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In Philadelphia, a Progressive D.A. Tests the Power — and Learns the Limits — of His Office	In Philadelphia, a Progressive D.A. Tests the Power — and Learns the Limits — of His Office
2018-11-01 10:35:06 UTC	2018-11-02 23:15:06 UTC (1 day later)
On a tour of law schools this fall to recruit young prosecutors, the Philadelphia district attorney began his pitch at the University of Chicago by denouncing the profession he hoped many of the students would join. “Not all prosecutors have worked in the interest of justice,” Larry Krasner said. “They are retributive.” He drew out the word with an exaggerated Midwestern twang. “They are political. What they are involved with has elements of racism, classism, picking on the poor. What they do is connected not to the best but to the worst elements of policing.”	On a tour of law schools this fall to recruit young prosecutors, the Philadelphia district attorney began his pitch at the University of Chicago by denouncing the profession he hoped many of the students would join. “Not all prosecutors have worked in the interest of justice,” Larry Krasner said. “They are retributive.” He drew out the word with an exaggerated Midwestern twang. “They are political. What they are involved with has elements of racism, classism, picking on the poor. What they do is connected not to the best but to the worst elements of policing.”
By a show of hands, half of the 80 students in the packed lecture hall said they wanted to go into public-interest law or become public defenders. They held the same low opinion of prosecutors. They were committed to fighting against district attorneys. And they were Krasner’s target audience. The head of one of the country’s largest prosecutor’s offices was making the case that the most effective way to transform the criminal-justice system — to make it more just — was from a position of authority within that system.	By a show of hands, half of the 80 students in the packed lecture hall said they wanted to go into public-interest law or become public defenders. They held the same low opinion of prosecutors. They were committed to fighting against district attorneys. And they were Krasner’s target audience. The head of one of the country’s largest prosecutor’s offices was making the case that the most effective way to transform the criminal-justice system — to make it more just — was from a position of authority within that system.
“A progressive D.A. is not the same thing as a traditional D.A.,” he told the law students. “You might call me a prosecutor with com-passion. Or a public defender with pow-er.”	“A progressive D.A. is not the same thing as a traditional D.A.,” he told the law students. “You might call me a prosecutor with com-passion. Or a public defender with pow-er.”
Krasner, 57, has salt-and-pepper hair, dark glasses and a mouth that is a thin horizontal line, even when he’s smiling. He looks often to be both unwaveringly self-assured and wryly amused, so at ease in a hunch-shouldered awkwardness that he seems almost debonair. “Despite the fact that I look like I used to hang out with George Bush in Skull and Bones,” he said in Chicago to laughter, “we had some food stamps when I was in high school.”	Krasner, 57, has salt-and-pepper hair, dark glasses and a mouth that is a thin horizontal line, even when he’s smiling. He looks often to be both unwaveringly self-assured and wryly amused, so at ease in a hunch-shouldered awkwardness that he seems almost debonair. “Despite the fact that I look like I used to hang out with George Bush in Skull and Bones,” he said in Chicago to laughter, “we had some food stamps when I was in high school.”
Before winning office last November, Krasner was an improbable — some people said unqualified — district attorney. He’d been a civil rights attorney for the previous 25 years. Before that he worked as a public defender. During his career, he had sued the Philadelphia Police Department for abuses on 75 separate occasions. Not once had he prosecuted a case. Of the largest cities in America, Philadelphia is the poorest and has the highest rates of incarceration and opioid-overdose deaths. Krasner argued that a slate of ambitious reforms — ending cash bail, decriminalizing low-level offenses, reining in police and prosecutorial misconduct — was the way to make the city not only more equitable but also safer.	Before winning office last November, Krasner was an improbable — some people said unqualified — district attorney. He’d been a civil rights attorney for the previous 25 years. Before that he worked as a public defender. During his career, he had sued the Philadelphia Police Department for abuses on 75 separate occasions. Not once had he prosecuted a case. Of the largest cities in America, Philadelphia is the poorest and has the highest rates of incarceration and opioid-overdose deaths. Krasner argued that a slate of ambitious reforms — ending cash bail, decriminalizing low-level offenses, reining in police and prosecutorial misconduct — was the way to make the city not only more equitable but also safer.
