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Reporter
in the Court
One
day in the life of Cheektowaga Justice
By
Kevin McElwee
Cheektowaga
is by no means unique among sprawling suburban towns
in having one end that is practically urban while the other
is essentially rural. But unlike many other such suburban
"border" towns, Cheektowaga's judicial branch has a decidedly
rural feel to it in that neither of its two popularly elected
justices, Thomas Kolbert and Ronald E. Kmiotek, holds a law
degree. This lends an uncharacteristically informal air to
the mostly monotonous proceedings, which are broken up by
the occasional breach of protocol (such as when the judge
momentarily forgets to swear in a witness who is about to
give testimony) or confused arguing (when a defendant's case
has been remanded back and forth between courts so many times
that the assigned counsel can't make heads or tails out of
the file and the judge hasn't a clue what he's supposed to
be ruling on). But then just before you're lulled to sleep
by the court's old-fashioned folksiness, some poor lifelong
drunk up for a probation violation is sentenced to a year
in jail for nothing more than failing an alcohol test at his
halfway house.
The Cheektowaga
Court is in operation Monday-Friday from 8:30 a.m. to 4 p.m.
The following is a report of the court's proceedings from
this past Tuesday, July 30. The names of the defendants have
been omitted.
8:27 a.m.:
I pass through the rudimentary security check. No food or
beverages, cell phones, pagers, or recording devices are permitted
inside. The elderly bailiff is amazed when the metal detector
still triggers after I've removed 14 or so items from my various
pockets. My belt buckle causes the buzzing, but they don't
make me undo it like in the airports nowadays.
8:40 a.m.:
The doors open and the younger of the two white-shirted bailiffs
(whose graying pompadour and extra-long sideburns give him
a vaguely yokelish appearance) instructs those with civil
disputes to enter. The plaque up on the bench tells us that
Ronald E. Kmiotek is to preside over the day's proceedings.
8:43 a.m.:
Kmiotek enters the courtroom. He is a large, jowly man with
thick dark hair and eyebrows that appear dyed. He looks like
one of those elderly uncles who is rumored to have been a
real mean bastard when he was younger, but has now mellowed
to the point where he seems harmless, if not exactly friendly.
9:07 a.m.:
A short black attorney with shaved head and glasses (one of
the few wearing an actual suit) is perusing a brochure for
"We Wan Chu Cottages." Meanwhile, another black male directly
in front of me is rhythmically raising and lowering his left
leg at a rate of just under 30 per minute. His girlfriend
has an intricately sculpted hair weave that looks like it
would repel asteroids.
9:20 a.m.:
The clerk reads the roll call of scheduled criminal cases.
9:42 a.m.:
Kmiotek returns.
9:55 a.m.:
The day's third criminal case has a no-show female defendant.
This is the second date in a row she has missed, so a bench
warrant for her arrest will be served. Next up is a mid-30s,
ruddy-complexioned white male with massive Popeye forearms
and brand-spanking-new tan work boots. His elderly mother
looks on as he pleads guilty to DWI for a $100 fine (with
$65 surcharge).
10:04
a.m.: Handcuffee #3 is brought in, a sullen-looking, stout
white male with pencil-thin mustache and ornate, garishly
colored tattoos running up the length of his right arm, apparently
all the way to where the shoulder and neck meet. As this defendant
takes his seat, the younger bailiff moves to rouse a heavy-set
black male (accompanied by a woman and small girl) who has
fallen asleep.
10:34
a.m.: The first female in handcuffs is brought in. She's a
nearly spherical middle-aged black woman in orange shorts
and hideously clashing tangerine tank top who requires rather
more escorting than most. Once seated, she slouches over with
her head resting on one shoulder, looking sort of like the
Pope giving a speech except for the toothless half-smile that
remains plastered on her face for as long as I can manage
to keep my eye on her.
10:40
a.m.: A young black male charged with marijuana possession
and various traffic violations has no attorney, and so is
dispatched downstairs for the ACD forms. Next we have a pair
charged with petty larceny. One is a short, stout black female
with hair neatly pulled back in a bun (which only serves to
accentuate the extremely wrinkled state of her skirt). The
other is a tall white male, slovenly dressed and wearing a
gray NY Yankees cap. Both look like they just rolled out of
bed.
10:55
a.m.: The sleeper's female companion is called. She faces
charges of second degree harassment and driving without a
license. After he is one of many pink-faced, rail-thin white
males wearing a goatee and an angry expression. I notice his
shirt is actually tucked in, and it occurs to me that this
is the first defendant so far to have done so. He's charged
with marijuana possession.
By now
my ears have adjusted somewhat to the sound of the courtroom
and I am able to make out more of what the judge is saying.
His speech is very practiced and terse (entirely understandable
under the circumstances), and yet the ups and downs of his
intonation rarely seems to correspond to the sense of what
he's saying. I don't know what to make of this except that
the resulting effect is mildly unsettling.
