Monday, September 28, 2009

Hairshirt

I mention the public defender "hairshirt" to convey the peculiar paradox of my vocation - it is both unpleasant and chosen. I have, in my years of experience with the Cuyahoga County Public Defenders Office, accepted assignments that others avoid, given inordinate time and effort to futile causes, zealously defended the despicable, stood at the podium begging for justice and mercy for one poor meat patty in the prison-industrial complex machinery after another until I thought I'd fall over, and, all the while, suffered for it in my bank account. I do it because the Constitution and my conscience compel me. You judge a society by how it treats the least among its citizens. I value what I do for a living more than our society values what I do for a living.

Even within the confines of our office, I have a unique perspective: I believe I am the only employee who has worked in all divisions - juvenile, appellate, felony, municipal. The sheer volume of the matters I handle in Cleveland Municipal Court sets it apart. Each day, courtrooms are packed with confused, frustrated and angry people distrustful of the system that I represent. My paramount task is to dispel the misconception that I'm in cahoots with the prosecutor and judge. Prior to the judge's entrance, I often make announcements about courtroom procedures, trial rights, and my role as an advocate for the poor. It changes the tone of things.

As the judge begins the docket, I am organizing and prioritizing matters in a way that makes sense to me: which matters can be swiftly resolved, which will require further time, which will be headaches? I often have whispered conversations with clients, with prosecutors, with witnesses, to help gauge how the day will unfold. I also review sentencing/probation reports, as well as the occasional competency/sanity report. When my cases are called I step to the podium and use the moment to convey my grasp of the client's situation. Decorum and professionalism, both unquantifiable, play huge parts in this "improvisational moral theater."

When there is no meeting of the minds, the matter will be set for trial. Trials are frequently set, but often evaporate when things come to a head: sometimes there is a meeting of the minds at the last minute, sometimes the witnesses don't show, sometimes the defendant has a change of heart. In any case, each trial set is an opportunity and an obligation to look for a last-minute resolution that works for the client.

The most skillful work we do is on the record. I am constantly aware that my words are recorded, and that my interactions with the court are subject to subsequent scrutiny. Experience has taught me coherence and clarity and simplicity. Reading dozens of transcripts as an appellate lawyer didn't hurt, either.

The most important work we do is off the record. My confidential communications with clients, as well as my rapport with judges and prosecutors, are the keys to a just result. Clients must be listened to, though I believe what I have to tell them is always more crucial than what they tell me. I have witnessed other lawyers trapped in "did you do it or not?" mode, which is always a mistake. Instead, I present clients with the allegations and supporting evidence and allow their defense (or lack, thereof) to materialize.

Even when clients have no viable defense, I still have the obligation to convey positives about them to the court at sentencing: I begin from the proposition that each of us is more than the worst things we've ever done. Each client is entitled to a judgement-free advocate who can speak on their behalf. Over time, this task becomes second nature.