|
Sixth Amendment Thug
A Lousy Pentagon Lawyer Resigns
Pierre Tristam/Candide's Notebooks, February 6, 2007
 |
Never heard of the Sixth Amendment |
Lost in the shuffle of the last weekend’s bombs in Baghdad and twisters in Florida and fabricators in Washington was one bit of welcome news, in so far as the Bush junta is concerned. You remember Charles Stimson. He’s the deputy assistant secretary of defense, “for detainee affairs,” who, speaking in October, said that 300 Guantanamo prisoners might be there for life. Then on on January 11 on Federal News Radio, he said Guantanamo prisoners should not be represented by lawyers, and those lawyers who do represent them should be publicly disgraced. This, specifically, is what Stimson said: “I think, quite honestly, when corporate C.E.O.’s see that those firms are representing the very terrorists who hit their bottom line back in 2001, those C.E.O.’s are going to make those law firms choose between representing terrorists or representing reputable firms.” So he named twelve firms whose lawyers are representing Guantanamo prisoners. There was some outrage, namely from the legal and liberal communities, but not much. I can imagine that to most Americans what Stimson said rang true in that “fuck yeah” sort of way. Most Americans, like Stimson, automatically assume that those prisoners are terrorists whether or not the facts say otherwise, as the facts regarding most of them indeed do say otherwise. Most Americans probably wouldn’t mind if Gideon v. Wainright was overturned, let alone know what it entails — the principle of every criminal defendant’s right to counsel at taxpayer’s expense, if necessary. In the event, the principle doesn’t apply in the case of prisoners in our little concentration camp at Guantanamo Bay. But the Bush junta’s beliefs aside, the prisoners are still entitled to a defense: without those lawyers (who are providing their services pro bono), their cases would not have been heard so that many could be released, and so that those cases could make their way through the federal court system and onto the Supreme Court’s docket, which last June ruled various means of denying the prisoners representation illegal. But the court didn’t declare the junta’s “enemy combatant” designation null, as it should (assuming we still have due process), so the junta finds new ways to deny the prisoners habeas corpus. With Congressional approval. Still, the lawyers persisted. How best to get them out of the way than to publicly brand them as traitors? That’s what Stimson did. The Pentagon “disavowed” what he said. But there’s an enormous distance between disavowing and firing. Stimson stayed on. Until Last week. He resigned. Nobody made him do it. In other words: what he said is condoned by the Pentagon and the Bush junta, only he made the mistake of saying it publicly. He’ll have a plum assignment before long. In corporate America, of course.
|
| THE DAILY JOURNAL |
VANPOEM |
| |
As One Put Naked Into a Cigarette Boat
Continue chiding, since it's part of the new aesthetic,
and parcel to our coming home, as if
we'd disappeared into the burning bush
that calls to those who sit vacantly in parlors
awaiting a fate freighted with song and dance.
I stroll while staring and raging
with difficulty at the stubborn sky.
On my honor I step a little distance
from behind the curtain, only to disappear
the moment no birds sing, which occurs frequently.
Leaves dustier than furniture, the sound
of sleeping grating through the cosmos,
my footstool, my only talisman.
It's been real, arguing on your behalf.
Gray cobweb shadow, falling, floundering,
finding a place to not be shy and think
boldly about the oldness of beauty, a place
to rest its weary insubstantial head.
It may be that I stand on the threshold
of the checkout line, unsure of what
to be impulsive about, which momentous emptiness
to spontaneously identify my alienation with,
what kind of languor to slide into
before being reduced to grubbing for credentials,
locked in that tumid late-afternoon skin,
effervescing in its sea of dreams.
And all the things hearkening back to it,
the boat ride to breaker beach
there at the end of one world
where it paid to rage at the stammering waves
that kicked and screamed solely for my benefit,
staged objections to the inexorable fact of me.
Look: I've installed a turnstile in my kitchen,
so your picture-postcard of desolation has no power over me.
In this doggy-dog world land is made motionless
and the broads are standing on the wharves
with some of that sipping whisky on those silver trays,
which we'd be a bear to pass up. You speak
of the old gods who've washed up on shore,
but I don't see them, don't hear their hue and cry,
though their maze awaits us, will amaze us.
Here, let me get this little rock out of my damn shoe.
Then we can talk about paddling off to parts unknown. |
|
| |
—Van Foreman |
| |
|
|
|