Authors: Garret Holms
F
emale defendants charged
with prostitution were always arraigned in the afternoon. Each time Judge Daniel Hart viewed this procession of handcuffed and chained women, he couldn’t help thinking how much these creatures were like trapped animals. Trapped in a system they despised, based upon rules they didn’t understand. Women in a cage.
Today, like every day, he was surprised by the number of young women charged with prostitution. He’d seen too many of these cases. They were strikingly similar. Women not just accused of prostitution, but of streetwalking. Strolling down Sepulveda Boulevard, standing at intersections, provocatively catching the eye of single male motorists. Now, clad in orange jumpsuits and without makeup, they stood, feet shackled, eyes down. It always moved him.
They look like high school kids
, he thought.
How incredibly sad.
At thirty-five, Hart was one of the youngest judges on the superior court bench. An ex-trial lawyer and ex-prosecutor, he’d been lucky. On the exterior, he was impressive. Thick brown hair, a symmetrical face with a strong jaw, and a kind demeanor. His intelligence was clear to anyone who appeared before him. But despite this outside appearance, he was filled with personal doubts. The most difficult part of being a judge was overcoming his own self-contempt.
That was why he worked hard and drove himself even harder, hoping that he could prove to himself that he was worthy, in spite of it all.
The governor had appointed him judge two years ago, but to this day, he was still handling high-volume arraignments, pleas, and case assignments in Division 103 of the Van Nuys Unified Superior Court. This included virtually every case that arose in the San Fernando Valley. Other judges in his position—especially those like him, up for reelection next year—would have stayed away from courts like this and looked toward high-status, high-penalty felony trials: murders, robberies, rapes.
But Hart felt he wasn’t ready for felony trials. Perhaps he never would be. He first wanted to prove to himself that he could handle high-volume pressure, show to himself that no matter what, he could give each person individual attention. But it took a heavy toll. By the end of each day, he was exhausted as a result of the deep concentration and reflection required. He knew it must never show, but decision-making was difficult. Especially with these young women he saw every afternoon.
The defendants were lined up in the same order as the files stacked on Hart’s bench. From his point of view, the bench was nothing more than a big desk, but since it was elevated and had a wooden front, it had an impressive appearance to the public. Hart picked up the first file and called the case of the first defendant.
She was about five-foot-three, with dark hair and clear, smooth skin.
How out of place she looks—she should be at home, watching television or doing homework while her mom cooks dinner.
“My client would like an indicated sentence,” the public defender said.
This was the accepted way of asking what the sentence would be if his client were to plead guilty. Hart looked toward the prosecutor, Doris Reynolds, who was sitting at the counsel table in front of him. Reynolds was forty with brown eyes and shoulder-length, carefully brushed blonde hair. She made sure that everyone knew she was the representative of the State, and that she had a key role in the system. Hart remembered her from the days when he was a DA. She had a thing for cops—had been married several times, always to a police officer, usually to someone who’d been a star witness in one of her cases. Today, as usual, she wore heavy makeup and clothing that emphasized her legs and her figure.
“Ms. Reynolds,” Hart said, “what’s the People’s position on this case?”
“It’s a standard second offense, Judge.” Doris had the defendant’s rap sheet. “I notice a petty theft, and an eleven-five-fifty. She’s just another hype. She needs to be locked up.”
Like all judges and lawyers in the criminal system, Hart used the criminal code sections as shorthand to describe the crime with which individual defendants were charged. The eleven-five-fifty was a Health and Safety Code Section conviction for being under the influence of heroin. Hart knew that this, too, was typical of many streetwalkers.
“Then if she pleads guilty, her sentence will be forty-five days plus an AIDS test,” Hart said. “She’ll take it,” the public defender said.
The defense attorney came forward and handed the clerk a written and signed waiver of constitutional rights form. His client had already signed the form; he’d obviously told her in advance what the sentence would probably be.
After taking her guilty plea, Hart recessed the court and went into his chambers while the prosecutors and defense attorneys met to discuss plea bargains. His intercom line on the telephone buzzed. It was his clerk, Louise Moreno.
