No love lost for a particular old juvenile court judge

"Well, son, I hear you didn't want to be in my court," the old man challenged me. Leo McCune was a tyrant in a very small kingdom - the Juvenile Court of Jefferson Parish, Louisiana.
"It's not that, Your Honor," I extended my feeble excuse, "I just have many felony jury cases to try and I am also bogged down with a passel of misdemeanors and traffic cases."
Despite mighty protests, I had been sent to Juvenile Court that day to pinch-hit for the Assistant District Attorney regularly assigned to that court. The ADA had the misfortune to slip in his bathtub and kill himself. I had steadfastly refused to serve in Leo McCune's court until this time, but no one else was available on this emergency occasion, so I ended up in the ancient Neanderthal's court.
Due process didn't apply in Leo's court. I doubt that he even had a passing knowledge of the concept. All in All, Leo McCune was a sorry excuse for a judge. He took the doctrine of Parens Patriae (the idea that a juvenile court judge should act as a father protector of a child's rights) to absurd and illogical conclusions. Girls testifying before McCune could tell no lies, boys - especially black boys - could tell no truth.
Informal didn't adequately describe the atmosphere in Leo's court. Each morning prior to convening court, the old, red-faced, pot-bellied, white-haired man rocked in his high-backed wooden rocking chair, sans coat and tie. He entertained his staff by spouting sarcastic remarks he thought to be humorous.
Most of what he thought to be humor came at the expense of blacks and the hapless people who appeared in his court. In order to retain their jobs, his court attaches acted more like court jesters and dutifully laughed at his sordid jokes, which only encouraged his outrageous behavior.
I had the unpleasant experience of appearing before McCune only once before I became a prosecutor. I represented a young schoolteacher who was accused by a severely troubled 16-year-old girl of improperly touching her during a history class where 24 other students were present. No one else in the class saw the alleged incident.
My client, a veteran teacher with many awards for excellence, had no history whatsoever of this sort of behavior. Leo only heard this poor disturbed girl's story and found my client guilty of indecent behavior with a juvenile, which ended his career as a teacher.
Within a year, the girl had been expelled from school for stealing from another student's locker. Two years later her father, a local attorney, was indicted for the murder of the girl's mother. That case never got to trial, because the father was found shot to death. His death went unsolved.
Now here I was sitting in the prosecutor's seat at a table in Leo's casual hearing room waiting on the old codger to leave his rocking-chair, discontinue his joke telling, and shuffle to the head of the table to preside over the delinquency docket.
Little verbal communication between the judge and his staff took place. They all relayed information and instructions among themselves with a series of grunts, snorts and head gestures decipherable only by themselves.
The judge sat at the head of the family-style table looking totally disinterested in the business of the day. His necktie was loosely wrapped about his open-collared shirt. Joe, the clerk, called the first case. "Your honor, Willie Brown, here is charged with stealing a bicycle from the Barataria playground."
"Don't this boy have a brother by the name of Isaac that we sent to LTI (the juvenile correctional facility) last month for stealing?" the judge asked Joe.
"That's right judge. You have a memory like a steel trap," Joe sucked up to his boss.
"I thought so," the judge acknowledged. He then continued, "I know this boy's whole damn family. Ant none of them no good."
With this terse statement, McCune tossed his head slightly to the right and Clarence, the bailiff started to march the boy out of the chamber.
"Wait." I protested. "Where are you going with that boy? I have to put on a case against him."
Joe just laughed and said, "That boy is already on his way to LTI. You have just won your first case here in juvenile court."
I left that kangaroo court, marched straight up to my boss' office and announced, "You will have to find someone else to finish the day's docket, and, furthermore, please don't ever send me back to that court."
I only returned to that court eight years later when I was elected to that bench.

Tom McGee now makes his home in Walton County. He writes stories about growing up in Louisiana and his professional life in the courtroom. Some spice has been added, as with any good gumbo, and some identities disguised to protect the guilty. E-mail him at sunnews@link.freedom.com.