The Longer Line for Justice

The line for justice has recently lengthened at the Poughkeepsie City Court.

On September 17, 2026, Judge Mora was suspended, with pay, from his position as one of two judges at the Poughkeepsie City Court. (A future blog post will cover Mora’s suspension in detail.) Until he is either reinstated or permanently removed from the bench, Judge Scott Volkman and a string of visiting judges will continue to take on his caseload. As a result, the docket for a single day, and a single judge, can now stretch to more than one hundred cases.

On some days, judges from nearby courts, like the Dutchess County Supreme Court, fill in, taking on new cases and what were once Mora’s cases. On these days, the proceedings pass noticeably more slowly as substituting judges have to familiarize themselves on the fly. Considering the challenges around staffing, there is no guarantee that these judges will be able to follow up on the cases that are adjourned to a new date.

Sometimes this inconsistency creates confusion: on at least one occasion, Judge Volkman, following up on a case which had first been Mora’s, and then a visiting judge’s, seemed baffled by the visiting judge’s handling of the case. If Judge Volkman, who has been on the bench since 2018, is baffled, how must the defendants feel? 

The docket as yet shows no signs of shrinking, which means longer wait times for most people who have business at the court. All defendants are required to show up at 9 am, and many now must wait additional hours before their case is called. 

ENJAN court watchers have long reported on Mora’s arrogant behavior and conduct on the bench. But the upheaval and long dockets caused by his suspension are hardly ideal.

White Male Power Trips in Poughkeepsie

Sometimes observing a session at the Poughkeepsie City Court feels less like witnessing a serious legal proceeding and more like watching a white, male judge’s ego contest. 

Judge Mora reigns supreme, a status he enforces both in title and in his apparent disdain towards public defenders, assistant district attorneys (ADA), and defendants alike. His typical demeanor is one of constant annoyance, as if everyone in the courtroom, including female attorneys, is incompetent and beneath him. 

During a recent Wednesday session, a young female ADA requested a copy of the written record from a previous hearing. Judge Mora quipped back, “Well, I didn’t go to stenography school, did I? Why would I have that? Ask the stenographer.”

A few hearings later, when certain required information was not on file, the same ADA explained it was not her case, so she was unsure of its whereabouts. Judge Mora took the opportunity to lecture her about preparedness, demanding that she tell the colleague assigned to the case: “I want it now.” 

This impatience wasn’t reserved for the prosecution. Later that day, the public defender, another young woman, was quietly discussing options with her client. When their conversation carried on for longer than about 45 seconds, he cut her off and asked the ADA if they had a deal for this case. His impatience was clear—and so was his disregard for the defendant’s right to counsel and self-advocacy. 

The condescension isn't isolated to the bench. It trickles down, creating a courtroom culture where public servants feel entitled to assert their dominance over the people they are meant to serve. The probation officer on duty, a white woman, is a case in point. When a black defendant attempted to explain the circumstances behind a missed probation appointment, she interrupted mid-sentence, “Well, I am telling you to go right now.”

These subtle forms of gendered and racialized courtroom commentary undermine the principles of procedural justice: fairness in processes, transparency in actions, opportunities for individuals to be heard, and impartiality in decision-making. According to the U.S. Department of Justice, procedural justice, when properly implemented, “promotes positive organizational change and bolsters better relationships.” Judge Mora’s conduct demonstrates a failure to uphold these standards in his courtroom. If the criminal justice system is to foster fairness, equity, and public trust, reform must begin with creating courtroom environments that reflect and reinforce these principles. Let’s not let rarified egos and hierarchy overrule justice.

Varying Costs of a Drink

Last week in the Poughkeepsie City Court, I observed a stark example of how race and class change the experiences for those charged with alcohol-related violations. 

The first case involved a clean-shaven white man in formal attire who pled guilty to a DWI charge. He arrived with a private defense attorney, and the entire proceeding took less than 10 minutes. Judge Volkman announced that the total fine and court fees for his conviction accrued to about $400 dollars in total, to which the defendant agreed to pay without even a pause of hesitation. In fact, the man stated that he did not need a payment plan and was prepared to pay the clerk the entirety that day. He strolled out of the courtroom, surprisingly upbeat for a man who had just been given a charge of Driving While Ability Impaired (DWAI). The monetary loss seemed a mere inconvenience. 

The second case involved an older black man who violated the city’s open container ordinance.  He appeared to be unhoused, and approached Judge Mora to request an additional two week extension for the next installment of his payment, explaining that he was unemployed. Although Judge Mora accepted this request, his previous six appearances regarding this matter suggested that this was an ongoing monetary struggle for this defendant. Because he lacked the money to pay the fine, he was required to regularly return to court to request extensions. Avoiding the payments altogether could result in an arrest.

This is the reality of mandatory court fees in Poughkeepsie. As a report by the New York City Bar Association points out, these surcharges are not designed as tools for public safety or rehabilitation. Their official purpose is simply to generate state revenue from some of its poorest residents. Thus, while our legal system treats a wealthy driver and an unhoused person the same on paper, their experiences are often different. 

Because New York stripped judges of the ability to waive these fees back in 1995, Judge Mora is obligated to extract court fees from every convicted defendant, regardless of their ability to pay. In a country where our own president has evaded taxes without repercussions, New York State hunts down income from those who can least afford it.

Ending the War on Drugs: The Start of an Alternative Plan in Poughkeepsie

The War on Drugs is real. On most mornings that I am observing the Poughkeepsie City Court, drug-related charges comprise a significant number of the cases for that day. Judging from the defendants’ mannerisms and utterances, many appear to be struggling with an active drug addiction alongside mental health issues. 

Substance use and mental health disorders are a well-documented driver of the local jail population. According to a 2012 needs assessment report by the Criminal Justice Council of Dutchess County, more than 80% of individuals entering the county jail had a history of treatment for a substance use disorder, a mental illness, or both, and more than 20% of inmates were receiving psychiatric care. 

