Why was D’Souza engaging in self-sabotage? Did he have some kind of psychological affliction? Why, in the first place, did a man who had achieved so much success so carelessly flout the law when there was so little to gain? In short, how could such a smart man be so stupid? The act might have earned him points with the judge, who had the discretion to ignore the sentencing guidelines (from 10 to 16 months of incarceration), but D’Souza seemed to squander the judge’s goodwill by publicly and repeatedly announcing that he was a victim of political persecution. When he couldn’t get the case thrown out on that basis, he pleaded guilty and claimed to take responsibility for his actions. Alas, D’Souza didn’t have evidence that the president, or Attorney General Eric Holder, or anyone else in the Justice Department, was out to get him. I’m just powerless to move.”Īfter the charges came down in January 2014, he cried “selective prosecution,” a serious offense in which the government unfairly targets an individual-in this case, for political retribution. I’ll hear four guys discussing the tits on the woman at Los Tacos. After using one of the stalls of his communal bathroom, he would enter the open-plan sleeping quarters and climb onto a top bunk, above a 400-pound guy who, “when he moves, the whole bunk bed shakes.” He would do his best to focus on his book and to block out the conversation. He would join about 90 other residents, mostly Latino.

Upon entering the center’s fluorescent-lit, low-ceilinged building, situated across from a pungent recycling dump, he would be given a Breathalyzer test and patted down. Certain that the Obama administration is waiting for him to slip up, he wouldn’t risk being late, which is why he eats near the facility and not at his home, 20 miles away in La Jolla, where he is free to spend the day (though he may not leave the confines of San Diego County). The rest of his evening would look something like this: He would check in to the confinement center at 7:57 P.M., three minutes before his 8 P.M. Indeed, in his glasses, striped sweater over a polo shirt, and clean sneakers, D’Souza looked as if he were heading for a start-up rollout event instead of a community confinement center a few minutes away, where he is serving an eight-month sentence during nighttime hours.

“He’s one of my randoms,” she said affectionately.

The girl making it was one step ahead of him. He ordered his usual: six-inch whole-wheat sub with tuna salad and provolone. It was seven P.M., and Dinesh D’Souza-political pundit, writer, documentary-film maker, and onetime wunderkind of the intellectual elite-was dining in his new haunt: the Subway sandwich shop in National City, San Diego, a downtrodden Latino neighborhood about 20 miles from the Mexican border.

Life After Death by Dinesh D'Souza