Part I: Detention Center or Social Housing Program
Liberty lost is never truly regained.
But what price do we put on a single day of liberty — in a country that prides itself on being free and democratic?
What’s the opportunity cost of spending a day in detention?
I’m no economist, but I did the math — if you can even call it that. Because here’s the truth:
the opportunity cost of spending a night in an overcrowded detention center is far greater than most of us dare to admit.
Let’s set aside, for a moment, the shame, isolation, hopelessness, and the quiet death of hope for a better future — though, let’s be honest, those are veryexpensive ticket items.
And let’s say you’re even fine with the criminal record you’re about to add to your growing collection — another pricey addition to the tab.
Now what?
You’ll likely lose custody or care of your kids.
Miss your rent.
Lose your housing (if you had any).
Probably your job, too.
And with that, the last few social ties holding you up.
So what’s left to go on the price tag?
Because someone always pays it.
A plea deal? A few thousand bucks to your lawyer.
Whether it’s through legal aid or a private retainer, that money’s coming out of your pocket — directly or indirectly.
So here’s my free advice: don’t do it.
Let your lawyer go broke.
Keep those few thousand in your pocket — you’re going to need them more than your lawyer does.
Because…
I met a girl who sang the blues,
And I asked her for some happy news,
But she just smiled and turned away.
I went down to the sacred store,
Where I’d heard the music years before,
But the man there said the music wouldn’t play.
And in the streets, the children screamed,
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed.
But not a word was spoken;
The church bells all were broken.
And the three men I admire most —
The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost —
They caught the last train for the coast…
The day the music died.
Part II: About That Trial…
You ever notice how many of our so-called criminal problems have nothing to do with actual crime? Let me tell you about Jack’s family — because, truth be told, I meet a new Jack almost every week these days.
I am Jack’s nephew.
“So… about that trial. How much would it cost me again? Hmm. Any way we can just wrap this up so I can get my job back and go home? Please. I’ll plead to anything — I just need to move on.”
You can hear the exhaustion in his voice — not guilt, not rebellion. Just a man who can’t afford another round in the system.
I am Jack’s grandson.
“I was supposed to get that part-time job at the coffee shop… or maybe that overnight shift flipping burgers. Never got either. But you stay out in the cold long enough with three hopeless buddies, and you start doing dumb stuff. We just wanted hockey gear. Now I’m in and out of court. Guess that’s one way to stay busy.”
He laughs, but it’s the kind of laugh that hurts to hear.
I am Jack’s cousin.
“When they closed the plant, I had nothing left to lose. Sleeping in my car through this freezing mess — no shower, no hope — it’s not exactly a luxury resort. After you’ve lost everything, a criminal record doesn’t even sting anymore. My family’s already written me off. Honestly, I don’t care anymore. I just don’t want a trial. I’ve been humiliated enough.”
You can’t argue with that kind of surrender. You can only listen.
I am Jack’s daughter.
“My parents spent their life savings to send me to college in Canada. They were so proud. God, I had big dreams — start a business, hire people, maybe even build a family here. But my work visa renewal just got rejected. I can’t tell them. After everything they sacrificed? I just… can’t. So I started drinking. Then came the drugs. Then the debt.
Can we please just avoid a trial? I didn’t do it. It was the other girl. I can’t take this anymore.”
You sit there, and all you can think is: this isn’t crime. This is survival gone sideways.
The Real Crime? Poverty.
Imagine now that you are Jack.
And these are the conversations I pray never to have with my clients…
But they’re the ones I’m having, over and over again.
Our problem isn’t criminal — it’s economical.
Because when you take away opportunity, dignity, and a decent night’s sleep, you don’t get criminals.
You get people who are just tired of losing.
About the Writer
Sidney Zarabi is a criminal defence lawyer and the founder of 10(B) Criminal Law Center. He spends his days (and too many late nights) representing people whose lives have been entangled with the justice system — often not because they’re criminals, but because they’re broke, broken, or both.
He writes to remind us that behind every case file is a story — usually one that starts with hope, not harm.