Locally, addressing drug use and mental health problems has not been a straightforward process. Recently, high-profile raids have become a frequent tool. In March 2026, the Dutchess County Drug Task Force, flanked by multiple SWAT teams, raided a residence in the City of Poughkeepsie to arrest a dealer distributing crack laced with fentanyl. Just two months later, a raid was conducted on a home in Spackenkill following a string of complaints from neighbors. These efforts may disrupt the drug supply temporarily, but they do nothing to assist those with chemical dependency. 

Fortunately, Dutchess County has launched a variety of efforts to treat those with addiction and mental health issues instead of, or alongside, the criminal legal system. For instance, Poughkeepsie police can divert individuals committing a low-level offense (open container, loitering, etc.) to The Law Enforcement Assisted Diversion program (LEAD), which is designed to intercept behavioral health crises on the streets.

Additionally, the Dutchess County Department of Mental Health (DMH) recently began placing a trained clinician in the Poughkeepsie City Court to manage the mental health needs of those facing criminal charges. I recently spoke with DMH’s clinical program director Eric D’Entrone, who explained that this program is an entirely voluntary service. A person can be referred confidentially by their public defender or simply approach the clinician in the hallway. According to D’Entrone, services include not only "outpatient clinics, behavioral health urgent care, connection to a prescriber, etc., but also community resources… to assist with needs such as housing, food, benefits, etc.”

While these programs are a step in the right direction, if Dutchess County truly wants to address these kinds of behavioral issues, it must stop treating addiction through the criminal-legal system and start funding it as the public health emergency it has always been.

If you are interested in learning more about local efforts to combat the criminalization of mental health issues and substance abuse, come to ENJAN’s next meeting on June 24th, from 6:30 to 8 pm, where Eric D’Entrone will provide an overview of DMH services and answer questions. To join our Zoom meeting, click here and follow the instructions. For more detailed instructions, click here.

No Address? Well, it’s on you!

“Nobody?” The court officer looked around in confusion, scanning the near-empty room for the fourth time, which included only a handful of defendants and me. While missed court dates are common in my watching experience, this day was the worst: only nine out of the 25 individuals on the day’s docket had shown up.

After working through the cases of all those present, Judge Mora announced the missing names once again and was met with silence. Bench warrants were then issued for the majority of those who failed to appear, and we exited the courtroom about an hour earlier than expected. 

The number of no-shows led me to wonder why so many people miss their assigned court dates.

I called the court clerk’s office to find out if and how the court reminds defendants of their court date. The clerk informed me that after their arraignment, each defendant is given a form with four contact options: phone call, text message, email, or mailed letter. In addition, the public defenders give all those they represent a small slip of paper with their next court date. 

So what about those who lack a permanent address or access to technology? 

In 2024, the unhoused population in Dutchess County was estimated to be 705 individuals, with most based in Poughkeepsie, as evidenced by the County’s controversial plan to put its homeless shelter on the city’s underresourced northside. In a society where a lack of shelter is entangled with systemic racism, drug addiction, domestic violence, and mental illnesses, the court system offers bureaucracy rather than compassion. How can we expect people lacking homes, phones, and mailing addresses to keep track of a slip of paper or memorize court dates that may be weeks away?

 Meanwhile, failure to appear in court has harsh consequences, particularly for the unhoused in Poughkeepsie. The court clerk disclosed to me that the judge and prosecutors are more likely to issue a bench warrant for people without a registered address. Thus, a single missed appointment justifies their arrest. 

When asked about how this system serves people without housing, the clerk paused, unsure how to respond. He eventually explained that unhoused individuals were expected to write “homeless” on this contact form, and it was subsequently “up to them” to memorize the date given by the judge during the arraignment. It was also their personal responsibility to contact the public defender if they had any questions. Then, as if sensing the impossibility of these expectations, he quickly retorted, “A public defender is free, you know.” 

No Notice

“I had to be in court? I didn’t know,” states the interpreter, translating for the Spanish-speaking defendant.

“Well you knew when I told you last time,” the judge retorts, growing increasingly irritated at the defendant’s perceived irresponsibility.

No emails. No calls. Just an expectation to write down the court date and show up on time.

According to a 2025 Pew Research study, while court reminders demand only 0.05% of the judiciary budgets of states implementing them, New York was listed as a state with either no reminders or a failure to respond to the researchers. As someone who has shown up to Poughkeepsie City Court every Friday for the past few weeks and witnessed multiple “failures to appear,” it seems to me there are ways to increase attendance and relieve some defendant stress in the process. I have noticed that the attorneys from the public defender’s office usually hand their clients a slip of paper reminding them of their court date. While this is better than no notice at all, paper can easily get lost and forgotten, especially with an appointment that is weeks or months away. It is also my understanding that after their arraignment, defendants are told to check a box (no more than one) choosing how they would like to be notified about future appointments. This seems quite limiting when using only one method has been proven to be ineffective thus far. 

To remedy the problem of missed court dates, local courts should consider creating a system to email, text, call, or even send a letter in the mail, especially since contact information is already recorded as part of general proceedings. Not only would such measures save the time spent addressing no-shows (including the issuance of bench warrants), but it would also eliminate the time it takes for judges to tell defendants, “You will not be getting a reminder so write it down,” or reprimand them for failing to appear as scheduled with phrases like, “Why didn’t you show up when you were supposed to?” 

If this subject is of interest to you, there are a myriad of resources to better understand it. In addition to the Pew research study above, check out ideas42’s Improving Court Attendance: The Essential Guide to Court Reminder Programs and Pelican Policy’s Save the Court Date: How Technology Can Help Reduce “Failure to Appear” Rates.

Lost in Translation

He approached the stand hesitantly, like a grown man moving with the uncertain steps of a child left alone in a crowded place. The interpreter met him there, gently placing the earpiece that would be his only tether to the proceedings. His eyes darted between the judge and the interpreter's face, seeming to be searching for reassurance.

