So I don't know what I said to satisfy the attorneys that though I may indeed own a blue sweater, I was not the bag lady who was supposed to pick up several million dollars worth of postal bonds at a Chicago loop location. Maybe it was the background noise on my end of the phone call -- a combination of my daughter asking me what I thought about a pair of cute shoes and the Nordstrom loud speaker paging a customer to women's lingerie. They could probably tell the only "bags" I was carrying came from Lululemon and Neiman Marcus.
When you teach at a law school, you come into contact with all sorts of low lifes, most of whom happen to be law students. Occasionally, though, a clever inmate with lots of time on his hands will draft a barely comprehensible letter and send out copies to scores of folks in academia who he rightly assumes are likely to be bleeding hearts. The tales of injustice tend to be quite graphic and compelling, and I was often tempted to write back to at least express my empathy (such as it is) and apologize for not being able to help. But after receiving a few threats on my life from students unhappy with their grades I decided I was better off steering clear of convicted criminals.
The whole episode got me to thinking though. If I'm capable of exonerating myself over the phone, sight unseen, I might just be able to commit the perfect crime. Why peddle steel reinforced yoga clothes to old ladies like myself (criminal in its own right) if I could actually get away with, say, being a bag lady. To everybody outside of Harper Valley, I have all the trappings of respectability; I'd be the last person anyone would suspect. I bet I'd net more than ten bucks an hour, and I wouldn't even have to pay taxes! Win, win.
Feigning idle curiosity, I asked for the name of my accuser. I'm thinking of writing him a long overdue letter, seeing if maybe he could use my "help."
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