No Matter How Loud I Shout (40 page)

So Keesha went through the standard detention process. She had to strip, submit to a search, then run through the institutional showers. She was checked for parasites, dressed in gray underwear and an orange jumpsuit, and placed in the one of the hall's few female units. The only concession to her mental problems was a notation on her probation file and the hall's daily “pop sheet”—its computer printout of the system's two-thousand-plus juvenile population being held in pretrial detention—stating she might be prone to suicide. She would stay in the hall for the next two months while the system tried to figure out what to do with her.

Thirty-six hours after her arrest, a packet of information on Keesha—consisting of the police reports and the intake officer's detention report—arrived at Peggy Beckstrand's office, one case in a pile of about thirty others thumped on the front counter by the Probation Department's courier, sent over for possible prosecution. Such deliveries are made daily, not quite like clockwork, but close. There were no homicides in that particular pile, so Keesha's case was the most serious, violent crime presented that day. Based on the bare-bones information in the file, the DA's Office made the decision to file attempted murder charges against Keesha, and to seek her transfer to adult court, where she could receive up to life in prison. Given what Peggy knew at the time—the file focused entirely on the violence of the offense, with no information describing Keesha's mental state or her exemplary past—the decision seemed to make sense.

But not to Judge Dorn.

“Why is this case being prosecuted in this fashion?” he barks when Keesha's fitness hearing is called. The deputy DA starts to explain that his office routinely files attempted murder cases with an allegation that the minor is unfit, but Dorn, as usual, cuts him off. “I want to continue this and talk to your supervisor. This makes no sense. Look at this psychiatric report. This minor does not belong in the adult system. This child needs help.

“Transfer this case to adult court, and it will be lost.”

Keesha looks confused, unable to comprehend what is happening, the only clue being the smile on her lawyer's face. She doesn't know how lucky she was to land before Judge Dorn, who sees the fitness law as the system's drastic solution for cutting its caseload and dumping its most troublesome kids—without bringing an equivalent amount of attention or help to the kids left behind. To Dorn, this solution is tantamount to heresy. He jabs a thick finger in Sisman's direction.

“Get me his supervisor on the phone,” Dorn tells his clerk. “We need to make a stand here.”

A short time later, Peggy has climbed the stairs from the Ronald Duncan murder trial and trudged before Judge Dorn. “Just read that psychological report,” Dorn tells her. “There is no way this girl should go to adult court. She'll be eaten alive. Eaten alive! The people should withdraw the fitness motion. Surely you can see that.”

Beckstrand reluctantly picks up the file and starts to read. Keesha's public defender, Leslie Stearns, has done what the Probation Department failed to do: She got a psychiatrist in to see Keesha, who prescribed antipsychotic medications that produced dramatic and rapid results. The hallucinations and murderous impulses have diminished, and her prognosis is good.

As she reads, Dorn tries to charm her with that honeyed baritone of his. It's for the best. I can do a lot more for her here, he told Peggy. Chances are, he suggested, changing tactics, she'll do more time with me than she would in adult. A judge there might see no one was injured, and just kick her loose. The busy DAs downtown won't want to be bothered with such a small-time case. Or she might get off on an insanity plea. Keep her here, I'll see she gets help, Dorn vows. It is the same logic he employed in keeping John Sloan in Juvenile, except now it is couched in the form of a request instead of an order.

“Hmmmm,”
Peggy murmurs. What the judge says may or may not be true, but Peggy still bristles at the pressure Dorn is exerting on her. Instead of finding Keesha fit for Juvenile Court, then taking his chances should
Peggy appeal, he is trying to goad her into an appealproof withdrawal of her fitness motion. She knows everyone in the courtroom is watching this interaction carefully, wondering if Dorn can bully a supervising DA, notwithstanding the constitutional separation of powers barring judges from interfering with a prosecutor's executive decisions, and the fact that Dorn's “request” could easily be viewed as a form of intimidation. Beckstrand's impulse is to refuse him on the spot.