The judge asked, “Why weren’t you here last time?”

The man turned to the interpreter, then answered with a mix of broken English and desperate Spanish, “I didn’t know I was supposed to come.” The interpreter then announced it to the court in “perfect” English. 

The judge, who remained calm throughout the majority of the cases today, suddenly raised his voice, “You know you were supposed to come. Even though we don’t give out notices, you know you were supposed to come. Why didn’t you come?” 

The man’s face looked even more confused. 

Towards the end of his trial, the judge asked for his address. The scene repeated itself. The man turned to the interpreter, answered in Spanish, and then the interpreter announced it to the court. Except this time, she made a mistake. I felt chills running down my spine until the judge himself clarified, “3rd or 13th street?” 

When they finally scheduled a new appointment and dismissed him, he left the courtroom, looking just as uncertain as when he first entered. 

I knew nothing about this man. He didn't resemble my father in face or stature. But he reminded me of him profoundly. My dad is a successful man who carries our family on his shoulders. The only time his vulnerability creaked through was at customs, where he was interrogated in a foreign tongue, and I had to become his interpreter. This man in the courtroom could be a father, a son, or a husband, now reduced to a criminal defendant, who is put in a system that has no sympathy or patience for his struggle. 

In today's political climate, where immigrants are increasingly targeted, it is disheartening to watch them struggle for not being fluent in a language foreign to them, on a land that had no official language until this year. If you are an immigrant and are encountering struggles with the legal system, you can reach out to the Immigrant Legal Resource Center (ILRC) or, locally, the free immigration services provided by Catholic Charities Community Services of Dutchess County. 

The Shoes of the Defendant

On my first day observing city court, I stood in the lobby, waiting for the courtroom to open to the public. With me were a few defendants as well as three court officers moving about their  routines.

Out of nowhere, one of the officers shouted into space: “Sign the clipboard if you have a criminal case.” His eyes locked on me—the only person who hadn’t signed it.

I didn’t have a criminal case. I was here to observe.

After passing through the security line, I slipped quietly into the front of the courtroom, watching as, one after another, Black and Brown defendants were called up to the front. There was a rhythm to it. About halfway through the proceedings, another officer approached me in the gallery: “Do you have a criminal case today?” she asked. I simply shook my head.

By the end of the session, I was the only person left. As I packed my papers, the judge looked up, directly at me. “You” he said, his voice sharp in the hollow room. “Did you have a criminal case today?”

Before I could speak, the officer from earlier answered for me. “He’s just observing.” 

I wondered why the Judge called on me? Was it because I fit the description of the accused “wrongdoers”? Or perhaps, I joked to myself, was it because I was wearing the same brand of shoe that most of the defendants had on?

I’ve been back to Poughkeepsie City Court many times now. They don’t ask as often whether I have a criminal case—only when a new court officer is on duty and  doesn’t recognize me. But the question they asked of me has stayed with me.

County Court was different.

On my first day there, I arrived early, before the building opened, and stood outside. To my right, a court employee stood waiting too. Soon, more employees arrived, drifting to her side. And as defendants trickled in, they unknowingly gravitated to my side, the left. Without a word spoken, a divide had formed on the courthouse steps: white staff on one side, black and brown defendants on the other.

One of the first defendants to arrive was my age. He was nervous and perhaps gravitated toward me because we happened to be wearing the exact same shoes. 

When the doors opened, I walked in first. Immediately, an officer confronted me: “Which judge are you here for?” 

Before I could respond, an officer I had seen at City Court once before cut in. “He’s a student.”

That first officer looked me up and down, maybe in frustration. Maybe embarrassment. “Okay” he said shortly, stepping aside.

Behind me, the defendant—the one with the same shoes—trailed along, watching how I moved, unsure of where to go.

After entering the courtroom, we ended up sitting on the same bench. At that moment, I couldn’t help but reflect on how clearly the system draws its lines before anyone steps into a courtroom. Because of my age and ethnicity, I was asked repeatedly whether I had a criminal case in city court. In county court, it was simply assumed I did. I may not have walked a mile in the defendants’ shoes, but the few steps I did take taught me that these systemic lines don’t just shape our roles in court—they follow us everywhere. 

Confusion and Consequences in the Courtroom

I could tell the man was agitated the second he entered the courtroom. Recently arrested for violating an order of protection against the mother of his kid, he was held in the local jail and brought into court looking frustrated, confused, and desperate to explain himself. Unlike most defendants, who usually speak only when prompted, he immediately began an urgent conversation with his public defender and nearby security guards.

From what I overheard, two things became clear: he didn’t believe he had violated a court order, and he felt strongly that the court was targeting him because he was Black.

He explained that he’d only seen the mother of his child during a scheduled custody exchange; he had court ordered visitation rights, and yet that contact was being treated as a violation. He couldn’t understand how simply picking up his child could land him back in jail. He spoke of  the visitation agreement, telling it to court staff as he insisted he was just trying to be present for his kid.

As the proceedings continued, it became clear that the confusion stemmed from a misunderstanding of the court order. He believed he had a limited order of protection, which allows some contact, but the court had issued a full order of protection with some limited exceptions. That subtle, legalistic distinction was never fully explained to him. When he asked the judge how he could avoid being arrested again just for trying to see his child, the judge replied that he couldn’t offer legal advice and simply told him not to violate the order again.

What struck me most was how deeply this man wanted to do the right thing. He wasn’t trying to undermine the system, he just didn’t understand it. And it was clear that no one had taken the time to truly explain it to him.

Sadly, this wasn’t the only time I saw a defendant punished for misunderstanding legal technicalities. On another day, a judge threatened a defendant with a harsher sentence because of a miscommunication about when he was supposed to turn himself into jail. The court told him 9 a.m., but his lawyer said by 4 p.m.. But when he showed up at 3 pm, he was turned away—an error that nearly cost him months of freedom.Only a desperate plea from his public defender prevented this harsher outcome.

