Step Right Up and See the Justice

This was just an everyday Thursday at the Los Angeles County courthouse. This was not a day for packed hallways and bustling press rooms. This was not a day for celebrity lawyers and celebrity defendants. The circus moved on months ago. This was just one more day at the justice mill, one more plodding, grinding day of anonymous murder and low-rent mayhem, and of course it drew no crowd at all.

In a courtroom on the 13th floor, a prosecutor addressed a jury, methodically running through a tale of twisted-up love. It involved a young man and his girlfriend, a knife and a motel room, a rape and a reconciliation. The young defendant wore earphones, listening to a Spanish interpretation of the case against him. The gallery benches were empty. Not a soul had come to his trial.

Down the hall, a drug case was underway. This was a “three strikes” matter, so the stakes were high. Again, the trial was attended only by its participants. The bearded defendant wore a gray suit that appeared to have known previous occupants. A body tattoo peeked over the collar of his dress shirt, which was at least two sizes too big. He scratched out notes with a stubby pencil as his attorney subjected a detective to the LAPD witness drill.

“When did you refresh your recollection about this case?”

“About five minutes before taking the stand.”

“Did you discuss the case with any other officers?”

“Only briefly.”

*

A well-known attorney strode from a courtroom, loafers clacking. He had been a lawyer in the Heidi Fleiss case, another circus come and gone. He looked over his shoulder, as if anticipating an ambush by interviewers. It did not come. Hallways that once teemed with media lions were populated, on this everyday Thursday, only by jurors. Some discussed their ongoing cases with astonishing openness. No one seemed to care. These were not circus jurors. No room at the Inter-Continental for them. No book agents. No second-guessing, either--

anonymity’s blessing.

In the courtroom that had served as center ring, a judge and a bailiff chatted idly about literature while a jury deliberated a case of real estate fraud. “It was just one chase after another, you know?” the judge complained about the novel under discussion. Asked what was going on in that famous room, the two men replied happily in unison: “Nothing!”

Next door, a court administrator fleshed out the nothingness, courtroom by courtroom, judge by judge. In Dept. 102 Judge Smith was taking a plea in a murder case. In Dept. 123 Judge Reid had a “ ‘third strike’ case, narcotics. We got a lot of those today.” Ito? “Ito has some minor case. I can’t remember.”

There were a half dozen murder trials underway, along with assorted armed robbery and attempted homicide and rape cases. Court TV had not come calling at any of them. Most, in fact, were being conducted in empty courtrooms. “That is the way it is,” the administrator said, “with 99.9% of our cases. Look at this one, in Department 133. A death penalty case. There has not been the slightest bit of interest in it. No one knows a thing about it.”

*

The circus had moved on, but there were remnants, reminders of its glorious run. A three-man camera crew was outside the courthouse, carefully lining up an exterior shot. The members spoke to one another in Japanese. Who were they shooting for? one was asked. “News,” he answered in halting English. “Japanese television. American justice system.”

You mean O.J?

A giggle.

“Yes. O.J.”

They could be forgiven for confusing the Simpson case with everyday American justice. Many American political and legal leaders have done the same. Since the circus left town they’ve called for one “reform” after another. Toss out the cameras. Tie down the juries. Hamstring the defense bar. Hustle out of town fast any trial that shows signs of developing a public following.

Such “remedies” suggest that, in the view of their proponents, the justice mill operates best in obscurity. When the cameras click on, they seem to be saying, when top-notch trial lawyers take up the cause and crowds convene, the machine begins to rattle and clink. Left alone, it can crank out conviction rates in the high 90s. Left alone, it can honor the presumption that anyone arrested must have been guilty, of something anyway. Left alone, two-bit technicalities like, say, warrantless searches can be more easily smoothed over.

If this actually were true--if the system as constructed can function only when nobody watches, in the everyday days--it would indicate a need for reform that goes far beyond any silliness associated with the Simpson circus. It would indicate that what’s wrong isn’t too many cameras in the courtroom, but rather not enough of them.