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"Domestic assault
is a tragedy."
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Another day. Another full docket.
Another mass of people sitting, standing, lying down, in a concrete
cell, waiting. Waiting for their chance to appear before this
judge. Nothing unusual -- It's arraignment day in the Ramsey
County Adult Detention Center.
The courtroom looks like an underground bunker. Something people
had in their backyards when Khruschev was banging his shoe on
a podium or at least during the Y2K scare. Off-white. Weathered.
Old. In serious need of a face-lift. Every time I walk in I expect
to see jugs of water, cases of chipped beef, and packages of
dried apricots.
Court has already been in session for about an hour and I am
tired. I step out of the courtroom to take a break. I sit in
the hallway on a hardwood bench that faces the Mississippi River.
The hallway is empty except for the guard protecting the metal
detector and ... two small children playing on the floor, a boy
and a girl.
So I sit quietly until my next client is called before the judge.
I look through the big dirty windows and watch the swirl of the
dark water as it passes under a bridge. There's the island with
the Mediterranean-style building on it in the middle of the river
that was half under water this spring. Seems a long time ago.
"Hey!"
I turn. It's the boy. He is standing before me. He seems about
average height, but kinda lanky. He has very short blond hair.
We used to call it a butch. Who knows what people call it now.
His eyes are bright blue.
"You a lawyer?" he says very seriously.
"How old are you?" I gotta know.
"Ten."
"Yeah, I'm a lawyer. But don't tell anybody. My Mom wanted
me to do something with my life and she doesn't know this is
what I do. She'd be so disappointed."
The boy doesn't get the joke. His demeanor doesn't change. "What
kind of lawyer?"
"Well," I say, "some lawyers try to put people
in jail. Others try to get 'em out." He nods, understanding.
"I'm the kind that tries to get 'em out." What I don't
mention, of course, is that there are some people who probably
shouldn't get out. But I figure he doesn't need to hear this.
Instead, I just smile, unsure of where this conversation is going.
The boy smiles back, encouraged. He then points over his shoulder.
"That's my sister. She's four."
"Am not!" A little girl with long brown hair, wearing
a pretty blue dress and infectious smile, jumps to her feet and
stomps one of them on the indoor/outdoor carpet. "I'm six
and you know it." She yells at her brother. "And stop
teasing me."
The boy enjoys this. The first sign of a smile appears on his
face.
Now I am confused.
"I'm not sure what I can ... . " Before I can finish
my sentence I am cut off by the little girl.
"Daddy is in jail. He is charged with domestic assault.
This is the second time he has been down here. His name is John.
Do you know him?" She asks so matter-of-factly that I am
embarrassed to answer.
"No ... ahh ... I don't know your Daddy."
"Mommy brought us down here to help get Daddy out of jail
but she made us sit out here because we make too much noise."
This little girl doesn't say this with any pain in her voice.
Any embarrassment. Any fear or dread either. Or at least she
doesn't show it. Rather, it's like she is telling me about the
weather. Hum-drum. It shocks me.
"Mom is inside the courtroom, waiting." She then
begins to lose interest. She wanders over to the window and looks
out at the river, towards the Mediterranean-style building I
was looking at. But strangely, she doesn't seem sad. It really
does surprise me!
I can see her start to laugh as she catches her reflection in
the window. I can see that she is making funny faces at herself
in the window. Resiliency! It is an amazing thing. In children
especially. I wonder where I lost mine? I almost feel a little
jealous.
The boy still stands before me. Waiting. For what? Answers? I
don't know . . .
All of a sudden a woman about 35, short dark hair, tired, too
tired, frantically runs out of the courtroom and over to the
kids.
"Come on. Daddy's going to be called before the judge. You
can come in and wave at him but you better keep quiet or the
judge will throw us out." She shifts her gaze from her children
to me. I say nothing. Neither does she. Like I don't exist. Some
sort of ghost. |
JACK RICE, a former CIA Special Agent, is a lawyer
in private practice and a freelance writer living in Minneapolis.
