Confessions of an Urban Principal / The Victim’s Waiting Room
by Frank Murphy
Installment 5 of 9
The neoclassical façade of the courthouse in which Family Court is located is quite an impressive sight. The first floor courtrooms and waiting areas, which are designed in a symmetrical Beaux Arts style, are equally grand. Stained glass windows depicting the virtues of family life, adorn the lobby. Bronze chandeliers and majestic torches convey a sense of elegance and wealth that contrasts starkly with the humble origins of the multitude of citizens who face judgment in this chamber of justice.
As I entered the lobby, I was struck by the gravity of this place. It was a few minutes before nine, the designated time on my subpoena. Airport-style metal detectors, monitored by armed police officers, were positioned on both sides of the lobby. In order to gain entry to the building, visitors had to pass through these security checkpoints. I did not clear security until well after my appointed arrival time. Once I was free to move around the courthouse, it didn’t take long for me to find the victim’s waiting room. I was there to testify at Phillip’s hearing.
Arm to arm hardback chairs lined the walls of this cramped room. In the middle of the space, two more rows of chairs were arranged back to back. Throughout the room victims like myself sat facing one another. Separate in our thoughts yet thrown together in this intimate place, we waited to give testimony. Elbow to elbow and knee to knee we the injured parties of a crime sat ready to testify against our offenders. We waited for the call of justice.
At nine thirty-five, an Assistant District Attorney (ADA) addressed the assembly. She gave a concise explanation of how the day would unfold. “You might be here all day or you might be out by noon. It is hard to predict how quickly any judge will act on a case. You might even find that you will have to come back at a later date. The attorneys of defendants will often ask for a continuance. If the defendant has a private lawyer, this will most likely happen. It is a strategy that they use. By making you come back repeatedly, they hope to wear you down until you drop the case.”
A woman seated across the room from me nodded her head vigorously up and down as the ADA talked. She called out. “That’s what they are trying to do to me and my daughter. This is the fifth time that we have come here.” Until I heard this speech, I had been thinking that I would be quickly finished with this business. It appeared that I would not be making it back to my car before the two hours allotted on my parking meter expired. It would have been a wiser move on my part to have parked in the ten-dollar all-day parking lot across from the courthouse.
As the morning progressed, various ADAs entered the room and called out names of people. At ten o’clock it was my turn. “Frank Murphy, is there a Frank Murphy here?” I stood up. “There you are. Follow me, Mr. Murphy.” I felt as though I were in a busy doctor’s office. The ADA led me down a short hallway. We entered a small room. The only furniture there consisted of two beat up metal folding chairs. We sat down while the ADA quizzed me about the details of Phillip’s assault. Then she told me that the public defender had contacted her earlier in order to share details of Philip’s difficult life.
She inquired as to the kind of action I wanted to see taken. I said, “I am only interested in getting help for Phillip. From past experience in dealing with other children, I have learned that the court has access to a variety of social and counseling services that are unavailable to schools. I want Philip and his family to get this assistance. What do you suggest?” I asked.
“I’m thinking we should ask the Judge for a Consent Decree.” She replied.
“What is a Consent Decree?”
“We set up requirements that Philip and his family must agree to perform.”
“Would this include social services?”
“ Yes. The family would be monitored by a caseworker for a year. Counseling for Philip and his mother would be a mandatory part of the deal. At the end of the year, he will come back before the judge. If the agreement has been adhered to, the charges against Philip will be dismissed and he will have no juvenile record. If Phillip and his parents don’t follow through on the court’s orders, his case will be adjudicated. The irony is that he will be held more accountable by a Consent Decree then by being convicted of a crime. If he is found guilty today, he might be sentenced to thirty to sixty day of community service. After he serves the time, he will be dismissed without receiving any further services.”
I asked a few more questions, before I agreed to her suggestion to request a Consent Decree. She told me it would be a little longer before I was called into the court. I was sent back to the waiting room.
Upon my return I struck up a conversation with the man sitting next to me. He told me that he was a teacher in a disciplinary school. When he mentioned the name of the school. I realized it was the same one to which Philip had been assigned by the school district hearing officer. This information I kept to myself. This teacher had been assaulted by one of the students in his unit. We talked for some time about his work in a discipline school before he was called to the courtroom. After he left, I was obsessed with thoughts of the parking ticket that I was sure would be waiting for me on the windshield of my car. Eventually I resigned myself to the inevitability of receiving a thirty-dollar parking fine. My daydreams were interrupted by someone calling my name. This time it was a victim’s advocate who escorted me into the tiny conference room.
As soon as we were entered the room, she offered me an apology. “There has been some kind of mix-up Mr. Murphy. Philip has not been transported to court from the orphanage. This hearing will have to be rescheduled. Most likely the new date will be sometime near the end of June.”
At the moment I thought this was good news. Now I would be able to get back to my car before the ticket writer arrived. The advocate offered me one final apology before she told me that I was free to leave. I didn’t waste anytime getting out of there. There was one minute left on the meter when I arrived at my car.