Human Goodness

Jordan Payne

August 8th, 2018

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Even though members of the public are allowed to attend court cases, I would not have been sitting in a squeaky courtroom chair in the San Francisco Hall of Justice that day were I not interning this summer at the District Attorney’s office. When there is free time, the interns can “watch trial.” The first time we did this, I remember feeling very excited; it had been a quieter morning in the law library and I felt ready for some action.

I traipsed downstairs with a few other interns and we entered one of the 30+ criminal courtrooms that are housed here. By most standards, it wasn’t actually the most riveting day at court. There was not a trial, which is where you’d see lawyers questioning and cross-examining witnesses, presenting evidence to the jury, and giving opening and closing statements. Instead, the judge seemed to be going through a string of administrative tasks. Defendant after defendant came in and most agenda items were simply scheduling the defendants’ next court appearance dates. Still, I found myself profoundly moved sitting there.

The first time seeing a bailiff lead someone being held “in custody” (oftentimes from the county jail housed on the 7th floor of this building) out into the courtroom is a strange experience. Even though the orange jumpsuit is a staple of being a criminal defendant in the US justice system, it was still somehow shocking to see. I did not know that they have orange shoes to match the pants and crewneck sweater. They even use orange hair ties.

Despite the fact that the San Francisco DA is particularly interested in criminal justice reform and has a deep concern about the inequalities embedded in our current justice system, nothing feels good about seeing a defendant enter the courtroom. On that Thursday, one defendant’s words and actions weighed on me. She was led into the courtroom by the bailiff, who removed her handcuffs and led her to stand next to her public defender. Immediately after her matter was brought before the judge I wrote down my reaction in a note on my phone:

“I feel very shaken. A woman in custody came into court for the judge to get some kind of update and assign the next court day for her. She was visibly shaking. The judge told her that another person was still working on finding “a program that has a bed” for her so she would have to wait a bit longer. She asked the judge if she could show him a progress report relaying her good behavior and he replied that he had to check with someone else for permission to read it. The judge said that the matter was settled and wished the woman good luck moving forward. She then said out loud, “thank you everyone...for your warm smiles” and then cried audibly as she was re-handcuffed and escorted out (and back into custody). I felt nauseous for the next hour, mostly for being so excited to sit in court that day and “be a part of the action” when these are real humans who are facing enormous life consequences. I later spoke with a very kind intern who brought up the fact that “some people just know how to cry” but be that as it may, it was a gut-wrenching scene and it was the first time that I really tried to take the perspective of the people that are in custody in the floors above me.”

In every case I saw that day, the public defender mentioned the poverty of the defendant but the alleged crime did not come up—so I never knew exactly what these defendants were being charged with, and it could be anything under the sun. This building oversees the most violent of felonies, and it is easy to let your mind wander after hearing about some of the cases prosecuted here. “Man Sentenced to 8 years in Prison for Molesting 9-Year-Old Child,” “Woman Found Guilty of Murder for Violent Stabbing and Assault,” “Man Sentenced to 27 Years in Prison for Setting His Girlfriend on Fire,” and “Man Sentenced to 266 Years for Double Homicide” are just a few of the more disturbing press releases that this office has put out this year alone. So, this summer I have been exposed to both heinous crimes and defendants who, despite their alleged transgressions, engender sympathy. Some of these defendants are on trial for animal abuse, rape, domestic violence, and attempted kidnapping. But others, like the one written about above, simply look shaken to their core.

This dichotomy has been uncomfortable at times, but the saving grace is this particular office’s unique approach to criminal justice: this office simultaneously believes in serving justice where it is warranted and in coming up with creative alternatives to prison where it is appropriate. For example, this DA has supported progressive legislation—Props 47, 36, and 64, as well as Senate Bill 785—that illustrate his commitment to reform and add purpose to this summer intern role.

These past two months have made me think a great deal about human goodness. It can be difficult to feel hopeful when you spend hours each day in this building and are exposed to the breadth and intensity of crime and poverty in this city. When I leave on Friday afternoons, eager for the upcoming weekend, I sometimes look back up to the floor where people are jailed; I feel my freedom acutely, my excitement is dampened. But there are glimmers of hope. I have faith that with time, other DA offices across the country will adopt the models used here, models geared towards reforming our flawed criminal justice system. And beyond learning about court proceedings, bail reform, and current criminal justice legislation, working here has taught me to not underestimate the awesome power of a warm smile.