None of us were naive about what our training course could accomplish. We knew that such an effort, alone, would not rid the system of bias. And we surely knew that explicit bias, not just implicit bias, permeated the system. Racism is real in America, and police departments are not immune. At the same time, we knew that better training would make a real difference, that for most members of law enforcement, a better understanding of their own implicit biases could be revelatory. We knew that the hard conversations involved in the training course were the kind that stayed with a person, the kind of thing they’d take with them to the streets.
We need to speak another truth: police brutality occurs in America and we have to root it out wherever we find it. With the advent of the smartphone, what was well known only to certain communities is now being seen by the world. People can no longer pretend it isn’t happening. It cannot be ignored or denied when we see video of Walter Scott, unarmed, shot in the back as he ran from an officer. We cannot ignore the horrified cries of Philando Castile’s girlfriend after he was shot seven times by a police officer while reaching for his driver’s license—all with her four-year-old daughter in the back seat. “It’s okay, Mommy . . . it’s okay. I’m right here with you,” the little girl said, in a heartbreaking attempt to comfort. We cannot forget Eric Garner’s desperate words—“I can’t breathe”—as a police officer strangled him to death during an arrest for selling cigarettes.
And we must remember that tragedies like these occur over and over again, most of them unfilmed and unseen. If people fear murder and beatings and harassment from the police who patrol their streets, can we really say that we live in a free society?
And what does it say about our standards of justice when police officers are so rarely held accountable for these incidents? The Minnesota officer who shot Philando Castile was tried for second-degree manslaughter. But he was acquitted. In Ohio, a police officer climbed onto the hood of a car after a car chase and fired forty-nine times at its occupants, Timothy Russell and Malissa Williams, both of whom were unarmed. The officer was charged—and acquitted. In Pennsylvania, a police officer shot an unarmed driver in the back while he lay facedown in the snow. But he, too, was acquitted of murder.
If there aren’t serious consequences for police brutality in our justice system, what kind of message does that send to police officers? And what kind of message does it send to the community? Public safety depends on public trust. It depends on people believing they will be treated fairly and transparently. It depends on a justice system that is steeped in the notions of objectivity and impartiality. It depends on the basic decency our Constitution demands.
But when black and brown people are more likely to be stopped, arrested, and convicted than their white counterparts; when police departments are outfitted like military regiments; when egregious use of deadly force is not met with consequence, is it any wonder that the very credibility of these public institutions is on the line?
I say this as someone who has spent most of my career working with law enforcement. I say this as someone who has a great deal of respect for police officers. I know that most police officers deserve to be proud of their public service and commended for the way they do their jobs. I know how difficult and dangerous the job is, day in and day out, and I know how hard it is for the officers’ families, who have to wonder if the person they love will be coming home at the end of each shift. I’ve been to too many funerals of officers killed in the line of duty. But I also know this: it is a false choice to suggest that you must either be for the police or for police accountability. I am for both. Most people I know are for both. Let’s speak some truth about that, too.
Make no mistake: we need to take on this and every aspect of our broken criminal justice system. We need to change our laws and our standards. And we need to elect people who will make it their mission to do so.
So let’s recruit more progressives into prosecutors’ offices, where many of the biggest problems and best solutions start. Prosecutors are among the most powerful actors in our system of justice. They have the power to prioritize what they work on. They can choose to focus their time and attention on anything from corporate and consumer fraudsters to sexual predators. They have the power to put criminals behind bars, but they also have the discretion to dismiss cases where police used excessive force, or conducted a search and seizure without probable cause. We need people who come from all walks of life and different backgrounds and experiences to sit at the table and wield that kind of power.
We also need to keep the pressure on from the outside, where organizations and individuals can create meaningful change. When I was attorney general, I made sure ours was the first state law enforcement agency to require body cameras for its agents. I did it because it was the right thing to do. But I was able to do it because the Black Lives Matter movement had created intense pressure. By forcing these issues onto the national agenda, the movement created an environment on the outside that helped give me the space to get it done on the inside. That’s often how change happens. And I credit the movement for those reforms just as much as anyone in my office, including me.
Engaging in the fight for civil rights and social justice is not for the faint of heart. It is as difficult as it is important, and the wins may never taste as sweet as the losses taste sour. But count yourself as part of the lineage of those who refused to relent. And when we’re feeling frustrated and discouraged by the obstacles in front of us, let’s channel the words of Constance Baker Motley, one of my inspirations as the first black American woman appointed to the federal judiciary. “Lack of encouragement never deterred me,” she wrote. “In fact, I think the effect was just the opposite. I was the kind of person who would not be put down.”
Three
UNDERWATER
We were renters for most of my childhood, and my mother took incredible pride in our home. It was always ready for company, with fresh-cut flowers. The walls were decorated with big posters of artwork by LeRoy Clarke and other artists from the Studio Museum in Harlem, where Uncle Freddy worked. There were statues from her travels in India, Africa, and elsewhere. She cared a great deal about making our apartment a home, and it always felt warm and complete. But I knew my mother always wanted something more. She wanted to be a homeowner.
