The Judge Hubert sign, incredibly, is still out there, its frame held down by sandbags. I wish I still had Oscar’s saw. There he stands, fit and smug in his desert camo, briefly emerged from the turret of his tank. You know, for Justice. Apparently he came back from a few years of murdering random brown people to protect rich white people’s access to oil—excuse me, “fighting terrorism”—and his big revelation was: You know what kind of career all this arrogant, detached, technologically based racist killing has really prepared me for? The Law! And not advocacy, either, but impartiality, because
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