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. 

"Not This Court's Concern"

It was my first day observing the city court of Poughkeepsie. After hearing many cases of people coming to court to pay for their tickets and fines, one case soon caught my eye: a defendant walked into the courtroom in an orange jumpsuit and chains alongside two police officers. Her face was very pale, her whole body in a defensive and fearful gesture. The defense attorney soon approached his client and whispered something in her ear, apparently explaining what to expect and asking her to remain calm. Due to the height difference, she had to look up at him and nodded frequently, repeating “yes, sir” in her mouth.

It turns out the defendant was coming close to her time served in jail, and the judge at first advised the attorney to release her back to her home under electrical monitoring. However, the judge seemed reluctant to discharge her from jail because of her mental health. The probation officer suggested having the jail doctor evaluate the defendant before determining whether or not she needed to be hospitalized; her defense attorney requested that his client be taken directly to the hospital. 

From the little information given, the defendant was under constant supervision at the jail. Constant supervision involves assigning a correction officer to be present at all times in order to prevent an inmate from harming themselves or others. Defined by 9 NYCRR §7003.2(d), it says that the officer has to possess "the ability to immediately and directly intervene in response to situations or behavior observed which threaten the health or safety of prisoners or the good order of the facility.” Though the intention behind such supervision is to “save lives,” it seems like it would be better for inmates suffering mental distress to be transferred to a facility with trained professionals who actually treat mental illness. It seems that here the constant supervision is a little hypocritical to only be used to prolong one’s life to fulfill the terms that one is assigned in the jail and maximize their labor potential in the jail. 

Back in the courtroom, the judge ordered the defendant to be examined by a jail doctor first. However, the jail officer could not promise that the doctor would be at the jail this week to assess the defendant in a timely manner. Because the jail outsources their medical treatment, the defendant might have to wait in jail for another two weeks before a doctor could see her. This situation is not particularly friendly to the inmates who really need medical help and assessment. In fact, in a 2018 report, the New York State Corrections Department identified the Dutchess County jail as “one of the five worst in New York,” in large part due to the fact that the commission found there was “inadequate medical care [provided] by Correctional Medical Care.” There were a couple cases of inmate suicides investigated indicating inefficiency, ignorance, and a failure to refer inmates in need to proper physical/mental health services. 

As everyone was discussing her case, the defendant stood in the far left corner of the courtroom, chained and supervised, murmuring to her attorney: "What about my job? After I get out, I won't have a job." I was struck by her facial expression, which appeared to be very scared and confused about what was going on. The attorney did not handle her emotions very well; instead, he briefly summarized what was argued on both sides and simply said what she was asking about was "not of this courtroom’s concern today." I don't know if this court commonly deals with people who need mental health support in this way, but it was uncomfortable to witness the court treating her like an object and a child-like patient. The needs of the court and the needs of individuals are phrased as a dichotomy here when ironically the court serves those individuals. Both the court and the county jail should highly pay attention to and aim for a more humane and timely response to people in need. 

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.

Fractures Cause Fissures

Every Friday morning when I arrive at the court, the security guards begin the day by opening access to the criminal court entrance. After making it through the metal detector, I walk into the courtroom and take my seat in the section that is designated for observers. Immediately, I notice a racial discrepancy between those waiting to be called for court and those who do the calling. The defendants are not only primarily people of color, but overwhelmingly men of color; in contrast, each district attorney and judge I have seen so far has been white. 

The court officer stands at the front of the courtroom and asks each individual if they have court today, and if so, what their name is. Most sessions, the officer is a white woman who performs the routine. One morning as she was moving through the crowd, she paused when she saw me: another white woman. She looked at me and opened her mouth, as if to ask me something. But then she quickly closed it, smiled, and asked the person next to me if he had court that morning. 

Because this woman has interacted with me on multiple occasions, she recognized me as a court watcher rather than a defendant. But she also treats me differently. When the defendants use their phones in the courtroom, or talk loudly, they are met with a rather gruff “no talking” warning. However, when I whispered to my partner in observation, she politely came over and said “guys, try not to talk too much. The stenographer gets pissy.” 

I write this to hold both myself and the officer accountable. Through my position as an observer, I'm beginning to see first hand the systemic racial tensions that permeate the criminal justice system. What is becoming clear is that the defendants in the courtroom are not representative of the population of people who commit crimes, but merely the ones who are selected by the system. In her book, The New Jim Crow, Michelle Alexander described the racialized dimensions of the criminal-legal system, specifically in the context of the drug war: “studies consistently indicate that drug markets, like American society generally, reflect our nation's racial and socioeconomic boundaries. Whites tend to sell to whites; blacks to blacks” (p. 124). But, of course, we see fewer white drug dealers or users in the jails and prisons because police typically focus their attention primarily on people of color.

What Alexander teaches us in her reflections is the systematic racialization of drug crime by police and law-enforcement officers. In continuing the patterns of "randomized" drug searches, stop-and-frisks, and the regular surveillance of neighborhoods with a high percentage of people of color, the system perpetuates the racial divide in the courtroom. In understanding not only how the system inevitably demonizes and targets people of color, but also the power white people hold in the criminal-legal system, we can start to hold ourselves and those around us accountable. Our society is built upon inherent fractures that stem from the systemic racism on which our country was founded, but these fractures deepen into fissures with the help of the disinformation and naivety that envelops the broader public. To prevent the formation of these fissures, it is up to us to understand and document why the fractures exist and how we encourage them with our behavior and perception of the legal system.

