Posts Tagged ‘D.C. Superior Court’
It’s About Time: D.C. Police Release General Orders In Response To FOIA Fight
In early 2009, the Partnership for Civil Justice filed a lawsuit in D.C. Superior Court in the hopes that the D.C. Police Department would get its act together and comply with a very basic FOIA request. What did the civil rights lawyers want?
They wanted the D.C. Police to cough up their operational procedures and general orders. In other words, just the rules on how the police are supposed to govern themselves, and utilize their authority with the general public. The complaint stated:
“Public disclosure of the operational policies and practices, orders and staff instructions of the police department is essential for policing in a democratic society and to establish accountability….The D.C. FOIA mandates that the MPD specifically make public and make available upon demand its policies, procedures, manuals and staff instructions….Additionally the MPD is required to publish a general index of all such records unless the materials are promptly published and copies offered for sale.”
Today, the Partnership announced that the D.C. Police Department has finally complied with the FOIA.
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Banita Jacks: Convicted of Murder
Describing the case as "one of the most challenging I've had in almost 32 years as a judge," Frederick H. Weisberg announced Wednesday his much-awaited verdict in the Banita Jacks murder trial: guilty.
The D.C. Superior Court judge convicted Jacks on 11 of the 12 counts she faced: four counts of felony murder, four of cruelty to children, and three of first-degree premeditated murder in the deaths of her three youngest girls, Tatianna Jacks, 11, N'Kiah Fogle, 6, and Aja Fogle, 5.
The judge acquitted Jacks only of premeditated murder in the killing of her oldest daughter, Brittany, who was 16.
Paul Strauss Wants To Move Past Drunk Driving Arrest
At the end of May, Shadow Senator Paul Strauss suddenly decided to plead guilty to charges stemming from his drunk driving arrest. It was an interesting move considering that he had long fought the charges, even delaying his proceedings in D.C. Superior Court so he could hunt down an expert witness. The incident had proven to be quite an embarrassment for the city official---not just for the drinking-and-driving bust itself but for his conduct with the police (he showed off his senate ID; Third District cops were not impressed).
Strauss has not issued much in the way of a public apology for his conduct. There's been no teary press conference, no photo up with MADD. Other officials have at least gotten with the program and admitted their mistakes when caught over the legal limit (like this guy and this guy). He refused to return calls for comment at the time of his guilty plea. Nor had he offered much in the way of an explanation immediately following his arrest.
City Desk finally caught up with Strauss this afternoon. Strauss could not have been less interested in talking about his DUI guilty plea. Don't expect any Public Service Announcements from the Shadow Senator any time soon. This is a guy who wishes he could just blackout the whole incident.
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James Von Brunn: Big On New Media, Scary As A Roommate
Today, the Washington Post reported that the arraignment for alleged Holocaust Museum shooter James Wenneker Von Brunn has been postponed. The reason for the delay was obvious: Von Brunn remains hospitalized trying to recover from being shot in the face. But the court documents---obtained by City Desk and everyone else---still provide a few details concerning Von Brunn.
Really just two details emerge: He was big on the self pimp even within the rantings he left inside his shitty car. And he probably wasn't the best roommate.
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Shadow Senator Paul Strauss Pleads Guilty To DUI
Last Friday, Paul Strauss entered a guilty plea to his DUI charge in D.C. Superior Court. The guilty plea amounts to a swift change in tactics--some might suggest an erratic change---for the shadow senator. Strauss had maintained his innocence ever since his arrest on October 1, 2008. At a previous court hearing, his attorney successfully sought a delay for his trial until June; he had wanted the time to seek out an expert witness for his case. He had also previously rejected a plea offer.
So what's the upshot of Strauss' plea? The shadow senator has to now pee in a cup.
Strauss received a 60-day suspended jail sentence, 11 months of supervised probation, a $300 fine, and $100 fine to be paid to the victims of violent crime compensation fund. As part of Strauss' supervised probation, the shadow senator must "abstain from the use of hallucinatory or other drugs, and submit to drug testing....," according to court documents.
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Joseph Randolph Mays: ‘I Told Them To Stop Fucking With Me’
Yesterday, Joseph Randolph Mays was arraigned on homicide charges for allegedly murdering his girlfriend Erika Peters and her two young sons in their Carver Terrace apartment on Saturday. In filings before the court, the D.C. police wrote a narrative of what transpired on that Saturday afternoon. It is the first detailed account of the triple murder that took place at 2000 Maryland Ave. NE, Apt. 104.
