In the Interest of Justice

There was a brief moment of confusion in Poughkeepsie City Court late one Thursday morning before the coronavirus crisis shut down regular court business. A middle-aged Latinx man had his name and case number called by the clerk, and he rose from his seat behind me, walking to the front of the courtroom so that he was standing next to the public defender. This man was to be arraigned for loitering for drugs, in violation of a local ordinance. As the judge began the proceedings for this case, a voice from behind me interjected: “He doesn’t speak English.”

This was the voice of the defendant’s friend who had come to support him in court that day. With no interpreter present, Judge Volkman asked if perhaps the case should be rescheduled to another day when an interpreter could be provided. The Corporation Counsel for the City of Poughkeepsie, who had just entered the courtroom for this one case and was presumably getting a look at it for the first time, explained that this wouldn’t be necessary. Citing a problem with the ticket that was issued to the defendant for the charge, he moved that the case be dismissed “in the interest of justice.” The defense and the judge accepted this motion, and the defendant was able to walk out of the courtroom with the charge dismissed.

This example of prosecutorial discretion was certainly a welcome sight. Most days in court seem to go by in a flurry of arraignments, extensions on payments, and bench warrants issued for defendants who failed to appear. My time observing in court, while brief, has taught me that a defendant can often end up in court countless times for something as minor as loitering (in this case, supposedly for drugs). The sentence for an infraction like this is often a fine. Those who lack the money to quickly pay off that fine in full are required to come to court on a monthly, or sometimes biweekly, basis to ask for an extension. These recurrent court appearances can be onerous, putting a defendant’s job at risk or making it difficult for them to balance childcare responsibilities.

Thankfully, one defendant did not have to worry about that today, as the court acted “in the interest of justice.” In this epidemic—and afterwards—we need more prosecutors to exercise their discretion to reduce the burdens our criminal justice system places on low-income members of our community.

The Effect of Coronavirus on Incarcerated Individuals in Dutchess County

Incarcerated citizens in our community are at severe risk of coronavirus. As of today, there have been 466 verified cases of infection in Dutchess County, and this devastating pandemic has made its way into our jails and prisons. According to the Poughkeepsie Journal, Chris Moreau, a Green Haven Correctional Facility corrections officer, is one of 16 corrections officers in the mid-Hudson to test positive for COVID-19 while 89 others are in isolation. Meanwhile, families of people incarcerated  at the Dutchess County Jail have told us that their loved ones have started to show symptoms associated with the virus—but have not yet been tested!

Despite the concerns about a rapid spread of coronavirus throughout state prisons and county jails, New York State refuses to supply corrections officers with masks or allow them to use their own protective equipment. In a personal statement, someone incarcerated at Green Haven Correctional Facility told us, “I haven't seen them [officers] wearing gloves and from what I hear the state denied their request to wear masks.” Why are authorities actively denying these public health necessities? The Department of Corrections and Community Supervision told the Poughkeepsie Journal that this equipment is only provided to officers when it is "medically necessary.” When is this equipment more medically necessary to protect our incarcerated population and corrections officers than right now? An incarcerated individual at Eastern Correctional Facility told us that the lack of medical equipment has meant that officers need to search inmates with the “same pair of gloves on [that] they searched the last fifteen guys with. Madness." And it is madness. The tight quarters, minimally provided healthcare, and absence of protective equipment make everyone in jails and prisons perilously vulnerable to the coronavirus epidemic. 

The risk faced by incarcerated people is amplified by the lack of access to substantial news regarding the virus. Many incarcerated people haven’t even been told what the symptoms of coronavirus are or the health precautions they need to take. The coronavirus cases that do occur in facilities are also swept under the rug to protect officers’ privacy at the expense of inmates' lives. At both Green Haven and Eastern Correctional Facility, infected officers' identities are being concealed from the people incarcerated in those facilities. Prisoners who may have been exposed to coronavirus have no way of knowing, which can lead to its spread among other prisoners. 