Krasner represents a profound reimagining of the D.A. role. Of the country’s more than 2,300 chief prosecutors, many still run for office unopposed on a familiar “law and order” platform. But beginning in 2013, when the late Ken Thompson unseated a 23-year incumbent in Brooklyn, voters have elected 30 reform-minded prosecutors, in municipalities as varied as Corpus Christi, Kansas City and San Francisco. District attorneys wield the immense power to decide whether to charge someone with a crime or not, to determine the number and severity of charges and to essentially set prison terms in the bulk of cases that end in plea deals. Because of this discretion, district attorneys have contributed more than any other single class of elected officials to the quadrupling of the number of people incarcerated in the country since the 1980s. This is why the billionaire donor George Soros has been supporting progressives in local prosecutor elections, and why the civil rights activist Shaun King, calling D.A.s “the gatekeeper of America’s justice system,” recently helped found a political action committee to do the same. Last year, when the A.C.L.U. of Massachusetts began a statewide education campaign to elect prosecutors who promised reforms, it did so with a declaration that “district attorneys are the most powerful people in the criminal-justice system.”	Krasner represents a profound reimagining of the D.A. role. Of the country’s more than 2,300 chief prosecutors, many still run for office unopposed on a familiar “law and order” platform. But beginning in 2013, when the late Ken Thompson unseated a 23-year incumbent in Brooklyn, voters have elected 30 reform-minded prosecutors, in municipalities as varied as Corpus Christi, Kansas City and San Francisco. District attorneys wield the immense power to decide whether to charge someone with a crime or not, to determine the number and severity of charges and to essentially set prison terms in the bulk of cases that end in plea deals. Because of this discretion, district attorneys have contributed more than any other single class of elected officials to the quadrupling of the number of people incarcerated in the country since the 1980s. This is why the billionaire donor George Soros has been supporting progressives in local prosecutor elections, and why the civil rights activist Shaun King, calling D.A.s “the gatekeeper of America’s justice system,” recently helped found a political action committee to do the same. Last year, when the A.C.L.U. of Massachusetts began a statewide education campaign to elect prosecutors who promised reforms, it did so with a declaration that “district attorneys are the most powerful people in the criminal-justice system.”
The law students in Chicago were rapt. They had begun lining up an hour before Krasner’s arrival, forcing a move to a larger classroom. As Krasner spoke, you could sense careers in the balance. Hands shot up. The students had questions they needed answered.	The law students in Chicago were rapt. They had begun lining up an hour before Krasner’s arrival, forcing a move to a larger classroom. As Krasner spoke, you could sense careers in the balance. Hands shot up. The students had questions they needed answered.
Shouldn’t we do like you, and at least become a public defender first?	Shouldn’t we do like you, and at least become a public defender first?
Have you had an impact on police practices?	Have you had an impact on police practices?
How can you call yourself compassionate if all you’re doing is charging and prosecuting a lesser sentence? How is that more just?	How can you call yourself compassionate if all you’re doing is charging and prosecuting a lesser sentence? How is that more just?
I’d been asking some of these same questions of Krasner for almost a year, since I started reporting on him after his election last fall. He was the most audacious of this new crop of district attorneys. He had become a model for other progressives seeking office — for outsiders with grass-roots support and uncompromising platforms for change, for D.A. candidates proclaiming themselves the next Larry Krasner.	I’d been asking some of these same questions of Krasner for almost a year, since I started reporting on him after his election last fall. He was the most audacious of this new crop of district attorneys. He had become a model for other progressives seeking office — for outsiders with grass-roots support and uncompromising platforms for change, for D.A. candidates proclaiming themselves the next Larry Krasner.
Now, as Krasner neared the end of his first year in office, I wanted to understand just how much a progressive district attorney could and couldn’t change. In the arcane bureaucracy of Philadelphia’s criminal legal system, he had found himself at odds with police officers, judges and his own line attorneys. He had bumped up against the intransigence of Pennsylvania’s Republican-controlled legislature and the raids and bans of the Trump administration. The concept of justice in America has long been imagined narrowly — if someone is victimized, then someone else must be incarcerated. Responses to crime are often fueled by fear and prejudice and raw desire for revenge. Along with other reformers, Krasner was taking on the monumental task of trying to redefine the country’s values.	Now, as Krasner neared the end of his first year in office, I wanted to understand just how much a progressive district attorney could and couldn’t change. In the arcane bureaucracy of Philadelphia’s criminal legal system, he had found himself at odds with police officers, judges and his own line attorneys. He had bumped up against the intransigence of Pennsylvania’s Republican-controlled legislature and the raids and bans of the Trump administration. The concept of justice in America has long been imagined narrowly — if someone is victimized, then someone else must be incarcerated. Responses to crime are often fueled by fear and prejudice and raw desire for revenge. Along with other reformers, Krasner was taking on the monumental task of trying to redefine the country’s values.
“I view this as the most important civil rights issue of our time,” he told the future lawyers in Chicago. “We’re going to turn the United States into not the most incarcerated place in the world. We’re going to turn the country into a place where criminal records are not documents of racism.” He was calling on the idealistic and the moral among them to join him in the City of Brotherly Love.	“I view this as the most important civil rights issue of our time,” he told the future lawyers in Chicago. “We’re going to turn the United States into not the most incarcerated place in the world. We’re going to turn the country into a place where criminal records are not documents of racism.” He was calling on the idealistic and the moral among them to join him in the City of Brotherly Love.
“You can get in the murk and help make decisions, or you can leave it to Jeff Sessions,” Krasner said. “It’s easy for him. He says, ‘Hang ’em,’ and then he has a sandwich.”	“You can get in the murk and help make decisions, or you can leave it to Jeff Sessions,” Krasner said. “It’s easy for him. He says, ‘Hang ’em,’ and then he has a sandwich.”
