Trouble at Christmas: #1: "Wheels of justice turn v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y."

     I'm off work this week, to try to spend some time with the boys, home from college. So I thought for the blog I would dig up a few columns from Christmas past. I noticed they fall into a kind of a theme, which I've dubbed, "Trouble at Christmas."
      This one, from 2000, after a fall season spent in court fending off a street person who had chased me with a knife then sued me. I represented myself in court, for you fans of foreshadowing, and the case resolved itself right before Christmas, the judge dismissing the lawsuit, I noticed a little queasily, "with prejudice."  
     One final point worth mentioning, which somehow didn't make it into the story, is the helpful general advice my wife gave me when appearing before a judge for any reason: "If you have the option of either saying something or not saying something, whenever possible don't say anything." Smart advice, which I used when the guy failed to show up for a court hearing and I was tempted to observe, "I want to point out that he isn't in jail because of me" but wisely didn't. 

     There are 73,728 small squares on the ceiling of Courtroom 1501 in the Daley Center.
     Not that I counted every square, waiting to stand before the bar of justice. I did the math. But I probably could have counted. I had the time.
     I had never been sued before, and found the experience not only hour-devouring and distressing but, in an odd way, uplifting. Looking back over this year of Sturm und Drang (that's German for "moving to the suburbs"), the lawsuit stands out as a lingering piece of unfinished business I should confront before 2000 can be dumped, with a grateful sigh, into the dustbin to make way for a shiny, new 2001.
     Being sued sucks. It is days in a windowless, airless room, somehow both too big and claustrophobic, waiting for your case to be called, staring dully at tiles on the ceiling, hearing the headachy murmur of legalisms just out of earshot, noting the starched exhaustion of lawyers, the unease of regular folk.
     There are motions and counter-motions. Many times I recalled that Hamlet, listing reasons to kill himself in his famous "To Be or Not to Be" soliloquy, puts "the law's delay" up high, right after the pangs of despriz'd love.
     Sure, I could have hired a lawyer to handle it all. But first, I'm too cheap. Second, I can't roll over in bed without hitting a lawyer. Third, I wanted to experience the thing, firsthand, to feel its essence. I won't go into the particulars of what sparked the suit. Like most of what winds up in court, it was ridiculous and peevish. Suffice it to say it emerged from what happened between myself and a young man in line at a drugstore. Words were exchanged. The guy pulled a knife and ended up hauled off in handcuffs by the cops.
     As he was taken away, an officer said, "Be sure to show up in court or he'll sue you." But I didn't. He hadn't hurt me. I figured, in the scope of atrocities committed daily in the city, this little incident wasn't worth pursuing. I didn't want to waste my time or add to his woes.
     There is no hell in Judaism, no divine punishment for sins. So I saw being sued as a minor form of punishment—a purgatory—for not listening to the police officer (always, always dear readers, listen to the police officer. They know).
     The process was made almost worth it by the judge (and I'm not polishing apples since the case is—I think—over). The guy suing me didn't have a lawyer either, and didn't seem to grasp the fine points of the legal system, such as the need to show up. Despite my passionate desire to get this over with, I had to admire how the judge—whose eyes conveyed a seen-it-all-twice weariness—tried to cut this guy every break, so that the avenues of justice would not be denied a person just because he happened to be in jail the day his motion was dismissed.
     The lawsuit ground on between August and early December. Quick for law. The odd thing was, as it progressed, I began to like the guy suing me. He had an Energizer Bunny doggedness I appreciated. Despite losing at each step, he pressed on, filing new motions, a Terminator of the Municipal Court.
    After our last—one hopes, in law you never can tell—court appearance, we rode down in the elevator together. "Well," I said. "If I don't see you before Christmas—though if history is any judge, I will—have a merry one." He replied that he reads me in the newspaper.
     I don't want to say that I'll miss court, because I won't. But I will cling to the lessons I've learned: Be unfailingly polite. Listen to the police. And forgive the people you cross swords with. So belated Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, Mr. Guy-Who-Sued-Me. Among my usual lightly held New Year's resolutions is the iron vow to keep myself out of court, if humanly possible. You might consider doing the same.  
           —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Dec. 28, 2000

"Bear one another's burdens"

