Nicole Shawan Junior
Issue No. 21 • Spring 2020
After I pled guilty to telecommunications fraud in a Cuyahoga County courtroom, and the judge sentenced me to eighteen months of probation, my lawyer cuffed my arm into his hand and ushered me onto an elevator. “Julie will take care of you. She’s the best probation officer there is,” he said, shifty-eyed and ready to be rid of me. I stared past puffy eyelids at the closing elevator doors, petrified of what was to come.
“You’re gonna be alright,” Probation Officer Julie Fritz assured, not even twenty minutes after my guilty plea. I sat hushed in her court building office chair. Bargain store-flimsy tissue pieces speckled the kohl black eyeliner and mascara that raccooned my eyes. “You had the best judge there is,” she went on, a wide smile and chestnut hair framing her face—Kathy Bates in Misery style. “We had another judge who did time for beating his wife. Nearly killed her. He came out and now he works for the mayor! No, he isn’t making the money he once did. But he’s got a decent living,” she offered all earnest.
My mouth stayed shut.
I thought about the judge’s wife.
“Here are the conditions of your probation,” Fritz said, thrusting a thin solitary sheet my way. “Just sign it and I’ll give you a copy.”
I’d been a public interest trial attorney for a decade. For almost half of that time, I prosecuted domestic violence crimes ranging from simple misdemeanors to attempted murders—ones like the assault Fritz described. My legal training mandated that I read every word on the page.
But it was difficult.
The tears I poured throughout my court proceeding—as I thought about my mother watching me proclaim myself a felon and be sentenced to state control after the decades of shit I ate to accomplish my poverty-inspired dream of lawyering for the oppressed—resumed. I tried as best I could to follow the letters, dashes and sentences that laid out the conditions of my probation. My eyes struggled when reading the new title after my name. Felon. Eventually, I came to the list that would rule my life for the next year and a half:
Report weekly to probation officer
Pay supervision fees, fines, or other fees ordered by the Court
Pay court costs and restitution
Not commit any new crimes
Report any interaction with law enforcement
Not change residence without permission
Not leave the county of residence without written permission
Find and maintain regular employment
Not possess firearms
Not possess any other dangerous weapons
Not associate with persons who have criminal records
Not use drugs or alcohol
Obey all state and local laws
Permit probation officer to visit the probationer or the probationer's residence
Permit probation officer to visit the probationer's worksite
Submit to testing of breath or urine for controlled substances or alcohol
Not have direct contact with any elderly person
Not have direct contact with any child you know or reasonably should know to be under the age of 18
“It says I can’t be around children,” I uttered, much more a shocked inquiry than confident statement.
“Yeah, don’t worry about that,” Fritz assured while shuffling a stack of papers on her desk. “There’s a method to my madness, ya know. You’d think I couldn’t find anything in here, but I know where everything is,” she said to her desk.
“But, if I can’t be around kids, I can’t teach –” I started before she interrupted.
“It’s just standard language. New York’s gonna supervise ya. Your New York PO will let you know what your conditions are.” With that, she turned her attention back to the paper piles. I was dismissed from her concern while welcomed to the world of state monitoring and control.
I fisted the thin pen, and signed the paper.
. . .
Crimson hoodies bunched around necks, maroon laces weaved through scarlet kicks, and denim jeans patched with candy apple squares dominated the New York City Department of Probation’s 345 Adams Street waiting room. It had been almost an hour since I first sat in the pool of Bloods when a straight-backed latinx woman with not a single piece of paper in her hands called my name, “Nicole Junior.” I gathered my purse, which rested in the plastic seat next to mine, and approached her with my hand outstretched.
“Good afternoon,” I said. She stared at my hand and hesitated before taking it in her own and returning the greeting. A blink later, her back was before me as she walked along the corridor that led to her office.
I took the hint and followed.
Seated behind her paper crowded desk, she introduced herself as Officer Jiménez. “So, what happened?” she asked before bunching her hands into a clap. I explained what led to my travels to Cleveland—the job offer that included a relocation bonus, my acceptance that requested its upfront disbursement, the mandate that it be reimbursed, the reality that I couldn’t afford to relocate out of pocket, the crime that I doctored travel expense receipts to move.
