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. 

The High Price of “Justice”

“The court is in session.” And so is ENJAN’s court watching program! It felt good to be back in the courtroom again. The docket was full, but the courtroom was strangely empty thanks to capacity restrictions in response to the COVID pandemic. All defendants, visitors, and attorneys were required to wear a mask and take a seat on an X, marked in blue tape six feet from the next person, while others waited outside until their cases were called. The judge wore a transparent face shield. In light of the continuing cases of COVID—still over 600 in Dutchess County at the time—the precautions seemed warranted, rational... even judicious.

Unfortunately, the outcomes of a few cases seemed distinctly less rational and judicious. One stands out in particular: an African American man charged with committing robbery in the first degree. Because the defendant had presumably been armed with a deadly weapon, the charge was a class B felony. Yet, after he strode to the blue X on the floor where defendants were required to stand, the case materialized into something else. His attorney—a public defender—had worked out a plea deal with the district attorney’s office: he would plead guilty to disorderly conduct (a mere violation) in exchange for accepting a two-year order of protection prohibiting him from having contact with the other man involved in the altercation that led to his arrest. This plea deal also came with a conditional discharge—that is, no jail time or community supervision (probation). Either there was insufficient evidence for the original charge or no robbery had in fact taken place.

In presenting the deal to the judge, the public defender mentioned that it was important that the court fee, levied at every conviction, be kept low because her client did not have any money or income. The judge initially said nothing, but then announced the sentence: $120 in court fees—and a $200 fine. When the public defender protested that the fine was not part of the deal, the judge threatened to withdraw the plea and leave the original charge in place. Though the district attorney’s office had agreed to the lower charge and conditions, the judge imposed a stiffer sentence. Faced with no alternative, her client reluctantly accepted the sentence.

While judges always have the right to impose a different sentence than requested by the district attorney’s office, the outcome in this case is part of a regressive policy that, according to a report by the Fines and Fees Justice Center (FFJC), amounts to a “racialized tax” reminiscent of the Jim Crow era (p. 4). Fines are supposed to punish people for their misdeeds but mandatory fees are in reality a revenue-generating mechanism for state and local government that extracts wealth from the poorest New Yorkers. Over the decades, the state legislature, which sets these fees, has increased them well above and beyond the rate of inflation. Moreover, because the state fails to keep the mandated records on how this revenue is spent, this regressive system is entirely unaccountable. 

For individuals without a (steady) job that pays a living wage, even a one-time $200 fine and a $120 fee can produce years of headache. If individuals are unable to make payments on their fines and fees, they must reappear regularly (often monthly) before the court to explain their circumstances. If they happen to have a job, appearing in court often requires taking time off of work, which seems to defeat the purpose. And if they fail to appear, the judge may issue a bench warrant, which means that they could be re-arrested. This system amounts to a criminalization of poverty that disproportionately affects people of color. It’s time to end this racist system. For more information on how to get involved, visit the “No Price on Justice” Campaign or ENJAN.

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.

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.

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.