A few weeks ago, those paying attention noticed a strangely familiar dispute brewing amidst the navigable waters of our Cuyahoga. Despite a reasoned opinion by a federal judge issued last Spring (and just shy of the full steam of the 2015 shipping season), the Buffalo-headquartered US Army Corps of Engineers, the federal agency charged with dredging and disposal of potenially/allegedly/probably/partially toxic sediments along The Cleveland Harbor Federal Navigational Channel opted to say "No Thanks!" to 2016 funds allotted to dispose of these sediments into CDF's (confined disposal facilities) and, instead, reduced its own budget. The Buffalo Corps brass asserted that current standards allow them to dump these sediments in the open waters of Lake Erie as fish food.
It's difficult to see how this unilateral decision to decline funds allotted for CDF disposal is not in direct contravention of Judge Donald Nugent's preliminary injunction order of last year, which specifically foretold the recurring nature of this dispute. (Here's a PDF of the opinion: (Link to Judge Nugent's OPINION). It's even more difficult to find rationale for the Corps' intransigence on the matter. Surely, it's not a matter of money. A variety of funding streams are available to pay. Could it be something else?
Perhaps the answer lies (!?) at the bottom of all the other navigable waters, both fresh and oceanic, where the Corps has been steadily dumping toxic sediment for years. Perhaps no one but Cleveland has made it an issue. Perhaps, if the Corps must concede that administrative/environmental regulations compel CDF disposal here, it must concede that it must do so elsewhere.
The shameful degradation of the Cuyahoga was once a catalyst for major environmental changes across the nation, but it's clear the regulatory waters have been muddied again, at the expense of clean water and a fishable food chain. I, for one, plan on doing something about it. Perhaps you'll join me as I shuffle off to Buffalo, this Spring(field), for what it's worth.
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Saturday, February 20, 2016
Sunday, February 14, 2016
A Scalia Story
A dozen or so years ago, the Cleveland Bar Association started a great program that sent lawyers into inner city classrooms to teach kids about The Constitution. It was a fitting compliment to my work defending the poor, and a welcome departure from often depressing role as advocate for the criminally accused in a crowded, chaotic court system. Of course, inner-city schools in Cleveland have their own crowded, chaotic problems, but I was eager to see if I could spark the students' interest in the law as a haven, rather than a hammer.
I was assigned to JFK High School, a school with a rougher reputation than most. The student body was all black, all poor, and their familiarity with the criminal justice system was haunting: moms and dads arrested, incarcerated, churned through the courts at an alarming rate. But most of the kids I taught were eager and respectful as I tried to educate them about their constitutional rights, and the mechanics of the criminal justice system.
Early on in the series of my weekly appearances for the class, I made a deal with them. If, for the final session, anyone accurately memorized and recited the First, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, or Eighth Amendment to the Constitution, I'd give them twenty bucks. I added that those who took the bet would have to "dress professionally, like a lawyer" for their recitation.
When the final session arrived, I had a couple hundred bucks in my pocket, just in case. Ultimately, it was the best $60 I've ever spent, to this day. The three who tried and succeeded looked more like they were dressed for junior prom than court, but I was moved by their effort, and hearing them eagerly, clearly recite the words from The Bill of Rights interrupted my composure.
Later, I would learn that this preposterous stunt of mine gained legs. The bar association programmers found out, and decided to incorporate a "public performance" component to the project. The following year, two girls who took my $20 bucks would be invited to a luncheon at Cleveland's Intercontinental Hotel to sit at a table with Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia.
I imagine a conversation occurred, in which the Honorable man, knifing his chicken and green beans, asked what notoriety gained them their auspicious seating. Perhaps, mid swallow, one of the girls informed him: "Mr. Hurley paid us twenty bucks to memorize the Fourth Amendment."
I was assigned to JFK High School, a school with a rougher reputation than most. The student body was all black, all poor, and their familiarity with the criminal justice system was haunting: moms and dads arrested, incarcerated, churned through the courts at an alarming rate. But most of the kids I taught were eager and respectful as I tried to educate them about their constitutional rights, and the mechanics of the criminal justice system.
Early on in the series of my weekly appearances for the class, I made a deal with them. If, for the final session, anyone accurately memorized and recited the First, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, or Eighth Amendment to the Constitution, I'd give them twenty bucks. I added that those who took the bet would have to "dress professionally, like a lawyer" for their recitation.
When the final session arrived, I had a couple hundred bucks in my pocket, just in case. Ultimately, it was the best $60 I've ever spent, to this day. The three who tried and succeeded looked more like they were dressed for junior prom than court, but I was moved by their effort, and hearing them eagerly, clearly recite the words from The Bill of Rights interrupted my composure.
Later, I would learn that this preposterous stunt of mine gained legs. The bar association programmers found out, and decided to incorporate a "public performance" component to the project. The following year, two girls who took my $20 bucks would be invited to a luncheon at Cleveland's Intercontinental Hotel to sit at a table with Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia.
I imagine a conversation occurred, in which the Honorable man, knifing his chicken and green beans, asked what notoriety gained them their auspicious seating. Perhaps, mid swallow, one of the girls informed him: "Mr. Hurley paid us twenty bucks to memorize the Fourth Amendment."
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