Poor inmates, unable to afford fines and court fees, often find themselves right back in Oklahoma County jail
Seated at his bench on the fifth floor of the Oklahoma County Courthouse, an American flag to his right, the state flag on his left, Special Judge Russell D. Hall leans back in his chair, props his face in his hand and looks at a nearby TV monitor.
It is the morning of March 1, and a handcuffed man in an orange jail uniform appears on the screen.
“Your name?” Hall asks with a soft-spoken drawl.
Less than a half-mile away, in the Oklahoma County jail, the man answers. Hall examines the paperwork on his bench.
“Dangerous substance with prior offense,” the judge says. “$3,000 bond. March 23rd at 9. We’ll have a public defender for you.”
An officer escorts the inmate out of the room and off-screen. Another man is brought in. Then another and another. The bewildered look down. The defiant cock their chins up and stare into the camera. Equipped with a remote control that changes the TV monitor from floor to floor at the jail, Hall can handle hundreds of initial court appearances in a day.
While the video appearances help move cases along more quickly, there remain dozens of problems confronting the local criminal justice system that contribute to an overcrowded jail.
Among them, are the inability of a large number of inmates to come up with the hundreds of dollars needed to make bail and the inability of judges in some cases to waive or reduce bail.
In 2015, roughly 28,300 people entered the jail. The typical day found about 2,500 people behind bars. Of those who bailed out, about 16 percent did so on the first day.
But, on June 1, 2015, a third of inmates had been in the jail for at least six months, according to the nonprofit and New Yorkbased Vera Institute of Justice, a research group noted for working with American cities on policy reform.
Many of those inmates are among the community’s poor and cannot pay even the lowest bail amounts. Some are seeking treatment for addiction and mental health issues.
Countless will emerge with broken lives and shattered families.
“The question you have to answer is, ‘Who do you want to jail?’ ” says Roy Williams, president and CEO of the Greater Oklahoma City Chamber of Commerce. “Do you want violent offenders that are dangerous to citizens? And the answer is obviously, ‘Yeah they should be.’ We want to feel safe and protected. But do you want to jail someone who steals that iPhone because they are a drug addict? Is that who you want to put in jail?”
Early releases
One way to cut the jail population would be to give judges such as Hall more discretion in lowering or even waiving bond.
Today, Oklahoma County makes little use of proven pretrial assessments that help judges determine whether a defendant is likely to commit a new crime or skip his court date. In some cases, judges could release eligible defendants on “conditional release bonds,” that might include GPS monitoring, Vera says, but rarely do.
Of those admitted to the jail in 2015, just 5 percent were released on their own recognizance or conditional release bonds. Defendants released on such bonds pay no money, but they are required to attend their court dates.
Just by doubling the number of recognizance bonds, the average daily jail population could be reduced by as much as 148 people, Vera says.
As it stands, not only do such releases require a district judge’s approval, but getting that approval can take weeks, during which an inmate remains jailed.
“If there’s an opportunity to do an assessment immediately, even in the booking process, or as soon as possible, and then the courts be allowed to use that information to help inform their sentencing or even a pretrial release program, I think we’d have much better outcomes,” says Kris Steele, former Republican speaker of the Oklahoma House of Representatives and executive director of The Education and Employment Ministry, a nonprofit group dedicated to helping families recover from and avoid further incarceration.
‘How it works’
“Your name?” Hall calls out.
Now working his way through a list of female inmates, he moves through his docket at a steady pace. Fraud by force or fear. Possession of controlled dangerous substances. Possession of meth. Each inmate stands listless, until one asks about bail.
“So, I can get someone to get me out today?” she asks. “About $150?”
“Yeah, that’s how it works,” Hall says.
It may not seem like much money. But costs can stack up with just one encounter with a police officer.
Francie Ekwerekwu, an assistant public defender, has seen thousands of such cases. In her cramped office tucked on the sixth floor of the county courthouse, she looks at a computer monitor and reviews the case of a woman pulled over on suspicion of DUI.
Authorities cited the woman for leaving the scene, driving with a suspended license and no insurance, speeding and failure to yield. She also has an outstanding traffic ticket. Her bond is more than $5,000.
“Traffic tickets are in the thousands for some of them,” Ekwerekwu says. “Family members need to pay a large percentage of the bond, if not all.”
