Laura Coates joined the DOJ to help people. There, she found justice

Laura Coates, before becoming a radio host and CNN legal analysts, was an attorney for Department of Justice. Raised on the stories of Ruby Bridges and the Freedom Riders, she wanted to make a difference by upholding the Constitution in ways that affected every-day Americans. She started her career in the Office of Civil Rights. This was where she enforced the Voting Rights Act. But when she became a prosecutor — going after those same citizens she was so excited to defend, she found that it not only changed how she saw the government, but how she saw herself. In her essay collectionJust Pursuit: A Black Prosecutor’s Fight for Fairness Simon and Schuster published this TuesdayCoates compiles over a dozen vignettes to show the type of injustice she was witnessing and was sometimes forced to take part in. “The transition from enforcing civil rights legislation to criminal prosecution represented a seismic shift in how others perceived me, and even how I perceived myself,”She writes. “I had been a trusted champion of people who looked like me. But now, I was often distrusted as an agent of a system that disproportionately filled prisons with people who looked like me.”

This excerpt has been edited to lengthen. Coates is assigned to cover a courtroom. It’s a routine assignment that an attorney for government was given to do. “the more mundane aspects of [the] most inconsequential cases”Other prosecutors. But when a defendant claims mistaken identity — that they’ve got the wrong man — she sees first-hand the kind of mistreatment citizens are subjected to at the hands of the government.

***

There was tension between those who were skeptical about the system and those who doubted the people most affected by it. Working at the Department of Justice, at times it wasn’t clear which camp you were in. Sometimes you felt tired from the fight against injustice in pursuit of justice. Some days were difficult because you didn’t trust those who were supposed be fighting alongside you. You compartmentalize. You wonder if your presence in this system perpetuates injustices or displaces them.

We were not detectives or investigators. We did not make arrests, nor gave Miranda warnings. We played the hand that we were given, and the hand was given by the cops’decision to arrest. The deck was controlled and controlled by the police. I oscillated between questioning if my skepticism had been justified or not until I realized it was.

Standing before a particularly persnickety judge, I was handling the government’s matters on her calendar docket that day. The trial was not scheduled. There were only status hearings, and some sentencings. The memo that explained how to deal with the cases was stapled to the back of the files by the prosecutors who were assigned to them. The memos included background information, the dates requested for motions to be filed, the pendency for plea discussions and the timeline for discovery.

While I was putting away file for previous item, the clerk called next. I looked around to see if the correct file was on my desk. The memo was not there, but a sentencing suggestion that I had scribbled on a line of the file. I waited for the court’s prompting to present the government’s position.

The defense table was approached by a Black defendant in his thirties who was accompanied by his attorney, also in his thirties. The attorney asked for the court’s indulgence while he explained why this case should not go forward.

“Government?”The judge stated, seeking my objection.

I was not familiar with the case and didn’t have any basis to protest.

“I’m not assigned to this matter, Your Honor, so I’d ask for his rationale before I canmeaningfully respond.”

She sighed deeply. “Proceed.”

The lawyer started by expressing his frustration with the fact that the prosecutor assigned to him was not available to address the issue. The prosecutor also did not return multiple calls or emails. He was unresponsive to his requests to resolve the issue prior to this hearing.

“I understand you’re not the assigned prosecutor,”The defense counsel replied, “Turning towards me,” “but I want his lack of responsiveness on the record. We should not be here today. My client should not be here today. His life has been turned upside down all because the Metropolitan Police Department can’t tell two Black men apart!”He extended his outstretched arm to point at the gallery, as if the department was an individual seated inside the courtroom.

He passionately claimed that the police had wrongly arrested him on a warrant for failure to appear in court. Yes, his name was the same as the other man’s. Yes, they were about the same age. Yes, he was in the vicinity of the warrant squad on that day. For failing to appear in court for the brutal assault on a woman and her child by the same man, a warrant was issued.

After being taken into custody by the warrant squad, he was allowed to retain his own counsel and was released temporarily. He was then required to appear before the judge. The procedural chaos of the shallow file was alarming. The sequence of events that had led us to this hearing wasn’t immediately clear. I regretted not having reviewed the file with the assigned prosecutor and knew I’d have to glean the full purpose of today’s hearing from the judge’s lead.

