“That your guy?” asks my pal Easton, nodding out his store window to a muscle car that’s pulled up — the driver a trim, capable, fortyish dude peering this way. “Never met him before, but he looks like the pictures.” “Who is he?” asks Easton. “Can I explain later?” I’m preoccupied with the looming interview. “Course. Your room’s ready.” Easton has set aside private space in his big ol’ semi-disused workplace here in southern Oregon. I go and wave. It’s him: Trevor Troy Walraven, co-founder of the Oregon Youth Justice Project , his qualifications for being a juvenile justice advocate hinging on a profoundly strange, brutal, and irrevocable thing he did to a stranger about an hour south when he was 14. Trevor is a lanky, handsome Pacific Northwesterner duly decked out in flannel and denim. Unlike shuffly Easton and twitchy me, he moves with a contained, controlled ease.  That thing he did?…