When I first met him, on a Friday early this year, Charles had already spent a night in dirty, dark holding cells on the first floor of the Manhattan Criminal Court. I called out his name from the stack of files I was holding and he answered immediately. Even before I could introduce myself as his public defender, he began to speak.
“I have to get out tonight,” he told me. “If I don’t get out, I’ll lose my bed at the shelter. They’ll throw out my stuff. I’ll have nowhere to go.” Charles, whose last name is being withheld to protect his privacy, spoke quickly and nervously.