Diary from New York: 2. Youth, justice and the American way

Maria, a broad shouldered girl in her teens, walks nervously from the dock to the witness stand, her expression wavering between surly adult defiance and an uncertain timidity which makes her look younger than her 15 years. Maria has been caught fighting in school. Now she has to answer to a jury of her peers. And these really are her peers: the 11 jurors who ask gently probing questions about the fighting, her grades and her home life are black and latino teenagers from the same deprived New York neighbourhood as Maria, as are the judge and the advocates. Maria is in the Harlem Youth Court, a project run by the local courthouse which aims to help young people avoid serious legal trouble.

The mock trial takes place under the harsh fluorescent lights of a church basemen. Maria was sent here by her school. Other ‘respondents’ (there are no ‘defendants’ here – the court only accepts young people who admit responsibility) are referred by the police, probation officers or even neighbours and parents. We’re here as part of fact-finding trip, trying to learn from the best of the innovations that have sprung up in response to New York’s catastrophic criminal justice system.

The Youth Court sits at the gateway to the system. As well as fighting, it deals with endemic truancy, vandalism and theft. Many of the young respondents are at risk of getting trapped in the revolving door of police, courts and prisons. But while the aim is to help respondents as well as holding them accountable, the resources of the court can pale in comparison to the issues young people face. Maria lives at home with only her disabled grandmother. At school she faces bullying while her imposing size lets others label her the bully. She has few friends and even fewer role models. The young volunteers on the jury ‘sentence’ her to a letter of apology, an anger management workshop and a ‘goal setting’ appointment with a councillor, but they are all too aware that there is far more which could and should be done. After the court closes, they tell me their concerns about the impact of cuts on after-school programmes and mentoring schemes which used to exist for young people at risk.

The Youth Court itself is an ambiguous project. For the bright and passionate young volunteers, it’s a chance to contribute to their community and to get a feel for how a court looks and feels. All but one of them now aspire to be lawyers. But for the respondents, it’s more complex. For some, the court is a shock – a wake-up call that their behaviour has consequences that can go beyond a detention or grounding. For others, more used to trouble with the police, it’s a last ditch chance to give them support before they disappear into the justice system. But for an outsider it’s difficult to say why the court is a court at all.

The trappings of the justice system – the robe and gavel, the jurors and advocates – lend the process a symbolic power, yet this feels  at odds with the sensitive and non-judgmental style of the proceedings. A bigger danger, however, is that by borrowing the clothes of the criminal court, youth Courts risk repeating its mistakes. A focus on offenses - the things that people have done wrong – distracts from the people themselves. And as budget cuts bite, the power of the court to address the problems which are at the root of offending are restricted. But, whatever shape the project has, it’s a testament to what can be achieved by committed and resourceful volunteers and organisers.

Anna is a respondent who ought to be in school with several of the jurors. Instead she has stayed away for weeks, slipping out to spend time in the park with friends. She tells the court that she had been hoping to quietly drop out of school altogether. She’s amazed by all the trouble she’s caused. None of her family have completed school and her mother sitting at the side of the courtroom is following the proceedings through an interpreter. In the dock Anna is polite, quiet and disengaged. Her sentence – goal setting again, and a suggestion that she look into after school clubs – is the full extent of the court’s limited formal tools, but it seems to offer little hope of halting her drift out of school. So after its read out, Anna’s school-mates stand up one by one and offer their personal support, sharing a pen to scribble down their phone numbers and Facebook details. Like the adults watching from the public gallery of folding chairs, Anna is moved almost to tears – surprised and humbled that young people she doesn’t even know would do so much to help her. It’s hard, though, to shake a gnawing worry that it won’t be enough. 

All names have been changed.

This is part of a series of posts looking at the crime and justice system in New York. Read part one here.