The Shoes of the Defendant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

County Court was different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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