To alleviate the risk of coronavirus in jails and prisons, community members need to put pressure on the jail administration, Governor Cuomo, and the New York Commissioner of Corrections to take steps to minimize the risks to incarcerated people. These steps include releasing all people over 50, people in high-risk groups, and people close to finishing their sentences; minimizing contact between the people inside prisons and jails; supplying incarcerated people and corrections officers with essential medical equipment such as gloves, masks, and hand sanitizer; providing key information regarding coronavirus symptoms and precautions for staying healthy; testing corrections officers and incarcerated people for coronavirus and providing both populations with necessary medical treatment; and transparency about which people inside have coronavirus and who may have been in contact with them. 

There are thousands of incarcerated members of our community who are at great risk from coronavirus, and we must act now to protect them. Here’s one way you can help: Sign your name to the NYCLU’s petition to Governor Cuomo demanding that he take immediate steps to protect people in New York jails and prisons.

The New Jim Crow of Proposed Bail Rollbacks in New York

New York State bail reform, as it was enacted on January 1, 2020, significantly reduced classism and unnecessary confinement by eliminating bail and pretrial detention for most non-violent offenses. This new law prevented people accused of minor offenses from being needlessly incarcerated simply because of an inability to pay bail. However, the proposed rollbacks on New York State bail reform will squander this once-promising future of pretrial judicial equality. These rollbacks will give judges even more power to determine whether a defendant should receive pretrial detention through a risk assessment or a dangerousness standard.

“Risk assessment” and “dangerousness standard” might sound good for public safety, but in practice they are in fact highly discriminatory and do little to increase the safety of our communities. In these evaluations, there are several key “risk factors,” one being prior arrests and convictions. Assessing risk and dangerousness through a person’s history of arrests and convictions is a proxy for racial bias. Innocent working-class people of color across the United States are frequently and unfairly arrested. By a risk assessment or a dangerousness standard, people of color will be disproportionately considered “high-risk” and detained prior to a resolution of their case (in theory a trial, but almost always a plea deal) . Even if we suppose that the evaluations are used for defendants who commit the crime that they have been arrested for, people of color will still be disproportionately targeted.

A 2008 analysis on Habitual-Offender Sentencing found that black defendants are 28% more likely to be charged as habitual-offenders than white defendants with similar criminal records. The evaluations will only exacerbate the already present racial disparities in the criminal justice system. Furthermore, labeling a person a high risk without due process also threatens their human right to the presumption of innocence. If a judge deems defendants a risk to society before they have been sentenced, they are no longer ‘presumed’ innocent. This jeopardizes their human rights. It empowers prosecutors to offer harsher pleas, which defendants already locked up are likely to accept. And harsher pleas mean harsher sentences.

The rollbacks on bail reform will eliminate wealth-based incarceration by removing bail but, as shown, will also exacerbate race-based incarceration. This is not unusual for the United States’ reforms, which have a long history of creating changes to help white people on the backs of people of color. An example of this tactic is the redlining project. This project was implemented during the Depression to create affordable mortgages for white people in safe, stable, historically white neighborhoods. The end result was high-cost mortgages for people of color in their neighborhoods. This segregational Jim Crow policy systematically divided cities and towns into affluent white neighborhoods and poor neighborhoods of color. Similarly, the new risk assessment proposals could divide our judicial system into a structure for most white people to be free and many people of color to be detained. Rolling back bail reform will only add to the already present racial inequality in our judicial system—a situation that Michelle Alexander has famously called the New Jim Crow. Do we want our initially-promising bail reform to become the 21st century’s redlining? I think not.

We at ENJAN ask you to help resist the rollback. If you have Twitter or other social media please reach out to your elected officials to support bail reform:

• Participate in our click to email action to stand firm on bail reform.

• Share the NYCLU tweet.

Who has time vs. who does time?

Recently, a man showed up to Poughkeepsie City Court for an unpaid traffic violation.  Because of circumstances with his employment, his public defender asked for a four-week extension to pay the outstanding fine. Judge Mora scoffed, “I’ll give him two weeks.” The arbitrariness and apparent pettiness of the comment has stuck with me. Since starting court watch, I have been struck by the judge’s power to decide at will how long it would or should take a defendant to complete some task. Of course I understand that judges have a responsibility to make sure that sentences are carried out. However, after observing several court sessions, I am left wondering: who gets the benefit of the doubt? 