In a way that feels peculiar to Philadelphia, and that predates District Attorney Larry Krasner by several years, a commitment to criminal-justice reform has come to pervade the city. It may be the extent of Philly’s current woes, how in the close-quartered city the problems are experienced more uniformly than elsewhere — how it’s impossible not to confront the homeless, the heroin-slumped, those raging under the spell of psychosis. It may be the city’s homer pride, or the degree to which the city had careened in the “lock ’em up” direction. City Councilman Curtis Jones Jr., who is co-chairman of the Special Committee on Criminal Justice Reform, put it this way: “I’ve got two kinds of colleagues on the council: tree-hugging, thug-loving liberals who want to save souls and fiscal conservatives who want to save budgets.” In an impoverished city in which a quarter of its expenditures goes to public safety, Jones said everyone gets the importance of justice reform — “from a monetary standpoint.”	In a way that feels peculiar to Philadelphia, and that predates District Attorney Larry Krasner by several years, a commitment to criminal-justice reform has come to pervade the city. It may be the extent of Philly’s current woes, how in the close-quartered city the problems are experienced more uniformly than elsewhere — how it’s impossible not to confront the homeless, the heroin-slumped, those raging under the spell of psychosis. It may be the city’s homer pride, or the degree to which the city had careened in the “lock ’em up” direction. City Councilman Curtis Jones Jr., who is co-chairman of the Special Committee on Criminal Justice Reform, put it this way: “I’ve got two kinds of colleagues on the council: tree-hugging, thug-loving liberals who want to save souls and fiscal conservatives who want to save budgets.” In an impoverished city in which a quarter of its expenditures goes to public safety, Jones said everyone gets the importance of justice reform — “from a monetary standpoint.”
The three-year-old Special Committee on Criminal Justice Reform includes leaders from the City Council, the mayor’s office, the courts, the prisons, community groups and the public defender’s office. This type of collaboration was partly what led the MacArthur Foundation, in 2015, to name Philadelphia one of its Safety and Justice Challenge sites, with the goal of cutting the jail population of more than 8,000 by a third within three years. The average length of stay on State Road, as the city’s jails are known, was then 95 days, four times the national average. As part of the MacArthur initiative, Philadelphia figured out how to move people through the jail system faster, getting them a hearing; the city introduced an early review process for low-level offenders who couldn’t afford bail, releasing many more of them with electronic monitoring or into diversion programs that required treatment as an alternative to conviction. Two years into the effort, before Krasner’s first day as D.A., the city’s jail population had already shrunk by 20 percent.	The three-year-old Special Committee on Criminal Justice Reform includes leaders from the City Council, the mayor’s office, the courts, the prisons, community groups and the public defender’s office. This type of collaboration was partly what led the MacArthur Foundation, in 2015, to name Philadelphia one of its Safety and Justice Challenge sites, with the goal of cutting the jail population of more than 8,000 by a third within three years. The average length of stay on State Road, as the city’s jails are known, was then 95 days, four times the national average. As part of the MacArthur initiative, Philadelphia figured out how to move people through the jail system faster, getting them a hearing; the city introduced an early review process for low-level offenders who couldn’t afford bail, releasing many more of them with electronic monitoring or into diversion programs that required treatment as an alternative to conviction. Two years into the effort, before Krasner’s first day as D.A., the city’s jail population had already shrunk by 20 percent.
Previous district attorneys in Philadelphia — Lynne Abraham, Ed Rendell and Arlen Specter among them — were famously “tough on crime,” building their political careers by racking up convictions. Abraham, in office from 1991 to 2010, earned the nickname Queen of Death for the frequency with which her prosecutors sought capital charges. Seth Williams, who succeeded Abraham to become Philadelphia’s first African-American D.A., was supposed to be part of the city’s collective efforts toward “decarceration.” But last year Williams was charged with 23 counts of bribery, extortion and fraud, and he is now serving a five-year prison term.	Previous district attorneys in Philadelphia — Lynne Abraham, Ed Rendell and Arlen Specter among them — were famously “tough on crime,” building their political careers by racking up convictions. Abraham, in office from 1991 to 2010, earned the nickname Queen of Death for the frequency with which her prosecutors sought capital charges. Seth Williams, who succeeded Abraham to become Philadelphia’s first African-American D.A., was supposed to be part of the city’s collective efforts toward “decarceration.” But last year Williams was charged with 23 counts of bribery, extortion and fraud, and he is now serving a five-year prison term.
