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Experience Bronx Justice by Lauren
Shapiro A mother searches for justice in the wilds
of the judicial system.
On the front of the New York County Courthouse at 60
Centre Street is an inscription taken from a letter by George Washington to his
Attorney General, Edmund Randolph, in 1789: "The true administration of justice
is the firmest pillar of good government." But I am in the Bronx Family Court and
its facade is not so inspired.
| | Lauren
Shapiro, a Bronx resident, is a freelance writer. Her essay "Tempo Primo" was
included in the National Public Radio anthology "I Thought My Father was God."
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I begin my pro se motion: "Please take notice." I pause. I'm not feeling up to
the task of speaking for myself to the Appellate Division panel of judges. I look
for other voices. "First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight
with you, then you win." Who would ever have thought I'd be relying on Gandhi as
a motivational speaker? But my next sentence is inspired: "On the first day of
the sixth month at 10:00 in the forenoon, or as soon as it can be heard . . ." I
pause again. That's poetry and this time, it's Muddy Waters' voice that I hear:
"On the 7th hour of the 7th day of the 7th month." The Law is not without
passion.
"The Undersigned shall move this court." I stop. "The undersigned shall move
this court?" After a six-year battle in the Bronx Family Court that finally led
me to the Appellate Division — a battle for child support, for the custody
of my children, against a frivolous neglect charge — I take it literally. I
think of fairy tale fortresses. "Open Sesame" were Aladdin's magic words of
entry; to get on the Hogwarts Express "all you have to do is walk straight at the
barrier . . . don't stop and don't be scared, you'll crash into it, that's very
important." Arthur pulled the sword out of the stone and became king of Camelot.
Modern legend has mothers lifting cars off their pinned children. I am ready to
pass my hands over the candles three times, utter incantations, and stand
speechless as the halls of justice open wide for me. The Law is not without
magic; or, in other words, the law was written with hope and love and therefrom
derives its awesome power.
I wonder why it is only now, after so many years of struggle, that I am having
a quasi-religious experience of the law. Like me, the architects of a bygone era
must have been in love with the law when they sculpted its awe-inspiring housing.
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| My therapist asks me what
I think of the justice system. I paraphrase Gandhi: "I think it would be a good
idea." |
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It is hard to imagine being inspired by either the exterior of the Bronx
Family Court where the only appropriate inscription is "No Radio"; or the
interior, where I listened to Judge Carol Ann Stokinger decide on a whim that my
ex-husband's temporary protection order against me would stand, that there would
be no fact-finding hearing, that I couldn't contact my children, that what I have
to say "is neither here nor there."
"But," I protested, "my children will think I've done something wrong."
"Well," the judge responded, "tell them you haven't." (Wasn't she supposed to
say something about due deliberation?) I wanted to scream. Such injustice is
contempt of court of the worst kind, because it comes from the bench itself.
The Association of the Bar's handbook "How To Complain About Lawyers And
Judges In New York City" states: "The judge should maintain order and decorum in
the courtroom. The judge should be patient, dignified, and courteous to all
people with whom he or she deals in an official capacity." I sent the
transcriptsÊaccompanied by an affidavit from an immigrant witness to the
proceedings, who noted remarkable similarities to justice in the third-world
country she had fled, to the New York State Commission on Judicial Conduct, which
"upon careful consideration, concluded that there was insufficient indication . .
. to warrant further inquiry. . . [and] dismissed the complaint." Apparently
there are definitions of "dignified," "courteous," and "decorum" with which I am
unfamiliar. I implored the chief administrative judges, the Office of Court
Administration, and all my elected officials. They refused to intervene in any
way, saying that my only remedy was the Appellate Division. My remedy? But I'm
not the one with the disease! And, frankly, we're way past remedy and on to a
major miracle cure.
But now, here, in the Appellate Division, I can feel the spirits of Benjamin
Cardozo and Louis Brandeis in the halls. I am ready to trust the legal system and
fall in love again, and caught up in the rarefied air of the powerful courthouse,
I begin my affidavit, "Verily, I say unto thee . . . ."
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| "The only reason it's
taking them so long to deny it is because you have documentary evidence of
misconduct. It's just taking them longer to rationalize denying it."
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Week 1: The Appellate Division motion clerk informs me that decisions
on motions take one month and come down on Tuesdays and Thursdays after 1:00 p.m.
I find that odd. I consider asking why, but I know it's best to keep a low
profile. I imagine trying this at home: I might ask my landlord, "Can I get a
cat?" She'd reply, "I only make decisions on Tuesdays and Thursdays." Or at work,
I ask the boss, "Can I have the afternoon off?" and he replies "I'll let you know
on Tuesday after 1:00 p.m." No, it wouldn't fly. It must be the robes.