     In 1897, the city of Nashville built a full-scale replica of the Parthenon, the Greek temple in Athens, as the centerpiece of their Tennessee Centennial Celebration. In 1990, the city added an enormous statue of the Athena, the Greek goddess, within the temple. Nearly 42 feet and covered in eight pounds of gold leaf, Athena is the largest indoor sculpture in the Western hemisphere.
     When I first stepped into the building, I grinned in awe, thinking: "They built an enormous pagan temple . . . including a giant golden pagan god . . . in the heart of the Bible Belt!"
     Up to last week, asked to name the most glaring example of inadvertent Christian celebration of pantheism, I'd have pointed to Nashville.
     But now Wheaton College has seized the laurel, when it suspended political science professor Larycia Hawkins. Not for wearing a hijab headscarf in solidarity with beleaguered Muslim Americans — no, never! Too gross an infringement on personal freedom, even for an administration at a conservative college.
     Rather, they suspended her for this statement, posted on Facebook:

Larycia Hawkins

   "I stand in religious solidarity with Muslims because they, like me, a Christian, are people of the book. And as Pope Francis stated last week, we worship the same God."
     That is why Hawkins is suspended until summer, because her statement "seemed inconsistent" with Christian values, and "to give more time to explore theological implications of her recent public statements." 
     Does Wheaton College really suspect that Christians and Muslims don't "worship the same God?" That perhaps there are two gods, one for Muslims, one for Christians ? Or more: Jews with their God, Hindus with theirs and so on. An Edith Hamilton pantheon of gods.
     Okay, that isn't what Wheaton College suspects. They're just another inept college administration bungling employee relations in the most public fashion imaginable and trying to blunder its way out. And we thought the University of Illinois had a monopoly on that.
     That second week in December was a frightening time, with Donald Trump urging the United States be sealed off from the contagion of Islam, and the Republican Party rolling like puppies at his feet. It felt like the house was on fire. Hate crimes against Muslims tripled. Hawkins posted her statement on Dec. 10. Two days earlier, I posted the green Muslim star and crescent as my Facebook profile photo, with this explanation: "There comes a time when decent people have to stand up. If Donald Trump is coming for the Muslims, he can sweep me up too."
     I was thinking of King Christian X of Denmark. He never did wear the Star of David that the Nazi occupiers forced upon Jews. Danish Jews were never required to wear the star. He did, however, speak out, and write in his diary:

When you look at the inhumane treatment of Jews, not only in Germany but occupied countries as well, you start worrying that such a demand might also be put on us, but we must clearly refuse such, due to their protection under the Danish constitution. I stated that I could not meet such a demand towards Danish citizens. If such a demand is made, we would best meet it by all wearing the Star of David.

     Wheaton College's actions are the equivalent of some board of rabbis denouncing King Christian X for volunteering to wear the Star of David because, you know, he's not circumcised.
     One more irony. The most famous Wheaton College alumnus is the Rev. Billy Graham. The Billy Graham Center is at the heart of the campus. Within it, the Billy Graham Museum, outlining the life of a preacher who rose to fame counseling presidents and holding enormous prayer rallies, while resolutely sitting out the great moral crises of his day, from civil rights to the Vietnam war to gay rights. Obsessing over fine points while missing the big picture. Ignoring the pressing moral imperative of a situation is pure Billy Graham. It never says this anywhere in the museum, but the great lesson — the great tragedy — of Graham's life is that a person can pay lip service to Jesus while steadfastly refusing to put his teachings into practice in the real world. Larycia Hawkins was punished for being Christian, for acting like a Christian toward our Muslim brothers, to the extent that Christianity teaches to care for the oppressed, which — stop the presses — it clearly does.
     "Bear one another's burdens," instructs Galatians 6:2. "And so fulfill the law of Christ."
     Perhaps while parsing Hawkins' words, Wheaton College can also decide whether the Apostle Paul misspoke.

A visit to good old Aunt "Star Wars"

