Spending the Morning in Court

I sit in the courtroom, between a man who smells faintly of urine and the man who I am here to defend before the City of Raleigh. Way back in December of last year, he dared to bow his head in despair on a park bench that belongs to the people of Raleigh, thus bringing down the full wrath and judgment of the City of Oaks. He is now facing a possible fine of $100 (which he does not have) plus court costs of $120 (which he also does not have). Should he not pay these, he is faced with three days as a guest of the same City that said he cannot rest on a park bench.

We got here at 8:30, waiting in line until the courtroom was opened at 9am. We filed in, with stern admonitions being delivered about cell phone use, proper attire for facing the Judge and how to answer when they call our name. They file down the list of names, the new assistant District Attorney butchering Hispanic, French and, amazingly, some very Anglo sounding names. She calls my man’s name.

“Open, ” he replies, meaning he wants to speak to the DA.

The business of the court proceeds at a snail’s pace. Those admitting to having wronged the city of Raleigh have sentences meted out - community service, 60 days jail time, un-supervised probation. Meanwhile, my man’s name goes unheard.

We now (about 10:30) get to those who plead not guilty. Those with attorneys get swift service as winks and nods are exchanged between Judge and attorney - those with no representation get their say, but no laughter is heard, no jokes are passed. The fear is evident on their faces. Some are vindicated, others pay fines; one goes to jail for 60 days.

My man is impatient. He gave up working at the Day Labor place so he could come to court. Twice since we have arrived I have had to convince him to stay put. He wants to go outside, smoke a cigarette, try to find some work - pretty much anything than sit on the back pew, awaiting his day in court in an overheated room on the fifth floor of a downtown court house. He is concerned that it is now 11:15, they have not called his name and the Soup Kitchen closes at Noon and he has not eaten today.

I pull the bailiff aside and ask him if he could check on my man’s case. He gets the Assistant DA, who asks me what I want. I explain the situation, he tells me to sit down while he goes to check on it.

It is now 11:30. I am told yet again by my man what time the Soup Kitchen closes.

At 11:40, they call my man’s name and we go up together. I am nervous, knowing that my words will determine if he goes free or if he spends three days in jail. He shuffles, hat in hand. The DA tells us the case is dismissed and he is free to go - apparently the officer who wrote the ticket did not show.

We run down the stairs, burst out the door and sprint two blocks, hoping to make the soup kitchen before it closes. We are the last ones in before they shut the door at 11:55.

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