By KATY RECKDAHL
Cover Photo Illustration by Dora Sison   Inside Photos by Jackson Hill

Police reports concluded the .38-caliber revolver used in the Carter G. Woodson school yard shooting was passed through a gap like this one in the school’s chain-link fence.

The judge’s remarks, given as part of his end-of-day ruling, were startling. "The court has reviewed a lot of lineups," he said, "and I’ve never seen one that’s more suggestive."

  Strong words coming from Orleans Parish Juvenile Court Judge C. Hearn Taylor, who has adjudicated cases here since his election to this bench in 1991. The photo lineup he’s criticizing was used by the New Orleans Police Department (NOPD) in one of the highest-profile juvenile cases in recent memory – the lunchtime shooting at the Carter G. Woodson Middle School on September 26, 2000.

  NOPD Detective Decynda Barnes had assembled the photo lineup on her computer from a software program called Printrak, which gathers its photos and demographic information from a state of Louisiana mugshot databank. The software creates a six-person lineup that includes the suspect and five other people who closely match the suspect’s key identifying characteristics – hair and eye color, race, age, weight, and height. Barnes asked witnesses to ID a suspect, much as they would pick a suspect out of an actual lineup in a police station.

  There are six mugshots in the lineup in question, and one of them is the face of eighth-grader Alfred Anderson. Today, Anderson is seated
quietly at a table that faces the judge. Also squeezed in at the table
are four defense attorneys and Anderson’s friend and classmate, Darrell Johnson, who is wheelchair-bound as a result of a shot to the spine
during the incident.

  Police reports concluded that Johnson was the aggressor in the shooting and that Anderson, who was not in school that day, had passed a .38-caliber revolver to Johnson through a gap in the school’s chain-link fence. A third young man, William Pennington – who was not charged – was shot in the chest and ended up having his spleen and kidney removed at Charity Hospital.

  It’s April 9. More than six months have passed since the shooting at Woodson school. Yet the courtroom’s small audience area is packed to overflowing for today’s hearing. Every chair is filled and a few people are standing against one of the nearby walls. The crowd of about 20 people includes several people who are kin to Johnson or Anderson, a few witnesses here by virtue of a subpoena, and a handful of criminal-justice and education activists.

  All eyes are now glued on the judge, who has just heard a half-hour’s worth of detailed testimony about the photo lineup. Taylor studies the printout for a few moments. He turns toward the stand, where Detective Barnes is being questioned. "Which of these gentlemen," asks Taylor, pointing to the lineup, "seem to be close in weight to Alfred Anderson?"

  Barnes gets off the stand and walks over in front of the judge. The prosecutor and part of the defense team also approach the bench to look over Barnes’ shoulder as she points at each mugshot and discusses the weight of each person shown. She finishes and steps back. Taylor gestures at the photos again. "How old do these gentlemen look?" Taylor asks Barnes.

  Observers in the back of the room strain forward to hear as Barnes says, in a soft voice, that this guy looks 14, these two look older, and this one another age. For anyone not standing within a few yards, the experience is like watching the TV with the sound off – Barnes’s voice is nearly inaudible to those on the other end of the room, but as she points at the various photos in the lineup, the general idea seems clear.

  Judge Taylor listens, nodding, and then asks Detective Barnes the crucial question: "And … how old is Alfred Anderson?" Someone in the back of the courtroom murmurs a response, like a congregation responding yes to its minister.

  When Taylor hears this, he thinks that the murmurer has just spoken Alfred’s age, a revelation that would have ruined his entire line of questioning. The judge looks up angrily in the direction of the noise and sees Alfred Anderson’s mother. He snaps at her, saying he won’t tolerate outbursts in his courtroom. Alfred’s auntie raises her hand and mumbles an admission – she had spoken, she admits, but she’d just said, "hmmm."

  Taylor doesn’t hear her explanation. He’s focused back in on Barnes. The people in the audience now sit quietly without moving a muscle, their eyes glued on the judge who until now had been affable for hours on end.

  "How old was Alfred Anderson?" Taylor again asks Barnes. "Thirteen," she says.

  Taylor stops for a second and looks at Alfred, a small guy sitting ramrod straight next to his defense team. The boy’s height and weight make him appear at least a few years younger than his actual age. Taylor turns to Barnes again, "Does the state even have 13-year-olds in its computer bank?" he asks. They do, insists Detective Barnes, but the answer seems unimportant.

  Taylor, his questioning finished, puts down the photo lineups and apologizes profusely to Alfred’s aunt and mother for his outburst. They say it’s okay. The other courtroom observers breathe a sigh of relief and go back to slight slouches and crossed legs. But the judge has definitely made his point.

  A few hours later, he decides that identifications made with those lineups cannot be used against Alfred Anderson in court.

  Yet the lineups can be considered crucial, invaluable evidence in a larger argument, one that’s being argued in courtrooms and communities across the nation. How, people are asking, can we treat juveniles fairly within a justice system that’s increasingly treating them like adults?