Ripple Effects

For the past three weeks, I have observed the same family (a mother and her three children who appear to be around the ages of 16, 13, and 8) arrive at around 9 am and wait for over an hour in the courtroom. Every time the officer asks the family why they are at court, the oldest son tells the officer the name of his father who is an inmate at the Dutchess County jail. From my court observation forms, I noted that the father has been charged with aggravated assault with intent to cause physical injury with a weapon.

Each week it’s the same routine. The family waits patiently until the jail arrives with the inmates on the court’s docket. The moment these defendants begin stepping out from the corridor and before the judge, the family moves anxiously in their seats. Finally, when their loved one enters the courtroom, they each crane their necks to get a glimpse of him as he stands behind the armed police officers. The defendant searches the crowd and returns his family’s gaze with a soft smile and wave.

Within minutes, the defendant is guided out of the courtroom. He looks over his shoulder before disappearing into the other room. The mother tells her youngest to wave goodbye to his father, and then they all get up to leave. 

From the three days I have observed this family, they have waited over an hour and a half for a case that lasts only a couple of minutes. One week, the case was brought to a close in less than a minute. By the third Tuesday that I observed the entire family present, I wondered what the family’s other responsibilities were. Did the children have school? Did the mother have work? It is clear how important it is for the children to see their father, and the mother her husband, however, the children appeared to be of school age, and given the father’s current incarceration, it seemed necessary for the mother to work. 

Throughout my months of court watching, I have overheard numerous defendants complain about having to miss work to be at court. Each defendant’s life is interrupted by these endless court dates and necessary appearances. These interruptions, however, do not only affect the individual defendant. Family members are also deeply affected by a loved one’s confrontation with the criminal justice system, and this particular family’s consistent presence at court demonstrates this. They are likely missing school and work to be at court to be present for their loved one even if it is only for a couple of minutes. Missing work means a loss of income, and missing school results in falling behind in classes. With each court date, these losses grow to have greater consequences for the family. How does one balance the emotional and physical stress of having a family member trapped in the legal system while also supporting a life outside?

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. 

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.

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

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.

What We See So Far: Some Court Watching Trends in Dutchess County Courts

I knew very little about the process in court before I became a court watcher. In fact, I had never even heard the word “arraignment” before. When I walked into the City of Poughkeepsie courtroom for my first session, I was surprised to see the court reporter keep up with the quick back and forth for each case. It was like a whole new language I had to learn. 

After a couple of court watching sessions, I instinctively began to empathize with defendants who were also walking into court for the first time but for whom the stakes were a lot higher. I managed to take detailed notes about the proceedings while also jotting down personal observations. I scrawled down the emotions (or lack of them) in the courtroom, the stories behind the legal jargon, and the actions that impact each defendant’s fate. 

Because courts operate “in the name of the people,'' our goal is to report on court proceedings from a layperson’s point of view, without a law degree or history of working in a court. Following Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter’s dictum in Offut v. United States (1954), that “justice must satisfy the appearance of justice,” we ask ourselves, does what we’re seeing in the courtroom line up with our definition of justice?

To study any biases that might undermine the fairness and impartiality of our legal system, Court Watch of Dutchess County gathers qualitative and quantitative data on each case we observe. In addition to documenting concerns that come up in any individual case, we also use the data to observe trends that may be invisible in any one case or session. Below we present some background and initial trends that we have observed since the start of our data collection. 

Starting in September 2018, 14 court watchers have observed 1,337 total cases in three courts: City of Beacon and City of Poughkeepsie courts and Dutchess County Court. Our court watchers have seen six different judges in action.

Of those cases we observed in court, only 24.2% of defendants are women, even though women make up 51% of the City of Poughkeepsie population. And while 97% of defendants spoke and understood English, 3% did not. 

Additionally, we observed that Black or African American defendants made up 52.7% of all defendants, while only 30.6% were White, and 12.6% were Latinx. (We are recording the defendant’s perceived gender and race—what is being perceived by people present in the courtroom, including the judge and prosecutors.) 

Yet according to the U.S. Census Bureau, the City of Poughkeepsie population is composed of 37.6% Black people, 46.6% White people, and 17.1% Latinx people. Because these proportions do not align with the observed race of defendants, we must question possible causes behind, as well as consequences of, the overrepresentation of African Americans in our local courts. Is there an over-policing of the Black community in the City of Poughkeepsie? What happens to justice when White DAs and White judges continuously see a disproportionately higher number of African American defendants? 

To be clear, these data are based on the attendance of court watchers who often observe court on the same day each week. So, court watchers may have observed the same judge, public defender, and even the same defendants returning week after week. These results could be showing a pattern in the court scheduling that court watchers are not aware of. 

While court watching can’t explain the causes of these data, by making this information public we hope to inspire further discourse about our legal system. Over the course of court watching, we continue to analyze our data for additional trends and patterns that can inform our discussions going forward. 

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.

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.