    I'm a fairly cheap date when it comes to movies. I expect there to be a film of some sort, with a plot and dialogue and actors. It helps if it isn't entirely stupid. I like previews, and popcorn, and the chance to sit in the dark for two hours and watch something and not think about my leaky vessel of a life, riding low in the water but otherwise resolutely plowing the turbulent waves of the world. 
     The family headed over to the Highland Park Renaissance theater Sunday afternoon, to see the latest "Star Wars." The theater was mostly empty for the 1 p.m. show—that was fast, the thing just opened Thursday. I expected a line. I'd have waited a few weeks, but the boys were keen to see it; Kent had already seen it Thursday night, but readily saw it again.  
    "The Times said it's like a pre-fab house," Ross opined as we settled into our seats, and I almost covered my ears: I didn't want the delicious surprises to be given away. Nor did I want my enthusiasm dampened. Rich Roeper gave it four stars. I wanted to love it.
    "How so?" my wife asked. "Because it's exactly what you expect it to be?"
     "It doesn't have whimsy," Ross answered.
    "Maybe we add our own whimsy," my wife said, trying to put a bright spin on things.
    "Of course it has whimsy," I said. "It has that little rolling ball robot in it. That's whimsical."
    "I wonder if it has R2D2," my wife wondered, referring to the rolling garbage can robot of the previous films.
    "I think so," I said. 
    "Only it's 'R2D2 as Powered by Pepsi' in this one," Ross deadpanned. "And Hans Solo Cup."
     I admired "Hans Solo Cup" and wondered if he had just coined it; he claimed he had.  While other branding opportunities were mentioned: "Joy Yee Boba Fet" (Joy Yee is a restaurant in Evanston that sells drinks with boba, a kind of tapioca bead)  and "Sony Luke Skywalkman," they didn't reach the level of "Hans Solo Cup." Clever lad.
    And the movie? Eh. Not as bad as some of the franchise—no Jar Jar Binks, no Anakin Skywalker played by an excruciatingly bad kid actor. In fact, I liked the radiant babe newcomer, Daisy Ridley, as Rey, the female version of Luke Skywalker, the young person from nowhere drawn into the rebellion. The whole thing was wildly derivative, of course, and lacked any creativity regarding new creatures or locals, except the aforementioned rolling sphere and Ms. Ridley.  
    But the time passed, and I never looked at my watch, and it was sentimental to see the old favorites, Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher, reminding me somehow of Hillary Clinton. Having expected nothing, I was not disappointed, except when the film ended and I realized that was it. Though  I took a sort of perverse comfort in its mediocrity, its lack of originality or spark. With all the billions resting on the franchise, you'd think they'd have come up with something better than this. Another race to destroy the a bigger Death Star. A reminder of just how rare a good story can be. Still, one shouldn't complain. Going to see a new installment of "Star Wars" is like visiting an aged relative. There's no choice, you have to do it, and whether the conversation is interesting or not, whether a good time was had, or not, isn't really the point. It's just nice that the old girl is still around, and you have no choice in the matter but pay homage. It's an obligation.  
     

Morning after: Democratic edition

     Remember when you were a kid, and you'd get a present you didn't really like—the wrong toy—but you knew you had to accept it with as much grace and gratitude as you could muster? That's Hillary Clinton, for me. I looked at her face Saturday night, before she had spoken a word, on stage in New Hampshire for the third Democratic presidential debate, and sighed. I'm not sure what I wanted, but this wasn't it. 
     I could see why people are excited about Bernie Sanders. He's like the best college professor you ever had, flailing his arms and sputtering about how skewed the whole economic system is. I admired the speed with which he apologized to Clinton for his staffer looking over her campaign's data: a message most politicians, heck, most people, never get. Admit the wrong, move on.
    But after watching the parade of right wing fear mongering on Tuesday, I couldn't get behind Sanders, because he'll lose to whatever nutjob the GOP offers up. The time might be right for a septuagenarian socialist president, in Norway, but not in the United States, where a single shooting can cause a third of the country to want to use the Bill of Rights as kindling for their security bonfires.  Sanders is like a computer salesman going from hut to hut in Borneo. His customers just aren't ready for that. Maybe they never will be.
     And Martin O'Malley. Governor of Maryland.  He would have been my ideal candidate.  He came down hard on anti-Muslim hate, condemning "the fascist pleas of billionaires with big mouths." When it comes to guns, he said, "What we need is not more polls, but more principles." Leading a conversation on a topic that the Republicans couldn't even touch. A guy born in Chicago murders 14 people, with his wife, in San Bernardino, and their solution is to bar Muslims from the country. As if they murdered them with their bare hands.
     And O'Malley is young and handsome. Never underestimate the importance of optics in politics. Though he got booed when he brought the age of his opponents up. People are petty; I sure am. Every time the camera zoomed in from the back, I thought: Do I have to look at Hillary Clinton's ass for the next four years?
     That said, O'Malley is like a person who steps out of a crowd, grabs your elbow and starts talking to you. Whatever sense he says is lost compared to the reaction of, "Who is this guy. I never saw him before in my life." And I watched earlier debates. It's just that O'Malley ha a way of not sticking in mind. He's the Democratic Lindsay Graham. 
    And Sanders, while right in a general way about the economy being skewed for the 1 percent, offered up a range of pie-in-the-sky pipe dreams, from free college tuition for all (failing to mention, for some reason, the ponies for the children while he was at it) and the wish that Saudi Arabia and Qatar will take over battling ISIS for us.  He was good at framing the problem—"police officers should not be shooting unarmed people"—without saying what to do about it, which is the crux of the matter here.
     Clinton was on the usual eight second delay. When the ABC moderators, who had a tough time keeping the three from talking over each other in a senseless babble, pointed out that Americans are rushing to buy guns to protect themselves from Muslims (not pointing out that the people most endangered when you buy a gun are yourself and your family) and challenged Clinton to react, she at first digressed, and for a moment my stomach sank, and I thought she was going to dodge. "Clinton boots gun control answer," I tweeted. 
    Then she nailed it. 
     "Guns in and of themselves in my opinion will not make Americans safer," she said. "We lose 33,000 people already to gun violence. Arming more people ... is not the appropriate response to terrorism." And I exhaled. 
     She was good at explaining why Republican scapegoating Muslims, at home and abroad, is not only morally wrong, but bad strategy. "We need to work with them, not demonize them," she said, calling Trump "ISIS' best recruiter."
    And of course she ended the debate with, "May the force be with you," which made me smile, and think, "Okay, maybe that line was written by a $20,000 a month consultant. But she still said it." 
    What's that Rolling Stones lyric? "You can't always get what you want," Mick Jagger sang, "but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need." I can't say I'm excited about the prospect of a Hillary Clinton presidency. There is something, if not quite dead, then lifeless in her eyes. She's the Generic Stuffed Bear when I had my heart set on a Winnie-the-Pooh Bear. So Hillary Clinton is not what we want. But she sure is what we have. And she beats the alternatives, big time, which makes her what we need. So she will have to do. 