She would be the first to point out the practical considerations—that it was a smart investment. But it was so much more than that. It was about her earning a full slice of the American Dream.
My mother had wanted to buy her first home while Maya and I were still young—a place to grow up with a sense of permanence. But it would take many years before she could save up enough money for a down payment.
I was in high school when it happened. Maya and I had just gotten home from school when she pulled out the pictures to show us—a one-level dark-gray house on a cul-de-sac, with a shingled roof, a beautiful lawn in front, an outdoor space on the side for a barbecue. She was so excited to show us, and we were so excited to see it—not only because it meant we got to move back to Oakland, but because of the intense joy we saw in her face. She had earned it, quite literally. “This is our house!” I would tell my friends, proudly showing off the pictures. It was going to be our piece of the world.
That memory was on my mind when I traveled to Fresno, California, in 2010, in the midst of a devastating foreclosure crisis in which so many people had their own piece of the world destroyed.
Fresno is the largest city in California’s San Joaquin Valley, an area that has been described as the “Garden of the Sun.” The San Joaquin Valley is one of the world’s most abundant agricultural regions, providing a significant share of the fruits and vegetables consumed in the United States. Amid the acres of almond trees and vineyards full of grapes live about four million people, a population roughly the size of Connecticut’s.
Many middle-class families saw a life in Fresno as their best shot at the American Dream. It
was a place with promise, a place where they could afford a real single-family home on a suburban street, a place that represented America’s vitality, mobility, and hope. In the early 2000s, the population of the San Joaquin Valley was young and growing, and nearly 40 percent Latinx. For so many people who moved there, the six-hour round-trip commute to their jobs in San Francisco or Sacramento was exhausting, but a worthy price to pay for what they got in exchange: the sense of dignity, pride, and security that came with becoming an American homeowner.
New suburban developments seemed to sprout up every month, taking root in the fertile soil as if they were another cash crop. That wasn’t far off. Fresno’s real estate boom was fueled by broader economic trends, trends that ultimately sparked an economic inferno.
In the wake of 9/11, central banks around the world slashed their interest rates. This capital-rich environment prompted lenders to become increasingly aggressive, luring more and more borrowers with enticing loan offers like “interest only,” “zero down,” and even “NINJA” (no income, no job, no assets). High-risk subprime mortgages flooded the housing market, with teaser rates seemed too good to be true. Lenders reassured home buyers (and themselves) that homeowners would just refinance their mortgages before their payments spiked. The reward was worth the risk, because, as they saw it, housing prices were only and always destined to go up.
Meanwhile, global investors were on the hunt for greater returns, which led them toward ever riskier opportunities to place their bets. Wall Street financiers were only too happy to meet this voracious demand, creating newfangled securities backed by the same deeply questionable mortgages. Investors who bought those mortgaged-backed securities believed that the banks had done their due diligence, only bundling together home loans that could and would be paid on time. Few realized they were actually purchasing ticking time bombs.
Remarkably, about half of all of these mortgage-backed securities ended up on the balance sheets of big banks after they realized that holding the securities, rather than the mortgages themselves, would help them avoid traditional regulation. The cycle fed on itself, spinning faster and faster, until it spun right off the rails. In 2006, the housing market peaked. A major housing crisis loomed.
Banks and investors tried to dump their bad securities, which only made things worse. Wall Street started to implode. Bear Stearns failed. Lehman Brothers filed for bankruptcy. Credit started drying up. The economy went into freefall. By 2009, homes in the Fresno area had lost more than half their value, the largest decline in the nation. At the same time, people living in Fresno were losing their jobs in droves; by November 2010, the unemployment rate had soared to 17 percent.
Meanwhile, the teaser rates on loans had expired, and borrowers’ mortgages were doubling. Scam artists and fraudsters descended like vultures, promising frantic homeowners relief from foreclosure, only to take their money and run.
This happened all over the country. Consider the story of Karina and Juan Santillan, who bought a home twenty miles east of Los Angeles in 1999. Juan had worked for twenty years at an ink-manufacturing plant, while Karina sold insurance. “A few years after they bought their home, the Santillans say, people started knocking on their door selling financial products,” The Atlantic reported. “It was easy money, the Santillans were told. Borrow against your house, it’s sure to gain value.” Like millions of Americans, the Santillans were persuaded to take out an adjustable-rate mortgage on their home. At the time, their monthly payment was $1,200. By 2009 it had risen to $3,000—and Karina had lost her job. Suddenly at risk of losing their house, they contacted a company that promised to protect them. After paying $6,800 for services that were supposed to help, they realized they had been scammed. Ten years after purchasing their home, they were forced to tell their four children they were going to have to leave.
