(2 of 4)
"Felonies worry you to death, misdemeanors work you to death," says Mel Tennenbaum, a division chief in the Los Angeles public defenders' office. "We're underappreciated and misunderstood." L.A. lawyer David Carleton had his teeth loosened by a client who didn't like his plea arrangement. Manhattan's Judith White needs all seven days of the week to handle her load of drug cases -- a task she continues to tackle even since a crack addict murdered her father four years ago. When Lynne Borsuk filed a motion with Georgia's Fulton County Superior Court seeking to reduce her load of 122 open cases, she was demoted to juvenile court. She was lucky; others have been fired for similar actions.
Across the country, the lawyers who staff big-city public defender offices strike a common note: they get no respect. "Clients figure if we were really good, we'd be out there making big money," says Maria Cavalluzzi, a Los Angeles public defender. In courthouse waiting areas -- known variously as the | Tombs, the Pits, the Tank -- defendants cavalierly dismiss their free counselors as "dump trucks," a term that reflects their view that public defenders are more interested in dumping cases than mounting rigorous defenses.
The typical public defender is underpaid and overwhelmed. When Jacquelyn Robins was appointed New Mexico's state public defender in 1985, there were six lawyers in Albuquerque's Metro court to handle the annual load of 13,000 misdemeanor cases. Three years later Robins persuaded state legislators to put up funds for three more lawyers. Even then, lawyers could manage only cursory conferences with clients just 30 minutes before their court appearance. In 1991 Robins again went begging for dollars. When she was accused of having a "management problem," she quit. The move caused such a furor that the Governor promised additional funds. Albuquerque's chief public defender, Kelly Knight, now has 16 lawyers, but the pace is still grueling. "I'm 34, not married, and I have no children," Knight says. "But I'm really, really burned out." She plans to take a sabbatical next year -- whether she is granted one or not.
In Los Angeles, which boasts one of the best public defender programs in the country, salaries start at $42,000 and go as high as $97,000. A staff of 570 lawyers juggles roughly 80,000 cases a year. The work is often thankless, but every so often a case upholds the promise of Gideon. Earlier this month Frank White, 36, a tall, muscular man covered with tattoos, landed in L.A. County court, accused of murdering a tiny Korean woman with his bare fists. White, diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic, refused to take his medication and grew angry when the deputies would not remove his handcuffs. White glared as he stalked into the courtroom and dropped heavily into the seat beside public defender Mark Windham. Without a word, Windham slid his chair closer to his explosive client until they were touching shoulders. And there he stayed throughout the proceeding. "Male bonding," a sheriff's deputy quipped. But to everyone's astonishment, White quieted down. "I did it to make him and everyone else in the room feel better," Windham explained.