These moments revealed a troubling pattern: even when people try to comply, the system can still punish them. Public defenders are stretched thin. Court calendars are packed. But it's not the defendant’s fault the system is overwhelmed, and they shouldn’t bear the consequences of its disorganization.

If the justice system can’t ensure that every person is given the clarity, guidance, and time needed to navigate it, we should question the volume of people being pushed through it in the first place. Many of the cases I witnessed involved low-level offenses. Yet the consequences for simple misunderstandings were life-altering.

Justice shouldn't hinge on legal technicalities lost in translation. It should be about offering people the tools to move forward. If the system can’t do that, it’s not justice. It’s merely punishment disguised as a process.

A Deafening Silence in the Courtroom

The clerk called out the case number. 

“Spanish-speaking interpreter required,” said someone.

“Alright, let’s get her on the screen.” The judge sighed heavily. 

The interpreter appeared on a large screen, the size of a stainless steel refrigerator, in the middle of the courtroom, and the defendant came out from the back room where he was being held. 

He had been arrested that morning, but as soon as he came out of that door, this time in handcuffs, I immediately recognized him from his appearance in court four weeks earlier for a public consumption charge. He was a short man, probably over 50 years old, barely able to walk, with nothing but a plastic bag with his clothes and personal belongings. 

The judge explained that he had missed several scheduled court dates, leading him to issue a bench warrant that authorized the police to arrest the defendant and bring him to court. The case dragged on for longer than the judge anticipated because the prosecutor did not have the files immediately at hand to resolve the case that day. And the time it took for the interpreter to translate the proceedings only added to the judge’s frustration. The defendant, however, was never asked any questions and did not once complain, change his facial expression, or move when he was not asked to. He was silent, and this was no different from the last time I had seen him in court. 

As far as I know, his only charges involved consuming alcohol in a public place. Yet here he was in handcuffs. Even though the interpreter had explained to him what was happening in court, it was unclear how much he understood. Even for someone who speaks fluent English, legal jargon makes navigating the judicial system complicated. 

It is unfortunately impossible for court watchers like me to get the full story of the events that led to the charges. But it was easy for anyone to see that this man was struggling to understand the complexities of court proceedings. Among all the chatter in the courtroom, his silence was deafening. 

Judicial Education

During one of the first cases that I have watched in the Poughkeepsie County Court, the clerk called a case number. Instead of the defendant, his attorney stood and addressed the court. “Unfortunately, your honor, I have nothing further to add this morning, as I was informed by my client’s family that he was detained by ICE this morning.” The judge and the audience fell silent. The teenagers behind me, who had been talking and making fun of the court proceedings all morning, also fell silent. This is the first time I had heard of a situation like this happening in the Poughkeepsie community. 

I go to court once per week, and the number of those who are Hispanic make up almost 30-40% of the docket on any given day. It seems like the time that the Spanish-speaking interpreter has attended the criminal courtroom has increased since January. Even so, some of the individuals may not really understand the charges against them because judicial terms are hard to understand in general, not to mention in a foreign or second language in which they are not entirely proficient. For me as a Latina woman, it is especially jarring to see individuals in the Latiné-communities struggle to understand their next steps due to communication barriers. But though there may be private Spanish-speaking lawyers, their fees are likely expensive, and the public defenders’ caseload seems already overburdened. 

There are many immigrants in the mid-Hudson region of New York, and in the courtrooms it is possible that they struggle to understand the charges and consequences of court proceedings in the American legal system. Whether immigrants have visas or are undocumented,all have the right to a fair trial under the U.S. constitution. The courtroom’s process is a complicated one, and cases can drag on for years. While all court proceedings need to be understandable to anyone accused of a crime, it seems especially important to ensure that those in Spanish-speaking communities receive the judicial education and resources they need to receive a fair hearing. 

“Come on Through.”

I stepped out of the elevator into the lobby of the Poughkeepsie City Court, already feeling the weight of the time. 10:32. I was arriving more than an hour after court had already started. As I approached the security check-in point, I fumbled to get my bag open. The security attendant greeted me with a smile and gestured for my bag, easing my nerves. The attendant placed my bag on the tray and slid it ahead of another woman’s belongings–-a woman, who like me, had also arrived late. She looked to be in her early 30s, Hispanic, with soft curls and a casual outfit. The difference was subtle but clear—my dressier attire, the way I carried myself as a student, and, above all, my whiteness. The woman in front of me waited for my things to go through the detector, then finally was able to place hers on the belt.

The male security guard waved her through the detector, and it beeped. He motioned her forward with a firm hand, then used a wand to scan her torso, asking her to raise her arms. A different guard gestured for me to walk through and the machine beeped again. Before I could say anything, though, the security attendant glanced down at my polished shoes and said, “It’s probably the shoes,” and then waved me through without a second thought. The implication was significant: his immediate, unspoken assumption that I posed no threat.

As I made my way towards the court doors, the Hispanic woman was still being searched. Just as I moved to enter the courtroom, a court officer blocked the entrance. His imposing 6’3” stature and stern demeanor put me on edge. “What are you here for?” he asked in a serious tone.

“I’m here for court watching.”

“Court watching? Can’t you watch the court from over there?” 

He pointed to a corner of the lobby, his tone sharpened slightly—until suddenly, he broke into a wide grin and laughed. It’s the kind of laugh that implies familiarity, like we’re sharing some private joke. But what is the joke? That I don’t look like a defendant? In all the hours I’ve seen him in the courtroom before, I’ve never seen him regard others with that same familiarity or ease. 

He steps aside.  

“Of course. Come on through.” 

As I enter the courtroom, the Hispanic woman is still waiting. 

This was only my second time court-watching. But as I sat on the hard wooden benches, watching defendants file in and out, the pattern was impossible to ignore. White defendants—those who looked more like me—were offered second chances. Just as I had been, when I arrived late. For instance, one young white man, facing a DWI, was sympathetically told by the judge that he hoped he would “get things back on track.” 