The details are incredibly sad. At first, there appeared to be some confusion between the officer and the dispatcher about the nature of the call for Apt. 104. The dispatcher believed that the call for "trouble" may have been just a joke.
Sgt. Tyshena Wallace of cruiser 553 arrived on the scene and began knocking on the door. Sgt. Wallace heard a voice from within the apartment saying, 'no, stop.' Sgt. Wallace did not hear anything else. Sgt. Wallace called the dispatcher and advised her to utilize the call back. The dispatcher advised that every time she called the phone number, the call intercept came on blocking the call. Sgt. Wallace asked the dispatcher, 'what was the call for' and the dispatcher advised, 'a child screaming on the phone possibly playing.'
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You Are Ordered To Stay Away
Arraignment court---in C10 of D.C. Superior Court---is starting to feel a little predictable. A man gets called. Sometimes he's in shackles. Sometimes not. He steps forward. He places his hands behind his back. The man is read his charges (drugs, stolen auto, fugitive warrant). He is then told to stay away from somewhere in the District.
It's almost 5 p.m. Arraignment court doesn't end until every man gets their stay-away order.
At 4:45 p.m., a man steps up to the judge. He is told to stay away from Alberto's Pizza on P Street NW in Dupont Circle.
100 yards.
Like a football field, the man says.
What A Drug Sentence Looks Like
Just before 3 p.m., Judge Harold Cushenberry Jr. sentences Dante Dickens. The judge had found him guilty of the PCP charge (aka holding a dipper while asleep at the wheel of an idling car on Alabama Avenue). Before the judge could issue his penalty, he had to hear from the prosecutor and defense attorney.
The prosecutor wanted jail time. Not serious jail time, but still. Ninety-days most of which would be suspended plus probation. Dickens was smoking PCP while in an idling car. People could have been hurt, the prosecutor argues. He was behind the wheel. He also has a history of charges including domestic violence, a child neglect/abuse charge, a gun charge from long ago. And old positive drug tests.
The defense attorney notes that Dickens has a job and has tested clean since getting this charge. He asks for probation. Then Dickens takes up his own boilerplate defense.
"I have improved a lot as far as the community and myself," Dickens says. "I do extra. I do things for the youth....I'm a human being."
The Dipper Man Faces The Judge
The Dipper Man has nodded off. Dante Dickens is sitting outside Courtroom 321. His belly is full of Burger King. His eyes are closed. His shiny head tilts off to the left against his jacket color. He is wearing his work boots, dark blue work pants, and a work shirt with his name sewn on his chest. In a few minutes, he gets to see the resolution of his drug case. Prosecutors and police alleged that he was found asleep in his idling car, a dipper in his hand on August 22, 2008.
Dickens had gotten to D.C. Superior Court at 8:30 a.m. He says he works as a maintenance man in a White Oak apartment building.
Dickens had to wait on the prosecution's last witness, the chemist. Judge Harold Cushenberry Jr. decided to call for lunch. The proceedings are set to begin in a few minutes at 2:20 p.m. Dickens wakes himself up and walks into the empty court room. He takes a seat in the back.
Judge Cushenberry appears.
"Where's the chemist?" he asks from the bench.
Prosecutor Matthew Kluge goes and gets her from the witness room just outside the courtroom. It's 2:27 p.m. and that dipper has to be examined.
‘I Was Beat Up’
At 1: 30 p.m., "Lockup Number 10" is called. A thin, almost frail woman steps before the arraignment court judge in Courtroom C10 of D.C. Superior Court. The woman had spent the night in jail with a pitstop at a local hospital. She had been charged with simple assault.
Within seconds, her case is no papered.
"This is yours to take," a woman says in a flat stewardess voice from a microphone. It's all arrivals and departures and paperwork souvenirs.
The room is filled with people waiting to see loved ones who had been arrested the previous night. Some are half asleep. Some crane their necks to see who's coming out from behind the courtroom in shackles. Three attorneys sit in the first row with overstuffed briefcases. It's hot as hell, a perfect zoning out temperature.
Number 10 is lucky. She gets to leave---and only a half hour after arraignment court started up. She doesn't feel lucky. She walks down the aisle. Her eyes are red and teary. Her mother is waiting in the institutional-bright hallway just beyond the thick double doors. Her mother greets her with Newports and a cellphone. She is fuming.
"I was beat up," says No. 10 Darralyn Miller. She is 48. "They locked me up and they let him go."