“Humph,” her brows bunched into cuffs as she let out a questioning exhale. “Says here you can’t be around kids. What’s that about?”
“I don’t know. My Cleveland PO told me that it was just boilerplate form language and that my PO here, in New York, would change it.”
“Humph,” again. “Only time I’ve seen that is when there was a sex offense with a minor.” She said as her eyes squinted into disbelief, her mouth pursed into accusation.
My shoulders bunched into my neck as words sputtered past my lips, “I, I, I pled to telecommunications fraud, so I don’t –”
“So why would they add that condition? You must have done something else. To a minor.” She remained icily composed.
“What?” I asked as anxiety began to stew belly-deep. Afraid to push back for fear of seeming resistant, noncompliant, deserving of being thrown in prison, I spoke barely louder than a whisper. But her accusation triggered my own questioning. What did I plead guilty to? Did my lawyer conspire with the Court to deceive me?
Reality became a blur of bars and cuffs and sentences. Did I plead guilty to harming a child? Am I a convicted sex offender? “Don’t you have my file?” I mustered the courage to ask for both her clarity and my own. With shackled certainty, I whispered, “I committed mail fraud.”
“These things take time with you being from Cleveland and all. I don’t have your full file. But they’d only include that if you committed a crime against a child.”
She would not be moved.
“I don’t know, but – “
She cut me off again. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll find out what you did. But now that you’re under my charge, here’s what you’ll do…”
Officer Jiménez stared at me and spoke. Stared and spoke some more. Thoughts raced through my mind. My clammy fists wrapped around my purse straps as she rattled off a list of things for me to do.
Don’t be around children, of any kind. Related or not. That can get you violated.
Write down the names of everyone you live with. Phone numbers, too. No kids, right?
Don’t drink or use drugs. You’ll be tested. A dirty test will get you violated.
Report every week. Right here. Failure to show? You’ll be violated.
Make sure to arrive between 8:00 am and 1:00 p.m.
Always come on a Thursday.
Don’t do anything that’ll get you violated.
But violated was all I’d been since being caught up in the criminal justice system’s clutches, and my psychological state was waiting room-bloodied because of it.
. . .
Before I became a felon, before I prosecuted cops as the New York City Civilian Complaint Review Board’s Deputy Chief Prosecutor, and before I prosecuted intimate partner violence as an Assistant District Attorney at the Brooklyn DA’s Office, I taught fourth grade students at a Bed Stuy public school. Justice-committed since I was a child watching my cousins farmed in and out of prison due to their poverty-inspired participation in the crack trade, I left the wealthy seven sister school I commenced from and, instead of directly attending law school, I entered the New York City public school system. Through teaching, I sought to use my privilege to give back what I learned to the community that raised me, as well as encourage children who grew up in similar conditions as I to strive for anything they desired.
In September 2002, I opened the doors to my first classroom at Public School 21, also named the Crispus Attucks School after the formerly enslaved African-Native American abolitionist. A squat brick building buried between a concrete park and the Breevort housing projects, PS 21 was located just four blocks from my childhood home and filled with kids from the surrounding neighborhood.
There, I taught confident Anabel who did every assignment well and whose parents attended every parent-teacher conference night. Cornrowed Dayshawn who couldn’t spell much more than his name, and walked with the heavy bop of a man thirty years his elder. Gentle Adonis whose burly frame made his classmates look small while his quiet disposition made everyone sound as if they had microphones for mouths. Witty Amanda whose hair was often unkempt and who wore clothes that smelled like the week before despite my having given her soap, a washcloth and access to the teacher’s bathroom to bathe while the other kids finished breakfast in the cafeteria. Sweet-faced Ramon who was tiniest of all the boys and who once earned our class’ Student of the Month honor. As reward for Ramon’s hard work, I brought him, along with my best friend, to the movies. We went to a downtown Brooklyn theater and afterward I treated him to lunch at Juniors. “I’ve never been downtown before, Ms. Junior,” Ramon said, while eating a messy burger much too big for his hands.
“No?” I asked. “What do you usually do on weekends?”