As the judge read the defendant the riot act for wasting the court’s time, his counsel repeatedly interrupted to insist that he was not that person.

The judge replied dryly each time. “Yes, I understand. You’re not that person anymore.”

“No! I’m not that person, period!”He protested. He protested and was quickly reprimanded by the judge. His attorney continued in vain and pleaded his case to the disinterested Judge. Finally, the attorney turned towards me. “Madam Prosecutor, help me out here.”

His insistence was fascinating, but I was annoyed at his lack of proof and specificity. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard a defendant profess his innocence — it was the precursor to every trial — but it was rare to hear someone claim mistaken identity at this stage in the game, and I assumed there’d be more than a bald assertion that “it wasn’t me.”

Before I could respond, the judge laughed aloud — not just a laugh, a guffaw — and said, “Well, she’s not going to help you,”She nodded towards the marshals as they attempted to handcuff him. She offered to keep him in jail while a new court date is set.

In defeat, his attorney raised his hands and said: “Look, I tried. That’s all we can do.”

I watched as the defendant’s eyes flickered across his attorney’s face, searching for some semblance of persistence. Finding none, he advocated for himself, again asserting his innocence: the warrant squad hadn’t done their job correctly.

The judge laughed again, and then took offense at the suggestion of sloppy work from the warrant squad, she rolled with impatience. She turned her chair in front of me and smiled, almost as if she was saying, “Likely story.”She lean forward, crossed her arms and volleyed her head at me, the defendant. “So you’re telling me that the warrant squad and the police officers and the mug shots and, my word, the whole world has conspired against you? We all got it wrong?”

She looked at me expecting camaraderie and robotically said, “Government, what do you want to do?”As she was asking the question, the marshals were already handcuffing him. I looked up, admitting that I wasn’t certain that the man was telling me the truth. But, honestly, it was something about seeing a White woman laugh at and ridicule a Black person from her perch that made me feel very annoyed. I was so offended by her incredulity, and her obnoxious tone that I had to stop.

“Your Honor, I don’t see the humor in this. There’s a more respectful way to address this issue, wouldn’t you agree?”I suggested, and asked the man to address me directly.

The judge was taken aback at my refusal to join her laughter, and my willingness to shame the judge, but she only barely hid her frustration that I was prolonging this spectacle. As though I were a dog, the judge warned me that I was being kept on a short lead.

I turned, starting with the questions the judge should be asking.led with instead of laughter, and asked the defendant why he hadn’t raised this issue before. He pleaded with me and said that he had but that no one would listen. He claimed that the officers just kept saying that they didn’t believe him, and laughed at him repeatedly. The victim had never appeared for any hearing, and due to victim security and privacy laws, he didn’t have any way to contact her. His lawyer and an investigator had attempted to find her, but her whereabouts weren’t known. And, according to the police, she wasn’t cooperative anyway. He said that he could prove he wasn’t the man we were looking for if someone would just give him a chance to explain. The judge interrupted him. I interjected.

“Your Honor,” I began, feigning deference toward a woman I now didn’t respect, “there’s no harm in looking into it. If he’s lying, we can easily bring him into custody. The marshals are right there. If he’s telling the truth, the warrant squad needs to know so they can find the right person.”I became increasingly frustrated at her inexplicable obstinance. “Can we have a brief recess?”

The judge dropped her pen. “Fine, if you want to waste your own time, then go compare his fingerprints. In the meantime, get one of your colleagues to stand in for you.”She knew that I was the one assigned to represent other prosecutors that day. “Be quick about it. I don’t have time for this.”