Time is a commodity, and for many people not an abundant one. For those caught up in the criminal justice system, time is even more precious, since every missed court date is another mark of delinquency that won’t be ignored. I’m reminded of another case where a man was censured for missing a court date. When he explained that he had to watch his two-year-old niece, Judge Mora replied “well, you should have brought her with you.” Common sense tells me that Judge Mora would rather not have a two-year-old in his courtroom; the admonishment was really intended to emphasize to the defendant in front of him, and probably others in the court, that there is no real excuse to be absent. This unforgiving mindset fundamentally misunderstands the circumstances in which people in poverty—those disproportionately caught up in and punished by the criminal justice system—consistently find themselves. 

The reality is that where there is a demanding judge, there may also be a demanding boss, a demanding home life, and a whole slew of other demanding responsibilities. Furthermore, when defendants do show up to court, more often than not nothing is resolved, and their case is simply adjourned to a later court date. From data gathered by myself and the other Dutchess County court watchers, 58% of Mora’s defendants have had more than five prior appearances and 27% have more than ten. The overwhelming majority of these are simply for “further proceedings.” However frustrating missed appearances may be for judges, it is just as frustrating for defendants to attend court date after court date, potentially sitting around for hours to be called up, only to be given yet another court date. At a certain point, these postponements represent an onerous hardship.

When Judge Mora ignores these realities, he renders them invisible, and so missed court dates are instead attributed to laziness or a defendant’s inherent criminality. It is impossible to ignore the racial dynamics of these interactions as well--more often than not in the City of Poughkeepsie court, court watchers see a Black or Latino defendant standing before a seated white judge, who is admonishing them for a situation often beyond their control. This imperious behavior by the judge underlies the association between race, poverty, and assumptions of criminality that implicitly manifests in the courtroom on a daily basis.

 This is the framework of justice that Mora evokes when he, frankly, punishes people for not having the time to show up—that is, for the circumstances of their lives. It is even more apparent at the end of each court session, when a succession of case numbers are read aloud, followed by “failed to appear,” and finally, “bench warrant issued.” It strikes me that those with the least amount of time to spare are those most likely to end up doing some time.

(Stereo)typecast in the Courtroom

It was Friday morning when a young, black male wearing chains and an orange county jumpsuit was escorted into court by two police officers and stood before Judge Volkmann. The people offered the defendant, who was facing criminal mischief charges, probation along with a full order of protection. The judge then requested probation to report its recommendations. Probation informed the court that it desired that the defendant serve time in jail instead of supervised release. 

In response to this harsh recommendation, the Ulster county public defender went to bat for her defendant. She began by calling the probation officer’s report “ridiculous and irrelevant” due to the subjective nature of the document. To support her claim, she rattled off some examples within the report where the probation officer conveyed that the defendant “was noncompliant with answering questions” and “had no meaningful relationships with his children.” The public defender, who was present for the entire interview, revealed that the particular probation officer repeatedly asked questions in such detail that she had to intervene: “I think he answered the question, can we move on?” After noting that the defendant expressed to her how important his children were to him, she argued that a half-hour meeting with probation is an insufficient instrument for determining the quality of her defendant’s relationships. Finally, she pointed out that probation’s assessment had nothing to do with the charges he was facing. She concluded that jail time was simply unwarranted in this case. 

Judge Volkmann responded in a condescending tone by asking the public defender if she believed that probation’s pre-sentencing reports hold no value with the court. She countered, “of course I believe that probation reports are significant in determining courses of action.” Nevertheless, she went on to explain that in this case she believed that the probation officer made unfair judgments of character and used inaccurate conclusions about his relationship with his children to falsely conclude that he was unable to cooperate with probation’s terms. Additionally, she made the point that two attorneys, herself and the assistant district attorney, had already reached an agreement on what the offer would be and that a probation officer’s opinion should not trump that agreement, suggesting that “if [a probation officer] wanted to prosecute people, she should have gone to law school.” Although the probation officer who wrote the report was not present in the courtroom, the officer who delivered it stood up and walked out, while another public defender covered his mouth as if he were trying to repress a smile. 

