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.

A Familiar Face

Each week, I prepare for court by reading through the docket and filling out forms with the background information of the defendants. Dockets list defendants’ names and birth year, as well as the charges they face and the number of times they have had to appear in court. As I fill in the forms, I often see the same names again and again. It becomes second nature to associate these names with the faces of the individuals whose cases are being heard. But there was one person whose face I was able to memorize instantly—and I was even able to recognize him outside the court as well. 

This individual, a black-appearing cis-gender man in handcuffs, had turned himself in under the charge of assault in the third degree. Though this charge is the lowest tier of assault in the state of New York, it still involves an intent to cause physical injury. After entering a plea of not guilty, his hearing ended within five minutes with the judge's decision to release him on his own recognizance and a new court date scheduled for two weeks from today. His handcuffs were unlocked and he walked out of the courtroom with an air of confidence. 

I expected to see him next at court in two weeks, so it was a surprise that I caught sight of him the following week when I was driving around Poughkeepsie. As he disappeared into a store, I found myself partially excited and somewhat confused. 

It was only because I had attended court on a certain day that I had any information about his personal history. On the one hand, I remember a feeling of relief when he was able to walk back out into the world after that day in court, and I felt similarly content that he was able to move freely around the area of Poughkeepsie. This preliminary state of affairs—innocent until proven guilty—gave me some amount of confidence in the system, that there was mutual trust between defendants and the court. 

However, knowing this small part of his history also presented some amount of wariness. Though this man had no idea who I am, I know his name, birth year, criminal charges, and some other tidbits of personal information based on his docket and observing his arraignment in court. As a result, I know that he has an order of protection issued against him and there may have been people he has injured. Even in my attempts to see the person behind the label, I caught myself feeling a sense of trepidation when seeing him in public. 

This stigma is explored extensively in Michelle Alexander's book, The New Jim Crow. As she explains, "the system of mass incarceration is based on the prison label, not prison time" (p. 17). It is this label that has come to be so ingrained in our society as we continue to use the criminal justice system as a tool to perpetuate racial injustice. 

Having experienced this phenomenon—the demonization of individuals with criminal labels, despite their lack of conviction—I recognize the importance of continuing my study of the racial disparities in the criminal-legal system. I believe the resonance of Alexander's words can teach us how to move past the labels and understand the system for what it is: a target placed on the backs of people of color and other marginalized groups. As we continue to come together to educate ourselves on these issues, we can grow to understand our own misjudgments and stigmas that contribute to the overwhelming discriminative perception of the criminal label.