The ronda and the rope: Parallel justice systems and the dangers of legal abandonment in rural Latin America

Peruvian President Ollanta Humala delivers a speech in rural Puno.
© Presidency of Peru, 2015 

Much has been written about the lack of access to legal services and the reduced capacity of state and legal actors in rural areas of the United States of America. Savvy writers usually stay clear of making worst-case-scenario predictions. This is understandable, as nobody wants to be the person who says the sky will fall. I shall not make such calamitous predictions either. What this article contains is instead a view into a place in which legal systems have failed and given way to other forms of "justice."

This article is a small survey of parallel systems of justice in rural and remote areas of Peru, a country with which I am intimately familiar. Over the course of this post I will go through the circumstances that led to the formation of such systems, their current status, and some of their worst excesses. Peru is not the United States. Its geography, history, and demographics are radically different. The underlying conditions that produced these parallel systems are not, however, unique to Peru. It is worth asking what fills a vacuum when the courts do not play a role. Some particular responses have emerged in Peru. Whether such responses might ever emerge in rural America is for the reader to imagine.

The geographical roots of legal absence

A lone truck challenges the curves of the Pasamayo Serpentine.
© Santiago Stucchi, 2008.

Peru's geography represents a major obstacle to the nation's political integration and by extension, to its legal system. Peru is vertically split in half by the Andes Mountain. The Andes are flanked on the east by the Amazon rainforest and on the west by the Pacific Ocean. Peru's capital, Lima, is home to one-third of the nation's population. This results in an extremely centralized nation, dominated by its political and economic coastal elites. Its mountainous terrain makes transportation quite difficult as well, with some highways like the infamous Serpentine of Pasamayo--an extremely narrow 14-mile stretch of highway which has mountain on one side and abyss on the other--being the only way between different regions of the country.

In many remote areas, especially in the Andes, there is very little formal policing. Courts are a distant, nonoperative institution. Language barriers do not help either, as about 15% of Peru's population speaks Quechua as their main language. But many Peruvians--especially those working in government--do not speak Quechua at all. Historically, communities in such areas have governed themselves with little involvement from the central or even regional government. They often handled disputes through informal assemblies or through respected community leaders. The first rondas campesinas (meaning "peasant patrols") were established in the northern Andean region of Cajamarca in the late 1970s. These early rondas were primarily created to deal with property crimes, the main one being cattle theft.

Sendero Luminoso and the militarization of the rondas

A painting displayed on the First Military School of Sendero Luminoso.
On the left, the students. On the right, Sendero's leader, Abimael Guzman. Above him the figures of Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin and Mao Zedong.

In May 1980, the Maoist terrorist group Sendero Luminoso (literally "Shining Path"), a primarily rural Andean movement, declared war on the Peruvian government. It was led by Abimael Guzman, a professor of philosophy at a university in Ayacucho (a region in the southern Andes). Part of Sendero's strategy was what they called "batir el campo" (meaning "scouring the countryside," destroying all non-Sendero authority in such regions). Initially, many rural communities sided with Sendero, agreeing with their message of discontent against the ways in which the government had neglected the people of the Andes.

When confronted with the violent revolts happening in the Andes, President Fernando Belaunde dismissed them, assessing the threat as nothing more than small issues with cattle rustlers. Sendero held "people's trials" against those it considered "antirevolutionary elements." The subjects of these trials were often community leaders, and the price of resistance was massacre. The most notorious of these was the Lucanamarca massacre of 1983, in which over 60 people (ranging from ages of 6 months to 70 years of age) were killed with machetes and axes, in retaliation for the killing of one of Sendero's commanders. What followed were years of massacres in the Andes, with most of the human cost falling on the rural communities who lived there.

Eventually, in the early 1990s, the Peruvian government found its footing in the fight against Sendero, and the war started to turn. Under the leadership of President Alberto Fujimori, the rondas started being armed and supported by the government. This cooperation proved instrumental to defeating Sendero in rural regions and displacing them into other areas where the government had an easier time fighting them. On September 12, 1992, Sendero's leader Abimael Guzman was captured in a safehouse in an upper-class neighborhood in Lima, where he was being hosted by a wealthy classical dancer. That was game over.

Constitutional recognition

Guzman's capture was an inflection point from which Fujimori moved forward with a series of reforms. Chief among them was the Peruvian Constitution of 1993. In its Article 149, the constitution recognizes the authority of the rondas campesinas within their jurisdictions, as long as they "respect the fundamental rights of people." The same article calls for the cooperation of the "traditional" judicial power and these parallel systems of justice going forward.

How the project of cooperation and respect for the fundamental rights of people is going is difficult to assess with precision. But, where statistics are scarce, it is always good to tell a story.

