The Test of Wills
Cas of the Spanish Interpreter - - - from 'Tales Out of Court'

by John Davis Collins.....© 1996 Revised 2000, by John F. Clennan, All Rights Reserved

It was around 4PM Friday at Hunterspoint Correctional Facility. Blondie, the blond haired creamy complexioned corrections officer who oversaw parole revocations cheerfully chided me in her special blend of imitation jive, “Mr Lawyer, You last crook won't take a wink."

I looked up from the wobbly table in the telephone booth-sized interview room.

“You next crook," Blondie smiled, "cotton to no English.”

Blondie led Jeroldo Riviera, into the oversized closet. A tall broad shouldered laborer, Riviera looked up with a glare of suspicion flaming enough to match his red-brown hair.

I glanced at the parole charges quickly: leaving employment and turnstile jumping in the subway. Like most parolees Riviera was no doubt guilty of minor sins for which an ordinary citizen might be fined. A parolee could get two years.

"Mr. Riviera. Buenos Dios, Senor. I'm your lawyer..Abbagado... I speak no Spanish and you, Habla Anglais?"

Riviera shook his head; his disheveled green prison uniform dripped sweat.

Maybe I talked too loud. Americans speak especially loud to a foreigner as if the increased decibel level imparts understanding. "I..have..to.t..talk to..the Board..for you. I'll see you soon...Adios..Via con dios, senor."

Blondie was poised to snatch the prisoner and place him behind the cold, black painted steel door. I was gathering my interview notes together when Blondie poked her head in. “Quitting time Friday...The wheels of justice turn me loose. You was doing real good with the crook. Learn Spanish play interpreter yourself."

I looked down at the desk. "What do I do with this guy ?"

"Most times," she explained, "A parole officer, a guard, cop, or a jail bird ciphers jive-turkey, but you don’t wait on any help with this guy." She raised her eyebrows as an exclamation point. Under her breath, she reminded me, “what they learn you in the Army, boy -- eh--” with a sly smile, she corrected herself with emphasis, “Mr Lawyer: One country, One Army, One English language.”

A pained look came across my face. "Why? Leaving a job and jumping the turnstile in the subway aren't that terrible that..."

She shook her head. “I'm off shift. Catch you next week."

After I left the facility, I waited out rush hour in the diner across the cobbled stoned street. Lou Roebuck, the balding rolly polly manager nodded when I ordered. “A burger, no hurry."

When Lou Roebuck served dinner, he asked, "You're hooked up with the jail across the street. You're not a CO, guard."

"No a lawyer."

"You defend guilty people."

"Nope just stupid ones...who get themselves caught. Work with inmates it's not a battle of guilt or innocence. The fight tests who is stupid-er, the convict or the system. Just today they give me a guy who speaks no English... What do I do ?"

"Pray for the Epiphany, the gift of tongues," Roebuck laughed.

I shook my head. "We all have our jobs. I defend stupid people and you feed them."

In short order, Mr. Riviera's case was restored to calendar before grey templed Parole Judge Tim Jayson. The toughest of the Parole judges, Jayson conducted his hearings in an improvised courtroom in the jail making rulings as rigid as the bench fashioned out of odds and ends.

In a breach of Judge Jayson’s grey suited ettiquette, I interrupted the pro forma introduction. "Judge, Riviera doesn't speak a lick of English. Can a guard or a cop translate....?"

" A lawyer with no Spanish and a parolee with no English." Jayson shrugged his shoulders disinterestedly without wrinkling his pressed grey suit. "I won’t require parole or corrections to translate. I'll adjourn the case until you obtain an interpreter."

The case dragged on. I was uncertain exactly what should be done. What procedures could be invoked? To what court could a complaint be made?

Unfortunately in the bottom-of-the-barrel work, there's no one to turn to ask advice.

Blondie Williams the steward of the parole process caustically suggested that I fake it. "Let the crook ramble on and just give whatever answer you think makes sense."

"The Bar Association would hang me." In the law there might be no where to turn to for advice, but, correct guidance on problem management would come in rivulets post factum. “Why won't anybody translate for this guy..."

Under her breath Blondie chided me, “want to rap to The Man, you gotta dig the King’s Jive.”

After leaving the facility, I stopped by the diner. The diner was empty; Lou Roebuck, the manager looked up from reading "Ever solve that problem with your spanish inmate, Counsel."