“Judge, we need you to take the bench again, and I need to talk to you.”
“Why?” Hart asked.
“There are television cameras.”
“Okay, come back here and tell me about it.” Hart put down the phone and waited for Louise. If there was a big case in his courtroom, Hart wanted to know about it before he entered the courtroom. He needed a chance to think about the possible issues first. Especially given the upcoming election.
Under California election law, if no one opposed him, his name would not appear on the ballot and he would automatically be elected. On the other hand, if someone ran against him, he would have to wage a costly campaign—easily over a hundred thousand dollars—even if no serious opponent ran against him. Hart was glad that he was almost invisible in this assignment. If he could just keep it that way, no one would think of running against him.
Louise came into his chambers with the case file and some documents paper-clipped to the folder. Hart was grateful to have a clerk as organized and knowledgeable as Louise. Her previous judge retired after thirty years on the bench, and she’d been with him the last twenty. She knew the system inside and out. Slim and fit, with smooth skin and salt-and-pepper hair, she didn’t look nearly old enough to have so much experience.
Hart looked at the documents first. They were requests from the press to bring cameras and microphones into the courtroom. He didn’t like that. Cameras meant posturing by the lawyers and his having to be on guard at all times. But the public did have a right to know, so his policy was to allow cameras in, unless there was a good reason not to.
He looked through the file and read the criminal complaint. He didn’t recognize the name of the defendant, Gina Black. It was a vehicular manslaughter case, but that was all he could discern. Because the law required a judge to learn about a case by taking evidence during a hearing, court files contained no police or other reports. If a defendant pled guilty, or if there was a plea bargain, a judge would order a probation report, which would summarize everything about the case and include an entire background history on the defendant. After reading that report, the judge could decide whether to accept the plea bargain, and also determine what the appropriate sentence should be.
He looked up at Louise. “What’s the deal on this case?”
“The defendant is represented by Amanda Jordan.”
Hart smiled. If the lawyer was Amanda Jordan that explained a lot. She was one of the most prestigious defense attorneys in the country. Five years ago, she represented Patricia Huntington, accused of murdering her husband, Senator Arthur Huntington. The acquittal received national attention. In Hart’s early days as a deputy district attorney, Jordan was a public defender, and they were often on opposite sides in court. She was one of the most thorough and professional lawyers he’d ever been up against. In fact, he’d never beaten her in court.
Louise handed Hart a document. “The lawyers have filed a stipulation that you may read the pre-plea probation report.”
Hart read the report, which indicated that the defendant, a female surgeon, had been driving at a high rate of speed down Kanan Dume Road to get back to the hospital for an emergency surgery. She took a curve too fast, crossed over the double yellow line, and hit another car head-on, forcing it off the road, into a ravine. The defendant was okay, and had not been drinking, but both people in the other car were killed. The victims were the pregnant wife and six-year-old son of an LAPD lieutenant.
Now Hart understood. It would be a difficult and emotional case. What happened to this Gina Black could happen to anyone. But the law was clear: If a death happened as a result of a violation of a statute, even an infraction such as crossing over a double yellow line, it was manslaughter. Driving too fast on a mountain road could constitute gross negligence. That could mean state prison.
It was a no-win situation for the sentencing judge, no matter what the sentence. The cops would be all over this, demanding the harshest penalty and unforgiving if they didn’t get their way. On the other hand, Dr. Black was a surgeon rushing to save a life. If that was true, didn’t she deserve some consideration?
“Give me another minute or two, and I’ll come out,” Hart said.
Louise left, and Hart studied the file carefully, checking if he’d missed anything. Confident that he was as prepared as possible, he signed the order allowing cameras, buzzed his clerk twice to indicate he was taking the bench, put on his robe, and walked into the courtroom.
Louise hadn’t exaggerated. Every seat was taken. A large number of cops in uniform sat in the spectator section behind the prosecutor. The audience had been buzzing with conversation, but that ceased immediately when Hart entered.