That day, as court proceeded, I continued to see how some were motioned through, given grace; while others, almost always black or brown, were held back, questioned longer, and denied the same benefit of the doubt. 

“Oh Hon, What Are You Doing Here?”

On my very first day observing Poughkeepsie City Court, I walked hesitantly as I entered the courtroom, unsure of what to expect. Before I could take my seat in the empty pews, the court officer caught my attention with a wave: “Oh hon, what are you doing here?” she asked with a smile. She was an older woman, and the only female officer in the building. Since I was expecting my presence in the courtroom to be questioned, I was a little relieved that I hadn’t been approached by one of the more intimidating male officers I had seen standing around City Hall. While I’m usually a little nervous around the police, this officer greeted me just like any of my older relatives would have back home. Her kind smile reminded me of my aunt’s, making me feel like she was about to invite me into her home for a cup of sweet tea and pecan pie rather than about to handcuff me and throw me in the back of her cruiser. This initially made me optimistic regarding how the Poughkeepsie City Court treats its attendees, 

But I quickly learned that not everyone receives such a warm welcome. As I was explaining my involvement with ENJAN’s courtwatching program, someone else entered the room and took a seat a few rows behind me. He was a young Latino man in his late teens or early twenties: college-aged, just like me. The court officer’s demeanor changed suddenly as she turned to address him. Raising her voice she simply asked, or rather, commanded him to give her his name. He looked confused, as if he wasn’t expecting to be addressed. She walked over to her stack of manila folders, preparing to sift through them to find his file: “You’re here for criminal court, right? What’s your last name?” Before the young man could answer, another officer spoke up for him from the back of the room: “He’s our intern.” The court officer grumbled something in response as she shuffled her papers, but I was unable to distinguish her words. As more people filtered into the courtroom, the intern relaxed into his seat and the court officer began taking the newcomers’ names in the same curt manner in which she had addressed him. Whenever there was a pause in the influx of court attendees, she returned to making smalltalk with me while ignoring everyone else in the gallery. 

While I began to take note of this encounter and prepare my documents for the upcoming cases, she came over to me one final time before announcing the judge’s arrival. With a wink and a smile, she told me “I hope you’re writing about how good the court officer is.” I gave her a chuckle and said “I sure am,” but in reality, I was doing pretty much the exact opposite. In the same period of time during which she endeared herself to me, I watched her withhold this kindness from the rest of the attendees - even the court’s own intern. Based purely on our appearances, she immediately assumed that the young Latino intern was here as a defendant in criminal court while I, a young white woman, must have been there for some other reason. She was so confident in these assumptions that she never even asked my name to check it against her files (despite this being the only question she asked the other attendees) even as she began searching for the intern’s file before she even knew his name. Not only does this expose racial biases in the Poughkeepsie court system regarding who is or isn’t perceived as a “criminal,” my special treatment by the court officer reflects how this label determines the treatment you receive in society. As the only observer in the room, the court officer identified me as the person that most deserves her kindness and attention while keeping her interactions with the defendants to a bare minimum, even if they had not actually been convicted of a crime.  

Guilty with No Chance to Be Proven Innocent

T.V. shows like Law & Order captivate us with dramatic courtroom scenes in which the lawyers passionately make their case to the jury and judge. These shows flood our imaginations with ideas of how prosecutors must prove a defendant’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. They tell us that even if the lawyers know someone is guilty, it is the jury that must ultimately decide. In reality, though, hardly any defendant ever gets a trial. 

During my time as a court watcher, I saw case after case resolved with a plea deal. At Dutchess County Court, the bargaining took place behind the closed doors of the judge’s chambers. Meanwhile, it was in Poughkeepsie City Court that I witnessed only one case proceed to trial when a white man, who arrived of his own volition, insisted on his right to a trial. Agitated by this man’s demand, Judge Mora attempted to dissuade him for several minutes but to no avail. After the defendant left the courtroom, the judge huffed a big sigh and later commented on how trials later that month would be taking up all of his time. 

In The New Jim Crow (2010), Michelle Alexander explains that most criminal cases are resolved with a plea bargain rather than a trial. Through plea bargaining the defendant pleads guilty to a charge in exchange for leniency – often for a lesser sentence (in prison, in jail, in money, or on probation). Though judges have to approve of any plea deal, prosecutors hold most of the power in this arrangement, with the ability to add more charges against the defendant as long as probable cause can be argued, even if such charges could not be proven at trial (Alexander 109). Especially with the long mandatory minimum prison sentences that the Anti-Drug Abuse Act of 1986, people often feel forced to plead guilty rather than face the threat of a much longer sentence if they lose their trial (110). 

The double-bind of a plea deal hit home for me as I sat one day in County Court and watched as one black man, shackled and in his orange jail tracksuit, struggled to hold the pen to sign his guilty plea. Quite literally, he was chained into signing a plea deal. 

A Lesson in Justice

It was early on a Wednesday morning in Dutchess County Court. In the place of a jury, there sat a local high school class. The teacher for this law lesson was the Special Victims Assistant District Attorney (ADA), who told them the procedures she takes in cases in which little kids are asked to testify on the stand. The Public Defender sat nearby, chiming in when she saw fit, a teacher’s assistant of sorts. The two lawyers discussed the role of the judge in the court proceedings, which is to oversee the conversations between the prosecutor and defense attorney. They emphasized that the judge is not the one to control the outcome of a case; he merely decides if what the prosecutor offers is reasonable. The students stared on, some listening, others checking their phones as if it were a regular school day.

The students perked up when a defendant, who had arrived on his own volition, volunteered to show them his electronic monitoring anklet. As he displayed his bound ankle, a probation officer told (what she thought were) funny stories about how creative people can be in trying to remove their ankle monitors. She mentioned a man who had managed to place his monitor on his cat so he could leave the house unsurveilled. Another man tried to microwave his monitor. She laughed as she told these cautionary tales, but the underlying lesson was that once a person is placed under state surveillance, it is nearly impossible to escape. At the conclusion of this lesson on probation, court began.