Community-activist groups in Philadelphia seized the opportunity, forming the Coalition for a Just District Attorney. The coalition’s different groups hailed from the city’s African-American, Latino and L.G.B.T.Q. communities and represented the Philadelphia populations most affected by the criminal-justice system: immigrant families, incarcerated teenagers, sex workers and victims of violent crimes. They joined forces with the young Bernie Sanders ground troops of Reclaim Philadelphia and the local chapter of the A.C.L.U. and the racial-justice group Color of Change. The initial hope was that Keir Bradford-Grey, the first African-American to lead Philadelphia’s Defender Association, would run to replace Williams. But she decided to continue working as a public defender. Krasner then entered the race, an extreme outsider talking about radical changes to the D.A.’s office.	Community-activist groups in Philadelphia seized the opportunity, forming the Coalition for a Just District Attorney. The coalition’s different groups hailed from the city’s African-American, Latino and L.G.B.T.Q. communities and represented the Philadelphia populations most affected by the criminal-justice system: immigrant families, incarcerated teenagers, sex workers and victims of violent crimes. They joined forces with the young Bernie Sanders ground troops of Reclaim Philadelphia and the local chapter of the A.C.L.U. and the racial-justice group Color of Change. The initial hope was that Keir Bradford-Grey, the first African-American to lead Philadelphia’s Defender Association, would run to replace Williams. But she decided to continue working as a public defender. Krasner then entered the race, an extreme outsider talking about radical changes to the D.A.’s office.
Krasner grew up in St. Louis. His Jewish father was a letter carrier and a crime novelist; in high school, his mother became a teenage evangelical preacher known as Little Frazier. At the University of Chicago, Krasner majored in Spanish and literature, and during his first days at Stanford Law School, he met his wife, Lisa Rau, now a judge in the Pennsylvania Court of Common Pleas.	Krasner grew up in St. Louis. His Jewish father was a letter carrier and a crime novelist; in high school, his mother became a teenage evangelical preacher known as Little Frazier. At the University of Chicago, Krasner majored in Spanish and literature, and during his first days at Stanford Law School, he met his wife, Lisa Rau, now a judge in the Pennsylvania Court of Common Pleas.
In the summer of 2000, when Philadelphia hosted the Republican National Convention, the city’s cops ran roughshod over free speech and the right of assembly, arresting about 400 demonstrators. Abraham’s office secured exorbitant bails for the protesters, charging many with felonies. For the next four years, Krasner worked pro bono to resolve a number of these cases.	In the summer of 2000, when Philadelphia hosted the Republican National Convention, the city’s cops ran roughshod over free speech and the right of assembly, arresting about 400 demonstrators. Abraham’s office secured exorbitant bails for the protesters, charging many with felonies. For the next four years, Krasner worked pro bono to resolve a number of these cases.
It was during this process that he teamed up with Jody Dodd, a social-justice activist who started the Up Against the Law legal collective and now works in the D.A.’s office. Those arrested in the city for an act of idealistic protest often phoned Dodd, and through her reached Krasner. He went on to represent Occupy movement squatters and Black Lives Matter organizers, protesters of school closings and police shootings and Philadelphians opposing casino construction.	It was during this process that he teamed up with Jody Dodd, a social-justice activist who started the Up Against the Law legal collective and now works in the D.A.’s office. Those arrested in the city for an act of idealistic protest often phoned Dodd, and through her reached Krasner. He went on to represent Occupy movement squatters and Black Lives Matter organizers, protesters of school closings and police shootings and Philadelphians opposing casino construction.
Philadelphia’s Democratic Party establishment did not support Krasner’s candidacy in the primary; in the general election, The Inquirer, in an overwhelmingly Democratic city, endorsed the Republican, a career prosecutor. But the coalition of activists mobilized for Krasner. Along with the Working Families Party, they knocked on more than 60,000 doors. “Most people we spoke to didn’t know they voted for a D.A.,” said Josh Glenn, a founder of the Youth, Art & Self-Empowerment Project, which serves as an advocate for Philadelphia juveniles locked up in adult prisons. “We told them that the district attorney is more important to their lives than any other politician. They had the opportunity to vote for justice.”	Philadelphia’s Democratic Party establishment did not support Krasner’s candidacy in the primary; in the general election, The Inquirer, in an overwhelmingly Democratic city, endorsed the Republican, a career prosecutor. But the coalition of activists mobilized for Krasner. Along with the Working Families Party, they knocked on more than 60,000 doors. “Most people we spoke to didn’t know they voted for a D.A.,” said Josh Glenn, a founder of the Youth, Art & Self-Empowerment Project, which serves as an advocate for Philadelphia juveniles locked up in adult prisons. “We told them that the district attorney is more important to their lives than any other politician. They had the opportunity to vote for justice.”
