Imagine you’re a 19 year-old kid living in Denver and you’ve just been caught selling drugs for the third time. You’re sitting in a cold, concrete walled pod with all the other inmates wearing orange scrubs and crock-type slippers. The sheriff walks in and tells you that your state-assigned public defender has arrived.
You must be thinking, “Wonderful, my future relies on what must be some down-on-their-luck, middle-aged, leftist-idealist, sleep-deprived, afraid-to go-to-trial, piece-of-shit public pretender.”
The bars open and you walk down the hallway feeling dejected. Much to your surprise, though, when you get to the meeting room, sitting at the desk in front of you is a young guy with cauliflower ears and a lean muscular frame. He can’t even get his wedding ring on because all the knuckles have been broken on his mangled hands. Today he happens to have a black eye and abrasions on his neck from training in a gi.
“What up?!” he says. “We have a fight on our hands. Its time to get down to business.”