I thought of time. I thought that if convicted, the government would not hesitate to request that this man serve more than one year in prison. I was able to see the absurdity of her request clearly. “You want me to compare his fingerprints to what, exactly, Your Honor? I’m not a fingerprint expert. You want me to hold ’em upto the sunlight?”She was going to be furious at my directness. However, she was a former prosecutor who knew exactly how absurd her request was. She liked to rant at attorneys and revel in the humiliation she caused. Time and again I watched her exploit a prosecutor’sThey were treated with indifference and scolded with impunity. They were afraid of retaliation and made the decision to submit. I had been to this judge so many times and had successfully navigated her unjustified wrath that I was immune to its sting.

She was now seeing nothing. “No,”She said: “I want you to stop holding up my docket. You’ve got 20 minutes to figure it out.”

I signaled the defendant and his attorney to meet in the hallway. As he walked out the courtroom, he seemed anxious and struggled to think clearly. To calm him, I extended my hand. “Sir, my name is Laura Coates. What would you like to tell me? I’m listening.”He started to weep and shook his hand.

“We don’t have much time . . . the judge said there wasn’t that much time,”He murmured. He groaned, and his eyes twinkled quickly.

His attorney placed his arm on his shoulder. “It’s gonna be alright. We’re not giving up yet.”The word “yet” lingered.

I followed his lead, not wanting to seem too sympathetic. I didn’t want to give him false hope. “Judges can’t tell time, sir. I’ll return when I have an answer. Now,”With a hint of frustration at the thought of wasting my time, I said it. “what’s going on?”Although I tried to be open-minded, I felt guarded.

He began to speak, but he kept looking at the people in the corridor, anxious that they might recognize him. His voice trailed off each time someone passed by — he was reluctant to finish if anyone was within earshot. His voice was barely audible in the hallway chatter.

His lawyer asked if we could have a private conversation. I said that there were no free meeting rooms on the floor— that they were all being used for trial prep. He repeated his client’s story but said he really couldn’t add much more, and that he was sure his client had not fathered achild. His demeanor was so low outside of court that I wondered whether he believed his cli- entor or if it was just an idle question.

“How do I know that? Give me something to work with,”I implored.

He asked his client permission to proceed. I started to get annoyed, and hoped there was some meat on that bone. I was annoyed that I had just ticked off an unreliable judge who held grudges and had a long memory.

He looked at me, stammering in silence. “She’s, any, she, well, that’s not my type, miss, but Idon’t want to get into that here. I don’t have girlfriends, you understand. So how could I be accused ofbeating one up? And a child—I don’t have kids. I didn’t have sex with her or any woman ever. You understand what I’m saying? No women. I’m… well, I’m…”

“Gay?”I finished his sentence and immediately read between the lines. I hoped that he didn’t just offer me proof. He took my hand and stepped aside.

His head rose in surprise at the fact that I had spoken it out loud. He took a moment to pause before nodding.“ You’re not going to say that in the courtroom, right? Like, it’s not going to be in some sort of record, right? Right?”He asked his attorney frantically. His attorney shrugged.

“I mean, if it helps, I don’t…”His attorney reconsidered his decision and turned to me. “Will you tell the court?”

“Tell the court what, exactly? That your client has told me his sexual orientation?”I realized my tone was more incisive than I intended. This would lead to being misinterpreted as identical to the behavior of the judge, which I detested.

I exhaled and felt my voice instantly soften when I realized the truth. “Thank you for sharing that with me. I can tell it wasn’t easy and you certainly didn’t want to do it under these circumstances. Please understand that I’m not questioning your sexual orientation ortrying to be dismissive of it. It’s really . . . it’s none of my business, personally.”

I reached out to his lawyer. I didn’t see how I could make this my business professionally, either,in the way he needed. “You know that won’t be enough. I can’t prove that here.”

I turned around and spoke to the defendant. I didn’t want to talk about him as if he wasn’t there, so I spoke to him directly again. “Sir, from the judge’s standpoint, and mine, standing here right now, there’s no way for me to prove that you: a) weren’t in a relationship with that woman, b) didn’t assault her, and c) didn’t father a child with her.”

As he tilted his head back, his eyes widened. I could almost understand his thoughts. The first was disbelief at the idea that you might be asked to prove your sexuality. Second, worry about how you would prove your sexuality. As he stood in the hall, defeat was evident on his face.