"I'll take some calico, clove gum and..."

  

  

     My first thought, when I went to usher Lillian Vernon into the great beyond yesterday, was that I had written something about her catalogue. But I hadn't. What I had written about was the Vermont Country Store, a similar vendor of bric-a-brac, defunct brands, and, to my vast surprise, a certain type of feminine device one would not expect to find sold along with Stove-top coffee percolators, Ralston and toe covers. This seems perfect for the Sunday before Christmas, and I had to share it.

     This story begins with a hairbrush and ends with a, umm, very different kind of personal care device.
     My wife's hairbrush had seen better days. Years of passing through her curly strawberry blond pre-Raphaelite tresses had worn down its bundles of boar bristles to a nubbin.
     Time to replace it. But alas, she pouted, showing the worn-out brush to me one day, such brushes aren't available anymore.
     Recognizing a challenge when I saw one, I secretly plunged into the Internet and found not just a brush like it, but the exact brush - half-round, boar bristle, from the same Fuller Brush Company.  Sold by the VermontCountry Store.  Swallowing hard at the $40 price tag, I ordered the thing as a gift.
     Only her lack of surprise after I gave it to her made me suspect I had been slyly led.
     Once I ordered something, of course, the Vermont Country Store had me in its sights and the catalogs began coming.
     The first, Spring 2011, sports a painting of the rustic red Vermont store on its cover, complete with rain barrel and American flag. It surprised me to see offered for sale new items that, when I notice older ladies wearing them, I always assumed had been purchased at a Woolworth's in 1965: muumuus (up to size 3X) and caftans, plastic rain bonnets and floral Latex swim caps. It was a revelation.
     And candy—caramel bull's-eyes and Starlight Mints, Herbal Horehound Drops and Black Jack Gum. Plus Whoopie Pies, Bread-in-a-Can, foodstuffs I hadn't thought about in 20 years: Lobster Newburg. Date Nut Bread.
     Maybe it's the cynic in me, but I made a connection between all that comfort food and those 3X muumuus — maybe if women skipped the former, they wouldn't have to buy the latter out of a special catalog.
     The rest of the merchandise was a hodgepodge designed to satisfy the desires of 80-year-olds trying to re-create the past. Like the "Easy-to-Use Cassette Recorder" (only $59.95). Or those aluminum ice cube trays with a handle to crack the ice. A steam iron that "has the familiar weight and heft that's missing from today's lightweight models."
     There were garments the existence of which I had not imagined — "toe covers," which are abbreviated socks designed for open back shoes. Bra extenders, for after you wolf back the canned bacon and Cinnamon Brioche with Praline Sauce and Cream Cheese Icing on page 27 and want to avoid buying new undergarments in a larger size.
    Perfumes like Evening in Paris, Coty, Wind Song. Shampoos like Lemon Up. Alberto VO5 conditioner. I felt like I was looking at my mother's dresser. Many of these companies don't exist anymore - the Vermont Country Store,  amazingly, re-creates the lost products.
     But that isn't why I'm writing this.
      No, the Summer catalog arrived a few days ago, touting new wonders: floral swim caps that were out of fashion in 1975. Stove-top coffee percolators. Ralston. Wooden Q-Tips. Sleeve garters. Buster Brown socks.
     To be honest, I almost missed the Really Amazing Part, right there in the lower corner of page 66: "Intimate Massagers: Quiet, Lightweight, and Discreet." My wife pointed it out.
      The Vermont Country Store sells vibrators and dildos, though never using those words. The catalog offers three models: the Dual Pleasure, the Pinpoint Accuracy and a Dr. Laura Berman signature device — she endorses them, the way Yogi Berra plugged catcher's mitts. Online, there are many more.
     In the catalog, they begin, directly, "Hormonal changes can affect a woman's responsiveness, and many couples find that intimacy benefits from a little help." But online, you can almost feel the awkwardness, as merchants used to hawking licorice whips pause, cringe, then present their new line of sex toys.