11:04
a.m.: The younger bailiff is hot on the trail of another sleeper,
this time a heavy-set black male whose son had been carrying
the morning edition of The Buffalo News when they entered
the courtroom. This bailiff will henceforth be referred to
as the Sleep Enforcer.
11:14
a.m.: The Sleep Enforcer nearly nabs another victim, this
time a young white female with strawberry-streaked blonde
hair and a large cat tattoo on her back. She's sitting hunched
over with her head almost in her lap, but she snaps awake
before the bailiff can get to her. I take particular note
of this as I'm now starting to nod myself.
11:24
a.m.: The nearly sleeping woman is up. Turns out she's 28,
has a 4-year-old child, and feels she's ready to turn her
life around because she's finally in a "stable relationship."
She's sentenced to a $100 fine on her DWI charge.
11:30
a.m.: We get two more male defendants in cuffs: a short bald
black fellow who looks a bit like Emmitt Smith and a lanky
middle-aged white fellow with a long braided ponytail. Meanwhile,
the attorney for the nearly sleeping woman is still up at
the clerk's desk fiddling with the paperwork, which leads
a bow-tied southern dandyish-looking public defender to ask
the judge if he'd like him to remove him from the courtroom.
This, the day's first bit of verifiable intentional humor,
is barely acknowledged by the judge.
11:37
a.m.: We now have a few young adult white males accompanied
by one or both parents. Among the other recent arrivals is
a gray-suited attorney whose slicked-back hair is slightly
mussed. He sits just across the aisle from me perusing a day
planner in which every fourth page is a full-color picture
of a pug striking some "cute" pose.
12:14
p.m.: Handcuffed Emmitt Smith faces numerous charges, including
an intriguing "false impersonation" that has been reduced
to disorderly conduct. All but a few of the charges are dismissed.
The judge appears to have warmed up and is now effortlessly
tossing off such standard legalese phrases as "contrary to
the provisions of."
12:21
p.m.: One of the parent-accompanied young white males is up
for his DWI charge, but he is quickly sent downstairs for
ACD forms. He is just the second defendant thus far who had
the foresight to tuck in his shirt (for the record, my shirt
isn't tucked in either, but then I'm not appearing before
the court on criminal charges). His two parents look a bit
like yuppies and not as unhappy to be there as might be expected.
12:43
p.m.: Our newest cuffed defendant is a diminutive, nervous-looking
fellow wearing a particularly hideous Miami Dolphins T-shirt.
12:54
p.m.: The courtroom is nearly empty now as Dolphins guy is
on, facing a probation violation that may or may not involve
attempted assault. There's much confusion over the case (is
there time served? was it 90 days? which charge is he on probation
for? etc.), and it is several minutes before judge and attorney
can figure it all out. It seems the violation was failure
to show up for drug court. The attorney gives the day's longest
defense statement by far, which reveals that the 40-year-old
has been an alcoholic most of his adult life, has been married
to the complainant for 12 years, has been incarcerated for
the past month, and is looking into a 30-day in-house treatment
program. He has relatives in Florida, where he hopes to relocate
and turn his life around. "I just have to get a change of
environment," he says. Just under the bell, the attorney gets
in that the defendant's continued alcohol problems are partly
due to the fact that his wife works in a bar.
1:12 p.m.:
Next up is another lanky white truck driver type with long
hair and mustache. He appears extremely dejected and remorseful
and is also up for a probation violation (from a petty larceny
charge). The probation officer goes through the details of
the case for about 3 minutes before Kmiotek remembers he was
supposed to swear him in first. He does so, and the officer
starts over. The violation here is a failed alcohol test at
his residential treatment facility. It becomes clear from
the judge's statements that this defendant has been here more
than once before: "Mr. [name omitted], this court has been
very kind to you, and your family has been here every time...
they're genuinely concerned that you might die from this..."
The family is his mother, sister, and brother, the latter
a small mustachioed fellow wearing a blue NYPD cap and an
extremely dirty white T-shirt that reads "Newport Pleasure"
(I'd been noticing him nervously going in and out of the courtroom
for most of the morning). The sentence, essentially for failing
a urine test for alcohol, is 1 year in county jail. The brother
and sister nod approvingly.
1:27 p.m.:
It's now just me, another man (the final defendant's brother
as it turns out), and the final defendant himself. Kmiotek
asks me who I'm there for; I tell him I'm just watching. "Good,"
he says, "more people should go to court and see what actually
happens, instead of believing all those... rumors." Unconvincingly,
I tell him I agree. Thankfully, the defendant's attorney returns,
now under the impression that his client has served out all
but two days of his sentence and might as well be released
now with time served rather than being sent back to jail for
two days. The judge doesn't like the sound of that at all
and goes into a convoluted explanation about how the case
was remanded because he hadn't previously gotten into the
record any statement imploring the defendant to think about
his past crimes and the effect they have had. So Kmiotek now
gets this all-important statement into the record and only
then releases the man with time served. I decide that two
days' worth of leniency is the closest thing to a happy ending
this story is likely to get, and make my way outside.
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