A Day in the Justice System: Just Clownin’ Around

As we sat in a waiting room before Frank’s scheduled court appearance, we chatted with the other two occupants of the room. One was a woman who was out on bond, on charges of embezzlement, and the other was a man who was out on bond, charged with attempted murder. He was tall, dark, and relatively nice-looking, dressed in a gray suit, white shirt and tie, so his revelation that he was accused of a violent crime came as a real surprise. What surprised me even more was that my brother was locked up for stealing a stupid toolbox, while this man was sitting in the waiting room with us. I couldn’t understand how that was fair at all.

We waited and waited, but Frank’s public defender, Mr. Wagner, was nowhere to be found. There was another public defender’s office near the waiting room, a Mr. Romano, and finally I poked my head inside his open doorway to see if he was there and might be able to help.

“Hi! I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you knew where Mr. Wagner is. He’s supposed to be here today for my brother’s case.”

“I’m not sure, but I can check for you. I’m Tony Romano. And you are . . .”

“Donna Delaney. Nice to meet you, Mr. Romano.”

“You can call me Tony. C’mon in, Donna, and have a seat. I’ll call and check to see where he’s at.”

“Thank you. Oh—I have a friend here with me, Natalie. Can she come in, too?”

“Sure, no problem.”

I waved to Natalie to join me, and we both waited in Tony’s office as he made a phone call. I couldn’t help noticing that the artwork in his office was all clowns—one a painting of a single clown, another a painting of the seven dwarves dressed as clowns, and even a clown statue lamp.

Tony hung up the phone. “I left a message with his office. Hopefully, we’ll hear back soon.”

“Thank you. So, you’re a public defender, too?” I asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“I don’t mean to be nosy, but I see you’re a big clown fan. Your office is full of them.”

“Well, they were gifts from a client. You’ve heard of John Gacy?”

I was stunned. “You mean John Wayne Gacy, the serial killer?”

“Yes, I was part of the team that had to defend him.”

“Wow! That’s creepy. I heard that he liked clowns, so I guess those pictures make sense now. What was it like defending him?”

“Creepy,” he said, and Natalie and I laughed. “The law provides everyone with a defense, so . . . let’s just say I was doing my job.”

“So, you did it because you had to. I can see how that would be hard, especially defending someone as obviously guilty as him. I wouldn’t want to do it.”

“Not one of my favorite jobs, that’s for sure. So, tell me about your brother?”

Natalie and I filled him in on some of the background of how Frank had come to live with me, the signs of drug addiction, his moving out and finding a job, and then his eventual downward spiral back to drugs and his arrest for stealing a toolbox.

“So he needs help for his drug addiction, not another jail term,” I told him. “Frank is not violent, he’s a coke addict. This is the first time he has asked for help with it, and I’m afraid if he just goes back to jail and gets out again, it will start all over.”

“That’s too bad. But it’s good that he has the two of you when he goes before the judge. Judges like to know that a defendant has someone who cares and can give them support.”

“But is there any way we can get them to send him to drug treatment instead of jail?”

“There’s no guarantee, but I would recommend that you write a letter to the judge, telling him of your concerns, and your brother’s drug history, and make a strong appeal to him to send your brother for treatment.”

The phone rang then, and Tonyanswered it. It wasn’t good news.

“Well, that was Mark’s office,” he told us. “Apparently he got hung up in another courthouse on a different case and won’t be able to make it today.”

That came as a complete surprise to me. I had no idea that your lawyer could just not show up for court.

“Are you kidding? But . . . now what? You mean we came here today for nothing? We . . . it’s not that easy to just take off work. And we can’t even see my brother!” Frustrated, I started to cry.

Tony grabbed a tissue off his desk and handed it to me. “I’m sorry, Donna. These things do happen. I’m sure it wasn’t intentional on Mark’s part.”

“But what happens now?” I asked, wiping away the tears.

“It will be continued with a new court date. Mr. Wagner will contact you with the new date.”

“Well . . . I guess there’s nothing else we can do. Thank you, Mr. Romano. I mean Tony. You’ve been so helpful.”

“Not a problem. Listen—here. Here’s my card. If you have any more questions about your brother’s case, I’d be happy to answer them for you if I can.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate your kindness.”

Natalie and I left, grateful to Tony but feeling dejected and helpless at the same time. We both missed Frank terribly and wanted to see him, even if it was just in court. And I was angry about taking an entire day off of work, without pay, for nothing. Still, it was futile to think about it too much.

We were at the mercy of the court system.