     "As we get older, we don't have to become less able," writes Lyman Orton, whose parents, Vrest and Mildred Orton, founded the store in 1946. "Here at Vermont Country Store,  we take a practical, no-nonsense approach to keeping you healthy, physically, emotionally, and . . . well . . . sexually, too!"
     Don't you love that little elliptic blush of modesty? I'm certain it eases the way for grandma to pony up $80 for a Dr. Berman-recommended, rechargeable "Aphrodite."
      I'm definitely not making fun of this — life's a long time, and you do what you have to.
      There's something charming, almost sweet, about a catalog that touts Bonomo Turkish Taffy on the front cover, fade-resistant American flags on the back and has an array of sex toys, including those hawked by the redoubtable Dr. Berman, tucked away inside.
              —Originally published in the Chicago Sun-Times, June 22, 2011

Some thoughts regarding Lillian Vernon Schoolhouse Frames

    It's been a long time since we've veered into the truly trivial, and this seems a good moment.
    Because really, you can only hammer so long on the inadequacy of the Republican presidential candidates, the angry aggrievement of the cops, the country's thickening miasma of fear, the wrecked circus train of various national woes, before it all gets too frustrating and repetitive. 
    Besides, what can be done? Not much.
    Today's topic, I guarantee, will lead some to bold definitive, decisive action, at least for a certain kind of reader.
    Lillian Vernon died last Monday. and if that name rings a bell, it is for what the New York Times called her "sprawling catalog business that specialized in personalized gifts and ingenious gadgets" in its fond send-off.
    Lillian Vernon, the company, sold Christmas stockings and customized doormats, lawn furniture covers and throw pillows, wicker baskets and yard signs.
     Not the sort of stuff I'd run to purchase, though, like everybody else, I flipped through the catalogues when they arrived. It was like sneaking through the window of a those small box homes  you drive past and wonder about. This is where they get their stuff, their personalized place mats, their beach tote bags.
     If that sounds elitist, I've said it wrong. All of our lives are small and human and poignant and proud in equal measure, whether you get your cluttered crap from Neiman Marcus or Lillian Vernon or Goodwill.
     Besides, the Steinberg household proudly displays one item from the Lillian Vernon catalogue. Something we saw on display at the home of our friends in Naperville, and immediately purchased for ourselves, not once, but twice.
     Which is the purpose of my post today. Not to make a political point, or to share an obscure bit of history. But to alert you to a product that you might want, if you are a  new parent or know one. It makes a great gift—surprise, surprise.
     Every year, every school in America takes pictures of its students. Parents don't demand the photos; they don't have to. They just occur. It's always been done, and nobody complains, beyond a wince at the price of things. Someone is getting rich off school photography. Still, it's a service. Time passes so quickly, why not force the tykes to comb their hair and look presentable once a year?
    But what to do with that baker's dozen of wallet-sized formal portraits, from kindergarten to senior year in high school? They go into billfolds and purses, then drawers, then are lost, flotsam in the sea of time. 
    Unless.
    Enter the Lillian Vernon Schoolhouse Frame. It is not cheap, at $29.95, but it does the job of displaying the history in portrait form of your child's transit through public education. And considering the 13 photos they hold probably cost several hundred dollars, I suppose the additional cost isn't much more to guard and display your investment through the years. Ours have been sitting on our buffet for a decade and I'll imagine they'll be there for the rest of our lives. Then one boy, or another, or both, will hold it at arm's length, draw a sigh, and toss it into a box. Anyway, now you know about them. Please don't be one of those readers who complains if you have to read something that isn't gnawing on the Issue of the Day. Even noble Homer dozed.

