Lunch at the Gangbanger’s Grill

by Michael Dymmoch

This is my picture of Hell: Eternity in criminal court without possibility of parole.

Even before you get into the building at 26th and California you’re demoralized, in the parking garage—assuming you’re a juror, lawyer or cop and can get in it. It's filthy. Defendants and their families have to park on the street or take the bus.

You have to go through security—“Take off your belt. Everything out of your pockets. No exceptions.” When you get to your courtroom, you spend 75% of your time waiting for something to happen. Some judges handle dozens of cases daily. Bond court judges sometimes process 200 arraignments per hour.

At lunch time, since the cafeteria is closed for renovations, you get to choose between the roach-coaches parked on California and the coffee shop near the main entrance. Cognicenti call it the Gangbanger’s Grill.

When you find an anomaly like Cindy, the Sheriff’s deputy who still seems to give a damn, you wonder how she escaped the process that turns most of the deputies into zombies, and most of the defendants--most of whom are guilty--into placid cattle herded from cell to pen to court room and back. Cindy, as it turns out, has only been here since December. And since she used to be a process server in bad neighborhoods, this probably seems like easy duty.

The system is a Bizarro version of Monopoly:

Your attorney didn’t show--Lose two turns.

Motion to dismiss denied--Go directly to jail. Do not pass Go.

The Judge grants you a continuance--move forward three spaces.

Witness recanted--Get out of jail free.

Individually, the players seem decent enough. The attorneys could be your next door neighbors—if you live in a good neighborhood. When they come to court, the defendants seem harmless. Until you discover that the 24 year old standing respectfully before the judge with his hands behind his back--that fellow you wouldn’t give a second glance if you sat behind him on the bus--has been charged with pouring gasoline into an occupied car and setting it on fire.

Maybe the people involved in the day to day get so jaded by the enormity of the horror and the mind-numbing delays that they don’t notice any more. But somebody ought to.

If the rest of us don’t get involved, who will?

If no one does, how can anything ever change?