First of all, she has never withdrawn a fitness motion before. Never. It is a matter of principle. She believes kids who committed such serious offenses as attempted murder proved, by their conduct, that they should be treated as adults. Most other states don't even blink when transferring kids much younger than sixteen, so California is far from the radical right on this issue. Even Attorney General Janet Reno, a longtime advocate for doing more to rehabilitate than to punish wayward children, tried fourteen-year-olds as adults when she was a DA in Miami. If anything, Peggy believes, more transfers of kids to adult court are needed in Los Angeles—desperately.

Secondly, if she rolled over now in front of everyone, there would be no end to it. Dorn would see a weakness, as would the defense lawyers, and they all would try to exploit it from this day on. This point alone dictated that she should stand firm. Fencing with a despot like Dorn would be a constant in her life from now on, and she was loath to surrender any advantage. Yet she stopped herself from saying no to his request, because she had a problem:

She had seen Keesha walk into the courtroom, awkward and sad, mouthing a tiny “Hello” to her mom in the audience, then sitting down, becoming motionless, inert. The girl then had to endure hearing people talk about her as if she wasn't even present, hearing her own lawyer say, “The medication seems to be helping. She's not hearing the voices anymore.” Peggy genuinely felt sorry for the kid. And what if Dorn was right? What if the best place for Keesha—and the best thing for society—was to keep her in Juvenile Court? Would she have sought a transfer to adult court if the Probation Department had done a more thorough job in its investigation and reports? Perhaps not. She found herself thinking about Jim Hickey's kinder, gentler philosophy of juvenile justice. Could she allow policy statements and courtroom politics to get in the way of doing the right thing? One of the things that enrages her most about the juvenile justice system is its bouts of inflexible stupidity, its focus on process instead of results, its all-too frequent inability to do the right thing, even when the
right thing is obvious to all. She did not want to become that which she hated most.

“The People will withdraw the fitness motion,” Beckstrand finally announces.

Dorn is grinning now, cheeks dimpled. He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything in reply, Peggy adds, “It's not that we're going to do this every time.”

“I can't get anyone to agree with me all of the time.” he chuckles. “But if I can get it some of the time . . . well, then, I'm happy.”

·  ·  ·

Once Peggy leaves the room, Keesha quickly agrees to plead guilty, sealing the deal, and Dorn sends her out to be screened for mental hospitalization, and for admission to the Dorothy Kirby Center.

The seemingly happy ending evaporates three weeks later when Keesha returns to court for her “disposition”—the Juvenile Court euphemism for sentencing.

She looks much better for this court appearance, her hair braided, her demeanor more animated—and more worried. Assistant Public Defender Leslie Stearns says Keesha has been sticking with her medication and doing very well in the hall. “She doesn't hear voices anymore,” the lawyer announces. “She'll stick with her medication, because she knows she is better.”

The problem facing Dorn, however, is what to do with Keesha. Despite his extravagant promises to Beckstrand of being able to hold her accountable longer than the adult court system would have, he finds that the Probation Department and the social welfare system he needs to help him accomplish this task are doing their best to avoid having to deal with Keesha.

The two departments are focusing on a technicality: Keesha turned eighteen within the past two weeks. Because her crime was committed before she reached this age of majority, she remains a “minor” in the eyes of the court, entitled to treatment as a juvenile. But no one else wants her. The county mental health screening committee that Judge Dorn ordered to examine Keesha waited a week to follow that order—just enough time for Keesha's birthday to arrive. Then, exactly on her birthday, a member of the committee called the Probation Department and said they were rejecting her case because she was an adult.

The Probation Department also waited until the day of Keesha's birthday to follow Dorn's order that she be considered for Dorothy Kirby. This delay allowed the Kirby Center to announce that it did not accept kids
who had turned eighteen, either, so Keesha, who otherwise could benefit from the program, was rejected based on her birth date. Had they screened Keesha promptly, they could have taken her—it's okay to turn eighteen at Kirby once accepted in the program.

