“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. 

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.

When the Judge Plays Psychologist

According to the News 12 channel, a man abducted a woman with her two children and threatened the woman to give him money, or he would hurt her children. He made the woman get into his car and drive to a location. The woman began crying, and he started screaming. Soon he fled the scene without taking the money. He was later arrested on Main Street in Poughkeepsie. The police claim that the man had four prior felony convictions, and now he is charged with kidnapping, attempted robbery, and endangering the welfare of a child. 

The first time I saw the defendant (the man mentioned in the news), he was in chains with throbbing veins visible on his cheek. He was shouting that he was dying in Dutchess County Jail without “the most serious medication in the world.” Unlike other defendants who remained silent and looked down at their feet, he constantly talked over his public defender to argue that he would never hurt any woman or child. However, Judge Volkman did not want to discuss any case details with him. I left the court knowing that his birthday was coming the next day and he didn’t have the medication he claimed he needed. Therefore, I did some research and found the news article mentioned above. 

When I saw the defendant next in court, he was again in chains with noticeable veins across his cheeks, but appeared to be calmer as the public defender said he had finally received his medications in the jail. The public defender requested a 730 exam for the defendant because he had intermittent delusions whenever he wasn’t taking medication, he was not always coherent and able to understand everything, and he had a psychiatric history. Before ruling, Judge Volkman asked him where he was, who he was, and who the judge was. The defendant answered all three questions correctly, so Volkman denied the 730 exam despite the public defender’s firm request for an expert evaluation of his mental health. Volkman believed that since the defendant was taking his medication now, his psychiatric history did not merit a 730 exam. Ironically, the defendant himself sided with the judge to emphasize that he was mentally healthy, and he understood everything going on. Yet he also talked over his lawyer as before. Though the public defender and her client supposedly had the same interests, the defendant disagreed with her many times that day. The judge discussed the possibility of 35 years in prison and declared that the case would be transferred to the county court.

According to the NYCOURTS government website, Criminal Procedure Law 730 is used to “determine whether [a defendant] is an incapacitated person,” thereby deciding the individual’s competency to stand trial. If the expert psychologist deems the defendant mentally incompetent, then he would be sent to a locked mental health facility instead of being prosecuted. The New York State government website maintains that the 730 exam pertaining to a felony is issued by local criminal courts. The Office of Mental Health in New York State can retain the indicted felony defendant “for up to 2/3 of the maximum sentence the patient would have received if convicted.” Thus, though a 730 exam might have resulted in confinement for the defendant in this case, one possible outcome was the chance to be treated in a professional facility for his mental illness.

The defendant I saw showed many signs that he might not understand what was going on in court. He incessantly argued with his lawyer against his own interests and claimed that he was not mentally ill. Such behavior suggests that he lacked the competency to understand the benefits of a 730 exam. His desperate cry for mental health medication is another sign that he might be incapacitated. Volkman’s three simple questions seem woefully incapable of assessing his ability to understand the complex and nuanced deliberations in court. The approval of a 730 exam does not mean the dismissal of the charges but simply means an expert evaluation of his mental health. Yet Volkman was unwilling to cede his jurisdiction to an expert psychologist, who is trained to evaluate incapacity. When the judge takes over the job of a professional psychologist, the fairness and justice of the proceedings are questioned. Granting a 730 exam does not mean the defendant is mentally incompetent to stand trial but simply ensures that someone mentally incapacitated is not forced to participate in a judicial proceeding he cannot understand—and all the consequences that come with that. 

Cells Are Not Solutions

Three officers guided an older African American man into the courtroom. The defendant was bound by cuffs and dressed in a stained hoodie and ripped jeans. He appeared to be intoxicated, on edge, and unable to fully grasp his surroundings.

When I prepared my court observation forms the night before, this defendant’s case was not on the docket. However, I quickly learned that he had been expected at court for some time. He was initially arraigned back in August of 2022, and according to the judge and prosecutor, the defendant had since failed to appear at court and report to probation on several occasions. As a public observer, it was unclear why he was picked up by officers. Was a bench warrant issued? Was it because he violated probation? The defendant’s charges and the issues of his case were never made clear to those of us in the courtroom who lacked  prior knowledge of the case. Despite the confusion I felt as an observer, the prosecutor appeared assured in his decision to request that the defendant be held in jail.

The defendant immediately reacted to the prosecutor’s request. His head fell backwards in distress and he cried out that he is homeless, on drugs daily, was in treatment for some time, and that his wife was in the hospital when he was initially arraigned. He kept repeating, “my wife is more important than all of this.” 

The public defender, who had never met with the defendant or engaged with his case before, urged the judge to allow the man to have one more chance so she could speak with him and try to get him to show up to his court and probation appointments. Both the judge and the prosecutor were resistant, but the public defender kept pressing. Finally, the judge allowed for the defendant to be released on his own recognizance on the condition that he appears at court when he is summoned next. Any further absences would lead to the defendant’s immediate arrest.