The offices of Krasner’s private civil rights practice were in Philadelphia’s “Gayborhood,” on an in-between back street, an out-of-time lane paved in wooden blocks. When I went there last November, a week after the election, Krasner was already debating what to do about the D.A. staff of 600 he would inherit. He said he wanted to get his personnel right, and as quickly as possible: “It’s crucial to have a critical mass of people who share your vision.” Krasner told me then that he believed only some of the city’s long-serving prosecutors were what he called “snakes,” intentionally withholding exculpatory evidence and intimidating witnesses into false testimony. Others had been doing their jobs dutifully in what Krasner characterized as his predecessors’ win-at-all-costs culture. “It’s harder to talk to those people,” he explained, “and say, ‘Thank you for your life’s work, the report card is F because from the very beginning you were approaching this the wrong way.’ ”	The offices of Krasner’s private civil rights practice were in Philadelphia’s “Gayborhood,” on an in-between back street, an out-of-time lane paved in wooden blocks. When I went there last November, a week after the election, Krasner was already debating what to do about the D.A. staff of 600 he would inherit. He said he wanted to get his personnel right, and as quickly as possible: “It’s crucial to have a critical mass of people who share your vision.” Krasner told me then that he believed only some of the city’s long-serving prosecutors were what he called “snakes,” intentionally withholding exculpatory evidence and intimidating witnesses into false testimony. Others had been doing their jobs dutifully in what Krasner characterized as his predecessors’ win-at-all-costs culture. “It’s harder to talk to those people,” he explained, “and say, ‘Thank you for your life’s work, the report card is F because from the very beginning you were approaching this the wrong way.’ ”
Through the organization Fair and Just Prosecution, which formed in 2017 to support the growing ranks of progressive D.A.s, Krasner consulted with Kim Ogg, Houston’s first openly gay top prosecutor and the first Democrat to hold the office in nearly 40 years. Ogg told him that line prosecutors had worked actively against her when she was taking over last year, even deleting electronic files on a controversial case. Krasner feared the same thing. “When I say there’s danger of destruction of files,” he told me, “I mean there’s a [expletive] bonfire. There are shredders.”	Through the organization Fair and Just Prosecution, which formed in 2017 to support the growing ranks of progressive D.A.s, Krasner consulted with Kim Ogg, Houston’s first openly gay top prosecutor and the first Democrat to hold the office in nearly 40 years. Ogg told him that line prosecutors had worked actively against her when she was taking over last year, even deleting electronic files on a controversial case. Krasner feared the same thing. “When I say there’s danger of destruction of files,” he told me, “I mean there’s a [expletive] bonfire. There are shredders.”
Krasner, without political or bureaucratic experience, could set policy, but he needed his assistant D.A.s to carry it out daily in the grind of the city’s courtrooms. “It only comes out later that people in this office have not followed my policies for months,” Krasner told me. So in January, on his fourth day in office, Krasner fired 30 of his prosecutors without warning. In Philadelphia’s parochial criminal-justice community, with its legacies and overfamiliarity, people called the dismissals the “Snow Day Massacre.” I spoke to some of the fired prosecutors who were “blindsided,” as one put it. They rejected the assertion that they or their colleagues were corrupt or unfairly punitive. The dismissals were proof, I heard repeatedly, of Krasner’s disdain for the practice he now oversaw. Within the traditional binary view of the legal system, you were either for victims or for criminals, and Krasner looked to many to be on the wrong side for a D.A. None of the fired lawyers I interviewed agreed to speak on the record — they were worried about their careers in the city.	Krasner, without political or bureaucratic experience, could set policy, but he needed his assistant D.A.s to carry it out daily in the grind of the city’s courtrooms. “It only comes out later that people in this office have not followed my policies for months,” Krasner told me. So in January, on his fourth day in office, Krasner fired 30 of his prosecutors without warning. In Philadelphia’s parochial criminal-justice community, with its legacies and overfamiliarity, people called the dismissals the “Snow Day Massacre.” I spoke to some of the fired prosecutors who were “blindsided,” as one put it. They rejected the assertion that they or their colleagues were corrupt or unfairly punitive. The dismissals were proof, I heard repeatedly, of Krasner’s disdain for the practice he now oversaw. Within the traditional binary view of the legal system, you were either for victims or for criminals, and Krasner looked to many to be on the wrong side for a D.A. None of the fired lawyers I interviewed agreed to speak on the record — they were worried about their careers in the city.
In the weeks after Krasner’s mass firings, I spoke to Maria Quiñones Sánchez, a Philadelphia City Council member and an early Krasner supporter. She said her friend of 20 years would have to learn the political art of compromise, of adjustment. “When you disrupt a system, the status quo, you make people uncomfortable,” she told me. “The biggest thing is, how do you move people in a way that it doesn’t become contentious, that people don’t start hating people.”	In the weeks after Krasner’s mass firings, I spoke to Maria Quiñones Sánchez, a Philadelphia City Council member and an early Krasner supporter. She said her friend of 20 years would have to learn the political art of compromise, of adjustment. “When you disrupt a system, the status quo, you make people uncomfortable,” she told me. “The biggest thing is, how do you move people in a way that it doesn’t become contentious, that people don’t start hating people.”