A Canadian in Ucayali

The village of Nuevo Jerusalen in the Ucayali Region of Peru.
© Vratislav S, 2012

Imagine you are a young (ish) Canadian man. Like many of your peers, you seek enlightenment. You doubt Western medicine and respect indigenous cultures. So, you decide to look into the real stuff. You travel south, to Peru, perhaps farther south, to the Ucayali Region of the Amazon rainforest. You do ayahuasca. It changes your life, so you seek to go further down the rabbit hole. You seek a teacher, Olivia Arevalo Lomas, a well-known elder, healer and community leader. You dedicate ten years of your life to this. Then one day, a bang, and your teacher is dead, three gunshot wounds.

The police eventually show up (it takes them some time), and everyone is really angry. Even worse, they think it is your fault. Oh no. Facebook posts start to be circulated. "WANTED" they say, then a picture of you, then a plea for clues on your whereabouts. People in the comments express their wishes that you are brought to justice; others propose rewards for hunting you down. Things are looking really bad for you.

But actually, these latest developments are not that bad, since you are already dead. Police soon find a phone which contains a video recording of your last moments. A mob got to you, quickly, well before the police ever got there, since you are conspicuously foreign. There was no trial, no evidence, no attorneys. You have been lynched, and your manner of death was strangulation.

Your family says you were really nice, hated guns, and just loved ayahuasca. The locals will remain convinced it was you who killed Arevalo Lomas. The rest of the world will never know. This story is not a thought experiment. This happened to Sebastian Woodruffe, a Canadian tourist. His death drew international attention in 2018 before disappearing from the news cycle within days.

Gerardo's choice

If you are in any way like me, you may have heard the story and said to yourself, "only one way to avoid a similar fate, stay as far away as possible from that region if you are not a local."

This is not, however, a solution. In 2007, in the village of Patascachi (near the border with Bolivia, population around 1000), a mob descended upon the house of Gerardo Parisuana, a farmer. Nearly the entire town was there. The occasion? Gerardo's son Gary was accused of being a cattle rustler, and the mob had had enough of him. The evidence against him? A gang of cattle rustlers, upon capture, had accused Gary of being their leader. The police arrested Gary, but found insufficient evidence to hold him and soon released him. For the rondas, however, the "trial" had already happened. The verdict was in. There was no room for appeals. Gerardo now had a choice: to lynch his own son, or to have the rest of his family share his son's fate. Gerardo made his choice. According to witnesses, the crowd tortured Gary before Gerardo hanged him.

The mayor on trial

A sign near the city of Ilave, in the Puno Region.
© TeshTesh, 2015

Not even money and power are enough to protect one from such a fate. In 2004, in the city of Ilave (elevation 12,000 feet, in the Puno Region, near Lake Titicaca in the heart of the Andes), the mayor of the city, Cirilo Robles, was lynched by a mob. It all started with a protest sparked by allegations of corruption and embezzlement. Aymara-speaking peasants made camp in front of the municipality's doors, protesting that the mayor had promised to pave the Ilave-Mazocruz highway, a promise yet to be fulfilled. The mayor left the city as soon as the protests started, returning only weeks later. When he finally came back, he held a meeting with his council at his private residence, in which he resolved to resign.

The mob found out about the mayor's return, and they soon descended upon his home. They breached the house and dragged the mayor out after giving him a beating. He was tortured for hours before being hanged in the city's square. His lifeless body was found under a bridge. Later that year, Peru's Government Accountability Office investigated the allegations against him. They found no evidence of embezzlement and exonerated him. The Supreme Court of Peru sentenced two members of the mob to 30 years in prison. Mayor Robles' successor, Miguel Flores, closed this somber chapter with a comment that could be considered the most Peruvian aphorism, "Everything remains the same for us."

Conclusion

The rondas campesinas are not just a series of horror stories. They emerged from genuine necessity and fulfilled a role that nothing else could. They even have constitutional recognition. But the results they tend to generate speak for themselves. Formal policing and legal institutions are not perfect, but they tend to produce less shocking and violent results. 

Peru is not the United States. The Andes are not Appalachia. The Amazon is not the Ozarks. But legal vacuums do not know borders, and the dynamics that fill them may follow recognizable patterns. Whether those patterns may ever extend to the United States is, as said in the introduction, for the reader to imagine.

Zoom court: Problems and solutions

A meeting celebrating Wikipedia's 20th birthday, conducted on Zoom due to the COVID-19 pandemic. 

Today you can do almost anything remotely. Want to tie the knot with that special someone in your life? You can do it through Zoom. Want to earn your degree? You can do that remotely now, even a law degree. Have you met your ultimate demise, and your relatives are saying goodbye one last time? Zoom has got you covered there, too.

