Best laid plans...
Posted: Mon Aug 05, 2024 12:49 am
"Best laid plans..." Erica thought.
It was 8:45, Friday night, and she was still at work. In addition to her regular practice, Erica Bishop was the court appointed counsel for their new federally funded rehabilitation program. Supposedly it was a great honor, but most days it just seemed like a lot more work that nobody else wanted to do.
She sighed. Maybe it was all her fault. Erica had pulled what few strings she had, and contacted her friend Vickie Davis from law school, who was now in Congress. Vickie was one of the young firebrands who made up the group of women known as "The Squadron". Surprisingly, she actually managed to get people in Washington to pay attention to the situation here. This state was one of the top 5 for the incarceration of women. More arrests, more convictions, and much longer sentences than the national average.
So now there was a federal program, with many millions of dollars, to provide long-term treatment as an alternative to incarceration. The boys at the state capitol had been all too happy to take the money, which should have made Erica worry. But she had been feeling too good at the time. She should have looked at the proposed statute a little more closely before Congress had passed it. Knowing they might lose the next election, Vickie's party had pushed through a continuing source of funding, automatically renewing. As long as the state met its marks, the money kept flowing. Erica had thought that was so smart, and when half The Squadron had lost their seats in November, Erica thought to herself "well, at least the program is funded".
At Vickie's insistence, the state boys had agreed to give Erica a key position, and they had kept their word. But they did come through with a last-minute name change. Erica really wished she had looked a little closer, not that she really had a way to stop it.
Now she was the court-appointed counsel for all women who entered into the new Judicial Alternative to Incarceration, Longterm Statewide Ladies Undergoing Treatment System. The name really crapped off the tongue, but she didn't catch the acronym until she saw the website.
There was her picture, in a gray business suit, hair pulled back in a bun, smiling ear to ear. "Meet Erica Bishop, lead counsel for the JAILSLUTS program!" Somehow they had linked it to her private firm's website as well. "Proud founder of JAILSLUTS!" it proclaimed, taking up the top half of the screen. She had called the webhosting company, but for whatever reason they hadn't been able to take it down. Her private business had dropped off noticeably since that change. Now she spent more and more hours of her day trying to manage the train wreck of a program that Congress had funded.
There were two key problems with JAILSLUTS, besides the name of course. The first was that the boys at the state capitol had no desire at all to reduce the problem of overincarceration of women. If you were a woman arrested for drugs, or burglary, or any other traditional crime, they still wanted you in jail. The second problem was that the funding wasn't predicated on reducing prison numbers, simply on the number of women admitted. Any woman determined by the court to be "in serious need of long-term rehabilitative care" could be placed in a "residential therapeutic environment" where they would be given "behavioral correctional therapy and vocational training".
It sounded good until Erica saw it in practice. They had built the brand-new facility out in some country bumpkin town. Nothing but farmers' fields and dirt roads for miles in all directions. They handled everything there, from "treatment" to "vocational training" to the court hearings. Erica had to drive almost two hours each way from her office in the city. She'd had 14 new admit hearings this week alone.
Often she got very little notice of a new hearing, just enough time to make the long drive to the facility. Sometimes she skimmed through the email notice on her phone as she drove, because she wouldn't have time to prepare once she got there. She really needed somebody local to assist her, but what professional woman wanted to move out to the middle of nowhere?
Erica tapped at her keyboard, scrolling through the previous week's cases. She hoped to find a way to get some of these poor women out.
It was 8:45, Friday night, and she was still at work. In addition to her regular practice, Erica Bishop was the court appointed counsel for their new federally funded rehabilitation program. Supposedly it was a great honor, but most days it just seemed like a lot more work that nobody else wanted to do.
She sighed. Maybe it was all her fault. Erica had pulled what few strings she had, and contacted her friend Vickie Davis from law school, who was now in Congress. Vickie was one of the young firebrands who made up the group of women known as "The Squadron". Surprisingly, she actually managed to get people in Washington to pay attention to the situation here. This state was one of the top 5 for the incarceration of women. More arrests, more convictions, and much longer sentences than the national average.
So now there was a federal program, with many millions of dollars, to provide long-term treatment as an alternative to incarceration. The boys at the state capitol had been all too happy to take the money, which should have made Erica worry. But she had been feeling too good at the time. She should have looked at the proposed statute a little more closely before Congress had passed it. Knowing they might lose the next election, Vickie's party had pushed through a continuing source of funding, automatically renewing. As long as the state met its marks, the money kept flowing. Erica had thought that was so smart, and when half The Squadron had lost their seats in November, Erica thought to herself "well, at least the program is funded".
At Vickie's insistence, the state boys had agreed to give Erica a key position, and they had kept their word. But they did come through with a last-minute name change. Erica really wished she had looked a little closer, not that she really had a way to stop it.
Now she was the court-appointed counsel for all women who entered into the new Judicial Alternative to Incarceration, Longterm Statewide Ladies Undergoing Treatment System. The name really crapped off the tongue, but she didn't catch the acronym until she saw the website.
There was her picture, in a gray business suit, hair pulled back in a bun, smiling ear to ear. "Meet Erica Bishop, lead counsel for the JAILSLUTS program!" Somehow they had linked it to her private firm's website as well. "Proud founder of JAILSLUTS!" it proclaimed, taking up the top half of the screen. She had called the webhosting company, but for whatever reason they hadn't been able to take it down. Her private business had dropped off noticeably since that change. Now she spent more and more hours of her day trying to manage the train wreck of a program that Congress had funded.
There were two key problems with JAILSLUTS, besides the name of course. The first was that the boys at the state capitol had no desire at all to reduce the problem of overincarceration of women. If you were a woman arrested for drugs, or burglary, or any other traditional crime, they still wanted you in jail. The second problem was that the funding wasn't predicated on reducing prison numbers, simply on the number of women admitted. Any woman determined by the court to be "in serious need of long-term rehabilitative care" could be placed in a "residential therapeutic environment" where they would be given "behavioral correctional therapy and vocational training".
It sounded good until Erica saw it in practice. They had built the brand-new facility out in some country bumpkin town. Nothing but farmers' fields and dirt roads for miles in all directions. They handled everything there, from "treatment" to "vocational training" to the court hearings. Erica had to drive almost two hours each way from her office in the city. She'd had 14 new admit hearings this week alone.
Often she got very little notice of a new hearing, just enough time to make the long drive to the facility. Sometimes she skimmed through the email notice on her phone as she drove, because she wouldn't have time to prepare once she got there. She really needed somebody local to assist her, but what professional woman wanted to move out to the middle of nowhere?
Erica tapped at her keyboard, scrolling through the previous week's cases. She hoped to find a way to get some of these poor women out.