A single television camera at the side of the spectator area pointed toward the counsel table where the defendant, Dr. Gina Black, sat. She was elegant looking, with dark hair pulled back, accentuating her blue eyes. Mid-thirties. Pearl earrings. Wearing a black suit, a white silk blouse, and no other jewelry. Next to her was her lawyer, Amanda Jordan, equally elegant. Brown hair, shoulder length. Dark, expressive eyes, high cheekbones. Dressed in an expensive-looking gray suit with a burgundy blouse, she wore a gold Cartier watch. The two looked more like women you might see at a Beverly Hills cocktail party.
Hart picked up the file on the bench and called the case. “People versus Gina Black, Case number VF22794.”
Lawyer and client stood.
“Doctor Black is present, Your Honor, with counsel Amanda Jordan. Good morning, Your Honor.” Jordan was well known for her polite, friendly, and sincere manner of speaking. When referring to her client, she used her client’s name and title, rather than the negative description “defendant.” This placed emphasis on the fact that she represented a person and a physician, not some object.
“Deputy DA Doris Reynolds for the People, Judge.”
“Good afternoon,” Hart said. “This matter is here for arraignment. Ms. Jordan, does your client waive the reading of her constitutional rights and plead not guilty?”
“No, Your Honor.” She handed the clerk a waiver of constitutional rights. “My client wants to plead guilty—an open plea. Has the court had a chance to read the probation report, Your Honor?”
“Yes, I have.”
Hart was surprised to find out it was to be an open plea. Usually the prosecutor and defense agreed upon a sentence, and the court decided whether or not to approve it. An open plea meant that the defendant was placing her future completely in Hart’s hands. He did not like that prospect. Hart said, “Would Counsel approach at sidebar?”
Jordan and Reynolds walked to Hart’s left, where there were two small steps leading up to the bench. Hart stepped down and met them. The three could talk quietly at this spot and not be heard by anyone else in the courtroom.
Hart looked at Jordan. “Is there some understanding between the two of you?”
The DA interrupted before Jordan could reply. “There most certainly is not,” she said. “And this is outrageous. I told Ms. Jordan that there would be no deal. This is a state prison case.”
“You’re out of your mind.” Jordan responded. “Doctor Black is a respected and highly successful physician. The only reason this accident happened was that she cared more for her patients than for her personal safety.”
“She cares for nothing other than money. Don’t you realize that her grossly negligent conduct not only killed two people but also destroyed the life of everyone in the victims’ family? The victim was pregnant, for Christ’s sake.” Doris Reynolds’s face was red.
Hart admired Jordan. He liked the way she stood up for a client and refused to be bullied by the prosecution. Nevertheless, a judge maintained control by being evenhanded and fair, so he must treat them equally and not assign fault to any side. “Quiet, both of you,” Hart said. “I’ll have no bickering. And Ms. Reynolds, please keep your voice down. Is no plea bargain possible?”
“Not on your life, Judge,” she said. “And this comes directly from my head deputy. There are no deals in this case. It has to go to trial, and she has to go to prison. The victims were the wife and six-year old son of an LAPD lieutenant. Every cop in town knows about this case and expects justice.”
“That’s why this must be an open plea, Your Honor,” Jordan said. “I’ve watched the way you handle cases, and I think that you have compassion, fairness, and common sense. I’m not certain the same is true for the other judges in this building.”
That’s the butter-me-up-to-get-your-way approach
, Hart thought.
Even Amanda Jordan is not above it. It would be interesting to see if Jordan will
still have that point of view if I sentence her client to prison.
“And that’s exactly why she doesn’t want to go to trial, Judge,” Reynolds said. “She knows that her client would be convicted, and she knows that any trial judge in this building would do what was right and sentence this defendant to prison. Judge, the People will not stand for anything less!”
“I didn’t call you to sidebar to hear you argue with one another,” Hart said. “I wanted to get some background on each of your positions, and you’ve filled me in. Thank you.”
He turned, walked back up, and sat down at the bench. Both lawyers returned to their respective positions at the counsel table.