Despite how much of our world has moved to myriad uses of optic fibers running underground, it seems like the legal system has been particularly resistant to opportunities associated with this new reality, with the new possibilities it represents. This especially impacts rural communities, which often find themselves unable to hire and keep enough public defenders and prosecutors willing to live nearby to keep the criminal justice system running.

Background

Before getting to how the legal profession can step with both feet into the digital age, let’s zoom out a bit. Before the days of Zoom—and even before the days of the now defunct Skype—courts around the country toyed with the idea of remote assistance by counsel. Some efforts date to the 1990s. Back then, the technology was clearly nowhere near where it needed to be for it to be a reasonable alternative to in person attorney appearances. Most efforts were thus limited and they ended in the early 2000s.

Despite improvements in technology in the 2000s and 2010s, it was not until the 2020s that the idea of remote appearances by counsel made a comeback. When that happened, it wasn’t just a product of technological innovation, it was also a product of necessity. In early 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic shook the entire world, and our criminal justice system along with it. States around the country scrambled to find ways in which essential processes of life that required close quarters contact between people could be performed at a time in which we thought such contact could prove lethal.

And so, the legal system went remote in the way that prisons, schools, funeral homes, churches and most other institutions of American life did so. That is to say, hastily and inadequately. In her 2025 article, We Need to Talk: Modernizing Attorney-Client Jail Communications, Texas A&M School of Law Professor Cynthia Alkon reports the results of a nationwide survey of lawyers she conducted shortly after the start of the pandemic. Many of the respondents were criminal defense attorneys.

A bus somewhere in Bodega Bay, a village in Sonoma County, CA. Reaching Sonoma County's Superior Court from this starting point would probably take multiple buses and hours of time.

Some problems

The overwhelming majority of the attorneys responding to Alkon's survey reported concerns about the confidentiality of their remote meetings with their clients. This was not an abstract, unsubstantiated fear. Some of the article respondents reported incidents of guards and prosecutors listening in on their remote communications, of inmates not being in private rooms during their remote communications with their attorneys, and of deputies recording the calls and forwarding them to the police and to prosecutors.

Confidentiality, however, was not the only issue. Respondents of Professor Alkon’s survey also noted the difficulty of building rapport with clients when discussing private and sensitive subjects when they were not face to face. It was not only lawyers and clients who were having trouble connecting due to remote interactions, but also defendants and judges. In its 2020 report, The Impact of Video Proceedings on Fairness and Access to Justice in Court, the Brennan Center cites a 2010 study which found that defendants whose hearings were conducted over video had substantially higher bond amounts set than those who appeared in person (with the increases ranging from 50% to 90%).

Having all parties physically present in the courtroom also reinforces the gravity and seriousness of the proceedings. In the years since the COVID-19 pandemic, there have been multiple reports of criminal defendants being punished for not understanding the seriousness of their situation. For example, a St. Joseph County, Michigan, man found himself in trouble with Judge Jeffrey Middleton when he logged into virtual court with a colossally inappropriate username. The man was called "an idiot" by the judge, and was placed in a Zoom breakout room as a punishment). In another tragic episode of Zoom court, a man from Washtenaw County, Michigan, found himself in hot water with Judge Cedric J. Simpson when he logged into virtual court from behind the wheel of a moving vehicle to answer to charges of driving with a suspended license (in an astonishing turn of events, the judge realized the man had never had a license, an ordered him to walk himself to the county jail). In perhaps the most extreme case, a Sacramento, California, surgeon logged into virtual court while operating on a patient. These are but a few examples of how the informality of remote platforms caused defendants to behave in ways that did not rise to the seriousness of their situation. Skeptics of remote court appearances and client counseling could certainly argue that defendants may not assist their attorneys with their own defense as effectively when the attorney is just a small picture in a computer.

Another issue that may affect outcomes for criminal defendants who are assisted by an attorney who is working remotely is that of the subtle communications that happened between client and attorney during court appearances. In an episode of the Center for Justice Innovation’s podcast In Practice, the hosts noted that public defenders who joined one of their virtual panels expressed concern about their ability to communicate with their clients through video conferencing. The panelists noted that public defenders often exchange quick whispers and other communications with defendants. The inability to do so can severely undermine outcomes for defendants.

Alpine County's Courthouse in Markleeville, CA.
As of late 2024, all proceedings were being conducted via Zoom.
© Lisa R. Pruitt 2024

Some solutions

The issue of confidentiality, while the most serious, may also be the most straightforward to solve—at least theoretically. In her article, Professor Alkon suggests that:

prosecutors’ offices should clearly, as a matter of policy, prohibit anyone in their offices from using information gathered through recordings of privileged attorney-client conversations.