I tried my best to soothe his mind and keep him focused on the information that the court needed. “I’m not asking you to prove anything to me, other than your actual identity. Look, let’s not overcomplicate this. Did you say that the cops were incompetent and never interviewed you? So, let’s start at the beginning — how the conversation should’ve gone in an ideal world. Do you remember seeing the mugshot for the person they were looking at?

Laura Coates joined the DOJ to help people. There, she found justice

“No.”

“You never saw anyone compare you to the photo?” “No.”

“They asked to see your license?” “Yes.”

“The names matched?”

“Yes. I don’t have a middle name, though.”

“Did they take your height or ask for your address or anything like that?”

“No.”

“Did they say anything to you about why you were being arrested?”

“Not really, but everything happened so fast, and I kept telling them I hadn’t done anything wrong and was asking them, like, why they were arresting me if I hadn’t done anything wrong, and it was crazy, and it all happened so fast . . .”All this he did was not take a single breath.

I took a second to call the prosecutor. He didn’t answer, and his voicemail was full. His email sent an automated, out-of-office reply. I wondered if this was one of the federal prosecutors who had recently announced they were leaving the office, but I didn’t have time to scan through my emails to find out.

I sought confirmation from his lawyer that the information I was hearing was consistent with his understanding. My file did not contain any evidence to support my assertions. He nodded.

“Okay, so let’s start with finding out who they were looking for and then see if that’s actually you.”

I asked him for his license and told him to walk with me to a satellite prosecutors’ office, located in the basement of the courthouse to enable prosecutors to prepare for trial and review arrest paperwork with officers before arraignments. When we arrived, I asked my client to wait outside while his lawyer assisted me. Defendants weren’t permitted into the basement office. A courtroom marshal had followed us to the basement and was standing nearby — a gift from the judge still intent on proving a point.

I pushed the door open, shaking my head at the way it had been rigged to prevent it from being locked during the day. I was unsure what we would do if someone came in. If someone was mad enough to barge in, they wouldn’t bebringing a box of cookies.

The flurry started as soon as I entered this room. I stepped over an officer’s outstretched legs, almost stumbling as he simultaneously tried to lift them out of the way.

“Ooh, sorry! Did I getcha?”He said.

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”I moved on.

“Anyone had a mistaken identity defendant case before?”I shouted at the room.

The question temporarily paused the commotion before one officer deadpanned. “Every single arrest.”

The bustle immediately resumed and laughter broke out. I wondered if the defendant at the other side of the door heard my laughter. The question was already a regrettable one.

Many prosecutors were preparing for trial by mingling at their workstations. I asked one of them for help so that I could use my computer. “For what?”He said it, putting half-eaten sandwiches in his mouth. As he let out his frustration, a glob fell on his pants. “Oh come on! I’m in front of a jury with a fucking stain now, Coates. All because some asshole told you you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Well, maybe you’ll finally dry-clean the suit now. That stain is not the problem. And if you already knew why I needed the computer, you shouldn’t have asked. Can you please just move?”

He scooted six inches, but he remained still seated. I leaned on his armrest to type quickly. I leaned over his armrest and typed quickly. His arm jerked away as my breast skimmed against it. “Didn’t mean that — my apologies,”He said that suddenly he was self-conscious.

“And who eats tuna fish before a trial?”I said. “You stink.”My pregnancy was very early and I had to suppress my urge to dry-heave.

He sighed, and he kissed the air as his stench swirled. He smiled as he walked off, not being self-conscious.

I began searching through the records, unsure both of what I was looking for and what precisely I’d find. I relayed my story to another set of prosecutors, who were getting ready for their individual trials. One person asked, “Which judge is this in front of?”My response was met with collective wince from the group who warned me that I was wasting their time and would be discredited by the judges if these stories were told.

I glanced at the clock: 15 minutes had already elapsed since I’d left the courtroom. I was certain that the judge would be looking at the clock.

“We’d lose more credibility if he’s telling the truth. Don’t act like cops don’t get it wrong sometimes.”To emphasise the point, I cocked mine head.

