ast month marked my ninth year as a public defender. In that time, I’ve fought a lot and lost a lot (one of my clients is serving forty years for murder, another is serving life), and it often seems that all I’ve accomplished is … nothing, other than the right to say, “but I tried, goddamnit. At least I did that.” Every once in a while though, I almost remember why I took the one less traveled by.
This morning, I stepped into a courtroom and saw an inmate waiting in the jury box. The public defender for that room was busy at the bench, so I pulled the inmate’s file and saw that he was in custody for missing a court date on a charge of driving on a suspended license.
I talked to the inmate and heard a familiar story: he couldn’t post the $500 bond, he missed his court date because he couldn’t get a ride, his mother was sick, etc. Since his license was suspended for a DUI, I told him that he was facing a mandatory minimum of ten days in jail if the judge convicted him. He started crying. I told him that the judge could choose to give him supervision instead of a conviction, in which case he would be released today, but that there were no guarantees – the judge could convict him and give him more than ten days. (Of course, I also told him about his trial rights.) He chose to roll the dice.
After that, I did what I’ve done hundreds of times: I argued for my client’s freedom. I explained to the judge why he missed court. I told her of his family situation. I minimized his criminal history. I hoped for the best. He got supervision and a jail release, and I was relieved. And then I left the courtroom and forgot about the whole thing.
Hours later, as I was waiting for the afternoon train home, a man approached me. Dressed in regular clothes instead of the jail’s orange jumpsuit, I didn’t recognize him. “You’re the PD who helped me out this morning” he said. “Thanks.”
[Drop Cap by Jessica Hische.]