In practice, these prohibitions must be enforced. How might that be achieved? They should be enforced exactly as they are enforced when there are intrusions upon face-to-face private communications between attorneys and criminal defendants. Potential remedies include suppressing evidence dervied from such intrusions, disqualification of the involved attorneys, sanctions, suspensions, or even disbarment. Perhaps this seemed difficult to implement while the world was scrambling in response to the COVID-19 pandemic, but there is no reason why it should be an insurmountable challenge today.

The challenge of establishing rapport between lawyers and clients is a serious one, and it is one that might not have a simple solution. Perhaps video conferencing technology will eventually improve to the point where it is able to fully capture human presence and feelings, enabling lawyers to build affinity with clients across the state as if they were mere feet from each other. Until then, we might find solace in the fact that uncongenial assistance of counsel is a lot better than no assistance at all. Similarly, I think lawyers and courts can take extra efforts to impress the need on defendants to assist in their own defense.

As for the issue of the small interactions between client and attorney that are crucial to the process, this might be an area where courts can accommodate the needs of an evolving society. This would not be the first time the courts have had to be innovative and accommodating. For example, no one will argue that the need for interpreters in court does not slow down the process, or that it does not require some extra effort from judges and juries. Yet, it is clearly a cost worth bearing. With that in mind, I do not think that having a court appearance that takes a few more minutes due to the need to quickly go into a private breakout room is too high a price. Courts can experiment and find ways to make the process more agile, while always prioritizing the ability of defense lawyers to assist their clients.

Finally, it is perhaps best that defendants appear remotely as little as possible, to eliminate the potential prejudice that is hinted at by the more negative outcomes they face when they do so. At the same time, judges should receive training on the inherent biases that humans have when they hear and see a person through a screen as compared to face-to-face. Technology has progressed quite quickly in the last few decades, and it is normal for people's instincts and intuitions to lag behind such fast-paced development. This is no reason to discard the idea. Perhaps judges and juries today deliver more negative outcomes when parts of the process are conducted remotely. This need not be the case in the future. Part of the solution, as with many other things, may be education.

Conclusion

The potential issues examined in this article are not the only ones that may arise from the practice of remote criminal defense. A further examination may reveal others. However, what I hope this post can impress upon readers is that there is absolutely no reason to give up in the face of these challenges. These are, mostly, technical challenges. America has put a dozen men on the surface of the moon; it must be capable of putting two people in a confidential Zoom breakout room.

Who’s fighting whom? Rural-urban resource competition as misdirection

When I first read Professor Pruitt's 2014 book chapter on the rural lawscape, my gut reaction was defensive. I learned that rural areas have fewer courts, longer police response times, and less access to legal services than urban areas. The obvious solution would be to invest more money in these areas so that they have real access to justice. But then came my instinctive urban response: who is going to fund this? The taxes from urban spaces? Why should cities subsidize rural services?

I sat with that reaction for a while. It felt spiteful, and after some time, I realized I'd asked the wrong question.

The zero-sum framing

Pruitt's chapter, “The Rural Lawscape: Space Tames Law Tames Space,” talks about the “mutual constitutivity” of law and rural space. Rural areas have less law because their material characteristics (low population density, distance, sparse built environment) make legal infrastructure expensive to maintain. That sparse legal presence then shapes rural culture, fostering self-reliance and skepticism toward the state.

Photo Credit: Jay Walljasper (2019)

The policy implication seems obvious: if rural residents want more legal infrastructure, they need more funding. And state funding is finite, and largely comes from the taxes of wage-earners in the city. So rural gains mean urban losses, right?

This framing positions rural and urban communities as competitors. It shows up in fights over federal appropriations, in resentment about which communities receive disaster relief, and in arguments about whether “real America” deserves more than coastal cities.

Prior posts on this blog have explored related dynamics. One post on California redistricting quoted a rural rice and walnut farmer: “People in the cities don’t have a clue what it takes to survive out here. I don’t think people that were born and raised in the cities can represent us to the same extent.” This frames the issue as the big-city bureaucrats thinking they know better than the rural folk with their actual lived experiences.

Another post on the Secure Rural Schools Act documented how a rural school superintendent made fourteen trips to Washington over three years to secure funding that Congress acknowledged had bipartisan support but still allowed to lapse. The funding was described as “budget dust” relative to federal spending. If rural needs are so uncontroversial and so cheap, why did it take three years and fourteen flights to get the money allocated?

The actual budget

To help me put all this in perspective, I considered the scale of American federal spending. The FY2025 defense budget request was $849.8 billion. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) had access to $28.7 billion in 2025. Customs and Border Protection’s budget was more than $19 billion for that year.

