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The firestorm over choices by Hennepin County Attorney Mary Moriarty is yet another case study in how criminal justice reforms can, once implemented, suddenly feel different to even those who, in the abstract of a political campaign, supported the promise of change.

This is hardly new. For more than half a century, reform attempts have met stiff institutional and public resistance, most recently in San Francisco, St. Louis and Philadelphia.

What's different in Minnesota is that two top DFLers, Gov. Tim Walz and state Attorney General Keith Ellison, jumped into the center of a billowing debate and are seen as siding with reform opponents. Yes, they of the party of Hubert Humphrey, who in the 1940s famously led state and national efforts in addressing racial inequities and police misconduct, the very issues Moriarty has tirelessly advanced throughout her legal career.

In her 2022 run for office, Moriarty focused on juvenile justice and police reform while soundly defeating a prominent, more conservative judge. Moriarty's campaign message was surely heard by voters, who seemed to agree that time was ripe for change, given continuing angst over George Floyd's murder and sweeping investigations that resulted in state and federal consent decrees that the Minneapolis Police Department get serious, at long last, about good policing and dousing its culture of racism.

But soon after taking office, Moriarty began feeling pushback for doing as promised: striving to place offending juveniles into kinds of care that'd better assure a productive life. Reformers broadly agree and data show that punishing biologically immature kids with years in adult prisons most often produces hardened criminals who, after release, enter a life of repeating crimes and returning to prison.

And before long a public storm burst when Moriarty said restorative therapy would be best for a 15-year-old charged with murder in a failed carjacking. The victim's family pleaded for leniency, appealing to a public enculturated with the notion that justice for violent crimes means prison. The kid later pleaded guilty to a lesser charge. (His 17-year-old partner earlier pleaded guilty to murder saying he fired the fatal shots.)

Then a year ago, another debate erupted when Moriarty sought to rehab another 15-year-old, one of two involved in a for-hire killing of a young mother. The public clamor was too much for Ellison, who got Walz's approval to take the case from Moriarty, despite her objection.

Of course, governors are expected to discipline their political appointees who rile the electorate. But removing a case from a locally elected prosecutor was a patronizing second-guess by Walz and Ellison that'll surely plague Moriarty's push for reform.

It's worth reminding that the U.S. has the world's highest incarceration rate, including an extraordinary number jailed for weeks and months, their lives on hold, before even being tried. In 2022, it cost on average a staggering $43,000 to house each federal inmate.

Worse is the huge social cost of pandering to the primitive notion of "throw 'em in the dungeon" that often condemns young people to a lifelong crime/prison cycle.

Moriarty's office says it seeks appropriate justice by thoroughly evaluating each offender to determine the best life-improvement alternatives. So often the offenders themselves are damaged victims of an impoverished life and abusive parenting.

"Do the crime, do the time" was a petty aphorism mouthed not long ago to support new laws sentencing youngsters to long terms behind bars for very minor crimes, like having tiny amounts of marijuana. It packed prisons, ruined lives and made crime worse, giving the "do the time" crowd fodder to stoke crime fears and continue a cruel cycle that belies civil society.

And now, as was inevitable, comes a case that will make justice reform in "progressive" Minnesota even more challenging.

In January, following a long investigation, Moriarty charged a state trooper with murder after fatally shooting a Black motorist who drove off during a traffic stop.

Moriarty's cabal of critics again demanded that Walz remove her from the case "in the interest of justice," one said. This time the critics were joined by four Republican and two DFL Congress members, some calling for Moriarty's resignation.

But the trooper case clearly belongs in the judicial system quite apart from opportunistic politicians. A criminal charge has been made and evidence will be scrutinized in open court before a judge and jury; it's the process.

This time Walz waffled by saying he shared their concerns, which is like dangling raw meat above a snarling wolf pack and pondering the noise. (A few days ago, Walz added to the noise by playing attorney and questioning the Hennepin County Board's support of Moriarty's bringing in outside counsel on the case.)

The Minnesota Police and Peace Officers Association says "justice" demands that Walz step in. But that group's sense of justice showed as it protested a new state rule to revoke the licenses of cops involved in extremist hate groups.

Walz needlessly riled things up by making county prosecution a hot political issue. For his part, Ellison said he doesn't expect to again seek Moriarty's removal from a case. That's good.

But we'll see.

Ron Way lives in Minneapolis. He's at ron-way@comcast.net. The Star Tribune Editorial Board argued in March ("Credibility on trial in trooper's case") that Walz should continue to monitor Moriarty's handling of that case.