Told of the impasse, Lou sympathetized. "Like village traffic court, gone haywire, asserting authority."

Roebuck was right. Regardless of Blondies’ cute spin on folk wisdom, the division of Parole intended no etymological defense of English speaking America. The stand-off was purely a test of wills and endurance.

I hesitated to file a writ of habeas corpus to test the legality of continued detention. All my paying work came from the Division of Parole. It might be unwise to anger them.

The year ended with another appearance before Judge Jayson to advise of lack of progress. A pantomime discussion found the client in better humor than at the sullen introduction.

In the diner Lou Roebuck seemed bemused. "Scape goating defines the bounds of a group and the extent of authority."

With a degree of hesitation, I filed a writ of habeas corpus returnable in the basement of the County Courthouse in converted coal bins. Even the light wood panelling and furniture and bright florescent lighting could not cure the oppressing feeling of these glum rooms.

When I arrived the room was empty. The court clerk, a heavy set white haired gentleman told me to wait for the judge. At 2:00 p.m. promptly, the judge, red haired, lean and athletic strode onto the bench. No one else was in the room.

The court clerk desultorily called out the name of the applicant; the judge repeated it as if the prisoner would magically appear and then said "Submitted." The judge was about to do the same with "Jeraldo Riviera," when I rose and said, "Present your honor."

"Marked Submit." the Judge growled.

"Excuse me your honor, I'd like one minute to argue..."

"Marked Submit. If you have anything more to say put it in writing and mail it to the court clerk." The judge passed the file to the court clerk who called the next case. The dark farce continue until the calendar concluded and the judge ceremoniously left the bench.

At the parole board, Parole Judge Jayson desultorily passed over the case. "Request for appointment of interpreter pending."

After lively, gesticulation with the client ending with a wave of Adios, the client was dismissed from the hearing room.

"This case may have become my career," I said with resignation.

At my office, an envelope from the court had been left on my desk. I tore it open. “Petition for habeas corpus, denied!" I exclaimed in disbelief. In a fit, I drove to the courthouse.

The court clerk was polite, but firm. No law authorized assignment of an interpreter in parole revocations. I persisted. "What does the law do for the client without a lick of English ?"

A pause, had the Clerk prepared to compromise if I was firm?

The clerk’s snickering broke the silence. "Few prisoners speak no English at all. Usually the jail gets a cop or guard.. That's good enough."

I studied the Clerk carefully. He was bluffing. Clerks in the court system wielded absolute power, without explanations. This was a moment of decision, another test of nerve.

"No one at the jail will play interpreter. If this court plays the law of the street over the law of the state, I’ll appeal." I strove to keep my voice in a plain, conversational tone even with a trace of apathy over the outcome.

Do the threat of appeals don't scare trial courts? Not really! Yet, the silence I heard in response confirmed my impression that accommodation rather than a precedent making landmark would stem from insistence.

I was persistent, "What can I do with a client who doesn't speak a lick of English?"

The Clerk responded. "I could enter an order appointing someone Official Interpreter of Queens County... you have to find the interpreter. Only pays $10 per hour."

However, $10 per hour was too low to find a real interpreter. A student ? Calls to colleges were unavailing. No professor would accept such a low fee or recommend a student. "They lack skills needed for complex legal terms".

"Our legal terms all come from Latin. They should be pretty similar in Spanish..." I said.

If Colleges were uncooperative, language school operators laughed. "$10 per hour and you want them to go into a prison for a whole day. Put up notices in Bodegas, Spanish grocery stores."

“What of the good citizenship requirement.” I noted in disgust.

The case was before Jayson once again. "You have an order appointing an interpreter, but no interpreter. I'll give a final adjournment. Then you and your client can fumble with your gesturizations ..." Parole Judge Jayson waved a hand dismissing me from his court room. “Ole!”

Totally frustrated, I stopped for dinner at the Diner across the street from the facility. The night manager, Lou Roebuck was humming a song to himself...in Spanish.

"You know...Spanish...?"

"Yeah who wants to know ?"

"Did you go to college."

"Yeah, La Guardia College got my AA."

"Never been convicted of a crime ?"

"I'm a moonlighting cop. What's the 21 questions for."