Meanwhile, the Legal Services Corporation asked for only $1.797 billion in 2025, while facing the threat of a proposed 46% budget cut. The LSC distributes funding for civil legal aid to low-income Americans in both rural and urban areas.

Photo Credit: Mina Corpuz (2026)

The access-to-justice gap that the rural lawscape chapter documents is not expensive to address relative to other federal priorities. The entire LSC budget is less than 0.2% of defense spending. Meaningful investment in rural legal infrastructure would cost a rounding error on military appropriations.

This pattern holds across federal spending. In FY2023, 62% of the federal discretionary budget went to militarized programs: war, weapons, law enforcement, incarceration, detention, and deportation. Less than $2 out of every $5 in federal discretionary spending went to education, housing, childcare, disaster relief, environmental protection, or scientific research. Since 2001, the federal government has added $2 to the discretionary budget for militarism for every $1 invested in communities.

Meanwhile, wealth inequality has reached historic levels. In 1963, the wealthiest families had 36 times the wealth of families in the middle. By 2022, they had 71 times the wealth. The incomes of rural men have stagnated for 50 years, while the top 1% saw their incomes increase by 229% between 1979 and 2019. Rural and urban working people have both lost ground to the same forces.

The federal government has the money to invest in rural communities. It simply chooses to fund violence. The scarcity that pits rural against urban is not a fact of nature. It is a policy choice.

The shared problem

Both rural and urban poor face access-to-justice gaps. Rural residents drive hours to reach a courthouse. Urban residents wait months for overburdened public defenders. The material conditions differ, but the underlying problem is the same: inadequate funding for legal infrastructure serving ordinary people.

There is some federal recognition of the specific problems that rural Americans face. The Violence Against Women Act identifies domestic violence in rural areas as a focus for discretionary spending. The Crime Control Act sets aside funds specifically for rural drug enforcement.

But legislative recognition of rural disadvantage does not guarantee meaningful investment. A post on the rural health fund noted that the $50 billion rural health fund in the recent reconciliation bill came alongside $137 billion in projected Medicaid cuts to rural areas over ten years. This is a gesture toward rural needs accompanied by a policy that actively undermines them.

The political function of the divide

When rural and urban residents see each other as competitors for limited resources, they do not build coalitions around shared interests in healthcare, legal access, housing, or economic security. The “why should my taxes go there” instinct, which I initially felt, plays into a framework where ordinary people fight over crumbs, instead of coming together to improve their material conditions.

Photo Credit: Jacob Migdall (2015)

A post challenging the Ezra Klein Show’s framing of rural-urban tension pointed out that rural voters alone lack the numbers to determine national elections. Blaming a “rural coalition” for federal policy obscures the urban voters who supported the same candidates and the structural factors that shape resource allocation. The framing is, as the post puts it, “inflammatory and therefore unhelpful. Of course, it is also inaccurate.”

Rural-urban resentment prevents coalition-building. When a rancher in Modoc County and an unhoused person in Sacramento see each other as competitors, rather than people with shared interests in functional public services, neither builds power.

What is the baseline?

I believe everyone in the United States should have access to a viable, just legal system regardless of where they live. That belief does not require me to think rural and urban interests are identical. It requires me to think they are not fundamentally opposed.

The money exists. The obstacle is political priority. Rural-urban competition is a distraction from the actual allocation choices being made.

New book: Global Reflections on Positionality in Rural Access to Justice

Global Reflections on Positionality in Rural Access to Justice Research is published today by Bloomsbury.  The co-editors of this anthology are Michele Statz and Daniel Newman.  A synopsis follows: 

This book offers a unique look at rural access to justice through a series of personal and professional reflections by leading scholars in the field.

Engaging a “position sensibility”, it explores how our identities, class backgrounds, and professional privileges shape research and writing in rural places-and how those rural places in turn shape us.

This is an important collection, for while rural justice gaps are well-documented, considerably less has been written about the distinct opportunities that rural communities present for collaborative research, innovation, and policy development. The book offers us an honest, reflexive accounting of what has been done, why, and what's next to dismantle academic barriers and promote meaningful work on rural access to justice.

As a call to still deeper engagement with rurality, this book will inspire readers to consider rural place in their studies of law-and to consider their own place in scholarship on access to justice.

