The Great Typo Hunt_ Two Friends Changing the World, One Correction at a Time - Jeff Deck [103]
To demonstrate how well justice was served in this courtroom, the real-live criminals, who’d have to return immediately to jail, went first. They were wearing correctional outfits and shackles. We watched a lawyer argue passionately for a one-month postponement on the judge’s preferred trial date. It was the most valiant and energetic lawyering we saw all day, in defense of the attorney’s own vacation plans.
Now the judge summoned us forward. Everything that follows is taken directly from the trial transcript. Immediately after we’d been sworn in, the judge’s first question was, “All right. Who’s Mr. Herson?” Against alphabetical logic, he would ask Benjamin to answer first every single time. This was helpful in one regard: it gave me a chance to temper my friend’s replies. While I can’t claim I wore my happy face, Benjamin had cast off his congenial nature, and I worried that his ability to show respect for the court wasn’t far behind.
First, the judge reviewed the plea agreement we’d signed and asked us if we understood it. Benjamin said yes, and then I did the same, saying “Yes, Your Honor,” rather than dropping a curt yes-bomb like my colleague. In case we didn’t have as firm a handle on the plea agreement as we thought (and we didn’t), the judge went over it anyway. He surprised me when he clarified what being forbidden from correcting “public signs” meant: “I interpret that to be not limited to national park signs, but any governmental sign anywhere. Am I correct on that?” Both the prosecuting attorney and our lawyer confirmed that he was. To me public signs had meant any signs out in public. While he’d made sure to check that it extended to all government signs, to me he’d kindly limited its scope.
“You would also be required to remove from any of your websites any information urging others to engage in such behavior. And that you’re not to participate in public forums advocating this type of behavior.” He paused, deliberately. “Now, let me ask the parties, obviously this is, from the Statement of Probable Cause appendix to the Complaint, aimed at their what could be deemed to be First Amendment rights.” We had to agree to forfeit our freedom of speech, but for how long? Forever? At that point the judge began to utter what might have been the most important clarifying question for the future of the League: “Is there any objection on a First Amendment grounds to—”
The judge possibly wouldn’t have concluded with “this condition of the year’s probation” or any other explanation of how far this agreement would reach, yet his whole intent here was clarification. As adversarial as he came off, the man was careful, cautious, and precise about the details. He knew his stuff. How I wish I’d heard the end of that sentence. I wish I’d thought to speak up, but it was our lawyer’s responsibility to speak for us, and speak she did. She cut the judge off, practically leaping forward to fling aside any concerns about the forfeiture of our rights. “No, Your Honor.”
“All right,” the judge replied.
No, not all right! But they’d moved on.
When the court asked how quickly we could post a required notice on our website warning our readers of the dangers of vandalism and disrespecting the public parks, the prosecuting attorney stood up. She happily volunteered some kind words about us, saying how articulate and creative we were, and how therefore we could easily be expected to write said notice within thirty days.
The judge checked again that we understood everything. I considered clarifying the First Amendment thing, but Benjamin hurled another live “yes” at the judge, and I echoed it. The judge let us know that we didn’t have to do this, of course. “You have an absolute right to go to trial on the charges in the Complaint.” Sure, we did. Maybe if I had a trust fund. This whole thing was pre-decided. We were guilty by our own blogged admission. What we had done was wrong. We