Judge Volkmann, however, was not amused. He declared that he was unsure what he was going to decide today. The public defender then proffered her own compromise: that the judge at least grant the defendant electronic monitoring. The assistant district attorney chimed in by reassuring the judge that her offer still stood. Nevertheless, Judge Volkmann denied the request, after which the assistant district attorney silently mouthed to the public defender, “I tried” followed by a shrug. Meanwhile, the young defendant seemed distraught, staring at the floor and shaking his head back and forth. The case was adjourned until Monday. He would remain in jail at least through the weekend.

Watching this case, I had to think about the blunt racial divide in Poughkeepsie City Court. From my vantage point in the jury box, where I had been invited to observe, the courtroom appeared starkly divided. On one side sat the judge, the clerk, the probation officer, and attorneys who were predominantly white. On the other were the defendants—brought in by chains or sitting on benches waiting for their names to be called—who were predominantly people of color. Like a beach where the white sand hits water, both sides are operating in the same system with very different roles. Listening to the public defender address the problems with probation’s report made me wonder how this racial divide may influence our civil servants to make problematic assumptions about defendants. If authorities primarily see only people of color being “caught up” in the system, is it possible that they end up with prejudicial notions about them? 

In American society, popular media commonly portrays black males as criminals and deadbeat fathers. Time and time again these “thugs” are targeted and over-policed because of the perceived deviant label associated with their skin color. Would it be reasonable to conclude that this probation officer behind the report only viewed the defendant as a deadbeat father because black males are supposed to fit that criterion? There may be other reasons behind probation’s recommendation and Judge Volkmann’s decision, but it is something we all must consider when looking at the people whose lives are altered by our justice system.

Silence (Your Phone) in the Court

“Phones away!” shouted the court officer. “Turn the phone off and put it away. Not vibrate. OFF.” She was getting more and more frustrated as the day went on. Since enforcement of the “no phone rule” is pretty frequent in the courtroom, I couldn’t tell if she was in a particularly authoritative mood, but today her repeated rants were more distracting than, well, an incessantly ringing telephone. At the exact same time, I looked up to see a different court officer idly scrolling through his own cell phone while standing behind a black male defendant in chains. Later, a private attorney pulls out his phone to check his calendar to see if his client’s next court date will work, without reaction from the judge or court officer. The picture was pretty clear, defendant or observer: no phones allowed. Lawyer, court officer, court reporter, anyone with power: scroll away. 

 After one of the court officer’s repeated tirades, a person sitting behind me said, “She needs to calm down.” Her friend responded, “They think just because they got badges…” I couldn’t have interpreted it better myself. The continued policing of having phones in court, regardless of whether they were making noise, serves to signal who has power and who doesn’t. It is yet another example of reiterating the powerlessness and criminality of everyone waiting in the room. If you’re sitting here in the court, you cannot be trusted: not with your phone, not with food or water, not with your own decisions. From walking through the metal detector to the incessant comments of the court officers, the court room is filled with little signals that repeatedly remind people of their position. Even if the official legal storyline is innocent until proven guilty, the hidden narrative of the courtroom is guilty until proven guilty.

 The irony of this situation sunk in further when, for the first time of the day, a phone actually rang. The court officer jumped on the opportunity. “Whose phone is that? Whoever’s phone it is, get out. Get out and turn it off.” The assistant district attorney responded, “It was mine, should I get out?” with a laugh. He knew his privileged position in the courtroom meant that he could use his phone with impunity, and they proceeded to joke around about the absurdity of him being punished for his phone ringing. Clearly, some people are too important to follow arbitrary rules. 