Here's the Table of Contents; as you will see, it includes many notable scholars of rural legal scholarship: 

1. Introduction, Rebecca Sandefur (Arizona State University, American Bar Foundation , USA) 

2. Claiming the South, Elizabeth Chambliss (University of South Carolina, USA)

3. From the Valleys to the Academy, Daniel Newman (Cardiff University UK)
4. Improving Access...Delivering Justice? Insights from Empirical Legal Research on (Rural) Access to Justice, Leslie S Ferraz (United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime)
5. Indigenous Communities and Reparative Reflexivity in Socio-legal Studies, Brieanna Watters (University of Minnesota, USA)
6. Considerations of Access to Justice in the Context of Disaster, Kyle Mulrooney (University of New England, Australia), Marg Camilleri (Federation University Australia), Joseph F Donnermeyer (Ohio State University, USA) and Alistair Harkness (University of New England, Australia)
7. An Escape to Rurality, Maybell Romero (Tulane University, USA)
8. The Language of a Place, Michele Statz (University of Minnesota, USA)
9. The Slain South African Police Officer's Legacy Lives on: A Rural Criminologist's History, Witness Maluleke (University of Limpopo, South Africa)
10. Race, Rurality, and Marginalisation in the American South, Lauren Sudeall (Vanderbilt University, USA)
11. 'Do What Has to Be Done': How the Codes We Live By Shape Rural Access to Justice, Hillary Wandler (University of Montana, USA)
12. My Past is My Present: Teaching in and Writing about a Home Community, Hannah Haksgaard (University of South Dakota, USA)
13. Legal Pluralism and Human Rights Concerns, Wilfredo Ardito (Pontifical Catholic University
of Peru)
14. The Importance of Place in Law and Society, Mark Fathi Massoud (University of California, USA)

Wisconsin Supreme Court details rural lawyer shortage in matter where criminal trial delayed 46 months

The Wisconsin Supreme Court decided State v. Ramirez last week, a matter about a criminal defendant who experienced a 46-month delay in being tried for an alleged crime. The court upheld his conviction, in part because he waited 32 months to assert his right to a speedy trial. This is one of the first cases in which I've seen a court acknowledge the legal relevance of the rural lawyer shortage.  Some excerpts follow:

¶1 Our federal and state constitutions guarantee criminal defendants the right to a speedy trial. The Sixth Amendment of the United States Constitution provides, "[i]n all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial," and Article I, Section 7 of the Wisconsin Constitution says, "[i]n all criminal prosecutions the accused shall enjoy the right . . . in prosecutions by indictment, or information, to a speedy public trial." Luis A. Ramirez, as an inmate already serving a lengthy sentence for felony convictions, attacked and injured a corrections officer.  After a series of continuances and rescheduled trial dates, Ramirez was finally tried and convicted by a jury 46 months after he was criminally charged for the attack.

¶2 Ramirez moved for postconviction relief, alleging the 46-month delay violated his constitutional speedy trial right. The postconviction court denied his motion, and Ramirez appealed. The court of appeals reversed and ordered the only remedy available for constitutional speedy trial violations—dismissal of the charges. The State sought this court's review of a single issue: Whether Ramirez's constitutional right to a speedy trial was violated. We conclude it was not and reverse the court of appeals.

What follows is an excerpt from the concurrence by Chief Justice Ann Walsk Bradley, with whom Judge Janet Protasiewicz joined.  

¶80 In this case Ramirez's claim was doomed by his 32-month delay in asserting his speedy trial right and his failure to persuade that the 14-month duration from his assertion of the right to his trial violates the constitution. However, I cannot join the majority's approach because it could give the State a pass in cases involving delays even longer than the 46 months at issue here.

¶81 At a time where defendants are experiencing significant delays in appointment of counsel, this concern is especially acute.[5] Delays due to the lack of available attorneys can stretch into the triple digits. See Lee, 401 Wis. 2d 593, ¶6 (Dallet, J., dissenting) (setting forth that the defendant was held in custody "for 113 days before a preliminary examination, 101 of which were prior to the appointment of counsel").[6] In 2022, the state public defender opined that it would "take several years to clear a backlog of roughly 35,000 cases because of a shortage of public defenders."[7]

¶82 In Wisconsin's vast rural areas, especially in the northern part of the state, the problem has reached crisis levels. Although the data is admittedly at least seven years old, an article published in 2018 describes how "[o]ver 60% of the state's attorneys practice law in major urban areas, leaving some counties in rural Wisconsin with attorney-to-resident ratios as high as 1:4,452." Lisa R. Pruitt et al., Legal Deserts: A Multi-State Perspective on Rural Access to Justice, 13 HARV. L. & POL'Y REV. 15, 81 (2018) (footnotes omitted). In comparison, the statewide ratio is about 1:389.[8]

¶83 Additionally, the population that is practicing law in the rural north is rapidly aging. As of 2018, "[a]cross the northern half of the state, only six of the forty attorneys in Vilas County are under the age of fifty, and Florence and Pepin counties have no lawyers under fifty. Oconto County has two, and no new attorneys have moved into the county in the last decade." Id. at 81-82 (footnotes omitted). In total, as of that time, "[n]ine counties in northern Wisconsin ha[d] ten or fewer active attorneys." Id. at 82 (footnote omitted). Although this data is now seven years old,[9] the problem has certainly not abated. In fact, it has only worsened.[10]