By this spring, a total of 80 D.A. staff members had departed. Krasner said that in a tight legal market the office had managed to hire many of their replacements. He increased starting salaries and secured raises for 230 of his attorneys. The turnover, he said, was a plus: “There’s an opportunity for people philosophically uncomfortable to leave for other jobs and to have a more rapid culture change here.” His recruiting trips to law schools were a way to accelerate that change.	By this spring, a total of 80 D.A. staff members had departed. Krasner said that in a tight legal market the office had managed to hire many of their replacements. He increased starting salaries and secured raises for 230 of his attorneys. The turnover, he said, was a plus: “There’s an opportunity for people philosophically uncomfortable to leave for other jobs and to have a more rapid culture change here.” His recruiting trips to law schools were a way to accelerate that change.
If there is a deep current of discontent within Krasner’s office today, it remains mostly below the surface. Richard Sax, who retired from the Philadelphia D.A.’s office in 2017 after 37 years on the job, has been among the few former assistant district attorneys to critique Krasner openly. He was one of the prosecutors on the first case that Krasner’s conviction-review unit overturned in May. The unit, expanded under Krasner, decided that a man sentenced to life without parole nine years ago, for a crime when he was 17, had no motive to kill his friend and had a valid alibi, and that past prosecutors may have failed to share police reports of another suspect. “An egregious example of police and prosecutorial misconduct,” Krasner’s homicide-unit chief declared. Sax maintained “zero doubt of the man’s guilt.”	If there is a deep current of discontent within Krasner’s office today, it remains mostly below the surface. Richard Sax, who retired from the Philadelphia D.A.’s office in 2017 after 37 years on the job, has been among the few former assistant district attorneys to critique Krasner openly. He was one of the prosecutors on the first case that Krasner’s conviction-review unit overturned in May. The unit, expanded under Krasner, decided that a man sentenced to life without parole nine years ago, for a crime when he was 17, had no motive to kill his friend and had a valid alibi, and that past prosecutors may have failed to share police reports of another suspect. “An egregious example of police and prosecutorial misconduct,” Krasner’s homicide-unit chief declared. Sax maintained “zero doubt of the man’s guilt.”
Sax sent me screenshots of texts he had received from a few attorneys and police officers complaining of Krasner’s office giving out “sweetheart” plea deals and undercharging for serious crimes. In one thread, a cop couldn’t believe the D.A.’s office refused to file a weapons charge against a fleeing suspect after the police said they found a gun along his escape route. Previous Philadelphia D.A.s accepted 97 percent of the cases brought to them by cops, as if the police and not prosecutors were the ultimate arbiter of what was a punishable offense.	Sax sent me screenshots of texts he had received from a few attorneys and police officers complaining of Krasner’s office giving out “sweetheart” plea deals and undercharging for serious crimes. In one thread, a cop couldn’t believe the D.A.’s office refused to file a weapons charge against a fleeing suspect after the police said they found a gun along his escape route. Previous Philadelphia D.A.s accepted 97 percent of the cases brought to them by cops, as if the police and not prosecutors were the ultimate arbiter of what was a punishable offense.
On Twitter, two people claiming to be current Philadelphia prosecutors had started anonymous accounts to bombard Krasner with broadsides. The accounts regularly bemoaned the inexperience of the new assistant district attorneys, blamed Krasner’s reforms for abetting crime and defended the work of the city’s past district attorneys. Because this is Philly, there were also tweets interspersed about the Eagles, the Phillies and the Sixers. The names on the accounts are Wen Baxman and Mrs. Wen Baxman, both plays on Ben Waxman, communications director for the D.A.’s office. Waxman couldn’t say for certain that the two accounts were run by district-attorney staff, but he traded direct messages with one of the Baxmans. “We’ve had productive dialogue about policy, and they said some nice things about Larry’s work,” Waxman told me.	On Twitter, two people claiming to be current Philadelphia prosecutors had started anonymous accounts to bombard Krasner with broadsides. The accounts regularly bemoaned the inexperience of the new assistant district attorneys, blamed Krasner’s reforms for abetting crime and defended the work of the city’s past district attorneys. Because this is Philly, there were also tweets interspersed about the Eagles, the Phillies and the Sixers. The names on the accounts are Wen Baxman and Mrs. Wen Baxman, both plays on Ben Waxman, communications director for the D.A.’s office. Waxman couldn’t say for certain that the two accounts were run by district-attorney staff, but he traded direct messages with one of the Baxmans. “We’ve had productive dialogue about policy, and they said some nice things about Larry’s work,” Waxman told me.