Week 5: "Appeal or Motion?" "Motion." "Docket Number?" I give the
number. Brief Pause. "Still pending."
Week 6: Pause. Still Pending.
Week 7: Long Pause. Still Pending.
Week 8: Interminably long pause during which my cardiovascular system
undergoes measurable changes. Still pending. I ditch my low profile: "Did they
lose my motion? Is one of the judges out sick?" I'm transferred and repeat my
question.
"No, they're still working on it."
I restrain myself from bursting out with, "Oh, come on, tell me, tell me, tell
me — what are they doing, what, what, what?" and instead I say "thank you"
in a cold, lawyerly, ulcer-producing fashion.
I speak to I Can Say No More, a lawyer. He says, "The longer they're out, the
better it is. The longer it takes, the more likely they're going to reverse. Or,
they might be writing an opinion. But, of course, who knows what they're doing up
there." The Law works in mysterious ways.
Week 9: Still pending. An opinion from a lawyer friend: they could
remind the Administration for Children's Services (ACS) attorney and the father's
counsel that it is the function of Counsel to assist and not mislead the Court.
They could reassign the case. I speak to the Caterpillar, another lawyer, who
reassures me that I will have a better chance of justice here in the Appellate
Division because, "unlike the Family Court judges, these judges are there based
on merit."
"Well that's a relief." And then it hits me. "What do you mean, 'unlike the
Family Court judges'? What's the basis of their appointments?"
"They're appointed based on making large donations to the party, or being a
loyal party hack over the years."
"What?"
"A Family Court judge is just a lawyer with friends in high places. The Family
Court judges are making life-and-death decisions for you and your children, based
on their having licked a lot of envelopes."
"What?"
"And the Bronx is the dumping ground for the judges who get kicked out of
other boroughs for bad behavior. You know, like Siberia."
"Did anyone run that by the Bronx Borough president?"
Week 10: Still pending. They must be deliberating whether to disbar the
ACS attorney and my ex-husband's attorney for misleading the courts. I talk to
Been There Done That, yet another lawyer.
"Did the Family Court judge give you a written decision?" he asks.
"No."
"That's why you really need a good lawyer — because now it's easy for the
Appellate Division to dismiss your motion. You should have forced her to give you
a written decision."
"How can you force a judge to do anything?"
"Well, what I would have said is, 'I agree with you, Judge, Family Court is
the eighth circle of hell, and I can see why you hate it here, I really can, and
if you want to quit, any day of the week is fine. Tomorrow's looking good. But,
for today, we have a system that requires you to go through a specific, boring,
painstaking process called adjudicating the case. And, if I make an application
and you say "denied," then I have nothing to bring to the Appellate Division to
get reviewed. So for today, I need a reasoned, written decision.' But she,
instead of bending over backwards as she should for a pro se litigant, took
advantage of you."
"Do you practice in Family Court?"
"Nope. I did that when I was younger, when I had ideals — before I had
kids that have to be educated. I can't do that anymore. If you think about it,
who wants to be a Family Court judge? Why, if you can make $300,000 a year as an
attorney, would you want to make $110,000 a year instead as a Family Court judge?
I mean, they're not pondering complicated, deep issues of law. They're usually
just bad lawyers who couldn't survive in a good law firm, and don't want to work
more than a 40-hour week and who are also wild for power, knowing no one is
watching, and no one cares about the litigants who are before them."
"Does the Appellate Division know that?"
"Yes, and they do stand ready to reverse. But I also think that they're
overloaded, and that if they can get a case off their docket, they will."
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| Family Court judges are
making life-and-death decisions for you and your children based on their having
licked a lot of envelopes. |
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Week 11: Still pending. They must be writing an opinion that disbars
the Family Court judge, the ACS attorney, and the father's lawyer; reprimands the
Judicial Conduct Committee; and replaces the administrative law judge.
Week 12: I dream that the motion clerk comes to my door with a message
from the Appellate Division. But when he hands me the order, it bursts into
flames in my hands. I can no longer bear to call the motion clerk from home. If
he says "denied," I will jump out the window. I call from a phone booth on
Hofstra University's campus, where I play music for a dance class. That way, if
my motion is denied, I will be surrounded by the whimsical statues and art and
distracted from whimsical judges. I will be reminded that there are law schools
filled with students who want to do the right thing, and that I am still living
in a beautiful world of dance and music, that I am part of that world, and that
that much, at least, remains intact. Although, having experienced the judicial
system thus far, I don't even take that for granted anymore. The Blackbird looks
at it as luck.