Courtroom Clout

As a third-year student in college completing an internship as a court watcher, my only familiarity with the dynamics of a courtroom comes from episodes of CSI or Law & Order. I haven’t ever even received a speeding ticket, let alone had any other reason to appear in court. But as a twenty-year-old American, what I do know is how a typical high school functions. I know the systematic ins and outs, what’s “cool” and what’s a “dub.” I’ve also seen and experienced the role-playing, mocking and hierarchies of the halls based on others' exercise of power and personality. 

My first time sitting in the courtroom I saw it happening right in front of me. The public defender is the jock who tries to get along with everyone. His mocking humor almost made it okay for him to be using certain terminology: “Alright man, stay out of trouble…,” as if he holds some kind of street cred with the defendants he represents. 

Then there’s the court officer, who lords his seniority over everyone else. He moves in and out of the courtroom as he pleases, as if it’s his turf.  

The probation officer is the “goodie-two-shoes” within the courtroom, the judge’s pet, anticipating his needs and finishing people’s sentences with her insider knowledge. 

The “mean girl” of the courtroom is the assistant district attorney, who maintains a stern face throughout the proceedings and deigns to only speak to those she deems worthy. 

And finally, we see the judge, who fills the role of a “power-hungry teacher,” expecting those around him to abide by his standards of behavior and exploiting his role within the courtroom to punish the defendant: the high school’s marginalized outsider with little power or say within the school. 

These individuals, all holding distinct roles, influence the experience of defendants coming into court. As inexperienced as we court watchers might be with the details of the legal proceedings, our experiences give us powerful insights into the processes being carried out “in the name of the people of the state of New York.” Our outsider perspectives help us catch trends that are prevalent in sentencing and argumentation, including instances of injustice. If you were like me, high school did not feel like a place that valued justice. Get involved!

Mockery in the Court

The other day in court, a black male defendant arrived in chains. It was determined during the proceedings that he was going to plead guilty to the charges and serve 60 days in jail. During the guilty plea, as is standard court procedure, the defendant raised his right hand to the best of his ability—which in and of itself is a spectacle when the defendant’s hands are chained to his waist—and swore to tell the truth. Then the next part of court procedure is to state his name and address for the court. As the defendant did so, he stumbled over his address, failing to remember his house number. In response Judge Mora said, “You don’t live at -----?” filling in the defendant’s address on file. When the defendant said yes that is in fact where he lived, Judge Mora proceeded to say, “Oh yeah one of those ones right? I’ve got a lot going on too, but I know where I live. That’s just something you kind of know.” (I tried to write down verbatim what he said.) Not only were Judge Mora’s comments condescending and rude—as he had treated a number of defendants all morning—but they also lacked an understanding of why it might be difficult for some people to remember their address. 

    A number of possible reasons ran through my head. First, many defendants struggle with the pressure of speaking in front of a judge and a full court room. Second, the defendant had already been in jail for a certain amount of time, so presumably he had not been home in a while. But the most likely possibility is that he might not have been living at this address for very long. While Judge Mora probably has a stable home, Poughkeepsie currently has the highest eviction rate of mid-sized New York cities, according to Eviction Lab, an independent research group run by a professor of sociology at Princeton University. In fact, a recent article in The New Republic has documented how gentrification in New York City has driven many New Yorkers to Upstate New York, driving up rent prices and making it more difficult to obtain affordable housing in our area. This defendant could very well be dealing with the difficulty of obtaining affordable housing. 

Granted, seeing as I don’t know the defendant’s income or housing history, all this is speculation. And Judge Mora may not have any more information than I do. Nevertheless, there is something wrong and callous about assuming there is absolutely no reason why the defendant might have difficulty remembering his address. While judges must enforce the law, it is also reasonable to expect them to demonstrate some empathy for the everyday realities of people’s lives. To mock a defendant in the middle of a plea discussion is unacceptable. The fact that it was met by a few giggles around the room only further denigrated the judicial proceedings.

