Even though it may involve hours of a lawyer’s time to make it through a court appearance, the actual face time before a judge is often a minute or two, the rest just waiting for the judge to show up, finish her coffee, make lunch reservations, etc.  But then, as the defendant approaches the table to have his moment of justice, everybody starts talking a secret code that makes absolutely no sense to anyone not in the club.

Welcome to life in the well of a New York State court.  For 20 of my 25 years there, I’ve prepared my clients for what’s going to happen each day in advance, knowing full well that they wouldn’t have a clue what was going on in real time.  Afterward, I would explain again exactly what just happened.  For all they knew, the entire proceeding was conducted in Latin, because they rarely had the slightest idea about one of the most important things in their lives.  Nice system.

But last week, the Appellate Division, First Department, decided to do something about it.  In  People v. Achaibar, via  Judicial Reports, the court reversed a plea because the defendant had no clue what was happening.

According to the transcript, Zweibel and the attorneys agreed that Achaibar’s grand larceny case would be treated as an “open D.” But there was no discussion about the meaning of that term, nor was there any indication that Achaibar was informed about the scope of possible sentencing he faced if he pleaded guilty.

It’s about time, though this is only the tip of the iceberg.  Throughout the process, from the arraignment to the not guilty verdict (or dismissal, or even the conviction), all the participants talk gibberish as far as defendants know.  We refer to section numbers rather than normal English words describing an offense.  We allude to case names that offer no hint as to the nature of the subject to the uninitiated.  Acronyms abound, so much so that even lawyers who aren’t hallway regulars in a particular court often have no clue what they refer to, but are afraid of looking foolish so never bother to ask.  Worse yet, they change from county to county, so familiarity in one place may mean nothing in another. (In Manhattan, it’s an ACD; In Nassau, it’s an ACOD.  What’s the difference?  One letter.)

Sure, it allows us to breeze through our minute in front of the judge like old pros, but what of our clients who are trying their best to understand if we just won something or lost something?  Sadly, the defendants are forgotten in this process.  Ask a defendant what happened at his last court appearance and he’ll give you this wide-eyed stare and just shrug.  This is what the courts characterize as “knowing, voluntary and intelligent” because it makes perfect sense to the lawyers.

As an aside, I noted above that my game plan changed after my first five years or so as a lawyer.  Then, I was so enamored of being on the “inside” and being able to use all the numbers and letters that cool lawyers and judges use that it didn’t occur to me that the most important person in the room had no idea what I was doing.  This became painfully evident to me one day when a judge, trying to ram a plea down my client’s throat, demanded an answer in ten seconds.  I asked my client what he wanted to do, and he started to cry.  His life was on the line, and here I was asking him to make a decision that would forever impact his and his families life and he was totally lost. 

It dawned on me then that, despite my belief that I was providing sound representation, I was failing miserably because the person to whom my duty was owed had been almost entirely ignored in the process.  This was a system created for and by lawyers, and nobody seemed to remember that there were real, living, breathing people involved.  I mended my immature ways, and I’m gratified to see that the Appellate Division is finally doing the same.  It’s a start.