Ekwerekwu, in her part-time role, often can be seen standing between Judge Hall and inmates on his TV monitor. Under a pilot program — funded by private grant money and in partnership with Steele’s TEEM — Ekwerekwu reviews cases, and frequently convinces Hall to reduce a bond on nonviolent cases, such as property crimes and drug possession.
“Since last May, I think I’ve knocked down $15 million in what could’ve been spent in bond,” she says.
Still, many low-level offenders cannot afford bail. And when a defendant does scrape the money together, it is assumed he can afford a lawyer and doesn’t need a public defender, regardless of his income.
“That’s a major problem in our county,” Ekwerekwu says. “If Mom uses the last $500 of her money to bond me out, there’s a presumption I can afford a private attorney. By judge’s order, they’ve got to have an attorney by the second court date, or go back to jail.”
A desperate clientele
For those able to make bail, their short-term fate frequently falls into the hands of people such as Julia Spencer, who runs one of the many bail bond shops that dot the streets surrounding the county jail.
On this afternoon, March 22, Spencer sits at her desk, with a view of a busy Classen Boulevard. She got to bed at 5:30 a.m. and woke two hours later. About 100 people contact her each week, hoping to post bail for their loved ones.
“Really, the bondsman is the babysitter,” says Spencer, her eyes squinting through the haze of fatigue as two dogs yap at each other in the kitchen. With a 24-hour operation, Spencer has hosted families with children in the middle of the night, as she writes bonds. The vast majority are drug cases, she says.
When she’s not running from her office to the jail, Spencer is on the phone, talking to or texting with clients, reminding them of courts dates, warning them to not jump bail.
For clients who wear ankle bracelets, she affixes her phone number to the device, and there is a speaker through which she can talk to them.
“I’ll also set off a 95-decibel siren on it,” Spencer says. “And whenever it goes off, they know they’re supposed to call me.”
She also has a phone app. In an emergency, clients can tap the app, and Spencer will know their location. Sometimes she arrives on a scene when police have pulled over one of her clients. Through the app, clients also may review their court dates and check in with Spencer.
It is a cutthroat business with desperate customers.
“Most people are living paycheck to paycheck, and sometimes not even that,” Spencer says. “What do they do? Leave them in jail? There’s no way they can come up with $10,000. They’re having trouble paying their rent. What they do is they come to a bondsman. I can put up that $10,000 for you, but the cost to you is 10 percent, so it’s going to be $1,000.”
Those who do get out and fail to follow court orders can find themselves facing even longer stays behind bars.
In 2015, there were more than 1,400 bond surrenders, ranking among the top 10 reasons for jail admissions. In addition, in Oklahoma County, bondsmen can take clients back to jail without first notifying the court, meaning they likely stay in custody longer. Those admitted on bond surrender stayed an average of 38 days in jail, compared with the 21-day general average, Vera researchers says.
30 seconds
Somewhere in the county jail, bleary-eyed inmates, like so many before them and so many after, wait for justice to awake.
Down the road, Hall sits at his desk in a tidy office attached to his courtroom. Law books rest in a neat row on a shelf behind him. The day’s docket of cases in front of him. A jar of instant coffee nearby.
Dressed in gray slacks, a blue sweater and whitecollared shirt, he rubs the bald part of his head and turns his attention to the solemn symbol of justice hung close to the door to his courtroom. His robe.
“I run through one about every three years,” Hall says. “They’re expensive, and they’re crap. They’re $300, and the black wears off.”
Numbers come easy to Hall. Bond amounts. Bail. Court dates.
“I see a thousand (cases) a week,” he says. “I’ll do about 350 today. It’s nothing complicated. I’d say the majority are simple possession. Of course, we get a lot of DUIs. If you got arrested, you got a problem.”
He gets up from his desk, puts on his robe and opens the door to his courtroom. A smattering of people rise. Once seated, Hall starts his docket. A defendant on the TV screen states his name.
The proceeding lasts less than 30 seconds. Another inmate appears. Hall looks down at his desk.
“You’re not in my stack of paperwork,” he says, another jail stay prolonged.
The inmate shakes his head, takes the Lord’s name in vain and is escorted away as justice calls out for others. “Your name...?” “Your name...?” “Your name…?”
Most people are living paycheck to paycheck, and sometimes not even that. What do they do? Leave them in jail? There’s no way they can come up with $10,000. They’re having trouble paying their rent. What they do is they come to a bondsman. I can put up that $10,000 for you, but the cost to you is 10 percent, so it’s going to be $1,000.” Julia Spencer, bail bond shop owner