A couple weeks ago I wrote a brief piece reminding folks about the presumption of innocence, and how it has to be applied to everybody–including George Zimmerman, the man who shot and killed Trayvon Martin. I also noted that the way the Florida law is written, it probably doesn’t matter legally that Zimmerman almost certainly provoked the incident that allowed him to shoot and kill Martin. The sad fact is that the law in Florida is almost designed to create situations in which lethal force can be legally used.

(photograph by PressTV)

A few hundred people read that. Not a lot by internet standards, but enough to spark a bit of a fuss–including a comment by somebody named Jonathan Ledlester (his complete comment can be seen in the original post). Ledlester begins his comment with this:

Crayon Martin caused his own death.

You almost don’t have to read any farther to know what direction the comment will take. It’s all right there–the sneering, the dismissiveness, the need to justify, the need to find a way to interpret or invent facts to fit a worldview. The simple refusal to use the dead boy’s name–to give him even the least bit of respect–is telling.

Ledlester goes on to make this observation:

Crayon Martin COULD’VE CALLED THE COPS to report Zimmerman was following him. But Crayon Martin CHOOSE TO NOT CALL THE COPS.

At first glance, this seems to be a rational point. And it is–if you’re white. Ledlester doesn’t seem to be aware that black kids in general may not have the same faith in the impartiality and reliability of the police as do white kids. You can debate whether or not that lack of faith is justified, but it doesn’t change the reality that a lot of black folks don’t believe they can trust the police.

Ledlester then asserts a number of facts not in evidence, describing a scenario in which Martin assaults Zimmerman. That may be true; we don’t know. And that’s just it. We don’t know. But Ledlester omits one fact that we DO know. In his comment, Ledlester states: “Zimmerman told the police dispatcher that he’d lost sight of Martin.” What the recording actually notes is Zimmerman says “He’s running,” and a moment or two later, “He ran.” The reason Zimmerman lost sight of Martin is because Martin was running away. The police dispatcher told Zimmerman “We don’t need you to [follow Martin].”

That should have been the end of the situation. It wasn’t. Zimmerman claims he was returning to his vehicle when he was confronted and assaulted by Martin. Is that likely? Considering Martin was running away moments earlier, probably not. Considering the fact that the shooting occurred only 70 yards away from the townhouse where Martin was staying, it seems improbable that he’d stop, turn around, confront and assault the man he was running away from moments earlier. Is it possible? Sure, anything is possible.

Ledlester ends his comment with this:

Crayon Martin killed himself.

George Zimmerman killed Trayvon Martin. The law might be written in such a way that it allowed him to do so with impunity, but if there’s only one fact we know for certain, it’s this: George Zimmerman shot and killed Trayvon Martin, who was unarmed, who’d done nothing wrong, and was simply walking back from a convenience store.

Rush Limbaugh is a coward. He hides behind the title ‘entertainer,’ which he believes gives him cover for making the most reprehensible and offensive remarks. That title also gives timid Republican politicians cover; they can dismiss the things Limbaugh says as outrageous while claiming it’s just entertainment.

It’s a convenient lie that nobody believes—including the people who speak it.

Rush Limbaugh is a coward, and like so many cowards he’s a bully when given the opportunity. He sits in a small sound studio, protected from the outside world, insulated from reality, and from that safe vantage point he mocks and jeers at people who disagree with him. He surrounds himself with sycophants and toadies, people who adore him because he’s found a safe way to say the ugly things they think.

Rush Limbaugh is a coward and a bully, a contemptible and despicable person. But behind all the bluster and bloviating, Limbaugh is also a pathetic and fearful little man, deeply inadequate—and he must be painfully aware of that. He must be terrified that others may recognize his fear and inadequacy. It would be horrible, I think, to be so afraid of so many things.

This isn’t to suggest Limbaugh is deserving of our empathy or compassion. He’s not. But one difference between us and Rush Limbaugh (one of the many differences) is we don’t reserve our compassion and consideration just for those we think are deserving. That would be a cheap sort of compassion.

