terrific. I did not know the final jeopardy question and she did, so I am pretty sure I would have lost. But at least I would have had one more game.

Since I was on I have not watched the show. I tried to watch one night but the challenge was gone. The fun of playing at home is matching yourself against the contestants. Now that I know how I do I am just not interested anymore. Plus, I don’t think I would be very good now. Age has sapped some of the quickness of my memory and I no longer keep up with current events like I did. I had my shot. It was fun. But I have no desire to watch myself lose again.