As district attorney, Krasner was using the discretion of his office to revise policies, to introduce new approaches to criminal justice. He was also testing the limits of his powers. I was in Philadelphia in January when he introduced the first of his new initiatives. With staff gathered in the mezzanine gallery of their building, Krasner began his address in Spanish. He described how Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents had been lying in wait at Philadelphia courthouses, snatching undocumented immigrants outside proceedings unrelated to citizenship. As a result, he said, people from immigrant communities were fearful to come to court as victims or witnesses, leaving everyone in the city less safe. He announced the creation of a new position, a counsel whose sole job would be to protect the undocumented from any collateral consequences of their involvement with the legal system.	As district attorney, Krasner was using the discretion of his office to revise policies, to introduce new approaches to criminal justice. He was also testing the limits of his powers. I was in Philadelphia in January when he introduced the first of his new initiatives. With staff gathered in the mezzanine gallery of their building, Krasner began his address in Spanish. He described how Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents had been lying in wait at Philadelphia courthouses, snatching undocumented immigrants outside proceedings unrelated to citizenship. As a result, he said, people from immigrant communities were fearful to come to court as victims or witnesses, leaving everyone in the city less safe. He announced the creation of a new position, a counsel whose sole job would be to protect the undocumented from any collateral consequences of their involvement with the legal system.
In February, Krasner sent a memo to his entire staff with his next set of directives. Effective immediately, his attorneys would offer plea deals to nonviolent offenders below the bottom range of Pennsylvania sentencing guidelines. His assistant D.A.s were no longer to prosecute marijuana possession in cases in which there was no intent to sell. Nor would the office charge sex workers with a crime before a third ~~arrest.~~ And prosecutors were instructed to handle any retail theft with a value of less than $500 with a citation, the lowest possible offense under Pennsylvania law. “We’re going to prosecute to proportional common sense,” Mike Lee, who ran the nonprofit Philadelphia Lawyers for Social Equity before directing legislation for Krasner, told me.	In February, Krasner sent a memo to his entire staff with his next set of directives. Effective immediately, his attorneys would offer plea deals to nonviolent offenders below the bottom range of Pennsylvania sentencing guidelines. His assistant D.A.s were no longer to prosecute marijuana possession in cases in which there was no intent to sell. Nor would the office charge sex workers with a crime before a third prostitution conviction. And prosecutors were instructed to handle any retail theft with a value of less than $500 with a citation, the lowest possible offense under Pennsylvania law. “We’re going to prosecute to proportional common sense,” Mike Lee, who ran the nonprofit Philadelphia Lawyers for Social Equity before directing legislation for Krasner, told me.
Community activists who campaigned for Krasner now met monthly with district-attorney staff. They touted a “co-government” model; Krasner described “a movement that’s in office.” That partnership also seemed distinct to Philadelphia. I spoke to Kim Foxx, the progressive prosecutor in Chicago’s Cook County, and she regretted not having close ties to the activist groups that helped elect her in 2016, mostly as a protest against a predecessor embroiled in the cover-up of the Laquan McDonald shooting. “These same groups say, ‘Abolish the police,’ ” Foxx said. “How do you bridge that? I don’t know what that space looks like here.”	Community activists who campaigned for Krasner now met monthly with district-attorney staff. They touted a “co-government” model; Krasner described “a movement that’s in office.” That partnership also seemed distinct to Philadelphia. I spoke to Kim Foxx, the progressive prosecutor in Chicago’s Cook County, and she regretted not having close ties to the activist groups that helped elect her in 2016, mostly as a protest against a predecessor embroiled in the cover-up of the Laquan McDonald shooting. “These same groups say, ‘Abolish the police,’ ” Foxx said. “How do you bridge that? I don’t know what that space looks like here.”
For Krasner’s institutional partners, the “revolutionary transformation” the activists were demanding was too bold. “We like to take things slowly,” Marsha Neifield, president judge of the Philadelphia Municipal Court, said of the early bail review set up as part of the MacArthur grant. “We like to figure out what any problems are, so we can work out the kinks.” Krasner was proposing structural changes, challenging Philadelphians to conceive of crime and punishment differently. But as an elected official, he was bound to fall somewhere between the activists and the politicians, frustrating both.	For Krasner’s institutional partners, the “revolutionary transformation” the activists were demanding was too bold. “We like to take things slowly,” Marsha Neifield, president judge of the Philadelphia Municipal Court, said of the early bail review set up as part of the MacArthur grant. “We like to figure out what any problems are, so we can work out the kinks.” Krasner was proposing structural changes, challenging Philadelphians to conceive of crime and punishment differently. But as an elected official, he was bound to fall somewhere between the activists and the politicians, frustrating both.