Rush Limbaugh is a coward and a bully, and as much as I despise the man and the many horrible things he says, I can’t help feeling a grudging sort of sadness for him. In the words of the poet Mr. T., I pity the fool*. But I can’t pity him very much.

* To be more accurate, the phrase “I pity the fool” originally came from James Merle, an Autobiograph, which is a novel written in 1864 by William Black. He wrote: I pity the fool who marries and yet imagines he may be a great man. That seems to apply to Rush Limbaugh, who has married four times and so must want to believe he’s four times a great man. In fact, he’s merely four times a fool.

Last night the governments of two States executed convicted criminals. Texas executed a man who was clearly guilty of the crime; Georgia executed a man who may not have been guilty. Both executions, though, were perfectly legal.

And that’s the problem. It’s absurdly easy to convict a person of a capital crime because it’s absurdly easy to convict a person of any crime. Even though the U.S. Constitution provides accused criminals with a number of safeguards, the fact is those safeguards have been gradually eroded over time—eroded by the courts, eroded by politicians who want to appear tough on crime, eroded by the 24 hour news cycle which feeds off conflict and fear, and eroded by the popular entertainment media that promotes the illusion that lots of criminals are released because of ‘technicalities.’

Our justice system—which is actually a pretty good system—is grounded in the notion of the presumption of innocence. Jurors are to assume the accused is innocent; it’s up to the State to prove they’re guilty, and to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. But research shows that most jurors (and, in fact, most citizens) tend to believe a person who has been brought to trial is probably guilty of something. That tendency is exacerbated in capital cases because of death qualified juries.

It’s a little-known fact that the process of jury selection in death penalty cases is slightly different than in regular cases. To sit on a death penalty case, a juror has to believe death is an appropriate punishment for some crimes. There’s a certain logic to that; the argument is that a person who opposes the death penalty would be less likely to vote for a conviction. But that same logic applies in the reverse; research demonstrates that a person who believes in the death penalty is generally more likely to vote for conviction.

So a defendant in a capital case is facing a jury that is more likely to convict. From that point on, the cards are stacked against him.

Yes, there is the lengthy appeals process—but what most people don’t realize is that appeals only address points of law, not points of fact. The original jury are the triers of fact; the appelate courts are triers of law. Innocence or guilt are no longer an issue; the only issue argued in the appeals process is this: were the rules of evidence and the dictates of the law followed during the trial? If the answer is yes, then the trial is considered fair—even if the verdict turns out to have been incorrect. It’s not about the verdict; it’s about the process.

It appears in the case of Troy Davis, the letter of the law was followed. The jury, given the evidence they received, reached a fair verdict. The fact that the evidence was flawed or faulty is irrelevant to the appeal process.

It wasn’t always this easy to conduct a legal execution. Proponents of the death penalty often cite the Bible as support—and it’s true, there are any number of crimes in the Old Testament that are punishable by death (including, by the way, adultery and breaking the Sabbath and persistent disobedience to one’s parents). But in practice, it was incredibly hard to impose the death penalty. In order to sentence a person to death a majority of a Sanhedrin (23 men selected for their wisdom and sagacity) had to vote in favor of it. There had to be two direct witnesses to the crime; those witnesses couldn’t be related to each other or to the accused (or the victim); the witnesses had to be men—and men known to the community for their virtue; both witnesses had to be able to see each other at the time of the crime; and both witnesses had to warn the offender that he was committing a capital crime.

In effect, it was almost impossible to condemn a person to death under the way the laws of the Old Testament were practiced. The reason for that was simple. They believed that to take a life as punishment was the prerogative of their God, and to usurp that prerogative was to dishonor God.

I don’t believe in God. But I believe they had the right idea. I don’t think the government ought to be in the business of killing its own citizens, BUT if the State elects to do that, then there ought to be no room for error.