Free Chasing Gideon by Karen Houppert Page A

presenting?”
    All of Washington State’s caseload reform efforts hung on this question.
    â€œThe answer to your question is, do you need to base your decision here on caseload numbers and caseload number standards? No,” Ahrend admitted. But he offered them the possibility—and a way of framing it. “Can you? I think it’s permissible to take them into account. And what we’re seeing in this case, um, at some point, caseload does impinge upon the attorney’s ability to render effective assistance of counsel. And, unless we start getting definitive pronouncements from this court and effective reversals of cases where somebody is clearly wronged like this, they’re going to feel free to continue to ignore those caseload standards because it’s expensive for the county.”
    There was some back and forth and then Ahrend reiterated the problem. “What happens is that caseload then gets manifested in all kinds of errors and worse, in this case.” Ahrend urged the judges to act decisively. “This court sets the standard for the practice of attorneys around the state and . . . local government entities, judges, and lower courts and attorneys are going to be watching for this decision to see, is this okay? Is it okay what happened here? And I would submit that it can’t be okay, because if it is, you’re just going to keep seeing cases like this.”
    As Ahrend returned to his seat, Carole Highland, deputy prosecutor for Grant County, stepped forward. A round woman, she wore her blond hair in a tight ponytail, and approached the podium. She tried to justify the fact that the juvenile court judge had not probed A.N.J. directly to make sure he understood the particulars of his guilty plea. As she began to speak, the justices cut her off. She tried again with another idea. They cut her off again.
    â€œIt seems to me,” said Justice Alexander, “when you’re dealing with a twelve-year-old kid, pardon me, child, that maybe there’s a little extra duty there to make sure that they understand what they’re doing?”
    â€œCase law says that once an individual has reached the age of twelve, they have the capacity,” Highland began.
    â€œReal world, though, a twelve-year-old child? Do you really think they’re as able to understand the proceedings as maybe an eighteen-year-old person?”
    â€œPerhaps not,” Highland conceded. “But I worked with Mr. Anderson for many, many years. He has been a juvenile defense attorney for many, many years. And he took his job seriously. And he spent time with each and every one of these individuals and each and every one of these youth. And, um, by all estimates, at a minimum, Mr. Anderson spent fifty-five minutes with [A.N.J.’s father]. At the maximum, according to defense counsel, he spent an hour and a half with [A.N.J.’s father]. And I would put it to your honors that, you hear an argument here before you and the total encompassed time is forty minutes. And that’s a lot of time. He spent an hour and a half with this youth.”
    The justices grew prickly here.
    â€œWe spend a lot more than forty minutes on the case,” Justice Alexander said. “We read the briefs. We confer afterwards. We write opinions. So we don’t spend a mere forty minutes on any case.”
    The justices grilled Highland on whether Anderson ever conferred individually with his client as he is ethically obligated to do (i.e., to determine whether he was simply pleading guilty because his parents wanted him to)—she conceded he did not—and whether the judge was rushed and failed to make sure A.N.J. understood the nature of the plea. And then they circled back to the specifics ofAnderson’s investigation. “Did Anderson personally talk to all the witnesses identified in this incident?” Justice Sanders demanded.
    â€œNo,” Highland said. “I believe he testified