That’s One Expensive Can of Beer

The very first day I attended court, a man came in with an open container charge. Before even speaking to his lawyer, he said he wanted to plead guilty. I had the impression that he was frustrated with being there and just wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible—a pattern I’ve noticed with a lot of defendants who want to avoid having to come in week after week to hash out the details of their cases. When he heard that the fine for an open container was $100, he exclaimed: “That’s one expensive can of beer!” Everyone in the courtroom laughed, and the judge responded by saying that what was more surprising is that the same people keep coming in with the exact same charge over and over again. While the whole exchange was a bit funny, I couldn’t help but wonder about the history of open container laws and who exactly they were meant to protect.

Since that day, I have seen 13 different open container cases during my time as a court watcher. According to Poughkeepsie’s local ordinance, the purpose of restricting open containers and the consumption of alcoholic beverages in public spaces is to reduce urban blight and neighborhood decay, juvenile delinquency, crime, and the general public’s fear about the safety of public spaces. However, upon further research I found that open container laws are actually a continuation of old laws against public drunkenness and vagrancy that were prevalent in many states and municipalities in the early 1960’s. Because the Supreme Court determined that enforcement of these laws was overly subjective and unfairly targeted homeless and alcoholic men, they were struck down as unconstitutional in a string of rulings starting in 1964. Drunkenness was decriminalized and reframed as a public health issue. In response, local laws began to target public drinking. In reality, these local ordinances have the same effect as the previous laws did—criminalizing poor people. 

While most people support restrictions on public drinking, it is important to pause and consider who can afford access to private gathering spaces—like bars and restaurants—where drinking is legal. Moreover, there’s no evidence that open container laws actually correlate to, much less cause, a reduction in more serious crimes. In fact, U.S. municipalities where public drinking is legal do not have any of the serious problems that open container laws claim they are preventing. Therefore, I’m left wondering if we really need open container laws that serve no better purpose than criminalizing people who police officers deem as disturbing the peace. I don’t have an answer to this quandary, but there has to be a better way than fining people and dragging them into court every other week. In a society where it seems we are becoming more and more isolated from one another, we shouldn’t underestimate the value of having public spaces where people can come together over a beer. Ideally, that beer would cost less than $100. 

To learn more about the history of drinking in public in America, check out this Huffington Post article.

Dogged by Probation

A 17-year-old defendant responded affirmatively to the judge’s question of whether he understands that he will go back to jail if the terms of his probation are found to be violated. He had been quiet up to this point, forced into silence as the details of his life were tossed around the courtroom. I am always taken aback by the simultaneous hyper-visibility and sense of absence associated with defendants in Poughkeepsie City Court. Despite their personal information and immediate future being front and center, the defendants themselves are often ignored, excluded from the deliberation on their own fate.

Certain instances stick out in their ability to highlight the absurdity of the business as usual processes of punishment. In this teenager’s case, the probation violation charge stemmed from the report of an officer who discovered signs that the family dog was still living at his home, an apparent breach in the terms set for the defendant’s release. For the criminal justice system, the possession of a childhood pet translated into a reason to potentially jail a minor, disrupt his life and take him away from his family. The court saw the care-taking of a family dog as grounds to physically confine a 17-year-old.

The reasons for the original prohibition of having a dog were unclear. Another judge had handled the case. Someone baselessly suggested it was because the animal had “been trained to attack people in uniform.” The confusion and contention over the apparent dog violation culminated in the case being put on hold until its second call. The teenage boy dropped down in the row next to his mother and the two waited through most of the day’s hearings to find out if something as harmless as an inability to find someone else to take the family dog would land the defendant back in jail.

Over an hour had passed by the time the teen was called again. His visibly overworked public defender, now having had a chance to talk with the defendant and his mother, reported that the dog was living with a friend. The judge appeared unfazed by the defense attorney’s attempts to highlight the minuscule level of the apparent violation. Sternly, he concluded the hearing by announcing that he will check the transcript to confirm the dog order and proceeded to threaten the teenager with more jail time if the pet was found at their home. The defendant turned to walk back to his mother who was standing and shaking her head as the next case number was called.

Court Contributes to Job Loss

“Every time I have to come to court I lose my job,” said a 39-year-old black male defendant to Judge Mora, right as his case was about to be adjourned. Though the defendant had been to court 15 times since July 27, 2018, for this case, the assistant district attorney had not yet made an offer. The defendant further remarked that it was very difficult for him to get a job because of his record.

