Look, Judge

Many years ago, as I began to beg for justice and mercy for the poor in the Poverty Capital of America as my father did before me before he died of a liquor-soaked, broken heart, I noticed a shocking disdain for my efforts on behalf of the least among us. Those chosen to sit on the altar of Solomon would spit venom rather than spout wisdom in my direction. Usually, I was an innocent bystander, collaterally damaged by the judge's Ayn Rants against my clients. But sometimes, the vitriol was aimed squarely at me.

I remember one moment, standing before an old, white, cranky slumlord of a judge, annoyed at my legal analysis of a statute-gone-wrong when an exasperated slip of my tongue gave him an opportunity to spank me: I began a sentence with a haphazard, "Look, Judge..."

"Don't tell me to LOOK, counsellor! I won't tolerate that demeanor in this courtroom!" He leaned over his bench and peered over his glasses, engaged, now, in a staring contest with me.

I apologized for my casual vernacular, and tried to finish my point, shaken and embarrassed. It was a mistake I never repeated. Demeanor matters.

But now that I am emboldened by age and wisdom, I say, once again, "Look, Judge..."

Look, first in your holding cells, where prisoners await their fate, hidden behind the walls of your courtroom. You'll find dank, smelly rooms, poorly lit and ventilated, with shocking graffiti of splayed pussies and dripping cocks, gang symbols, hieroglyphs of anarchy, ignorance, racism, and rage writ large. Ever think about a coat of paint, Judge? A fresh start? Ever think about installing a speaker in that cell so the dregs could hear your concerns, hear how their lawyer fights for others, hear how the system is supposed to work? These ideas would drowned out the din of stupidity that your prisoners see and hear as they wait FOR HOURS within the fart cloud of others until their cases are called.

Next, look in my intake lobby, where each afternoon, those lucky enough to be out of jail, wait for their Constitutional due. Notice the absence of empty chairs, and notice the ratio of clients to lawyers prepared to assist them. If you do the math, you'll find that each lawyer assigned to conduct intakes at the public defender's office is expected to talk to twenty or so clients a day; ignorant, angry people who suspect our abilities and motives. You threaten them with jail if they don't come, so here they are waiting in the chaos of the lobby with contempt for you and contempt for me.

Finally, stroll back across the street to your courthouse and walk to the West entrance, closed to the public since 9-11. There you'll find a now-forgotten work of public art, a sculpture in two pieces by Richard Hunt, the first African-American (Black?) artist to receive a retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art. It's called Sentimental Scale, and if you look closely, you'll see it is Dame Justice, her scales forever tipped in favor of one side and never the other.

Look, Judge. Look.