This individual, who appears mentally and physically ill, likely does not have access to reliable internet nor transportation. And yet he is required to get himself to court and to the probation office without issue. He did not even have the chance to speak with an attorney before the prosecutor threatened jail time. It is only because the public defender pleaded for his release that he was allowed to walk out of the courtroom a (temporarily) “free” man. In the eyes of the prosecutor and the judge, locking this man behind bars was the only immediate solution to his failure to show up to court. His cries for treatment and clear need for support were overlooked by a desire to punish him for these unexcused absences.

This case calls out for a different approach to crime. In an op-ed published on USA Today’s site on February 17, 2023, titled, “To fight crime, NY must invest in community-based treatment,” Brendan Fox, a retired Police Chief of Albany, writes, “Mental health issues, substance use disorders, and homelessness should never be treated as crimes, and we should not delude ourselves into thinking that jail and prison alleviate these root causes in any way.” Fortunately, the Dutchess County Department of Behavioral Health and Community Health is starting a Law Enforcement Assisted Diversion/Let Everyone Advance with Dignity Program (LEAD), which offers services that support individuals in situations like this to help ensure they appear at their mandatory court and probation dates. Ideally, this program intervenes before defendants are brought up on charges in court and face life-changing punishments. Similarly, proposed legislation in the NY state legislature called the Treatment Not Jail Act, would also “...dramatically expand access to treatment courts for individuals with mental health and substance use issues.” Both LEAD and the Treatment Not Jail legislation are essential to fighting the unnecessary incarceration of nonviolent offenders who desperately need support and treatment instead of jail time. To create a society in which we are all “safer and healthier,” we need to focus on rehabilitation outside of the prison cell.

Just Different Lives

The night before my first court watch, I was recording the preliminary demographic information on defendants for future data analysis. I was filling out page after page of case numbers, charges, and birth years. 

But I paused at one defendant whose birth year was “2001.”

My eyes quickly moved from the paper to the screen and screen to the paper, double-checking to make sure I got the birth year of this defendant right. 

“2001?” I thought to myself, “Isn’t that my birth year?” 

I could not comprehend the overlapping of a college-aged boy and a criminal in my head until I had to—when the next day an ordinary looking 20-year-old Black man was brought into the court in chains and a bright orange jumpsuit. 

I still did not understand, though, why he was in chains and restrained by officers, when he could be eating with his friends or playing video games. Then, just as I was falling deeper into my thoughts, the public defender calmly mentioned how this defendant was already sentenced to 6 years in prison at the Dutchess County Court and stated to Judge Volkman that it would be unnecessary to sentence him another 6 months at the City Court. 

This 20-year-old was charged with assault in the 2nd degree, the most serious form of assault in NY. It is a felony with a minimum of 2 years and a maximum of 7 years in prison. 

Despite the shocking length of his sentence, the court treated his situation as a matter of course. The judge, public defender, assistant district attorney, and court officers looked unconcerned, as if it was just another speeding ticket. 

“That is 6 years of someone’s life.” I wanted to tell them. “He will be 26 when I am 26.” 

During a break, I tapped the public defender on the shoulder and told him how upset I felt about the case. 

The public defender agreed that it was a sad case in which  the defendant was caught robbing and possessing weapons.  He said that the boy grew up in an institution without a father or mother. “You know, these kids had to fight to survive from a young age. When your lunch is taken, nobody is going to help you. You can only use your fists to fight back.”

Looking at my college sweatshirt, he sighed and said, “just different lives…” 

But what does “just different lives” mean? That his path was predetermined as soon as he entered the institution? That his unfortunate condition destined him to prison?  Most importantly, what could we as a society do to avoid similar tragedies? 

His case reminds us that many youth are in danger of ending up in the criminal justice system.  According to the Prison Policy Initiative, in 2019, over 48,000 youth in the US were confined in facilities related to juvenile or criminal justice. Although these facilities are different from the adult criminal justice system in this case, statistics have shown that juvenile facilities pull youth deeper into the criminal justice system. Juvenile detention is ineffective in revising criminal behaviors. There is also a lack of community support for youth who come back into society after their detention. In addition, Black youth are overrepresented in juvenile facilities. “While 14% of all youth under 18 in the U.S. are Black, 42% of boys and 35% of girls in juvenile facilities are Black.” (Prison Policy Initiative juvenile) 

If you are interested in knowing what a day in juvenile facility looks like, here is a short clip from The Atlantic: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-0bURq6wBo

Here is a clip on “Teenager's First Hours in Juvenile Detention”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ZhyEW5fww4

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.

(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.

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.

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.