A new lesson emerged about an hour into the court proceedings as Judge McLoughlin called up the final defendant before a midday break. A few rows back from where I was sitting, a young boy, 17 or 18 years old, stood and walked to the front of the court for his arraignment. He was accused of assault in the second degree with injury to a victim 65 years or older. He entered a plea of not guilty. As Judge McLoughlin spoke back and forth with the ADA and defense attorney, the defendant was looking down at the table in front of him and avoiding eye contact. Judge McLoughlin called the name of the defendant, to which he responded, “I’m paying attention.” Judge McLoughlin answered, “Please do,” like a strict teacher asking a student to follow along in class.

The ADA mentioned that the defendant had “some developmental issues,” had no permanent address, and that this was one of many run-ins with the police. He also noted that the defendant did not live in Dutchess County, so he was not eligible for electronic monitoring. He suggested that the defendant be remanded (held in jail during his case proceedings) with bail of $15,000 cash and $35,000 bond. The defendant’s attorney—who was filling in for his public defender—quickly came to the boy’s aide, stating that the ultimate question of remanding the defendant relies on his ability and willingness to attend court. She said his original attorney had not even told him of his court date; he was there on his own volition. This alone, to the defense attorney, was enough to prove that he was fit to be released on his own recognizance. If bail was to be set, it should be at least in an amount he had a “miracle” of paying ($15,000 was far, far too much). The defense attorney also noted that the defendant has a level of Autism, so although he may not look the Judge in the eyes, he is in fact paying attention. 

Contrary to what the class had been taught about a judge’s role as an overseer, Judge McLoughlin took over as teacher, maybe even as principal. He described the crime the defendant was accused of and emphasized that it was a violent offense caught on video. He noted that a sentence for this kind of crime is usually between two and seven years, and since the defendant has no permanent address and is not eligible for electronic monitoring, he should be remanded. Judge McLoughlin then set a bail of $50,000 cash and $100,000 bond. The defendant was placed in handcuffs and taken through the exit of the courtroom. 

A sob was heard from the back of the courtroom. “He has a permanent address, I’m his mom,” cried his mother as she was escorted out by two friends or family members. Judge McLoughlin made no acknowledgement of this disruption to the court. He then turned to the high school class to tell them they would be taking a short break, and the students should ask questions if they have any.

What had the students really learned in class that day? The ADA and defense attorney could only control the lesson plan for so long until Judge McLoughlin took over the classroom. McLoughlin was the true teacher that day, and he taught the class very clearly about how few resources there were for kids their age who may be experiencing homelessness, developmental difficulties, or even Autism. The proposed plan to teach the class about justice was derailed by the heavy hand of Judge McLoughlin, who had a different lesson in mind.

"Not This Court's Concern"

It was my first day observing the city court of Poughkeepsie. After hearing many cases of people coming to court to pay for their tickets and fines, one case soon caught my eye: a defendant walked into the courtroom in an orange jumpsuit and chains alongside two police officers. Her face was very pale, her whole body in a defensive and fearful gesture. The defense attorney soon approached his client and whispered something in her ear, apparently explaining what to expect and asking her to remain calm. Due to the height difference, she had to look up at him and nodded frequently, repeating “yes, sir” in her mouth.

It turns out the defendant was coming close to her time served in jail, and the judge at first advised the attorney to release her back to her home under electrical monitoring. However, the judge seemed reluctant to discharge her from jail because of her mental health. The probation officer suggested having the jail doctor evaluate the defendant before determining whether or not she needed to be hospitalized; her defense attorney requested that his client be taken directly to the hospital. 

From the little information given, the defendant was under constant supervision at the jail. Constant supervision involves assigning a correction officer to be present at all times in order to prevent an inmate from harming themselves or others. Defined by 9 NYCRR §7003.2(d), it says that the officer has to possess "the ability to immediately and directly intervene in response to situations or behavior observed which threaten the health or safety of prisoners or the good order of the facility.” Though the intention behind such supervision is to “save lives,” it seems like it would be better for inmates suffering mental distress to be transferred to a facility with trained professionals who actually treat mental illness. It seems that here the constant supervision is a little hypocritical to only be used to prolong one’s life to fulfill the terms that one is assigned in the jail and maximize their labor potential in the jail. 

Back in the courtroom, the judge ordered the defendant to be examined by a jail doctor first. However, the jail officer could not promise that the doctor would be at the jail this week to assess the defendant in a timely manner. Because the jail outsources their medical treatment, the defendant might have to wait in jail for another two weeks before a doctor could see her. This situation is not particularly friendly to the inmates who really need medical help and assessment. In fact, in a 2018 report, the New York State Corrections Department identified the Dutchess County jail as “one of the five worst in New York,” in large part due to the fact that the commission found there was “inadequate medical care [provided] by Correctional Medical Care.” There were a couple cases of inmate suicides investigated indicating inefficiency, ignorance, and a failure to refer inmates in need to proper physical/mental health services. 

As everyone was discussing her case, the defendant stood in the far left corner of the courtroom, chained and supervised, murmuring to her attorney: "What about my job? After I get out, I won't have a job." I was struck by her facial expression, which appeared to be very scared and confused about what was going on. The attorney did not handle her emotions very well; instead, he briefly summarized what was argued on both sides and simply said what she was asking about was "not of this courtroom’s concern today." I don't know if this court commonly deals with people who need mental health support in this way, but it was uncomfortable to witness the court treating her like an object and a child-like patient. The needs of the court and the needs of individuals are phrased as a dichotomy here when ironically the court serves those individuals. Both the court and the county jail should highly pay attention to and aim for a more humane and timely response to people in need. 