¶84 As of 2024, the number of active attorneys in Wisconsin had dropped four percent over the last four years, while the number of attorneys in rural Wisconsin had plummeted by seven percent.[11] Eight counties have no certified private bar attorneys to take cases when the state public defender cannot represent a defendant.[12] Such a shortage "not only impacts the constitutional rights of defendants—it also affects victims and our communities."[13] Despite intervening attempts to address the root causes of the shortage, the problem persists.[14]

¶85 The shortage of lawyers in rural areas is a systemic problem, not an intentional one, putting it at risk of being termed "neutral" in the parlance of the majority's speedy trial analysis.[15] It is possible that a defendant could spend months or even years awaiting the appointment of an attorney, a necessity for any trial, much less a speedy one. And as the majority opinion demonstrates, when a delay is termed neutral, good luck to a defendant in succeeding on a speedy trial claim.

¶86 This court should not give its seal of approval to such an approach. Rather, the court of appeals approached this case the right way by breaking down the periods of delay and determining the reasons behind them and the weight to be given in the Barker analysis. The analysis conducted by the court of appeals represents a more nuanced approach that is better suited to the fact-specific nature of a speedy trial determination. See Urdahl, 286 Wis. 2d 476, ¶11.

CLE on recruiting and retaining rural lawyers sponsored by Virginia Bar Association

See the announcement here for the program on June 26 at 12:00 pm/noon Eastern.  I'm cutting and pasting core details below.   

Recruiting and Retaining Rural Lawyers: Challenges and Incentives

Join the VSB for its new virtual Lunch & Learn series—monthly CLEs and webinars featuring topics of interest to VSB members. Tune in from your office to learn more about the programs and initiates of the VSB and earn free CLE credits (when applicable).

Recruiting and Retaining Rural Lawyers: Challenges and Incentives

Thursday, June 26, 12–1 pm

Join us for a Lunch and Learn webinar sponsored by the Virginia State Bar’s Entry, Growth & Distribution of Virginia Attorneys Study Committee(EGAD VA), on June 26 at noon. Rural legal practice is vital to ensuring access to justice, yet many underserved communities continue to face a shortage of attorneys due to geographic, economic, and professional barriers. Professor Hannah Haksgaard will examine the landscape of rural legal practice and share research-based strategies for recruiting and retaining lawyers in these areas, including insights on effective incentive programs.

On the uneven use of investigators by indigent defense attorneys in rural California

CalMatters last week published this story by Anat Rubin about the relative lack of investigators to assist indigent defense attorneys in some counties, with the greatest deficits in nonmetro counties.  The story that illustrates the problem comes out of Siskiyou County, a nonmetro county on the state line. This paragraph explains why investigators matter: 

Defense investigators interview witnesses, visit crime scenes, review police reports and retrieve video surveillance footage that might prove the defendant was on the other side of town when a crime was committed, or that an assault was an act of self-defense. They do work that most lawyers are not trained to do. Without them, police and prosecutorial misconduct — among the most common causes of wrongful convictions — remain unchecked, significantly increasing the likelihood that people will go to prison for crimes they did not commit.

And here's an excerpt with details of the situation in California:

The lack of investigators affects counties throughout the state, from poor, rural areas like Siskiyou to the state’s largest and most well-funded public defense offices. Los Angeles employed just 1 investigator for every 10 public defenders — one of the state’s worst ratios, according to the most recent data from the California Department of Justice. Only seven California counties met the widely accepted minimum standard of 1 investigator for every 3 attorneys.

The situation is most alarming in the 25 California counties that don’t have dedicated public defender offices and pay private attorneys to represent indigent people in criminal court. Most of these attorneys receive a flat fee for their services, and the cost of an investigator would eat away at their profits. Some counties allow contracted attorneys to ask the court for additional funds for investigations, but court records show the attorneys rarely make those requests.

In Kings County, which has one of the highest prison incarceration rates in California, contracted attorneys asked the court for permission to hire an investigator in 7% of criminal cases from 2018 to 2022. In Lake County, attorneys made those requests in just 2% of criminal cases over a three-year period; in Mono County, it was less than 1%. To earn a living from meager county contracts, research shows, private attorneys and firms must persuade defendants to accept plea deals as quickly as possible. An investigation is an expensive delay.

And here is a paragraph putting this all in the context of local funding of the indigent defense function.