One of the prosecutors pointed his eyes at uniformed officers in earshot and warned me to be more aware. As they walked away, the prosecutors made a snicker.

I swallowed and wondered who I had offended. I hoped it wasn’t one that I would need on my trial. I looked around quickly to see if anyone was looking at me, but none did. I felt relieved. Perhaps my error in pointing out the truth wouldn’t go unnoticed.

I went back to the computer to try to find the mug shots. It was not as easy as simply comparing two photos. I thought about the possibilities that it was really the wrong guy, and decided to scan the basement of the courthouse. I laughed out loud, disbelieving the whole thing. It was absurd.

Mary, another Black female prosecutions, came in with her litigation bag and walked into the room. I was amused by my chuckle so she approached me to share the joke. She was in need of a laugh after the morning she’d had and said so. I reluctantly shared the story, half expecting her to respond like the others but hoping she would understand. She didn’t laugh. Instead, she turned to the peanut gallery officers I had hoped to not alienate and said, “They often fuck this up. Let me help.”The officers were able to hear her. They were chided by her with raised eyebrows.

One officer looked at her before removing a headset from one of his ears. “What do we always fuck up?”He challenged.

“You heard me,”She spoke out boldly.

He swallowed his teeth and replaced the headphones. Evidently they shared a history.

“You’re gonna have to tell me that story later,”I was intrigued by the tension that existed between them.

“It’s a long one,”She said this, dropping the handle into her rolling briefcase.

Six minutes later, I was witnessing the printer print a photograph showing the correct man. Six inches shorter, fifty pounds heavier, at least three shades darker and looked nothing like that man who was anxiously crying in the hallway. I walked over to the female prosecutor, nowsitting across from the officer she hated and to whom she’d directed her earlier comment.

“You won’t believe this,”I asked her to take a look at the man in front of me before she showed me the printout.

We stared at each other in disapproval and shook our heads. “Wow.. what if…”

“What if,”I said my goodbyes and moved toward the door to speak to the defendant.

“This was your case?”She was prepared to berate me, and she asked. “Nope. It’s his.” I pointed to the name written with a Sharpie on the file.

She exhaled, and her lips opened slightly like she was whistling.

“Oh, you should’ve told me that from the beginning. I could’ve told you how he is. Doesn’t give a fuck about anything.”

“Is he the one—”I asked because I remembered the gossip about this prosecutor.

“Yup!”She replied. I wondered if she was referring to the same person.

“Wait till I tell…”Her plans were interrupted by her cell phone. “Thank you!”She spoke. “Jury question! I gotta go.”

She turned towards the offending officer and spoke loudly to him in case he tried turning up the volume to drown her out. “Some of us are going to go do our jobs right now.”She repeated the last three words. “Some of us actually answer our phones. So we know when to be where we are supposed to be!”

He removed the headphone from one ear and held it about an inch from his face. “Did you say something?”He taunted her, he said.

I crossed his legs as I made my way back down the hall, not wanting to leave and see what the end would bring.

I was shocked to see that the defendant was sitting in his hands with his elbows on his thighs, as I approached him. I extended my right hand and gave him the photograph of the right person.

“I guess we all do look alike, huh?”I said.

The defendant held the page in his hand and his lawyer touched it at the corner. He then turned around and placed his hands on his hips. I wondered whether there had been a way for him to obtain the photo himself, and, if so, why he hadn’t done so sooner. “Really? Really.”First, dubious and then incredulous. As he spoke, the man pulled at his jacket.

In disbelief, the defendant stared at it and then shook his head. He exhaled for a moment and turned his eyes toward the ceiling. I thought he was about cries again when I noticed his hands gripping the edges of the paper. He was pissed.

He started to yell at my face, clearly frustrated and angry by the absurdity and pain he had experienced. As the marshal approached me, I raised my hand in protest and signaled his retreat.

“I know you’re upset and you’d like someone to yell at. But I’m not the one. You’ve still got an active warrant on you, and now I’ve gotta find the right person. Let’s go back to the courtroom and inform the judge.”

In stunned silence, we made our way back towards the courtroom. My mind raced at the ease with which this was all cleared up and how much effort it took. I just couldn’t wrap my mind around it.