I’ll Have My Day... Ummm., Make That 60 Seconds in Court

People often imagine that criminal defendants have the opportunity to defend themselves and their cases. To “have your day in court” is seen as a chance to advocate for yourself before an impartial judge and jury. However, this is rarely ever the case. For the vast majority of criminal defendants, cases result in plea deals and do not go to trial. Moreover, when criminal defendants attempt to speak on their own behalf in court, they are often hushed by their defense counsel and brushed off by the judge. Criminal defendants are expected to remain silent and allow for their counsel, the prosecutor, and the judge to deliberate and determine the outcome of their case—a process that is often speedy and wrapped up within a couple of minutes. While the silencing of criminal defendants is designed to protect them from incriminating themselves, defendants often appear agitated and discontent with their inability to speak on their own behalf, especially within the limited time frame in which they appear before the judge. 

Recently I observed one particular defendant, who was brought into the courtroom in chains. His family sat behind me in the crowd, and he was represented by a private attorney. Despite being confined by the chains, he held onto several documents for his case, and he listened attentively to the court proceedings. While the judge spoke, the defendant repeatedly tried to grab the attention of his attorney. He appeared flustered and angry as his private attorney kept hushing and waving him away. The defendant, visibly upset, finally cried, “you’re worried about being embarrassed. I’m worried about my life!” Within seconds, the case was brought to a close and the defendant was guided by officers to a concealed room. His attorney stormed off and signaled to the defendant’s family to follow him. The case lasted a total of two minutes.

While the private attorney could walk out of the courtroom and take his time to contemplate his client’s case, the defendant was taken back to jail to wait in his cell. The defendant appeared knowledgeable and devoted to his case, and he likely spent a substantial amount of time preparing for his court appearance. However, he was silenced, and his case was given attention for mere minutes. 

It is not surprising that this defendant was ignored despite appearing to understand his case. In general, defendants are often perceived as having less knowledge about the legal system, and even when they do have any awareness, they are criticized for how they attained such information. Nicole Gonzalez discusses this perception in her fascinating book, Crook County. She writes that criminal defendants are “...judged for knowing ‘street law,’ but when they try to engage as educated equals with the attorneys (by going to the law library, for instance), they are stigmatized or seen as posturing for status within the jail and among ‘criminals,’” (p. 165). Therefore, regardless of what the defendant may have to say about his case, his knowledge is pre-determined to be unworthy. 

Excluding the defendant from participating in case proceedings may help with the efficiency of the court. Court agents value moving through cases quickly and because not all cases have the necessary materials to move forward and reach a conclusion on any given day, it is easiest to omit any unnecessary participation. Still, the dismissal of the defendant and his pleas by every agent in the court reveals a robotic-like structure of the court that is less focused on the human needs of the defendant and more so on the efficiency of the court. While some structures are put in place with the defendant’s interests in mind, they too often fail individuals by disempowering them.

The Hidden Costs of Alternative Supervision

I didn't notice his ankle monitor at first; I only noticed how he was trying to help someone who did not speak English. This young man translated a stranger's name from Spanish to English and conveyed to the court officer that the stranger would need a translator. Then the young man spoke his own name, and I found his information in my stack of forms. The night before I had written out fifty or so forms describing the defendants for court. His name, his birth year, his arrest date were all right in front of me—and he was younger than I was. Born in 2004, this man had been arrested for assault and placed under electronic monitoring. I wrote a note on his form and waited for court to begin. 

It was an hour or so before his name was called, and I noticed a woman—one I could have mistook for a teenager—perk up at his name. She identified herself as his mother and joined him at his side. His case proceeded as normal, with probation and the DA volunteering information on the case. It was made clear that he had been entirely compliant with the demands of the court and probation, but this did little to assuage Judge Volkman. His response of "well that's what we would expect" relegated this young man's achievements to mere  expectations. Mere cases before we had seen a white woman praised for her completion of drug treatment "with a few hiccups." But a Latinx man is seen as compliant with expectations. At the end of his hearing, the public defender requested the termination of his electronic monitoring (EM), given that it would expire in the coming weeks before he would appear in court again. The choice became whether or not Volkman would terminate the EM treatment two weeks early or let it expire. His choice to let it expire angered both the son and mother as they exhibited obvious groans and expressions of disgust. After they had left the courtroom in a not-so-silent ire, the cases continued as normal. 

This drew my attention, not only because of the explicitly racial evidence to suggest unequal decisions, but because of the electronic monitoring (EM) as a device of surveillance and punishment. I had seen another case revolving around EM that same day. In the state of New York, EM became more prominent in law enforcement back in 2020. With the rise of the coronavirus and overcrowding in jails, EM was seen as a way to surveil those who had been convicted. It also became a popular alternative to bail as New York instituted bail reform. While the concept of introducing EM was not unique to 2020, with the demonstrated need, courts have used this treatment for over 125,000 people, according to a report by the Brennan Center. The concept of surveillance is appealing to public defenders, DA's, and judges alike as it promotes a compromise between ROR (Release on one's own recognisance, a promise to obey the court)  and bail. It also continues to keep individuals out of jail, which carries its own financial, mental, social, and emotional costs. 

However, EM has limitations that prevent it from being an accessible option for everyone. Firstly, it requires a stable living situation with a landline, as well as electricity. Many cases in Poughkeepsie City Court involve defendants who do not have access to stable housing which would invalidate EM as an option. Secondly, these devices come at a cost. As an article in the New York Times notes, EM often requires installation fees (up to $200), and maintenance fees (ranging from $150 to $1200 per month) , and even daily charges. Those who are sentenced generally must finance the systems themselves, which can result in devastating debt. Finally, the dizzying number of sometimes onerous rules means that infractions are common, which can result in being sentenced to jail after all.

False Assumptions

As the courtroom begins to fill up, an officer makes his rounds, asking all those present for their name. He then proceeds to the cardboard box of manilla folders and pulls out the cases of the present defendants. This process allows for the court to be efficient and for the defendants to be sent on their way more quickly. One individual, however, was left waiting. A well-dressed, middle-aged, ethnically Chinese man sat patiently in the second row of the court for over an hour before he was finally approached by the officer. 

