Gideon's Army, The Review

Dawn Porter sought to tell the story of public defenders. Not all, not the ones who gave up caring, but the story of three PDs in the deep south, Clayton County, Georgia, who struggled to hold on their purpose and integrity in the face of their reality.  They are Gideon's Army,

The film, a Sundance Film Festival award winner for documentary editing, offered a strikingly honest vision of the world of the public defender. Premiering on HBO last night*, it follows three PDs through their banal existence in the trenches.

Brandy Alexander, Travis Williams and June Hardwick have dedicated themselves to defending those who otherwise would not receive representation, contending with a day-to-day life of low pay, long hours and staggering caseloads. Despite these obstacles, with the help of the Southern Public Defender Training Center (SPDTC), these young professionals are inspired to take on this unique challenge in the name of public service.

This synopsis strikes me as, frankly, far more rosy and uplifting than the film itself. In trying to provide honest insight into the misery of a Georgia public defender, Porter doesn't sugar coat the nature of criminal defense, including Brandy's halting description of a defendant who raped his step daughter being not merely unapologetic, but proud of himself.  And another client, rumored to be ready to murder her in the courtroom if she doesn't win his trial. 


The point, that some defendants are just truly bad people, hits home.  At the same time, Porter gives this away with the apparent understanding that those who find the function of the public defender to be a bump in the road of justice will view these concessions as a reason to do away with them as an exercise in futility rather than see the nobility of defending the guilty as well as the innocent. 

Travis is cut into the scene at the end of Brandy's emotional appeal to bring that point home. Where Brandy waivers in her desire to stand beside the guilty in a moment of weakness, Travis is the rock who affirms that they don't do it because they "like" the defendant or his crime, but because their duty is to defend, and that means the guilty as well as the innocent.

Some of the most poignant moments in the film bear upon the banal hardships borne by public defenders. That after paying off the debt service on their law school loans (no trust fund babies here) and their basic shelter needs, they are left with a pittance in their pocket. They massage the hose from the gasoline pump in the hope to get out a few extra drops so they will have enough gas to last them an extra ride.

The film wasn't without its issues. The three PDs whose stories were told were imperfect, yet noble. There were no hacks, no incompetents, mailing it in at the expense of their duty. While reference was made to prior representation where a defendant's public defender failed them, it was merely passing.

While the caseload carried by the trio was huge, it was still significantly less than some of the more absurd case loads carried in other public defender offices, where 500 felonies might be the norm. Travis carried 150 cases, which might cause a gasp given how the defendants were shown as human beings, worthy of the personal concern of the PDs. Yet, it left unanswered how a public defender with three time, may be more, the caseload could conceivably know their names, no less their cases.

The truncated arguments from the courtrooms were reminiscent of a Law and Order episode, long on platitudes and short on the nuts and bolts a lawyer goes through to persuade a jury not to convict. While it's understandable that time precludes the film from showing everything, these edits make the unsophisticated viewer think that it's all grandiloquence rather than grueling work in the face of unpleasant facts.

Then there is Jonathan Rapping, playing a critical role as guru of the Southern Public Defender Training Center, renamed Gideon's Promise for that extra tug on the heartstrings (and purse strings). He provides the support and mentorship to keep these PDs inspired, to persist in the fight when they're on the cusp of walking away. But there is a juxtaposition, which may be intentional, of Jon, a white guy, with the three public defenders, all black, which struck me as troubling.  The public defenders struggle through poverty, overwork, the disdain and lack of appreciation of society and their clients, while the Great White Hope inspires them to continue to pull the plow.

While this is a documentary, and thus beyond the realm of a sound stage where the actors can be dressed in whatever color clothing suits the producers, is it meant to suggest that even the black lawyers for the poor are still working the fields, while their white inspiration plans cocktail parties on D.C. rooftops when he's not cajoling them to keep working?

The penultimate scene of the film has Travis' client forced into a plea by his lifelong best friend flipping on him, taking a triable case and turning it into certain defeat.  To add insult to injury, a decent plea deal is cut, and the young defendant naively whispers to his lawyer moments before sentencing, "can I get probation?"  Facing five years rather than ten, Travis argues for two years served, while the judge sucks the air out of the room by imposing the full five. Every criminal defense lawyer knows how that punch feels.

But the final scene is the Cinderella story, the trial of a defendant Brandy believes to be innocent. The trial that could go either way. The trial that could break her heart if she loses and fails a defendant, 16 at the time of the crime, who she argues was not the guy.  She has facts to argue misidentification, but the eyewitness says 100%.

The jury returns a verdict. Not guilty. All counts. The defendant walks out of court and hugs his mother. It happens, but not often enough to leave the viewer with the belief that there is hope and justice in this system. 

Gideon's Army is a film of confirmation bias, where one will see in it what one wants to see. Whether it's the inspiration or the misery, the nobility of defense or the futility. But it tells the story from a side that few ever see, the view of the public defender in the trenches, and it brings a critical perspective that's missing from almost every story of criminal defense and defendants. It's mostly an ugly story, because it's mostly an ugly job. But these three do it because they are the foot soldiers in Gideon's Army.

* I was kindly provided with access to a screening copy for this review.

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