(2 of 8)
Syrita had tried repeatedly to warn Antwan of illicit goings-on at the playground. But such warnings carry little weight for a kid growing up on society's margin. Antwan lives in a storefront apartment just blocks from the drug-saturated playground. His mother and grandmother survive on public assistance, and his mother is battling depression with medication and counseling. His father is long gone.
The next day Antwan and his mom show up at juvenile court, which is crammed into the basement of Clarence Mitchell. The building's massive columns, vaulted ceilings and dimly lighted corridors conjure fleeting images of a dungeon. Children wander the hallways, a few in tears. The water fountains are too high for most to reach. Lawyers, their arms spilling over with folders, bustle about. Sheriff's deputies cast jaundiced eyes on it all.
Syrita Davey, dressed in a white blouse, purple skirt, hoop earrings, sits with her son in a noisy, claustrophobic interview room. Law student Harry Kassap, a volunteer in the public defender's office, listens to the boy's story. The defender's office, which represents indigent youthful offenders, usually has only a few minutes to learn about a case before the accused must appear before a master in chancery, one of the quasi-judicial hearing officers who presides in juvenile court. It does not take long for Kassap to become outraged. "The kid was a complete victim," he later observes, "yet the system treats him as an absolute criminal."
Antwan gets his second break. The defender's office assigns his file to chief public defender David Fishkin, a gentle giant who looks like a bearded Ichabod Crane. More than anything else, Fishkin decides, efforts must be made to keep Antwan "out of the system" by placing him in a "diversion" program, which offers counseling and individual attention rather than harsh penalties like incarceration. Like everyone else in the courthouse, Fishkin knows that once a kid falls deeper into the justice system, he may never get out. But the lawyer is worried that the prosecutor on the case may have something different in mind. He makes a call and discovers, to his dismay, that assistant state's attorney Mary McNamara, 29, a well-known hard-liner on drug issues, will oppose him.
"Oh," says a slightly flustered Fishkin.
"You sound disappointed," replies McNamara.
"Well, you know, I'd like to keep this case out of the system."
% "Dave, you know my policy on drug dealing," McNamara answers, then pauses. "But I'll read the report and keep an open mind."
A third break for Antwan: McNamara, who worked as a night bailiff to get through law school, is actually on Fishkin's side this time. She was born and raised in New Jersey in a blue-collar family; her hard-nosed reputation is a reflection of a strong sense of outrage at the inner-city disaster. "Sometimes," she says, "I get home at night and I think my name is 'Bitch.' They stop being kids to you after a while. Some of them are vicious and nasty. They'd shoot you in a heartbeat."