THE AMERICAN COURT
By SIR ALEXANDER PATERSON
" T S the father of this boy in Court? " asks the crupulous Chair- .' man of the Juvenile Court, wishing to catS a glimpse of the home background and learn the paternal version of the escapade. " No, your Worship," replies the police inspector. " He's in regular work, and fords it hard to get here in the day-time." So there is something missing in the presentation of the case, something that might be vital to a right decision and a wise prescription.
In a number of Amercan cities it is the custom of a busy Magis- trate's Court to sit in the evening two or three times a week as well as in the day-time. This practice facilitates the course of justice. It enables the small errand-boy whose bicycle has been smashed to tin ribbons by a fast automobile to come and state his case and claim the dollars he needs for a new one. It is a feature of particular value in the Juvenile Courts, greatly increasing the proportion of parents who can attend and give their testimony. It is of equal service in the matrimonial Courts, enabling both parties to the argument to present varying versions of married life as they have experienced it. It spells overtime for the magistrate and his staff, for the police and the Press, but who pleads seriously for economy in the administration of justice? How often a prisoner after conviction is heard to lament, " If only my Bill had been there, he could have explained everything to the magistrate and it would have been all right."
The Englishman entering a Criminal Court in the States for the first time looks vaguely round, convinced that something integral is missing and for the moment not quite sure what it is. Then he remembers. He is looking for the accused, and cannot find him. Particularly in a case of murder does the visitor seek for the prisoner, curious to know what he looks like and almost prepared to pronounce a verdict on his face value. He cannot identify him at first, for he expects to find him in the centre of the dock, and for the life of him he cannot find the dock. But in this Court of Justice there is no dock. In front of the Bench and facing it is a low bench on which five men are sitting in very ordinary suits of mufti. The accused man is ptrobably the man in the middle of the row, flanked by his lawyers and counsel. Only the practised eye can distinguish between the accused and his advisers. In the case of gangsters it is usually impossible.
The dockless Court makes the man to be tried far less conspicuous than he is in the English Courts. He is not conscious of being the cynosure of every eye, and can carry himself more composedly and with less restraint. He is an ordinary citizen into whose conduct an enquiry is about to be held, but he is not the central figure in a play, where he is the villain, perhaps to be the victim, of the piece. He is not the hunted, harried creature with everyone looking at him and asking questions from every angle in turn, but a member of the public sitting on a bench with otiwits just like himself. There is much to
be said for the dockless Court in a country where everyone is to be considered innocent till he has been proved guilty.
The system of keeping a full record of each prisoner, covering his activities both within and without prison, varies infinitely in different countries. Nowhere is the record so complete and all embracing as in the United States. His previous career is generously documented by police reports, by the reports of the officers of the parole and probation departments of his city or state, with a wealth of psycho- logical detail and diagnosis that riW increase the vocabulary of the reader but may impoverish his patience. In the case of social after- care departments " voluminous " is the only description that can be given of the individual record, for not infrequently the story of a prisoner on discharge will fill a volume. I was interested in the history of a troublesome young woman who had on several occasions been detained in a New York City prison, and asked to see the after- care record of her case. I was presented with a file of some hundred and fifty closely-typed pages of foolscap—no mean holiday task for an English Prison Commissioner.
In the treatment of the offender, as in all other fields, American administration is eager for experiment and unlikely to count the expense too anxiously. In this country the very fact that some new project has not been tried before provides an excellent reasoh why it should not be tried now. In the States the fact that the experiment has never been made, and nobody has written a book about it, is an equally good reason for putting it into operation. Some years ago I visited an old-fashioned convict prison in this country, and noticed that, though some of the men were comparatively young, there was no definite programme of physical training for them. I asked the Governor why his was almost the only prison with no such pro- gramme. He was a singularly honest man, and after a moment's reflection said, " Well, sir, the simple reason is that in this prison there never has been." On the other hand, if I visited an American penitentiary and told the warden that if he arranged a programme of callisthenic or " setting up " exercises he would be the first warden in the States to do so, I should expect to find climbing bars in the gymnasium before I passed through the gates.
Once on a visit to the States I wondered why there were no women police in the parks and streets of several cities. On enquiry I found that I had seen the women police on duty there, but had not recog- nised them, for they wore no uniform. The various women's authorities had been consulted, and the majority of them had decided, after trying both systems, that women police were more effective in mufti than in uniform. As a result it is almost impossible for the English visitor to know whether the women he sees in the parks and city streets are mannequins from the dress-shops or myrmidons of the law. The careless reveller at night can never know whether the charming woman he sees is to be the lady of his choice or the first witness for the prosecution on the following morning. The matter has often been discussed in this country. Have we reached a final and correct conclusion?
Perhaps the greatest lesson we have learned from America is the distinction in prison policy between three different degrees of security. For the dangerous and desperate criminal, a gangster who shoots at sight, who has no regard for life or decency or property, the Americans build expensive prisons of steel and concrete. For the less dangerous criminal, frequently a man of ordinary decent and industrious habits who has yielded to a sudden urge of sex or passion, they build places of medium security, consisting of stoutly con- structed blocks, surrounded by a high wall, so that a prisoner may enjoy quite a high degree of liberty so long as he remains behind the wall. For the non-criminal prisoner, who does not appear from his previous record to be a danger to the community, they have devised prisons of minimum security, which are log-hut camps in the country, where men may engage in works of public utility, living the simple life of the lumberman or the prospector.
After visiting some of these camps, inaugurated by my old friend and colleague Sanford Bates, I returned to this country determined that we should borrow this idea. Some people think that we English are slow movers. That is not always true of the English prison service. It happened that within forty-eight hours of my return there was a conference of prison Governors at the Home Office. I ventured to tell them of these minimum-security camps for non-criminal first offenders. A week later I visited Wakefield prison. As I was dis- mounting at Westgate Station the Governor of the prison came to the door of my compartment, helping me out with my bags, and before both my feet had touched the platform he said, " I've found the site for our first prison camp, sir." The camp is there to this day, and we owe it to his promptness and to the fact that we were not afraid to follow a lead from our friends across the Atlantic.
In the United States as in this country there is intense interest and feverish curiosity about crime and the criminal. The Americans succeed in harnessing this interest and curiosity to the need of the prisoner, both within the prison and after his discharge. I am con- vinced that we should do the same. Why should the average law- abiding citizen be so ready to squander half-a-crown at the railway bookstall on a slight volume describing the commission of a single crime, or spend his weekly twopence on a journal devoted to crime and its sordid concomitants, and yet be shy of giving ten pounds to help a real human criminal who finds life hard on his discharge from prison? He should repay his interest in the crime by reinvesting in the criminal.
Previous page