With the system trying mightily to reject Keesha, the probation officer assigned to recommend a disposition for the girl wrote Dorn a report suggesting he send her home on probation, with an order that she go to an outpatient psychiatric clinic. Keesha's mother would have to pay for this herself, a major problem, but lawyer Stearns asks Dorn to follow this recommendation anyway.

“The problem is,” DDA Hyman Sisman interjects, “the older sister is still terrified of her. What if she stops taking the medication? If something like this happens again, it might not end with an attempt. Someone could be killed.”

Dorn is troubled. Mentally ill young people frequently do resist taking the medication. They hate the dulling effect antipsychotic drugs can have, and Keesha is already chafing at the demands that she keep taking pills, insisting she is better and doesn't need them. Dorn is loath to agree with this prosecutor, but he says he has to protect Keesha's family as well as Keesha. Dorn announces that the only way he'll allow probation is if Keesha is sentenced to the California Youth Authority—a sentence normally reserved for kids with long records of major or violent crimes. It is the only other program left available to him that offers mental health services and security. He says he will “stay” this sentence. That means she can go home, but if she messes up, either through another violent episode, or merely by refusing her medication, then she goes to CYA. “CYA is the only place open to her now, unfortunately,” he says.

Defender Stearns begins to argue, but Dorn cuts her off. “Those are the terms, Counselor . . . I have to be in a position to protect the family and the minor. If I don't get that, I'll have no choice but to do something I really do not want to do.” The implication is clear: If Stearns refuses to agree to a CYA stay—a sentence of questionable legality—he'll just send Keesha directly to the youth prison, with no probation at all.

At this point, the court's assigned probation officer stands up at her desk next to the judge, approaches the bench, and whispers to him, though her words carry. “I can't say it on the record, Your Honor, because it's going against my department, but the minor would be better served at Dorothy Kirby.” She goes on to explain that it is the department's
policy
to refuse anyone over seventeen, but that the
law
allows a judge to send
eighteen-year-olds there, just like any other suitable placement. “You can order them to take her, and they can't say no,” she tells Dorn. His eyes widen—he had not known this.

A whispered conference between the judge and the attorneys ensues. Then Stearns whispers with Keesha, who has been looking very worried at this talk of CYA. There is no mistaking the look of pleasure that suffuses Dorn's face at the notion of bullying the Probation Department into violating its own policies, while at the same time overcoming an artificial age division that is getting in the way of what this girl needs.

“It is the order of the court, for the protection and rehabilitation of this minor and the protection of society, that this minor be removed from the home,” Dorn intones.

At this, Keesha turns to her mother, who is seated several rows behind her in the audience. Keesha begins to cry, as does her mother, large, silent tears running down both their faces. They had counted on probation; Mrs. Jordan had even brought a paper sack with fresh clothes for Keesha.

“The court orders the minor suitably placed with Dorothy Kirby,” Dorn continues. “The court is ordering Dorothy Kirby to accept this minor and give her treatment.” Then he adds a trademark Dornism. “If this cannot be done, I want the director to come in here and tell me why.” Not just any flunky, but the director of the Probation Department, one of the three or four most powerful bureaucrats in the county. Dorn still delights in such threats, certain it will be much easier for the director to give him his way than to traipse into court. “They will help her, or give me a good excuse why not.”

Keesha, who had sent a long, painstakingly written letter to Dorn on loose-leaf paper in purple ink explaining why she had to go home, is beside herself with grief. “But I'm better,” she pleads.

Dorn shakes his head, but his voice is gentle now, sad but resolute. “Keesha, I would love to be able to send you home. But I have to do what I think is best to do.”

The girl is clutching a sodden wad of Kleenex now, whispering again, “I'm better. I'm better. But I'm better.”

“I know you're better,” Dorn says. “I know. I want you to do even better still. This is not punishment. Please understand, this is for your own good. This is not like those other places. They have the best. You'll have your own room.”