“I play with my cousins. Sometimes I visit my dad.”
“Well, where does your dad live?”
“He’s locked up,” he shrugged.
In later months, another student, Deandre, became aggressive and instigated a fight in my class. That evening, I called his mom to ask if anything was going on. Deandre had never misbehaved, nor had outbursts remotely of the kind. She told me that Deandre’s father had been violated. He was back in prison. “Deandre’s taking it real hard,” she confided.
I loved teaching. No. I loved teaching poverty-born black and latinx children. Like me, most of my students were born into families ravaged by crack addiction, disbanded by incarceration, or beleaguered by systemic oppression. Those kids who sat in my second-floor classroom in a school named after a runaway slave, they and their parents were my people. More than my people, they were me.
In 2019, when I was still under community supervision, an estimated 2.7 million children—or 1 in 28 of those under the age of 18—had a biological mother or father who was incarcerated. Even more had parents who were under community supervision such as probation or parole. Similar to when I graduated from college those almost twenty years before, my desire to teach was instigated by a new education, one I acquired as a justice-involved adult. I thought I could use my new experience to teach and empower underserved youth. Now that “felon” replaced the ESQ behind my name, I thought I’d have something more than zealous pedagogy to offer. I had a deeper shared experience with many of my students. Through my trials, I could show them that there was hope ahead.
. . .
After riding down the elevator from Jiménez’s office, I spilled onto Adams Street and pulled my cell phone from my purse before typing “Cu.” “Cuyahoga county criminal court docket” auto-populated into my browser. A telltale sign that I visited the website almost every day since learning I was indicted in 2017, that prior year. But because of the anxiety induced by seeing my name, birthdate and criminal charges on the public site, I hadn’t visited it since I pled guilty earlier in the month. I clicked on the link, landed in the online court docket, entered my name, and scanned the page devoted to my case, letter by letter, word by word, line by line.
Case Number: CR-17-623472-A
Status: Case Closed
Judge Name: Dick Ambrose
Arresting Agency: Cleveland Police
Defendant Number: 14230570
Name: Nicole Junior
Race: Black
Sex: Female
Status: DEFN LVJAIL
DOB: 12/19/80
Charges:
INDICT 2913.42.A(1) Tampering with Records
INDICT 2913.05.A Telecommunications Fraud
INDICT 2913.31.A(2) Forgery
INDICT 2913.42.A(1) Tampering with Records
INDICT 2913.05.A Telecommunications Fraud
INDICT 2913.31.A(2) Forgery
INDICT 2913.42.A(1) Tampering with Records
INDICT 2913.05.A Telecommunications Fraud
INDICT 2913.31.A(2) Forgery
INDICT 2913.02.A(3) Attempted Theft; Aggravated Theft
Plead Guilty: 2913.05.A Telecommunications Fraud
The website confirmed I was a criminal, but not a child predator. I knew this, of course. But, then again, I did not. Now that I was on felony probation, truth was refracted. Violations were the only thing clear. Compounded on top of an inherent sense of guilt and criminality that I, like most poverty-born black american people, carried since birth due to chattel slavery’s genetic imprint, once I found out I was indicted, I lacked the discernment to tell truth from reality. Perception from fact. Even when I said “Guilty, your honor,” in that american flag-cloaked court, I struggled with all the words and the truth of it. Yes, I was guilty of forging travel receipts. Yes, I was guilty of delivering those receipts to Cleveland’s treasury department via email. Yes, I sought upfront assistance for job relocation. But also yes, I did so because I couldn’t afford the move on my own—student loan and its consequential credit card debt claimed most of my income. Yes, I did so because I wanted to do the job well. Yes, I did so because I thought who would care when I would, in fact, use the money for its intended purpose: to move to Cleveland to perform a job few others were as committed and equipped to perform.
Yes, my probation officer was wrong. I wasn’t a child molester, Though yes, she was right. I was a criminal.
On the C train ride home, my thoughts oscillated between optimistic planning—I’ll print out the website page so she can see my true crimes—and debilitating devastation—how am I gonna survive this? I lumbered off of the train and up the stairs, eventually landing onto Ralph Avenue. Despite the sunny March day, I walked past Breevort projects in a fog.