In the courts, the city’s hundred-plus judges have largely accepted a district attorney with a seemingly novel approach to justice. But there had been some pushback from judges uncomfortable with the new dynamic. I heard from attorneys in both the district attorney’s and public defender’s offices that certain judges had repeatedly chastised prosecutors for being too lenient. Some judges criticized Krasner’s reforms in court, telling assistant D.A.s that they weren’t upholding the obligations of the commonwealth. Philadelphia had sentenced more juveniles to life without the possibility of parole than any other city in the world. In 2016, the Supreme Court ruled that the ban on mandatory life-without-parole sentences for juveniles must be applied retroactively, but in a couple of rare measures, judges had rejected Krasner’s resentencing proposals as too merciful. In one extreme instance, a common pleas judge became incensed when a prosecutor refused to follow her orders to charge a probation violation before a new weapons arrest. The judge removed Krasner’s prosecutor from the case. She then appointed a defense attorney as “special prosecutor.”	In the courts, the city’s hundred-plus judges have largely accepted a district attorney with a seemingly novel approach to justice. But there had been some pushback from judges uncomfortable with the new dynamic. I heard from attorneys in both the district attorney’s and public defender’s offices that certain judges had repeatedly chastised prosecutors for being too lenient. Some judges criticized Krasner’s reforms in court, telling assistant D.A.s that they weren’t upholding the obligations of the commonwealth. Philadelphia had sentenced more juveniles to life without the possibility of parole than any other city in the world. In 2016, the Supreme Court ruled that the ban on mandatory life-without-parole sentences for juveniles must be applied retroactively, but in a couple of rare measures, judges had rejected Krasner’s resentencing proposals as too merciful. In one extreme instance, a common pleas judge became incensed when a prosecutor refused to follow her orders to charge a probation violation before a new weapons arrest. The judge removed Krasner’s prosecutor from the case. She then appointed a defense attorney as “special prosecutor.”
As part of his February policy memo, Krasner instructed his attorneys always to state the projected cost to taxpayers of any prison sentence they asked for in court. He thought everyone would benefit if his attorneys had to explain why the length of a punishment was worth the roughly $42,000 price to lock someone up for a year. “We give out 75 years like we’re giving away candy,” he told me. But there were judges who simply didn’t tolerate that criminal-justice lesson in their courtrooms. A judge exercises much control over a young attorney’s professional life, and Krasner was aware that many of his prosecutors had decided it best to keep quiet on the price of a prison sentence.	As part of his February policy memo, Krasner instructed his attorneys always to state the projected cost to taxpayers of any prison sentence they asked for in court. He thought everyone would benefit if his attorneys had to explain why the length of a punishment was worth the roughly $42,000 price to lock someone up for a year. “We give out 75 years like we’re giving away candy,” he told me. But there were judges who simply didn’t tolerate that criminal-justice lesson in their courtrooms. A judge exercises much control over a young attorney’s professional life, and Krasner was aware that many of his prosecutors had decided it best to keep quiet on the price of a prison sentence.
“Every single day, we are trying to write policy, and also have policy carried out,” Krasner told me. “That’s the real struggle. It’s not flicking a light switch on or off. Culture eats policy.”	“Every single day, we are trying to write policy, and also have policy carried out,” Krasner told me. “That’s the real struggle. It’s not flicking a light switch on or off. Culture eats policy.”
Bail hearings in Philadelphia occur in the basement of the city’s main courthouse, in three round-the-clock shifts, seven days a week. Behind a glass partition, a prosecutor and a defender sit at opposite tables facing a magistrate. The defendants appear one after another on television screens, beamed in via video conference from various booking centers in the city. Generally, a defendant sits in a chair, alone in front of a cinder-block wall, and stares into a camera. Earlier this year, I watched a hearing for a woman accused of simple assault and resisting arrest. She had a history of prostitution, the public defender said, but no arrest in recent years. She was a mother of three, with a job. Bail isn’t supposed to be punishment; it’s the collateral to get the presumed innocent to return for court dates. But that’s not how it functions. Setting a bail amount the woman couldn’t afford would lock her up until trial. She might lose her job, home, benefits, the custody of her children. The longer people are detained, the more likely they are to take plea deals, even when they are innocent. The hearing lasted two minutes. The magistrate ruled that the woman would not have to pay for her release. The woman limped toward the camera, sobbing, saying, “Yes, sir, thank you.” Her face grew larger as she leaned closer to the lens, her eye suddenly filling the entire screen, before she bent to sign the document that was placed in front of her.	Bail hearings in Philadelphia occur in the basement of the city’s main courthouse, in three round-the-clock shifts, seven days a week. Behind a glass partition, a prosecutor and a defender sit at opposite tables facing a magistrate. The defendants appear one after another on television screens, beamed in via video conference from various booking centers in the city. Generally, a defendant sits in a chair, alone in front of a cinder-block wall, and stares into a camera. Earlier this year, I watched a hearing for a woman accused of simple assault and resisting arrest. She had a history of prostitution, the public defender said, but no arrest in recent years. She was a mother of three, with a job. Bail isn’t supposed to be punishment; it’s the collateral to get the presumed innocent to return for court dates. But that’s not how it functions. Setting a bail amount the woman couldn’t afford would lock her up until trial. She might lose her job, home, benefits, the custody of her children. The longer people are detained, the more likely they are to take plea deals, even when they are innocent. The hearing lasted two minutes. The magistrate ruled that the woman would not have to pay for her release. The woman limped toward the camera, sobbing, saying, “Yes, sir, thank you.” Her face grew larger as she leaned closer to the lens, her eye suddenly filling the entire screen, before she bent to sign the document that was placed in front of her.