Illustration by Scott Roberts
For reasons that I cannot remember, I was initially ebullient about being assigned a story on night court. Perhaps I was thinking of Night Court, the ’80s situational comedy, rather than St. Louis County Municipal Court, which is good for far fewer laughs.
The county has multiple court locations, but I opted to visit the North Division, mostly because of its address: 21 Village Square. I imagined the Greeks, when they invented juries thousands of years ago, gathering in the village square to dole out their rulings. You can imagine my surprise upon learning that Village Square is a largely vacant shopping center in an industrial part of Hazelwood.
Sometime between pulling into the dingy parking lot and suffering through an overaggressive pat-down from the deputy at the front door, I realized this wasn’t going to be pleasant. After all, for most Americans, court would join hell and a dentist’s chair on the list of places they would least like to spend their evening.
The standard procedure in the courtroom is that the accused check in with the clerk, and then the bailiff seats them in rows of drab gray chairs. Unaware of this, I walked in and sat down up front.
“Excuse me, sir,” the clerk said. “Are you on the docket tonight?”
“No,” I answered.
“Why are you here?”
“Just to observe.”
She gave me a look of puzzlement and pity that made it clear I was the first soul ever dumb enough to make such a mistake. She told me that the docket was full, so I should move to the back. The bailiff added that Judge Renee Hardin-Tammons was scheduled to hear 600 cases. Court was set to start at 7 p.m., and I asked how late it usually went. He said maybe 10 p.m. Six hundred cases in three hours? That’s more than three per minute.
The judge arrived late, and we all rose when she walked in, wearing the traditional robe. Many defendants wore sweatpants and heavy coats, though they were required to remove baseball caps. The bailiff outlined other rules: No gum, no cellphones, no talking.
Nights in municipal court are themed—one for zoning, another for trials. This snowy evening in December was dedicated to “traffic and ordinance violations.” The judge called up the accused one by one (only a handful had attorneys) and engaged them at the bench, in an exchange more closely resembling a conversation between a scolding mother and her children than a legal proceeding.
She asked for their names; read the charges; then took a plea of guilty, not guilty, or not guilty with explanation. One woman pleaded all three ways to her various charges: not guilty to having a headlight out, guilty to driving without a license, and guilty with explanation to possession of a controlled substance (the drugs belonged to her passenger).
For people who pleaded guilty to crimes like driving without proof of insurance, the judge handed down a sentence on the spot, often community service, paying court costs, or a trip to defensive-driving school. But while most of the punishments are minor, municipal court can give up to a $1,000 fine and one year in county jail. In those more serious cases, the judge won’t accept a guilty plea, instead encouraging the defendant to get a lawyer.
People who pleaded not guilty were given a trial date in a couple of months. Most said they again planned to represent themselves. It would almost be worth going back to watch these defiant few mount their defenses against such seemingly irrefutable charges as failing to properly affix a license plate or making an illegal right turn.
Maybe as a result of the blustery weather, far fewer than 600 people showed up. The court heard pleas from maybe 75 defendants, then adjourned after about an hour. The judge was gone before I could get my coat on.
Next time, I’ll volunteer for the first-person essay about getting a root canal.