Sweating Out A Simple Drug Case
It is 12:30 p.m. and Officer Harris is sitting outside the courtroom with a fellow cop. Harris is reading an Examiner. The other cop is tearing through James Patterson's Violets Are Blue. Both just testified in the case of the dipper man who fell asleep at the wheel. But there's been one snag.
A prosecution witness---the chemist---hasn't shown up. The judge wants to give the chemist five more minutes. The prosecutor stands by Harris and dials the chemist on his cellphone. Judge Harold L. Cushenberry Jr. seems patient enough.
Harris and the other cop can't quite believe this case went to trial. The dipper man was caught asleep at the wheel holding a PCP-laced smoke. Case closed. Well, almost.
The dipper man has a name: Dante Dickens. And Dickens has an attorney. They had just called a witness who was in the car shortly before the arrest. The witness is a cousin. Dickens had driven him and a female friend to another residence.
The prosecutor uses up his cross-examination on what kind of relationship the cousin had with Dickens. It's way off topic but necessary.
Black Jesus And Ice Cream Cones
Sitting behind the defense table are a pair of brothers, Gerald and Richard Arnold. Richard is in braids. Gerald is in a light blue shirt that's too big for his frame. They look bored. Almost sleepy. They came into courtroom 320 clutching legal file folders. But the proceedings are slow and tedious. A juror is interviewed about her past drug charges. Another juror is quizzed. There is a bench conference in which someone flips the white noise switch.
The entire room is filled with white noise. It's enough to make anyone--even defendants on trial for two murders and a raft of drug and drug conspiracy charges to feel a little lost.
Lost In An Elevator
For a big part of the morning, one woman rides up and down the elevators in D.C. Superior Court. Sometimes she's careful to plot her course, pacing the banks of elevators before choosing the right one. She will look up and consider the various floors, the various possibilities. Other times, she just darts inside.
The woman doesn't know where to go. Volunteer greeters stand near each elevator bank on every floor. They are extremely friendly despite the growing crowds, despite the setting. Close to the main entrance, the bright information desk is also open.
The woman sees all this and then doesn't. She is wearing an old light gray coat stained from knee to waist and soiled at the cuffs of her sleeves. Her blond hair is greasy. Her blue eyes are empty. She smells bad.
By the second-floor elevators, she says she is here because Amtrak banned her from ever using its trains. She is here because she would like to ride Amtrak again.
"If you killed the right one, you could interview me," she says.
A Cop, A Dipper, And Courtroom 321
Officer Harris takes the escalator up to the third floor inside D.C. Superior Court. He then does what all officers must do every morning in the courthouse: check in on his case. He walks over to courtroom 321 and scans the printout case list taped to the door. His case is there.
It's almost 9 a.m. This morning, he skipped breakfast and coffee, and took the Green Line from Camp Springs. Officer Harris says he had to be at Superior Court by 8:30. It's his day off. "Unfortunately," Harris says, "if we don't come we get in trouble."
Harris is stuck standing outside courtroom 321 because of some other guy's troubles. This past summer, he arrested a guy for possession of PCP. One of the easiest arrests he's ever made.
No One Wants To Go Court
"I don't want to go in this motherfucker."
Frank is standing in a grassy corner at the edge of the D.C. Superior Court entrance. He stares down at the steady rush of people waiting to be checked through the security entrance. He is wearing designer shades, a designer beige knit cap, and clean jeans cuffed at the tops of his bright sneakers. He's a skinny dude, and youngish. He's no teenager. But he's no old-timer. For every newbie, Frank mumbles his line.
"I don't want to go in this motherfucker."
Frank says he has been here before. He is halfway through his Newport. He'd like to wait a little longer before going into this motherfucker. "I got another cigarette," Frank says. It's 8:30 a.m.
Frank is here for a show-cause hearing on charges he claims to know nothing about. But ignorance isn't bliss. He waits. And waits. He smokes his Newport down to the filter. The wind is starting to pick up. A firefighter hustles up to the entrance and mumbles about his case, too. The firefighter looks lost. He turns away and walks down the block. He will soon come back. A half dozen men and women line up. All Frank hears is their rolling carry-on suitcases. Plastic wheels against concrete. Only Frank has time to talk.
"I'll be all right," Frank says. "What's going to happen is going to happen."
Frank saves his extra Newport and walks inside. In a few minutes, he will pass through the security check and take a seat outside a third floor courtroom and wait some more.