I called the prosecutor on my way to give him another chance to resolve the matter. I checked my email to confirm that he had replied to me.

“Can’t reach him, huh? I’m telling you, this guy…”The attorney shook its head, as he reaffirmed how unresponsive and unprofessional his colleague was. I couldn’t defend him. There were many people to blame.

The judge remembered the case when he saw me enter the courtroom. Before we could return to our respective tables in the courtroom, however, the judge asked the defendant sarcastically. “Well? Are we going to jail today or not, sir?”

“Your Honor,”I said: “it seems there has indeed been a mistake.” I approached the skeptical judge as I presented her with the documentation, along with a family court order that acknowledged a different man as the child’s father. The judge stared at me with disdain.

“Very well, Ms. Coates. Sir, it seems that you are free to go. Have a good day. I’ll quash the warrant with respect to you, but there remains a warrant for the other individual. I’m assuming you’ll try to find the right person this time, government? Call the next case,”She said she was scribbling on paper before handing it over to the clerk.

“That’s it?” I heard him say. “That was all they needed? That’s all it took after all this?”

His defense attorney spoke up, remembering his role. “Your Honor, you laughed at my client. At the very least, some kind of apology…”

The judge interrupted him and turned towards me. I expectantly inquired with raised eyebrows. “Ms. Coates?”

“Yes, Your Honor?” I retorted.

“He’s owed an apology,”She said this, gesturing impatiently with her index finger wrapped around her pen in her other hand, one palm up. She smiled as she tilted her head in delight, her left cheek engulfed by her pen.

Indignantly, I asked for her forgiveness. I was irritated not just because the judge did not apologize for her own unprofessionalism but because of the role she had played in this man’s mistreatment. Her request for additional reasons made me angry. She knew full well the implications of a federal prosecutor’s acknowledging any form of misconduct and the potential civil exposure that might create for the department, albeit perhaps justified. Although I thought about expounding on our impasse, my ego resisted the temptation to admit that I wasn’t to blame. The United States had wronged him and he deserved an apology.

The Black woman apologized to the Black man and said: “Sir, I am very sorry for what you hadto experience, not just today but before today. I’m sorry that no one listened to you or took the time to perform even a cursory inspection of those photographs. You’re obviously not the man who the warrant squad was looking for, and you should not be here today answering for his crime. I’m sorry. The United States apologizes for any inconvenience.”

Instantly, I regretted my choice of word. “Inconvenience”I knew better.

“Excuse me, not just inconvenience,”I said. “That wasn’t the right word to use. It doesn’t cover it. It never should have happened. To you. Or anyone.”

He looked at me and bobbed his head as if he was taking stock of my words. He raised his eyebrows at the judge and snorted. He exhaled and put his hands on the table, tapping it twice with both his left knuckles. Then he gripped it like he was about to flip it. His fingernails were gnashing the underside of the table. He let go of his grip and walked out of the courtroom.

He stopped as he passed me and pointed at my face.

“That, that..”He clearly was torn between mincing his words or choosing his words. “That shouldn’t have come from you.”As the judge spoke, he pound once more on my desk before storming out the courtroom.

“I guess the exception proved the rule today. You must be proud of yourself, Ms. Coates,”The judge offered a half-hearted offer.

This time it was my turn. “Proud, Your Honor?”I frowned. “No one should beproud of what happened here today. But just out of curiosity, which part did you think was the exception and which part the rule?”

The clerk snatched a quick look at the judge.

The judge stonily commanded her to call the next case as we held each other’s eyes.

I was expecting the next four defendants would claim misidentification by their counsel, even if it was only in jest. Each of the four Black defendants, who were sitting in the courtroom at the time the apology was issued, stopped to smile at me as they walked towards their tables. I understood what the meaning meant. They knew who they were. They also knew who I wasn’t.

JUST PURSUIT: A Black Prosecutor’s Fight for Fairness by Laura Coates. Copyright © 2022 by Laura Coates. Published by Simon & Schuster, Inc. Reprinted by permission

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