"How do you like to be Official Translator in a parole revocation across the street. Pays $10 an hour."

"Better than here...I'll give it a shot."

Lou took the oath in the old coal bin in the County Courthouse on after the ghostly roll call of cases was called.

Lou and I met the client in the interview booth before the hearing at the Correctional Facility. The client enthusiastically chatted with Lou in Spanish while I organized my notes.

"Just making sure," Lou assured me, "we speak the same dialect." I briefly explained the parole process to the client as Lou translated.

As the case was being called, I told Blondie, "I'm glad we can wrap this case up today."

She said with a twinkle of an eye, "We'll see."

When Parole Judge Tim Jayson called the case, Jayson pondered suspiciously over half-moon steel rimmed glasses. Judge Jayson noted, "I've been provided with an Order which designates Mr. Lou Roebuck an Official Translator. Yet, I'm not satisfied as to Mr. Roebuck's qualifications.”

"A Judge of the Supreme Court with the power to make that appointment apparently was." I retorted.

"Mr. Roebuck....Roebuck, is it ?" Judge Jayson asked with an assumed politeness.

"Yep," snapped Roebuck.

"You studied Spanish in school?," Jayson queried.

"High School...some college..yes," came the reply.

"Spoke it at home?" Judge Jayson prodded Mr Roebuck.

"At home growing up. I haven't taught it to my kids, no."

"Your major in college"

"General programme, AA."

"Your courses in Spanish," the Judge listlessly examined the file as he spoke.

"12 Credits."

"Any specialized courses in Spanish...pertaining to parole...law...or police."

"No,” Roebuck shook his head, “I use it on the job. Translating confessions, statements, general info, what not."

"This record,” Jayson peered over his half-moon spectacles, “is not satisfactory. I must decline..."

" Judge,” I protested, “P.O.Roebuck is better qualified than any cops, correction, parole officers or prisoners...”

"Take an administrative appeal to parole headquarters in Albany," Jayson responded without emotion.

"I'm afraid the remedy is much more drastic," I declared. "Failure,” I warned, “to obey the order is contempt..."

"Ha..." Jayson dared defiantly.

The charade, even if its purpose were obscure, continued, with the filing of a new writ of habeas corpus in the dreary courthouse basement

"Parole doesn't want to use a volunteer, "the County Judge ruled, "or the interpreter I appointed. Conduct a proceeding within two weeks with the interpreter appointed or release the prisoner."

I dropped by the diner to see Lou Roebuck. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "I just got my check for that charade. I don't mind doing it again. Easy money."

While parole scheduled the hearing to comply with the Court's decision, the parole officer failed to appear. His office in Manhattan reported him on his way. Tim Jayson, despite the lack of other cases refused to call the case. Blondie told me I could not see the prisoner. "Security reasons."

Lou Roebuck smiled when I apologized for the delay. Seated on a plastic chair in the empty corridor reserved for parole officers and witnesses, Roebuck said, "I'm a cop used to this," and returned to reading.

At 2:30 P.M., the Parole Officer called in sick. Tim Jayson perfunctorily called the case without producing the inmate. To forestall my protest, Jayson noted the order of the court and added with a grim half smile, "Take what action you deem appropriate." Jayson dropped the file onto the desk. It would be a test of wills and endurance to the end.

By 3:00 p.m., I was in the Supreme Court Judge's chambers at the county courthouse. When the Clerk saw me, he handed me an order of release without comment.

I looked at it and the clock. I had to beat rush hour traffic to deliver the order to Parole Judge Tim Jayson.

Back at the facility, I presented Parole Judge Tim Jayson the order releasing the inmate. I may have sprouted an evil grin. Jayson showed no reaction, not even so much as a ruffle in Jayson’s usual sharp grey suit.. Should I have expected continued defiance ?

After carefully reading the order, Jayson nodded. He yelled to a guard, "Get me Riviera, he got lucky. By the way, Counsel, you got an extra copy for Riviera for his records ?" Jayson was brusque but courteous.

"What does this prisoner need a file for? This inmate can't speak a word of English ! "

Jayson laughed hysterically. "Riviera may have stood the test of wills but Him speak no English, one of the parole officers had a long chat with Riviera the other day. If Riviera hadn't put on this elaborate act, Riviera'd have been out of here 6 months ago. Too smart for his own good."