. . .
My next appointment with Officer Jiménez came the following week. Again, I waited in the Blood-seeped waiting room. I wondered if the day I was scheduled to meet with my PO was routinely assigned to Bloods, if there was a day for Crips and, if those existed, when was the day for neutral civilians like me? Finally, all five feet four inches of PO Jiménez emerged from the long linoleum floored hall. Her scowl as big as her frame. I stuck my hand out for a shake. Yet again, trying to be my most respectable. Officer Jiménez gave as best a smile she could bear before turning her back and leading the way to her cramped office.
My hand hung in the air.
“There was a misunderstanding,” she said, while sitting back in her office chair.
“Oh, great! You got my file. I brought print outs from Cuyahoga County’s website indicating that I plead guilty to telecommunications fraud. I had nothing to do with child–”
“No, I don’t have your file. I got word that you don’t belong to me. They made a mistake in the main office. Give Officer Jones a call.”
She rose from her desk and led me back down the cold hall. At the waiting area’s threshold, she gave me her back without so much as a handshake.
Or an apology.
. . .
I am privileged.
I was a decade long prosecutor.
I know how to decipher criminal codes.
I can research and assess case law.
I can analyze and argue legal theory.
I am fluent in legalese.
I know how to read.
I know my way around a courtroom.
I hold a Bachelor of Arts, a graduate degree in education, and a law degree.
I have better than average comprehension and logic skills.
I own a laptop and a laser jet printer.
I know how to advocate for myself.
I have a stable place to live.
I have a wide network of friends.
I have supportive parents and family.
I was able to have several sessions with a therapist while I was on probation.
I can discern systemic oppression’s tentacles.
I understand my intersectionality as a poverty-born black queer femme.
I know where I stand within oppression’s grip.
I know how to participate in respectability politics.
I can control my triggered desire to flip the fuh’k out.
I accrued a quarter million dollars in student loan debt to acquire most of these privileges. Yet, despite this long list, I still could not manage the psychological, financial, emotional, and societal traumas that were unleashed when I became a felon. When absent-mindedly jay-walking, I panicked that the police would pull me over and arrest me. When lawfully changing lanes while driving, I worried that the police would pull me over and arrest me. Once, when walking to my neighborhood gym without state identification on me, I broke into a sweat for fear that the police would stop me and arrest me. When arriving late to see my PO because a paying gig ran late, I worried that she would pull out the cuffs and arrest me. The thought of being violated held hostage every second of the time I spent under state control. The dread if it caused my blood pressure to rise, my reasoning ability to decline and my capacity for self-advocacy to dissipate.
Most categorized as “felon,” “criminal,” or “predator” do not have my privileges. That, in and of itself, is a violation. As a consequence of this systemic disempowerment, they are fucked. In December 2018, a year to the month after I was arraigned, 6.7 million people were under correctional control. I was one of the 4.5 million of them who was on probation or parole. In 2019, just under half of state prison admissions nationwide were the consequence of probation or parole violations. Many of these re-incarcerations were due to technical violations. My privilege was the key factor in keeping me out of this statistic.
As a trained criminal prosecutor, I wielded the New York State Penal Code to send hundreds of people to jail, prison and the claws of state control. Yet, even for me, the probation system was too unwieldy to navigate. The most frightening aspect was that my freedom, my ability to keep from behind bars while on probation, was anchored in my capacity to be rational, discerning and respectable. Yet, even the most basic discernment and logic required heavy lifting because of my traumatized mind state. Because of the incapacitating fear that any one of the four probation officers I had would violate me at any given time. At any wrong perception.
If it weren’t for my privilege, though, I would have crumbled under the heel of state control’s boot. Most “criminals” are crumbling under the heel of state control’s boot. There are no systems and mechanisms in place to keep us emotionally and mentally together, whole. Not when probation officers operate with violent suspicion, mistrust and callousness, threatening to violate you for failing to abide by the most bizarre mandates. Not when case files aren’t transferred and reviewed prior to meeting with clients. Not when the one who monitors you won’t even shake your hand.