Black incarceration rates would make King weep | Opinion


In the spring of 1997, my future brother-in-law and I drove through Detroit’s east side, with 8Ball & MJG booming from the sound system. En route to his mother’s house, we passed blighted blocks, laced with vacant houses and abandoned buildings, some so hollowed out that brush and trees had reclaimed them.

I had just landed a job at the Detroit Free Press, where I worked for nearly 20 years, writing about, among other things, prisons, urban issues, and the criminal justice system.

Shannon had just gotten out of prison, after serving four years for a drug offense.

We were feeling good, kicking it. Shannon talked about growing up here: Getting shot at 15 and selling drugs to…

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