 

This is an excerpt from my book, “Relatively Criminal:  A Memoir“

Norwegian Would Be Good

We in the United States like to boast that we are the greatest country in the world.   That may be true, though I’m not sure what statistic(s) bears out that boast.

True or not, when it comes to crime and our prison system, I beg to differ:  we suck.

A few important statistics:

1. Incarceration rate (United States):  700+ per 100,000 people
2. Incarceration rate (Norway):  65-75 per 100,000 people
3. Recidivism rate (United States):  estimates range from 50% to 60+%
4. Recidivism rate (Norway):  approx. 20%

Commit a crime in Norway, and you will lose your freedom, but you will be treated humanely, with a focus on transforming you into a law-abiding citizen, through education, mental health and substance abuse programs, and a job to do. Commit a crime in the United States, and you will lose your freedom, be treated like a wild animal in a zoo, deal with persistent danger from other inmates and abuse from guards, and eventually return to society no better and likely worse than when you went in.

I wish I could say that I had no personal knowledge about this sort of thing, but I do.  Twelve years of trying to help my brother Frank, who suffered from addiction while bouncing in and out of the prison system, was a painful lesson in what we do wrong in this country.

My first experience with “justice” happened about 6 months after Frank moved out on his own, with a job and a place to live.  He hurt his back on the job and could no longer work; he then fell off the abstinence wagon with his habit of shooting cocaine; and finally, resorted to stealing a toolbox from Sears (in order to fence it for money), a toolbox that was expensive enough to qualify the crime as felony retail theft.  Did he deserve to be arrested?  Of course he did.

The crime happened in Cook County, Illinois, so he was thrown in Cook County jail, and was basically scared shitless.  Cook County jail is not a nice place.  Frank called me, begging for bail money, but I was divorced with two small children and barely made it from paycheck to paycheck, so I had to say “no”.  He did manage to get himself segregated from the more dangerous characters by requesting to be housed in the drug treatment area (he was likely going through withdrawal), so for now he was a little safer as he awaited his court date.  In the meantime, I served as his “voice” with the public defender he was assigned, and quickly found that public defenders often have too many clients to do a good job.  His first public defender called me at work one day, all worried and urging me to go to court on Frank’s behalf because of an outstanding speeding ticket.  He thought this was important, because he had never read my brother’s record – had he done so, he would know that a speeding ticket was the least of his problems.  I relayed to his public defender that Frank needed drug abuse help, and wanted to be considered for the TASC program (a non-profit group that offers drug rehabilitation).

Frank’s request for help was denied.

At Frank’s first court date, his public defender did not show up, and I met another PD who seemed to be more caring and knowledgeable, so we switched to the new guy.  I explained to him that Frank needed help for substance abuse more than anything else, but had been denied.  The PD informed me that unfortunately, there were few slots open in that program, which is probably why he didn’t get in.  He suggested I try again to get Frank in the program, and told me to write a  letter to the judge on Frank’s behalf, explaining his severe cocaine addiction, his non-violent character, and his need for a chance to get “clean”.

In the meantime, my friend Natalie and I attended another court date for Frank. This time, we were at least able to see him in the courtroom. It was not what I expected. My heart sunk as they brought Frank into the courtroom, shoeless, with his hands and feet in shackles. The harsh reality of jail was never more clear to me than in that moment. I couldn’t fathom how stealing a toolbox deserved this sort of treatment. Did he really need to be brought into the courtroom in chains, no shoes, and zero dignity?

Our final visit to court for this case was the day of Frank’s sentencing:  June 10, 1987.  Again, he was paraded past us in bare feet and shackles, and it hurt me just as much to see him this time as it had before.  Natalie and I held tightly to each other’s hand as Frank stood before the judge with his attorney. We felt certain it had to go in his favor. It just had to.

Well, nothing is certain but death and taxes. The judge didn’t grant the request for rehabilitation and, while he mentioned that Frank was lucky to have Natalie and me to support him, he still went ahead and sentenced him to two years in prison, or eight months with good behavior.

We were informed by his PD that only one of us would be allowed to see him, in a conference room in the courthouse, before they took him away and off to prison. Natalie immediately suggested that it should be me, since I was his sister.  I was instructed to stand across the table from him, in that small conference room.  No hugging, no touching, no privacy.  I suppose this was necessary, in case he was hiding a toolbox in his underwear that he was going to hit us with.

“I’m sorry, Sis,” said Frank.   He looked ashamed.

“Me, too, Frank.  I tried.  I don’t want you to go back to prison.”

“It’s okay, I’ll be fine.  It ain’t your fault.  I screwed up.  Don’t worry about me.”

