All the Lonely People

His name is Timothy Murphy. It isn’t a household name yet, so don’t trouble yourself trying to remember who he is. True, he was a Burbank city councilman once, but that won’t buy anyone a place in “Who’s Who.”

You might recall his dad, Tom Murphy, who was a Superior Court judge in L.A. for a lot of years and still sits on the bench occasionally. But Tim is relatively new at the game.

I met him the other day at the Criminal Courts Building, where he’s serving as a court commissioner. That’s someone who’s appointed by sitting judges to handle the awesome overload of cases in L.A. County.

Murphy is 41, was born here and practiced law for 13 years before becoming a commissioner 18 months ago. He has a wife and three sons, and his chambers are filled with their presence, from photographs to stuffed toys. I mention that because it’s important. You’ll see.

He wrote me a letter earlier this month commenting on a column about a growing meanness in L.A. It was a thoughtful, caring letter. He said so many young people passed through his courtroom on their way to prison without anyone caring. Not relatives, not friends, not even fellow gangbangers.

“The world has changed,” he wrote. “The fears and the rules have changed as well.”

There was a deep and abiding sadness to the note, not the kind I usually receive from judges. I had to meet this Timothy Murphy.

*

His courtroom is on the 11th floor. You don’t get high-profile cases in this modest arena of civil order, cast in tones of brown and dusty blue; no celebrity defendants with million-dollar lawyers. Ordinary felons file by here, accompanied by attorneys with briefcases borne through many battles.

“This is where justice happens,” one lawyer said to me, “five days a week, every week of the month, every month of the year.”

I was there for one of the days. An accused killer passed through and so did an accused armed robber and three accused thieves, all but one barely in adulthood. Most were there to have trial dates set.

The procession of those charged with felonies seemed endless. “We’re full,” Murphy said from the bench, waving his arms to indicate incoming flights. “I feel like LAX.”

One defendant was 19 but looked 15, a child-man who, in the orange, loose-fitting garb of a County Jail inmate, looked a little like a kid playing dress-up. He pleaded guilty to car theft and receiving stolen property.

Murphy sentenced him to 16 months in prison, then leaned forward to say gently, the way a father might, “When you get there, take a good look at the future. A way out of this mess is school and family. If you want to spend the rest of your life in a cage, you’re headed that way. Think it over.”

“He was what I wrote you about,” Murphy said later, talking about the young man. “No one was there for him today. No one is there for any of them. They’re alone in the world. I feel like a lunatic giving these speeches, but someone’s got to say to them, ‘Look, this isn’t the way. . . .’ ”

*

He’s different, this Timothy Murphy. He cares not only about the way he raises his own kids, but enough about others to start a youth club in his community. And he cares deeply about those who come before him.

“His comments from the bench are unique,” one attorney said during a recess. “He really talks to people. His attitude makes us better lawyers.”

In one instance, he told a prospective juror who thought her sister was a court clerk, but wasn’t sure, that she ought to get to know her sister better. Family is important, he said to her. Go home and give her a phone call.

His own family, he told me, was his top priority. Being a good parent was the most difficult job in the world, but one he relished. He would almost rather stay home and raise his sons than gauge the human misery that passes before him.

I’ve never met a jurist quite like him. During one session with opposing lawyers, he left the bench and, still robed, tidied up the courtroom by moving chairs around and stacking papers neatly on a desk while participating in legal discussions. No one seemed surprised. That was just him.

One wonders what will become of Timothy Murphy, who presides with passion in a fluorescent-lit domain of muted emotions, and who worries about the loneliness of those he judges. He doesn’t know whether his tour as a commissioner will lead to a larger judicial future.

I hope it does . . . though, given his intense capacity for caring, sitting in judgment on all those lonely people may turn out to be the loneliest place of all.