"Some women have bad luck and get breast cancer; some women have bad luck and
end up in family court. Either is a painful disease with a long and uncertain
cure, and the woman never knows when the malignancy may metastasize. What if
someone mistakes me for the perpetrator of a crime? Would I fare any better in
the criminal justice system? Could my entire life be destroyed, by the very
system that is supposed to be protecting it? Could I one day be on death row
because some judge wanted to appear tough on crime? Am I only free because I am
lucky?"
I talk to Double Agent, another lawyer. He recommends, "If denial of your
motion would make you jump out the window, then move to a ground floor apartment
so you don't hurt yourself, because they're going to deny your motion. The only
time they don't side with the judge is to side with the agency. The only reason
it's taking them so long to deny it is because you have documentary evidence of
misconduct. It's just taking them longer to rationalize denying it. It's not
justice. It's Just Us."
"But they have granted some of my applications."
"As I remember, your trial judge was so extraordinarily stupid she couldn't
even get procedural matters right. They never want to look like they're denying
due process, but on an issue of substance, they're going to deny it. Or, since
this has been going on for six years, and your son is now 16, they'll probably
just delay it until he's 18 and they can deny it as moot." He continues
conversationally, "In the 18B panel room, we call it the Repel-It Division."
I talk to the Blackbird again. She agrees: "They don't like to overturn Family
Court judges. Maybe it's because there's no money involved. I don't know. Or
maybe it's like the cops' 'code of silence': they're all judges; they all feel
they might make mistakes one day; maybe they think that the Family Court judge
might be on the Court of Appeals one day. They all go to seminars and other
social functions together. I don't know what it is, but I know they do rubber
stamp the Family Court judges."
"What country are we in? I'm still trying to absorb the fact that the Family
Court judge basically won the right to run my life in a political bingo game, and
now you're telling me that the Appellate Division won't overturn her because it
might be awkward when they're chatting over the cheese dip! And they never have
to look me in the face? They never have to look my child in the face? Are they
going to deny me now because I'm a troublemaker? Should I use a pseudonym too?
Shocked and Appalled would be perfectly non-identifying."
Week 13: Still pending. My therapist asks me what I think of the
justice system. I paraphrase Gandhi: "I think it would be a good idea." I go on
to explain that I want the Appellate Division to institute an automated answering
service — "For Motions press 1, for Appeals press 2. Due to unusually high
whim volume, your estimated wait time is approximately six months. Your motion is
very important to us. Please call back at that time."
She says she has appointment time available on Tuesdays or Thursdays at 1:00
p.m. so I can call the motion clerk from her office and she can have the smelling
salts ready if they say my motion is denied. She mirrors my issue. "So, if they
say granted, you're Rosa Parks, Erin Brockovich, Karen Silkwood. And, if they say
denied, you're just some jerk who bucked the system."
Week 14: Still pending. Maybe they're hoping I'll just go away.
Week 15: Still pending. I order a T-shirt for Double Agent with a map
of the United States overlaid with the inscription "Land of the Free, Certain
Restrictions Apply, Void Where Prohibited" on it. Perfect courtroom-wear for
today's fashion-conscious iconoclast! He won't wear it because he might be found
in contempt. He says wistfully that, as a pro se, I could get away with it. But
should I win the booby prize of a trial de novo in front of a different
judge, it would probably be worse than losing because there's Judges Tweedle Dumb
and Dumber.
I relax with my daughter by watching "Ghostbusters." But when the character
Winston says something like, "Ray, when someone asks you if you're a god, you say
yes!" it sounds like legal advice.
Week 16: I call the motion clerk. He recognizes my voice and says, "Hi,
how are you? I don't think they got to your case yet. Let me check."
This small display of humanity brings me near tears. I want to ask him: "Am I
Rosa Parks, or am I a jerk? Is the justice system a remedy or a cancer? Is there
a good reason to be a lawyer beyond paying tuition bills? Is there a government
of the people, by the people, and for the people, or is the courthouse just a
cash cow for career building? Is justice for sale to the highest bidder? Is the
truth of the matter neither here nor there? Was my immigrant friend just as well
off at the whim of a Third-World government? Would my own ancestors who came here
in steerage have taken the next boat back if they saw this? Is there really a
United States of America, and if so, do you need a membership card? Is there
Justice or is it Just Us?"
But I don't ask him these things. I ask instead, "Is there a decision?"
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