“You have to follow the rules,” Judge Mora asserted, cutting off the defendant. The defendant desperately looked to his public defender and told him that he had just gotten a new job and needed the money. “You need to follow the rules,” Judge Mora firmly repeated. That was final. Judge Mora adjourned the case.

As the defendant exited the courtroom, he yelled, “They don’t’ care about anybody!” From what I’ve observed, he’s right.

Littering in the Court

“Bullshit case,” remarked a black male defendant as he walked out of the courtroom. I agree. The defendant was scheduled for an arraignment this morning for a littering charge. The city prosecutor made the offer of an ACD (Acquittal in Contemplation of Dismissal) if the defendant completed 15 hours of community service. The public defender rejected the offer. Judge Volkman adjourned the case for further proceedings next week. “Looks like no one likes me today,” remarked the city prosecutor after the defendant had exited the courtroom. Judge Volkman laughed. It strikes me that the prosecutor seemed aware of the absurdity of his offer. Is this justice? Justice for whom?

This is not the first time I’ve observed the city prosecutor make a questionable offer for a littering charge. A couple of weeks ago I sat in on another littering case. The defendant failed to appear for the court date. The city prosecutor requested that an arrest warrant be issued. Judge Mora waited a few seconds before laughing at the prospect. This was only the defendant’s second scheduled court day, and this person did not have any other charges or past convictions. However, after Judge Mora called out the prosecutor for the absurdity of his offer, he actually ended up issuing a bench warrant. While a bench warrant is a “lighter” response than an arrest warrant, I personally think a bench warrant is absurd under the circumstances.

Excess Security

The first time I observed court was quite overwhelming. Everything was fast-paced, too quick for me to keep up. For each case, a court officer reads aloud the case number. At the Poughkeepsie City Court, this is a combination of the letters “CR” and some string of numbers. He only announces this once, so as the defendant enters the other court watcher and I have to scramble to find the matching case form we prepared to record what happens. For the first ten or so cases, I felt that our hasty shuffling of the pages was loud and distracting – I felt uncomfortable accidentally bringing any attention to us. After some time, though, the necessity of speed overrode my concern about being too loud. Around this time, I also started to feel more familiar with the court’s language.

This was about the same time that a jail inmate was escorted into court. She was a black woman bound in chains, clad in an orange jumpsuit, and flanked by six police officers. One might assume she was accused of a violent crime, but that was not quite the case. Her top charge was read aloud – petit larceny – essentially shoplifting an item from a local Rite Aid. It was unclear what exactly the item was, but still, it was only shoplifting. This was striking. I felt like something was off – there was some dissonance between her alleged offense and the sheer number of police officers surrounding her. Why did she, as someone who was accused of a nonviolent offense, require such excessive security? There were many other inmates from the city jail brought to court after her, even some who were accused of violent offenses, but none were subjected to such high security. This left me thinking, was the level of security happenstance or in fact, evidence of racism?

Court Moves on Its Own Time

As a court watcher, I’ve observed the court move exceedingly slow, with countless delays, acting with little regard for people’s time or lives. Most often, the majority of cases I observe are also adjourned, requiring defendants to return to court again.

My experience in court a few weeks ago really captured the way the court seems to move on its own time.

I got to court at 9:01 AM. I was running behind, and I was nervous as I took the elevator up from the basement where I parked my car. When I got to the first floor the court doors were locked and there were no guards anywhere. A few people were standing in the lobby. I was super confused. Was court canceled? Did court start early, and they shut the doors? As I waited in the lobby, more people started showing up. “What’s going on?” Everyone was asking, but no one seemed to know. Finally, a court guard walked through the lobby. “Court starts at 10:00 AM of course, didn’t you know?” Clearly not. Court is always scheduled for 9:00 AM.

At 9:00 PM the night before, I went on WebCriminal to get the day’s docket and fill out my forms. While it had already started to snow, it was only predicted to snow three inches, and the docket was up. The other week, I tried to get the docket the night before court, and – due to snow closure – there weren’t any cases. I assumed that court would start at 9:00 AM, as always, since the docket was up. I was wrong.