This pattern played out with particular force in Fresno and Stockton. Local leaders pleaded with the federal government to declare the region a disaster area and send help. “Disaster area” was an apt description: entire neighborhoods were abandoned, and the area was suffering one of the highest foreclosure rates in the nation. Sometimes families were struggling so hard to pay their mortgages that they would abruptly pick up and leave. I heard stories of pets being abandoned because their owners could no longer afford to keep them—a phenomenon the Humane Society was reporting all across the country, from Little Rock to Cleveland to Albuquerque. When I visited Fresno, I was told that abandoned dogs had been seen roaming in packs. I felt like I was walking through the aftermath of a natural disaster. But this disaster was man-made.
When the crash finally bottomed out, 8.4 million Americans nationwide had lost their jobs. Roughly 5 million homeowners were at least two months behind on their mortgages. And 2.5 million foreclosures had been initiated.
Two and a half million foreclosures initiated. There is something clinical about saying it that way. Something that makes the human tragedy and trauma seem abstract.
Foreclosure is not a statistic.
Foreclosure is a husband suffering in silence, knowing he’s in trouble but too ashamed to tell his partner that he has failed. Foreclosure is a mother on the phone with her bank, pleading for more time—just until the school year is over. Foreclosure is the sheriff knocking at your door and ordering you out of your home. It is a grandmother on the sidewalk in tears, watching her life’s possessions being removed from her house by strangers and left exposed in the yard. It is learning from a neighbor that your house was just auctioned off on the steps of City Hall. It is the changing of locks, the immolation of dreams. It is a child learning for the first time that parents can be terrified, too.
Homeowners told me countless stories of personal catastrophe.And as the months dragged on, the news media continued to surface strange reports about irregularities in the foreclosure process. We learned about people whose banks couldn’t find their mortgage documents. There were stories of people discovering that they actually owed tens of thousands of dollars less than the banks said they did. A man in Florida had his house foreclosed on and put up for sale—even though he’d bought the house with cash and never had a mortgage.
Tales emerged of a process that became known as dual tracking. Through a program with the federal government, banks were working with borrowers on one track to modify loan terms, which was supposed to make it easier for people to stay in their homes. But often borrowers were working on a second track, too, foreclosing on homes anyway, even after making such modifications, even after the homeowner had spent several months paying the new reduced amount. The banks left homeowners with no explanation, no point of contact, and no recourse.
Clearly, something had gone awry. But it wasn’t until the end of September 2010 that a major part of the scandal would break wide open. That was when we learned that the country’s largest banks—including Bank of America, JPMorgan Chase, and Wells Fargo—had been illegally foreclosing on people’s homes since 2007, using a practice that became known as “robo-signing.”
We learned that to speed up the foreclosure process, financial institutions and their mortgage servicers hired people with no formal financial training—from Walmart floor workers to hair stylists—and placed them in “foreclosure expert” positions with one responsibility: sign off on foreclosures by the thousands.
In depositions, robo-signers acknowledged that they had little or no familiarity with the documents they were paid to approve. The job wasn’t to understand and evaluate; it was simply to sign their name, or to forge someone else’s. They got paid $10 an hour. And they got bonuses for volume. There was no accountability. No transparency. None of the due diligence required by law. From the banks’ point of view, the faster they got bad loans off their balance sheet, the faster their stock price would rebound. And if that meant breaking the law, so be it. They could afford the fine. It was painful to me when I realized that the banks viewed a fine as just the cost of doing business. It
became clear to me that they had built it into their bottom line. It was a damning portrait of an aspect of Wall Street culture that persists, the part that seems to care little—if at all—about the collateral damage caused by recklessness and greed.
I had seen it up close in the district attorney’s office, where we’d prosecuted mortgage scammers for defrauding the elderly and veterans. In 2009, as DA, I created a mortgage fraud unit to fill in the areas of chronic under-enforcement by the federal government. But as the foreclosure crisis ballooned, I was eager to take on bigger culprits, to go after the bad-acting banks themselves. And it seemed I might have a chance.
On October 13, 2010, the attorneys general of all fifty states agreed to join together in what’s known as a multistate investigation. It was billed as a comprehensive, nationwide law enforcement effort to uncover the banks’ actions in the foreclosure crisis.
I was eager to join the fight, but there was just one small problem: I wasn’t yet California’s attorney general.
I was in the middle of my campaign when the multistate was announced, and there were still three weeks left until Election Day. The polls were predicting a very close race.
* * *
• • •
On Election Night 2010, I lost the race for attorney general. Three weeks later, I won.
I’d started the evening with what had become a ritual: a friends-and-family dinner. Then we headed to the Election Night party, which we held on the San Francisco waterfront, in the headquarters of my dear friend Mimi Silbert’s Delancey Street Foundation—a leading residential self-help and job training organization for addicts, substance abusers, the formerly incarcerated, and others trying to turn their lives around. We arrived as results started to trickle in from precincts around the state. In the main room, supporters were gathered, waiting in anticipation for the results. Behind them stood risers for TV cameras and press pointed at the stage. We went in through the back and into a side room where my staff was gathered. They had arranged four tables into a square, and most of them were sitting there, staring at their laptops, hitting refresh on the websites keeping track of the tally. I greeted everyone, my spirits high, and thanked them for all their hard work.
The Truths We Hold Page 8