Fifty‑Four Tons
A cab ride, a federal judge, and the weight of a sentence . . . all on the way to a Commission retreat
For the U.S. Sentencing Commission, with the end of one guideline amendment year comes the beginning of another. By statute, the U.S. Sentencing Commission can send guideline amendments to Congress only from the beginning of the calendar year until May 1st, and the Commission inevitably submits amendments just as the amendment window is closing, in the waning days of April. And then commissioners and staff begin a new guideline amendment year, typically by meeting in May, away from D.C., for a “retreat” of sorts to discuss policy and research priorities for the amendment year ahead. This year, the Commission delivered guideline amendments to Congress on April 30th. So, here we go again.
For those of us who just can’t get enough of crime and punishment policy, a Commission retreat sounds intriguing. If you’ve never been, you might imagine a miniature version of the Aspen Ideas Festival or Bill Clinton’s Renaissance Weekend, where commissioners head to an exotic location to engage in freewheeling discussions about the ideas and issues that will shape the world of sentencing and criminal justice for years to come. Big ideas. Cross-discipline brainstorming and exploration. Late-night mind-expanding conversations.
Well, as it turns out, sometimes the most stimulating conversation of the week is with a taxi driver on the way from the hotel to the retreat location.
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The phone rang in my hotel room. I crossed to the desk and picked it up.
“Your taxi is here.”
“Ok. Thanks.”
I hurried around the room, grabbing the few things I needed for the meeting. I checked my tie in the mirror, left, and took the elevator down.
On my way out, I stopped at the front desk. “Thank you for getting me the cab. I really appreciate it,” I said to the woman there.
Outside, the cab was waiting. I walked through the hotel’s glass doors and got into the back seat.
“I’m going to the federal courthouse, please,” I told the driver.
The chief district court judge in Vermont — then the Chair of the U.S. Sentencing Commission — had invited us all to Burlington for the annual planning retreat. I was there to represent the Attorney General.
“Sure,” the cab driver said.
We pulled away from the hotel. I settled in for what I expected to be a short, ten‑minute, uneventful ride.
A few seconds later, the driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
“Are you an attorney?” he asked.
I looked up. From the back seat, he appeared to be an older white man with long gray hair — exactly the sort of person you might expect to find driving a cab around Burlington. Our eyes met in the mirror for just a second.
“Yes, I am,” I said, with just a tinge of pride.
“Oh.” He paused. “Do you have a case being heard today?”
“No,” I said. “I work for the Justice Department. I have a meeting with Chief Judge Sessions.”
This time, the taxi driver turned his head for a moment to look at me directly. I had his full attention now.
“Ohhhh,” he said as he looked to the road again, his voice rising just a little. It was all very noticeable.
I paused for a moment. “Do you know Judge Sessions?” I asked.
He looked straight ahead, then into the mirror again. “Yes, I do,” he said, with some emphasis. He waited a beat. Then another. “Judge Sessions sentenced me to twenty‑four years in prison for a non‑violent drug offense.”
My body didn’t move — I was frozen — but my breathing sped up. My eyes were fixed with a new intensity on the driver. There’s nothing like suddenly realizing you’re being driven around by a former prisoner who knows you work for “the man” to sharpen your attention, raise your blood pressure, and quicken your heart.
What do I say now? I thought . . . Say something . . . My mind started to race. No, really . . . you have to say something. This is getting awkward.
“Twenty‑four years. That’s a lot of time,” I said.
Oh God.
“Yeah,” the driver said, looking in the mirror again, his face set with what seemed like a bit more resolve. Or was it anger? I couldn’t tell.
That’s a lot of time. Where did you come up with that? You’re going to get yourself killed.
Ok. What now?
I knew the rules of federal sentencing and that’s where my mind took me. I also knew that Judge Sessions was a bleeding‑heart, recommended for the bench by Senator Leahy and appointed by President Clinton. I couldn’t help but think that Sessions would only give that kind of time if he had to — if there was a mandatory minimum, or if the defendant had done something truly terrible.
Oh God.
I couldn’t help myself.
“You must have had several prior convictions?” I asked.
Under federal law, prior convictions can trigger long mandatory sentences in drug cases.
“No,” he said, emphatically. “It was my first offense.”
Hmm. An odd calm then came over me as the puzzle of this man’s sentencing became my immediate challenge.
“Well, someone must have had a gun when you did it,” I said.
“Nope,” he replied. “No guns. Non‑violent marijuana offense.”
It didn’t add up. In my mind, this guy must have killed someone with his bare hands. Maybe I wasn’t getting the whole truth.
I summed up the puzzle. “So this was a marijuana case with no guns,” I said slowly. “You had no priors. It was non‑violent. And Judge Sessions sentenced you to twenty‑four years? Is that right?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
There was one other possibility. But where was he taking me? Shouldn’t we have reached the courthouse by now?
“There must have been a lot of pot,” I said.
He met my eyes in the mirror. “Yeah. Fifty‑four tons.”
Holy crap.
“That’s a lot of pot,” I said, before I could stop myself.
I tried to picture it. First I saw him with a backpack full of marijuana. Then I tried to scale it up. Fifty‑four tons?
“How do you move fifty‑four tons of marijuana into Vermont?” I asked.
He didn’t hesitate. “By barge,” he said. “Down the St. Lawrence Seaway.”
We turned a corner, and I saw the courthouse ahead. He eased the cab over to the curb. I felt a wave of relief.
He turned around to face me. Up close, he looked to be around sixty — an aging hippie, not exactly Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver. He wore a devilish smile, with no trace of anger or resentment.
I tried to act casual as I reached for my wallet. My trepidation had eased; it looked like I was going to make it.
“There’s one thing I don’t get,” I said. “Judge Sessions hasn’t been on the bench more than fifteen years. How are you out already?”
“Have you heard of a case called Booker v. United States?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I have.”
“The Supreme Court sent my case back to Judge Sessions after Booker was decided. After twelve years, Sessions had a change of heart. He thought I’d done enough time. He reduced my sentence to time served.”
Instinctively — and wrongly — I thought that Sessions was a just softie.
“Those twelve years,” the driver said. “I guess they made him look at the case — and at me — differently.”
I handed him a twenty. A good tip, but not too good.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said. “I wish you well.”