Everyone groaned when they heard the news. “Really? How were we supposed to know?” “They never tell us anything.” The guard shrugged and walked away. While I was leaving City Hall to get a coffee to pass the time, I ran into multiple people walking up to the building. “Did court start on time?” They all asked in a hurry. When I told them court was delayed until 10:00 AM, they all sighed. “I missed my doctor’s appointment,” one woman told me. “I could have dropped my kids off,” said another.

While I am voluntarily taking time out of my day to observe court, most people are required to show up for a scheduled court appearance. They are forced to put their lives on hold to come to court and appear before the judge. The lack of communication from the court to the people this morning made clear to me just how little the court cares about people’s lives outside of the courtroom. I’ve also observed this during cases when defendants are sentenced to or threatened with jail time without consideration for how this will entirely disrupt someone’s everyday life.

When court finally did start today, around 10:15 AM, it was slow moving and the room felt a bit different than it had in the past. For the amount of people waiting for their cases to be called, there seemed to be too many lawyers and guards. Cases moved really slowly. Judge Volkman left his chair at least five times during court for up to 10 minutes at a time. While I felt the slowness of court, I could only imagine how people waiting to be called felt.

While people are required to show up on time for their court cases, the court seems to move and function on its own time, not understanding the full effect that it has on people’s lives. Showing up to court is a job for judges, guards, administrators, clerks, lawyers, and more, but it is a highly disruptive obligation and potentially life-harming sentence for defendants.

Reflections of a Court Watcher

I wake up at 7:00 AM every Friday morning, anxious about going to court. Although my feelings could never be as intense as those I assume defendants probably experience, I still worry about the outcomes from what happens in the court each and every Friday. Since details about every single case is public information -- thank you, WebCriminal! -- my view of defendants mimics what I imagine judges see before they arraign an individual. Court Watchers can imagine what kind of person defendants are based on their view of the charges, guess how much money they have depending on whether they have a private lawyer or not, or even assess their behavior based on when the defendant was born. One can make up a whole thought process of how the case will go based on that implicit bias from the information on WebCriminal alone.

I am new to the court system in Poughkeepsie City Court. The anxiety I have gets worse when I sit and watch the case in court because situations don’t get personal until the statistics I read online show up in the form of a human being. In the current political climate, it’s easy for someone to worry about the way the criminal justice system works. However, my time court watching has shown me both the good and the bad of the system. I have seen Public Defenders offer their clients helpful support, thorough preparation, and care. I have seen judges who try to make decisions that would produce the best outcome for the defendant. Court personnel and others try to make the place friendlier, sometimes.

The problem is that Poughkeepsie City Court may have good intentions, but poor execution. For example, I have seen many instances in which threats are made to the defendant to do the “right” thing. “I can make the Public Defender come to visit you? Do you want that?” - a sly way to say the judge will put you in jail for not going to see whether you qualify for a public defender. "Have these fines paid in full by the next court appearance or you will be going to jail … Both dockets must be paid on this date or pack a toothbrush.” I didn't know you could go to jail for the inability to pay. Why do people consistently use jail as a fear tactic? “If it takes a year in jail [for you] to get the record straight, so be it.” Where is the judicial impartiality?

In one case that stood out to me, a preliminary hearing was scheduled on the day’s docket. Upon her appearance, however, the assistant district attorney announced: “I’m willing to go through with the hearing, but the new offer will be a prison sentence. I originally offered 10 months.” A preliminary hearing is used to determine whether there is enough evidence to require a trial or continued attention. Is the new offer of a harsher punishment being used as a scare tactic to circumvent the trouble of revealing evidence that could undermine her case?

In Court Watch, you get to see and learn a lot about the criminal justice system. This observational experience allows me to see how many kinds of charges were brought up for specific individuals. I appreciate my role in this process because my presence is helping to make sure that judges, DAs and other personnel are held accountable. Self-regulating no longer works in the criminal justice system -- true justice requires a community effort.