Being Myself in Juvenile Court - Countering Stereotypes While Changing Lives

By Cynthia Loo

Cynthia Loo, "The Changing Face of Civil Litigation: Being Myself in Juvenile Court", CALIFORNIA COURTS REVIEW, Summer 2006, at 12

The expressionless way in which I ruled, my practiced calm, had actually started years before when I was an attorney representing abused children in juvenile dependency matters. On one occasion, while I was watching a sheriff's deputy pull my hysterical 8-year-old client from the outstretched arms of her sobbing mother, a prosecutor scornfully asked me, "Why are you crying?" Ashamed, I promised myself I wasn't going to let that happen again.

Years later, when I was appointed to the juvenile court bench, I consciously sought to model my behavior as contrary to the meek and permissive stereotype of Asian women. I emulated what I thought a judge was supposed to be: strict, intimidating, and authoritative. It took me years of being on the bench to finally realize that being myself was OK.

Fifteen-year-old Tyrell was charged with resisting a peace officer. Los Angeles Police Department officer Miller testified that Tyrell had refused to answer officers' questions and instead hurled profanities toward them. He testified that Tyrell had reached into his waistband. Thinking, at that point, that the minor was going for a weapon, the officer had drawn his firearm. The grandmother testified about receiving a phone call from Tyrell, "Mama! Come outside! The police are here!" When she opened the door, Tyrell ran inside and cried, "I didn't do nothing!" He emptied the contents of his pockets onto the floor: a cell phone, a dollar, some change, a condom, gum.

Officer Grace Garcia testified that she asked the grandmother, "Ma'am, is Tyrell still on probation?" The grandmother said he was. Officer Garcia then recounted Tyrell's refusal to submit to the officers' directives and how backup was called. The officers tried to pry his fingers from their grip on the door frame. Finally, five officers subdued him and took him into custody.

I believed each witness.

From the back of the courtroom, the grandmother raised her hand and asked if she could say something else, a request that was met with an objection from the district attorney. "Oh, I just wanted to thank Officer Garcia for the way she tried to help," she said.

I found the charge to be true and proceeded to sentencing. Officer Garcia suggested that Tyrell should move out of Compton. The grandmother said they could not afford to move out of the area. Over the objection of the district attorney, who recommended a long-term camp program, I released Tyrell from juvenile hall. I admonished Tyrell that if he violated house arrest, I was going to sentence him to the camp. Tyrell didn't say anything but nodded his head that he understood.

The matter was continued to a date two months later that was then changed to avoid conflicting with the grandmother's receipt of an award for her volunteer work as a tutor at Tyrell's school.

Three days later, I spoke at a church in south Los Angeles. I warned the parents that even minors in a juvenile delinquency case can obtain "strikes" for future sentence enhancement under California's "three strikes" sentencing law. I cautioned the parents to be careful about whom their children associated with because of the ease with which youths can be caught up in gang enhancements. I thought of Tyrell as I suggested to the youths in the congregation that, if stopped by law enforcement, one is more likely to be released to parents than juvenile hall if one is respectful.

"Why, if we don't get no respect?" someone in the back of the church yelled. Many people in the congregation nodded in agreement.

Two weeks later, I looked up from the bench to see my bailiff having a heated discussion with an elderly African-American woman. "Deputy," I called out, "is there a problem?" Deputy Bailey said, "Your Honor, she wants to give you something. I told her it's not appropriate." When I realized it was Tyrell's grandmother, I got off the bench and walked to where she was standing by the bailiff's desk. She told me on most Sunday mornings Tyrell would crawl into her bed and ask, "Mama, are you awake? Can you make me some pancakes?" Or sometimes "Can I borrow some money?" But the past Sunday, she had awakened to gunfire. She then crawled through the house, calling for her grandchildren. Her eldest grandson found Tyrell's body on the porch, slumped against the front door.

"He's not breathing, Mama!" he cried.

She rushed over. "Open your eyes for me, baby, open your eyes!" she said, shaking Tyrell.

When the ambulance arrived, Tyrell's body was placed roughly on the stretcher. When the paramedics saw her watching, they pushed futilely on Tyrell's chest a few times. There were witnesses to the shooting, but no one had yet come forward. "I just wanted to give you this," she said, handing me a funeral program. On the back I had been given special thanks.

In the middle of the courtroom, with attorneys, clerks, a bailiff, and a court reporter looking on, we cried.

And I felt no shame in that.