Shook his head. He answered back, in his glissando, nasal voice, his Boston accent strong, “But then you gotta house them, feed them, and the taxpay...r is on the hook.”“Not if you get value from them,” I replied, “and if they’re scrubbing toilets, wiping asses, fighting forest fires, all that, they’re creating value. Simply warehousing them in jails is wasteful and murdering them is plain unethical.”“What if the bastards refuse?” he asked, his voice rising, “what if they won’t do the work? Then. I stuck my head into the staging area and waved at the supervisor.He looked at his list, "Clarke and Forrest."Two heads perked up in the crowd. The supervisor nodded toward me, indicating where they should go. I introduced myself as we walked down the hall. The guy's name was Bert Clarke. He was a well-built six-footer who didn't look much past high school age. The girl was Ernestine Forrest, a petite brunette who looked like she didn't weigh 100 lb. soaking wet. They made some jokes about Bert. More

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