“What are you here for?” 

“Court.”

“Do you have a criminal case?”

“Yes.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, man. I assumed you were here for a building code violation. I would have called your case a lot earlier. I’m sorry you have been waiting so long. We will get you out of here as soon as possible. What’s your name?”

 Every Tuesday, the court processes the building code violation docket following the criminal docket. However, people with such violations usually arrive later in the morning. This individual arrived punctually at 9 am. 

The officer smiled and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. He then proceeded to pull the file and call the defendant’s name minutes later. He was being represented by the public defender, but still needed to qualify for these services going forward.  

It seems clear that the court officer assumed that the man was not attending criminal court because he was ethnically Chinese rather than Black or Latinx, the usual pool of defendants in Poughkeepsie’s city court. The defendant’s charges, however, were just as serious, if not more so, than most of the other defendants in the courtroom that day: aggravated unlicensed operation of a motor vehicle while intoxicated. 

This seemingly innocuous example of bias toward Asian Americans as model minorities is the flip side of the far more pernicious racial and ethnic biases operating in the criminal legal system in this country. In her compelling book, The New Jim Crow, Michelle Alexander discusses the impact of police officers’ inherent biases, which have led to disproportionate arrest rates for members of Black and Latinx communities. For example, throughout the War on Drugs, law enforcement was granted “extraordinary discretion” regarding “...whom to stop, search, arrest, and charge for drug offenses…” which ensured that “...conscious and unconscious racial beliefs and stereotypes…” were given “free rein” (103). As a result, courts like Poughkeepsie are overrepresented by Black and Latinx defendants—and hence the reason for this court officer’s “innocent” mistake. 

The right time to correct these biases, of course, is long before individuals are summoned to court—when police are patrolling neighborhoods, when residents decide to call the police, when public money is being spent for schools and social services. Once individuals are targeted and arrested, it is often impossible for them to escape the “cruel hand” of the criminal legal system and its life-long impacts.a

Race and Racial Bias in Poughkeepsie City Court

“What’s their race?” That’s a frequent question I raise to my court watching partner Julia. She can always quickly answer the question. We write down the race of the defendants because explicit or implicit racial bias may play an unacknowledged role in the plea bargain and sentencing process. In noting down the race of the defendants, it doesn’t matter how they identify themselves, but rather the racial identity that the judge, the prosecutors, and the jury perceive them to have. I grew up in a racially monolithic city, Shanghai. Since almost everyone is Chinese there, I am not familiar with the racial stereotypes in America (there are stereotypes about people in Shanghai too but just not ones around race). Judging another’s race based on appearance and external characteristics is, of course, largely dependent on racial stereotypes: the color of their skin, their facial features, their clothings, and their accents. Would that be a really tanned white person or a pale black person? Furthermore, multiracial people make this racial categorization even more ambiguous. Stereotypes become powerful and hegemonic when cultural and social meanings are attached to these traits, thereby engendering discrimination. 

These issues hit home during my time spent court watching in Poughkeepsie City Court. Over the weeks and months I attended court, many African Americans pleaded guilty and were sentenced for criminal possession of illegal substances. Yet there was also one white woman who had her crime reduced to a violation; she was then released on a condition discharge. 

The white woman, who had a private lawyer, was neatly dressed as she stood in front of the judge. She was charged with violating Penal Code 220.0605 (criminal possession of illegal substances), and one of the prosecutors, a bulky middle-aged white man, claimed that her charge should be reduced from a felony to a misdemeanor and then to a mere violation. As Judge Volkman questioned the reasons for this magnanimous plea bargain, the two assistant district attorneys awkwardly checked their documents. Unsurprisingly, the prosecutors stuttered and could not come up with a valid answer. What they said was their record indicated that the defendant should have this reduction. Though looking confused, Volkman agreed to the reduced charge. Therefore, the defendant was released with an acquittal in contemplation of dismissal (ACD): as long as she does not get arrested for one year, her charge will be cleared. 

The experience of this white woman was drastically different from the experience of most people of color who are charged with criminal possession of illegal substances in Poughkeepsie City Court. During my court watching appearances, none of the defendants of color received any reduced charges. The prosecutors’ decision thus seems arbitrary and unreasonable, a kind of racial or gendered favoritism. And despite initially questioning the reduction,  the judge became complicit with them when he approved the plea deal. 

This racial disparity is explained in Nicole Gonzalez Van Cleves’s book, Crook County : Racism and Injustice in America’s Largest Criminal Court. She depicts that while black defendants were viewed as “degenerate, lazy, and undeserving” and called “mopes”  (a derogatory word to humiliate the defendants behind their backs), white defendants were often seen “as ‘ill’ rather than criminal” (p. 65, 66). Their white privilege allowed them to frame their crimes as “the seminal turning point in their recovery” instead of “a pattern of criminality” (p. 66). 

I am not arguing that many white defendants facing drug charges are not also experiencing mental health and addiction problems. Rather I am simply stressing that there is a problem when only white defendants enjoy this privilege and leniency in court. This kind of racial discrimination is perhaps the most significant  problem of the American judicial system. In her book The New Jim Crow, Michelle Alexande indicates that African Americans are specifically targeted for drug possession. Police use racial profiling to disproportionately arrest African Americans for drug offenses, but this racialization of drug offenses does not stop with law enforcement. The court system also shows racial biases in terms of sentencing and reduction, as this case demonstrates. The composition of the court itself is also racialized. The judge, the stenographer, the law clerk, the ADAs, the probation officer, and most public defenders are white, while only the court officers are predominantly black. The racial differences in those job positions underscore that we still live in a racialized society where black people have less resources and opportunities to become lawyers or judges. While African Americans fill jails and prisons, this white defendant received a reduction with no justified reason. And that, my friends, is the New Jim Crow.