“KEEP THE CHILD SILENT OR LEAVE THE COURTROOM!” That’s what the judge is yelling as I walk into Part N, past a scattering of disheveled men sitting listlessly in the pews, heading toward the heavy steel door that leads to the pens, and to Malik.
The judge’s rage is directed at a young woman in a puffy black down jacket. She is sitting in the second row, just 10 feet shy of the door to the pens with a three year old seated primly in her lap. Just beyond the rail separating the well from the spectators, a kid is sitting handcuffed to a chair. He is waiting to be sentenced. He has a youthful tough face, and he is blowing kisses to the three-year. The child is saying “Daddy… Daddy!” The kid beams. “Take the child outside!” shouts the nearest court officer.
So much for Daddy.