Breaking the code of silence

"Conflict management" by Jerry Truong

     "Chicago is the capital of the code of silence," says Craig B. Futterman, law professor at the University of Chicago and national expert on police ethics. "If you break with that code, you get crushed."
     This is not news in Chicago, though Rahm Emanuel seems to have only recently discovered it.
     "It's always been this way," says Futterman. "You don't rat out your fellow officer or else you're going to be hazed from within and, just as importantly, it's enforced from above. It's the culture, the practice of the department. Under Rahm it's been no better. And now he says, 'Yup, we have a problem' and admits it."
     Well, hallelujah.
     Futterman has been at the center of the Laquan McDonald case for a year, since his legal clinic received a tip about a dashcam video of Officer Jason Van Dyke pumping 16 bullets into McDonald. With the city in turmoil and the mayor hounded by protesters everywhere he goes, Futterman believes this moment might lead to real reform.
     "I'm hopeful because the vast majority of officers aren't benefiting from this," he says. "It's hurting them. ... This moment may give them an opportunity to not just do the right thing, but what's in their own best interest." 

Craig Futterman

     
     How so?
     "If you look at the data," he says, "the good news is the vast majority of Chicago Police officers on the force are not out there busting heads; 80 percent of officers have less than four complaints [of misconduct] in their career. Most have none. A small percentage are responsible for the lion's share of complaints, and that small percentage are allowed to run roughshod."
     Why?
     "Loyalty to fellow officers is something highly valued and taught, and it's a good thing," says Futterman. "They've got to rely on one another in some pretty hairy situations. [The trouble is] when loyalty to one another trumps loyalty to the truth, to their fundamental job."
     When that happens, there is no option besides silence.
     "You know who the bad officers are, but you can't say," says Futterman. "Many would love nothing more than to get rid of that few percent, because they make their jobs a living hell. [Bad cops] wear the same badge, but they dishonor them. [Good cops are] working rough neighborhoods, trying to solve crime, but everybody hates them and distrusts them because of some jerk harassing people. Lack of trust means they can't do their jobs well."
     So they don't.
   "In Chicago, per officer, there are a lot more complaints on average, particularly those of brutality," says Futterman. "We also shoot more folks than virtually every other department in the country. We stand out as among the worst when it comes to identifying, rooting out and disciplining officers who have abused their powers."
     Another reason cops don't talk: because nothing is done. The department has a stake in that. You pull a thread, the whole fabric could unravel.
     "You expose four bad guys, they made a couple hundred arrests," says Futterman. "Some arrests are good, some are bad, it undermines all of them. These guys who had been corrupt, they didn't start doing this yesterday. Who was minding the store? There are some pretty big political costs for whoever's in charge."
     Costs the mayor is tallying right now. Costs that add to our city's hemorrhaging bottom line. A staggering $521 million since 2004, to hush up these cases.
     "A code of silence about the code of silence," says Futterman.
     My guess? Outrage fades, but habit endures. Smoke will be blown, maybe more heads roll, but nothing substantive. Futterman is more optimistic.
     "I think we're at a moment where change is actually possible," says Futterman, "For the first time, a public official has been forced to even acknowledge the systemic nature of the problem. Now we'll see if he makes that more than words. Everyone has the right to be skeptical of his actions up to this point."
     So what has to happen?
     "When I go around the country, I get stories from officers all the time of someone from the inside who made the department better and got rid of bad cops," says Futterman. "I always ask, 'Can anybody share a happy ending for the whistleblower?' No one ever does. That's gotta change. That's where leadership matters. There is an opportunity now to not just do obvious things — you fail to report, you lie, you're fired — but also to protect and honor the folks who come forward, to treat them like the heroes they are."