The Compassionate Side of Judge Manuel Real

In his half century on the bench, Judge Real maintained high standards for attorney preparation and decorum. In the four trials and many appearances that I had before him as an attorney, I had plenty of opportunity to observe his style up front. His reputation for being tough on dilettantes at the bar and meting out hard sentences to bad guys was well-known. If counsel had their act together, he could listen intently and reciprocate insightfully. But if the lawyers were merely going through the motions, he might be abrupt and disinterested. Given his exacting norms, it is not surprising that some lawyers sighed aloud when they drew Judge Real as their trial judge. But among practicing federal criminal lawyers, he was known for his creativity in criminal sentencing and often taking personal responsibility to follow up on probationers with conferences (without lawyers present) in his courtroom.

Despite his apparent adherence to a philosophy that certain criminals were capable of rehabilitation, Judge Real never wore benevolence as a chevron on his robe. He just did what he thought was right and never sought recognition for his efforts.

My first introduction with Judge Real's huge capacity to forgive some criminal defendants' transgressions came on a day in the mid-1970s when I was still a new and green Deputy Federal Public Defender. Each attorney in the office had a periodic duty day to be appointed to represent clients in newly-filed cases or attend to whatever came up and my number was up. Around mid-morning, I received a puzzling telephone call summoning me to Judge Real's chambers and was told to go right away.

As I had no pending cases or hearings scheduled before the judge I could not fathom why I was needed in his courtroom forthwith. But duty being duty, I jumped on the elevator as soon as possible to get downstairs to appear.

Swinging open the back door, I found the courtroom empty except for his clerk sitting in his customary perch below the bench. I told him that I had received a call to come down but did not know what was on calendar. He replied, "That's okay. Just go into chambers." I asked him if an Assistant United States Attorney was already in there. He only said, "Just go in."

I had no idea what would be awaiting me in the judge's inner sanctum, a place where I had never before been invited in my brief federal court tenure. As I crossed the threshold into chambers, the judge's secretary motioned me towards a closed door on the other side of the room and, like the clerk, politely said, "You may go in." As I stepped towards that door, I had a state of mind what a novice gladiator might have felt like as he walked through the tunnel leading to the main arena of the Roman Colosseum for his first encounter.

When I entered the judge's chambers, he was standing beside his desk and acknowledged me with a nod. Seated not too far away and across the room was an older gentleman wearing blue prison garb. A couple United States Marshals stood tall on each side of him. I had never seen this fellow before, let alone had I represented him.

If there was any expression to describe the inmate, it would have been "sad sack." His deeply creased face was downcast and expressionless. His drooping eyes were on the verge of tears. He was hunched over with his hands clasped tightly together under the handcuffs on his wrists. He looked defeated. Curiously, there was no AUSA or anyone else representing the government present. All I could say to myself was "What's going on here?"

Judge Real then initiated the reason why I was present. He introduced the seated gentleman by advising, "This is Manual. He's an alcoholic. He robbed a bank in East Los Angeles while he was drunk. I gave him ten years with the condition that he could get out if he got off the bottle, sobered up and got his act together. This is the third time that I've brought him back from prison with a chance to get back on the street. On the last two times that I let him out, he failed and I sent him back to prison. I want to see if he's ready to go back onto the streets."

Turning to the inmate, the judge inquired, "Manual, how do you feel about it?" There was no response from the motionless inmate whose gaze was focused on the floor. Addressing the prisoner more deliberately, the judge pointedly asked, "Manual, do you think that you are ready this time?" The beaten old fellow hesitated and, peering up to the judge standing over him, said, "I'm not sure, you Honor. I'm not sure."

With a voice of compassion, the judge asked, "Why aren't you sure?" With his head slightly moving from side-to-side, the prisoner repeated, "I'm not sure. I'm not sure." The judge paused for a moment of reflection and then concluded, "It looks like you're not ready yet. We'll try again later. Marshals, you can take Manual back to the lockup and return him. Thanks very much." Gesturing towards me, he added, "Thanks for coming." With Judge Real's final remark, I retreated from his chambers.

While I had just witnessed Judge Real exercise the awesome power that a federal judge might use to achieve what seemed to be a good purpose, I was perplexed about whether the judge's morally sound intentions were appropriately within the law. But, at that moment, this apprehension paled in comparison to my esteem for Judge Real using his authority in an attempt to help a troubled alcoholic who was not a career criminal to get back on his feet.

I do not know why Judge Real wanted a public defender present in his chambers for this meeting. I never saw nor heard of the matter again from the judge or anyone else. As far as I know, there is no record that any of this ever occurred. To this day, I have no knowledge what happened to Manual, my momentary client with whom I never spoke a word or even learned a last name.

But this experience left me with a lasting respect for the sensitivity shown by a judge who truly cared about his fellow human beings.