Sighing, I entered the visiting room of the Baltimore Correction Center, a modern facility on Green Mountain Avenue, opened in 1984. They brought the kid out -- clean-cut, wholesome, even in his unattractive orange jumpsuit, labeled number 85324. Fair hair, freckles, the type of pigmentation that cries out for sunblock SPF 45, especially in the brutal summer months, where temperatures are known to reach 99.3 in the shade. Typical college student, majoring in civic engineering, minoring in Romance languages, you know the type. The whole city thought he was guilty of murdering his girlfriend. Hell, despite his right to a presumption of innocence, a concept derived from the Latin legal principle that ei incumbit probatio qui dicit, non qui negat (the burden of proof rests on who asserts, not on who denies), I wasn't sure I believed him, and I was his goddamn lawyer. . .
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