As the nation caught up [on funding indigent defense], California slipped behind. The state kept its defender system entirely in the hands of its counties. Today, it is one of just two states — alongside Arizona — that don’t contribute any funding to trial-level public defense, according to the Sixth Amendment Center. The state does not monitor or evaluate the counties’ systems. There are no minimum standards, and for many defendants there are no investigations — even in the most serious cases.

I have written extensively in academic journals here and here about this latter issue and its consequences in rural counties.  

A sustainable transition (Part V): How and why?

If you’ve read the preceding blog posts in this series, thank you for sifting through my life as I try to sift through these issues. Here is the crux of it all: 

I offer three main reasons by which localized renewable infrastructure situated on brownfield sites is a legitimate—and possibly necessary—component of the green transition.

First, giving local control of renewable sites to rural communities would allow these communities the financial wiggle room to transition. There is no payment plan directed only directed at the individuals affected, which may prove problematic if it incentivizes individuals to merely stockpile that money as they search for other employment. The primary benefit of this program, if properly enacted by the local government, would serve as a form of Universal Basic Income to the entire community. This mirrors the Alaska Oil surplus payment program, which has been well-received by the community and has been compared to a “Universal Basic Dividend.” Such a scheme would also not require an application process and a congressionally allocated stockpile of dollars, which has doomed the other federal transition policies. 

Furthermore, now that this community has a bit of a financial windfall, it could stock its own coffers and be more protected from fiscal spin. It could also use that excess energy to improve the quality of life of the area by subsidizing air conditioning and heating or alternatively diversify its economy into more energy-dependent fields like coding, telecommunication, and business. Finally, the community could even sell the excess energy as a source of local revenue. 

Second, by benefiting cities, any city initiatives in funding nearby rural areas will be seen as investments in a collective future, not a bailout of “the other.” Not only would a decentralized grid lower costs for cities, but it would also reduce the strain on the grid for times of emergency. While an isolated power grid can be disastrous, one that is independent but still connected could provide necessary power in times of strife but cut back on the possibility of overextension. This is further bolstered by the fact that many fossil fuel communities are located where things have died, not where there live. While humans tend to settle along water, arable land, and protection, fossil fuel communities spring up around and because of a resource, including Death Valley. 

Third, by harmonizing rural-urban relations, communication is fostered between rural and urban areas, instead of a game of telephone between corporations who have every interest in disrupting this transparency for their benefit. By eliminating the corporate middleman, we can start to have an honest conversation of what we both need, and what we can both provide. Yes, rural areas provide the majority of food, energy, and natural resources, to urban areas. But they do so through corporations. In this proposed solution, cities and rural areas would be able to negotiate with each other and see each other. And yes, the conversation may not always be fully amicable, but I believe that to be necessary to establishing a more proper relationship between these social units. 

What I advocate is not necessarily a just transition. I do not have a plan to introduce similarly lucrative jobs into a community. What I advocate is not necessarily environmental justice, as pure environmental justice would balk at neutering brownfields that might otherwise be more fully remediated, and argues for some degree of infrastructure in places that have been heavily damaged by industry. But what I advocate is some consideration that as we transition, we need a safety net, and as we pursue environmental justice, we cannot paternalistically deny a community’s decision to take on the costs of such a project. What I advocate is a fully transparent, remedial, and voluntary middle ground between just transitions and environmental justice, and a way to harmonize the Economy and Environment components of the sustainable development triangle. A transition can’t happen overnight, and justice forced on an unwilling participant is rarely just. So, there it is, and there I’ll let it lie.

On rural legal deserts, this time in the Bench + Bar of Minnesota

Shaun Jamison of Purdue Global Law School writes (excerpting just a little here, but don't miss the full column): 

It won’t come as news to lawyers living and working in rural areas, but many of the people who live there are challenged by a lack of access to solutions to their legal needs. The access to justice issues have grown so acute in many places that a relatively new term of art—“legal deserts”—has grown up in legal aid circles to describe them. This article will offer a brief discussion of some of the key issues as well as possible solutions. 

* * *

There are several reasons for the low ratio of rural lawyers, including a misperception that a lawyer cannot make a living in a rural area, the “graying” of the rural bar, and a paucity of new lawyers coming in to serve rural areas. Some will argue that more lawyers are not the solution, or at least not the only solution, but there still is a minimum number of lawyers needed to ensure the protection of people’s constitutional rights and ensure the functioning of the court system. A criminal case, for example, requires three lawyers in a county to be available—and free of conflicts in the matter at hand—to try a case: a judge, a prosecutor, and a defense lawyer. 

Here's a (nearly) one-stop shop on legal deserts and related aceess to justice issues.  And Jamison refers to Hannah Haksgaard's new book, The Rural Lawyer (Cambridge University Press 2025), an important new resource.