Jaime Henry-White, Associated Press
The first warnings about the spending cuts were dire.
In March, as the sweeping $85 billion reductions known as sequestration kicked in, President Barack Obama called them "stupid" and "arbitrary" and said they could thwart economic progress. Opponents said the administration was using scare tactics, predicting doom even though the cuts amounted to a tiny slice of the federal budget.
Public opinion is divided: Fifty-six percent of Americans surveyed in an ABC News-Washington Post poll in May disapproved of the cuts, but far fewer — 37 percent — reported they'd been personally hurt. Still, that was up from 25 percent in March. Support varies by income, according to the poll; it's highest for those with incomes of $100,000 or more.
More than three months into the sequester, it's far too soon to measure the full impact of the start of a 10-year budget-cutting plan that was supposed to be so undesirable that it would force both sides on Capitol Hill to come up with something better. That didn't happen.
Many more furloughs are planned. Bills have been introduced to spare certain people, such as cancer patients, from the cuts' effects. Others have been exempted. Congress, for example, passed a measure putting air traffic controllers back to work after flights were delayed around the country.
But there is pain and anxiety, too, notably among the poor, the elderly and the sick — and social service agencies that serve them. Here are some of their stories:
When the budget was cut for Steve Nolder's public defender office, he knew someone had to go.
As chief federal defender for the southern district of Ohio, Nolder had to find a way to slash 11 percent from the budget. He didn't believe in going the last-hired, first-fired route, not when he'd recruited lawyers who'd uprooted themselves to join his office.
"I just didn't think it was fair for me to change the rules based on the fact that they trusted me to come and work here," he says. "Could I look at people who had been loyal to me over the years and eliminate them without any justifiable reason that was within their control? ... I certainly never took this job to ruin people's lives and I wasn't going to do that."
So he did what seemed most logical: He fired himself.
Nolder figured his 26 years of experience would give him the best opportunities for a career in private practice. "Sure, there's a school of thought that maybe you should go down with the ship," he says. "I'm hoping that by leaving, the ship doesn't go down."
Nolder is among 12 lawyers who handle about 1,200-1,250 cases a year in the district covering Cincinnati, Dayton and Columbus. They're so busy, he says, they could use another two attorneys.
Nolder's 18-year career as a public defender will be over at the end of June, and that's been agonizing.
"It's like dying a slow death," he says. "I love it here. It's the best way to practice law, period, end of discussion."
He says he'll be fine but doubts his departure will really save money.
"If people are concerned about fiscal responsibility, this is anything but," he says. "The cases don't go away, the representation doesn't go away. You just have to have others provide it."
Private, court-appointed attorneys — generally paid $125 an hour — will likely take up the slack for cases his office can't handle, says Nolder. And he could be one of them.
"That," he says, "is the ultimate irony."
Jessica Harrell had to reassure her 4-year-old daughter she hadn't been thrown out of school when her Head Start classroom in Kentucky was shut down.
Tishauna Douglas, a teacher in the program, had to figure out how she'd support her three children after losing her job
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