He contributes articles regularly to the Pioneer Press
and other local publications on topics involving issues in law
and society. |
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I stay seated on the bench, looking at the river. Trying to
understand the children. What they are experiencing. What life
must be like when you see another courtroom, another jail, at
four, oops six, and ten, and consider it a normal occurrence.
Hum-drum. To see the police come pounding at the door in the
middle of the night to break up an argument. Mundane. To see
your father handcuffed and thrown in the back of a squad car.
Another bump in the road.
I look down at my watch and notice that I have been sitting out
here on this bench for too long and head back into the courtroom.
However, just as I enter through the double swinging doors and
back into the bunker, the court clerk orders the bailiff to get
John, yes the John the kids told me about, out of the jail and
bring him before Her Honor, the judge.
Within a few seconds, a brushed metal door knob twists and
out steps ... John. John is about 40 with light blond hair. I
see where his ten-year-old son gets it. The eyes too. Bright
blue. He is wearing a Minnesota Vikings dirty t-shirt and jeans.
He looks tired, disoriented. He probably hasn't shaved in days,
bathed in days, slept in days. It often takes this long after
somebody is arrested before they get to see a judge.
John walks into essentially a five-foot by five-foot glass box
with no top. This is apparently designed for security and to
insure that the prisoner doesn't try to escape. I don't see John
trying to go anywhere. Rather, the glass box only seems to add
to his feelings of exposure and isolation.
John's attorney, a public defender, steps to the microphone on
the podium beside the glass box, but separate from John. "This
man qualifies for the public defender's office and I ask to be
appointed."
I smile because I know this attorney and he is very good. John
is lucky.
"So appointed." The judge responds in mechanical fashion.
How many times has she said these very same words? A thousand?
Ten thousand? Probably could do it in her sleep.
As I take a seat, I look at John. When he first steps out
into the courtroom, his head is up, his shoulders, back. His
eyes, mere slits. His mouth, rigid. His demeanor, no nonsense.
Then I see his eyes shift into the gallery, behind me -- his
family.
John's head drops. His shoulders sag. His eyes open wider and
I can see the tears force their way out. His mouth starts to
shake. And yet, I see a faint smile, a slight look of appreciation.
Love? Maybe?
I turn and see John's family sitting in the back row. John's
wife seems tired but happy to see her husband. Her tears match
his. She waves. John's six-year-old daughter yells, "Hi
Daddy." The little girl laughs. Mom shushes the girl as
the judge glares into the gallery.
The ten-year-old seems to understand what is going on. He waives
too but I see that his eyes are red now. The infectious grin
that I see on his sister's face never touches his lips. So much
pain. I realize that I am staring and look away in embarrassment.
Domestic assault is a tragedy. It happens everyday and so
many people, so many families are torn apart by it. Worse, children
often carry the scars as either victims themselves or as witnesses
to these terrible acts. Other times, it is the children themselves
who are witnesses to the fact that no assault took place at all.
Unfortunately, this means that the children have the burden of
seeing a parent wrongfully accused and arrested. Either way,
it is the children who carry the burden. A burden they are not,
nor should ever be, prepared to carry.
After a few more seconds, the prosecutor steps to the podium.
"The state is dismissing this case for a lack of evidence."
I hear clapping behind me. I can't help but smile a little to
myself. I hope justice was served.
John's public defender smiles at John. John smiles at his wife,
at his kids. The prosecutor does not. Neither does the judge.
The ten-year-old looks up and sees me. He smiles through the
bloodshot eyes of a child far older than ten. I look down at
the floor.
The woman and her two kids stand as one and walk out of the underground
bunker. I pray I never see them or John ever again.
The court clerk calls the next case. And the brushed metal door
knob begins to twist. |
"it is the children
who carry the burden"
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