My heart was breaking.  “I can’t help worrying about you.  You’re my brother.  I love you, you big dummy.”

“I love you, too, Sis.”

We said our good-byes, and then Natalie and I walked outside and waited to wave to him again, as they loaded him into the prison van.

Just like that, Frank was back to where he started. Nowhere.  In eight months, he was released with no money, no new skills, and his addiction intact.  It was a scene that played out in his life over and over again, until he died of an overdose in 1997.

I can’t help but think that in Norway, Frank would still be here.

C’mon, America – we can do better.  Don’t take my word for it.  Read more about these issues:

http://www.dropoutprevention.org/engage/incarceration-within-american-and-nordic-prisons/

http://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2013/09/why-scandinavian-prisons-are-superior/279949/

Click to access 9-Fact%20Sheet%20-%20US%20vs%20World.pdf

http://thinkprogress.org/justice/2011/07/25/277771/norway-is-safe/

http://content.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1986002,00.html?xid=huffpo-direct

“Start doing the things you think should be done, and start being what you think society should become. Do you believe in free speech? Then speak freely. Do you love the truth? Then tell it. Do you believe in an open society? Then act in the open. Do you believe in a decent and humane society? Then behave decently and humanely.” ~ Adam Michnik

Are you experienced?

From 1985 till his death in 1997, my self-appointed “mission” was to save my brother from a life of drugs and crime.

Before then, I had never seen the inside of a prison, never stepped inside a courtroom, and  my only face-to-face experiences with police consisted of talking to them through the rolled-down window of my car, when they pulled me over for speeding.

Well, okay, I take that back – I had been inside a police station once,  thanks to a boy I’ll call “Alex” that I dated for a short time in my senior year of high school.  It was 1971, and I had a job as a clerk at Dressler’s Drugstore, a Mom and Pop establishment located in the midst of the main strip mall in downtown Fox Lake, Illinois.  Alex surprised me one evening by showing up at the checkout counter and offering me a ride home from work.  His timing was perfect, since he arrived about 9:50 pm and I was done at 10:00.  What I failed to notice, in my teenage hormone haze of excitement, was that Alex was drunk.  Drunk, underage and transporting open liquor to boot.  He wasted no time making that obvious, traveling only about 100 feet out of the parking lot of the strip mall before he swerved across the center line, in full view of an alert Fox Lake squad car.

I had zero prior experience dealing with the police, so when they pulled us over, and Alex started to panic over the booze on the floor of the car, I felt sorry for him but wasn’t worried about myself.  I hadn’t committed a crime, and how was I to know about the liquor in the car?  After all, he had just picked me up.  Facts are facts, right?

Not exactly.

When the officer said we had to get into his car and go down to the station, I tried to set him straight, explaining that I just got off work.  Couldn’t he just drive me back to the strip mall and I’d call my stepfather for a ride home?

No.

Before they decided to drag me down to the police station, I might have been grateful.  Grateful that they’d saved me from a possible drunk-driving accident on the way home with my inebriated date.  Instead, I felt frustration and disappointment at their immediate assumption that I was guilty simply by virtue of being in the car.

At the Fox Lake police station, they put us in separate rooms and “grilled” us, treating me as if I were an accomplice to a bank robbery.  They used that word a lot, too – “accomplice”.   I found the whole experience ludicrous and laughable, though I wasn’t dumb enough to laugh.  I mean, c’mon–the only way I could have been my date’s accomplice was if I had popped open the beer cans and poured each one down his throat while he held his mouth open…all in a matter of seconds.  Still, I refused to let the officer intimidate me.  I knew, in my heart, that he would have to make up a charge, because he certainly didn’t have anything to charge me with, and I told him just that.

As I expected, the police let me go, but not without a warning that “next time, I wouldn’t be so lucky”.   Lucky?  I sure didn’t feel lucky as I listened to my stepfather read me the riot act on the way home.  He and the policeman who’d “grilled” me had a lot in common when it came to justice.  They both seemed to suffer from justice dyslexia, managing to twist  “innocent until proven guilty” into “guilty because we said so”.

That was my first taste of police and the sort of “gestapo power” they can wield, and I didn’t like it at all.  I suppose that for a teenager, that could be a good thing – I certainly didn’t want to repeat the experience.  In fact, from that point on, I simply wanted to avoid the police and police stations like the plague.

Little did I know that my brother Frank would introduce me to them all over again.

Are You Experienced?
Have you ever been experienced?
Well, I have

(excerpted lyrics from the song ARE YOU EXPERIENCED? by Jimi Hendrix)