A Day in Oconee County Court - August 20, 2024

From the Oconee County General Session proceedings on August 23, 2024.

Note: This is my visit to a court session as a journalist. I will get more organized and include names and case details in the future. If anyone involved in these cases would like to say their side or add any details, I can amend this article or publish additional supporting articles. Just contact us as info@oconeenews.org.

As I entered the courtroom, I was struck by how many familiar faces I saw. It dawned on me just how entangled I had become with the Oconee County courts. The session began about an hour late, with the judge apologizing for the delay, citing morning meetings. When he finally entered, a man in a solid orange jumpsuit and shackles was already standing at a table directly in front of him.

From the reactions of the attorneys, it was clear they felt the judge was being lenient. The man was ordered to be released, but warned to pay his bills or face jail time again. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of job prospects this man had. It felt like a setup—he’s being let out today with an impossible task that, if unmet, would land him back in jail in a few months. As the judge moved on to the next case, he proclaimed, “All must pay the piper.”

The cases alternated between men in orange being brought from the holding cell attached to the courtroom—the same room I was in on July 17—and members of the audience. It was clear that the judge was in a lenient mood. He was talkative and playful with the prosecuting attorneys, making dry jokes about age and who was falling asleep in court. His immediate audience seemed to find these jokes amusing. At one point, he acknowledged the overcrowding in the jail. Perhaps this leniency wasn’t due to the judge’s mood, but because there was limited space in the "Inn."

I initially sat in the media section at the far back of the court, just taking in the scene. A tall, skinny, older bald guard who knows me well from the downstairs booth approached and told me I needed to move. He knows I’m working to expose the crooked cops like Jimmy Dixon and the judges like Danny Singleton. When I asked why I had to move, he pointed to the sign that said "media and court personnel only." I said I was media, to which he replied, “No you’re not.” The defense attorney next to me and I shared a laugh, and I moved to a better seat.

The most harrowing hearing started off like the others. A man was in for a probation violation. He claimed he found a gun with a large amount of ammunition on the side of the road, put it in his vehicle, and never reported it. The crazy part was that the judge seemed to find this story plausible. The man explained his difficulties in finding work due to his criminal record and how he had $1,500 per month in psychiatric medication bills. His public defender, a competent and articulate woman, whispered in his ear a few times, likely to convey confidence in front of the judge.

The tone shifted when a young woman was asked by the judge to read her prepared statement. She described how this man, her uncle, groomed her to keep secrets from her parents and coached her into installing a private messaging app on her phone. She recounted how, at age 14, he told her he wanted her "first time" to be special. Her detailed statement left no doubt—she was accusing him of repeatedly sexually assaulting her from age 14, and he had never received proper punishment for these crimes.

Before she began, it seemed like this man was headed for the same lenient treatment as the others. The judge showed compassion for his situation and rationalized his decision aloud. He clearly thought the man needed to keep his job and decided on 90 days of weekend time, the most he could impose without overcrowding the jail.

There’s some truth in that decision. The man now has to check into the jail on Friday, go through booking, get strip-searched, receive a mat and bedding, and be placed in a cell—likely not in general population due to the nature of his crime. He’ll be released Sunday evening and do this 45 times over the next year. Ninety days in jail after being caught with a gun and a lot of ammo in his vehicle while on probation.

Occasionally, a name would be called, and the person wouldn’t be present. The first time this happened, there was a conversation around the bench, a request for a bench warrant, and the judge issued it. Eventually, the process became routine: the name was called in court, then three times in the hall by the door officer, and then the judge said, “bench warrant,” and the court moved on.

Many cases were “financial.” The judge clearly saw these as less serious. He would ask, “Financial?” with a tone that suggested these were trivial matters. He reminded people that they could get jail time if bills weren’t paid but mostly ordered restructuring of payments, adjusting back bills along with current and future payments to create a realistic payment plan.

I doubt many of these “criminals” will pay back their debt without serving more time in jail. It’s interesting that the capacity to get and hold employment isn’t considered. It seems to me that most of these men are destitute.

One young woman was there owing restitution due to a crime she and a friend committed. They were ordered to pay separately, but complications arose when some stolen items were confiscated by the Myrtle Beach Police and possibly transferred to Oconee County, yet never returned to the rightful owner. This muddled what was actually owed. The young woman had managed to pay a $10,000 single payment, which raised eyebrows, given her punk-style attire and shaved hair. I wondered where she got the money—likely from a friend or family member. This process seems hard on everyone who cares about the convicted, taking money and time from those who are already struggling.

The victim spoke from the pews, saying she had to constantly pester the woman to pay the debt. Apparently, the other perpetrator, the young woman’s friend, had been diligently paying $86 a month. After some unorganized yet complete discourse, the judge ruled that the young woman could pay $100 a month and avoid being called back to court. However, he warned that this would not be enough to meet the final deadline, meaning she would either have to find more money or eventually return to jail.

Several people were in for restitution—the court-ordered repayment of damages to the victim. One woman told me she was caught because her friend told her mom, who then called the police. Now she owed more than $20,000. She was called up, had a quick exchange about the “financial” situation, and the judge set a payment plan. He gave her the same warning: failure to pay the full restitution on time would result in jail time.

Most of the “financial” proceedings were resolved quickly with a simple agreement to restructure payments, handled by the probation officer. No one who could be let go was going to jail today. The judge was in a good mood, perhaps because the jail was full.

During one of the short recesses, I asked the woman next to me where the scam of the court was. She mentioned ankle monitors, claiming that the companies running the monitoring systems in Oconee and Pickens counties had relationships with the courts to secure contracts. She believed there was a disproportionate amount of monitoring, which placed a financial burden on the people being monitored and profited private interests.

At one point, four men in orange were shuffled in together, all for ankle monitor offenses. The judge remarked that he likes to give people a break, giving the group some optimism. They’d been in the holding cell, possibly unaware that many had received breaks today. A man standing to the left of the prosecutor detailed the ankle monitor violations, working closely with the prosecutor and advocating for the violations to be upheld. The process felt fishy—this man seemed to be acting beyond the capacity of an expert witness. I believe he was from DCT Detections, a company in Seneca, though it was hard to hear everything from where we sat.

In a similar display of efficiency, five men dressed in orange and one from the civilian population were lined up in front of the judge. The judge swore them in together and asked a series of questions like, “Has anyone threatened you in making this plea?” They all pleaded guilty before being heard one at a time.

I know this trick well from hearing so many complaints in jail. If they plead “not guilty,” they’ll be sent back to jail to await their trial. If they plead guilty, especially on a day like today, they’ll be let out on “time served” with a fresh mark on their criminal record. One man said pleading not guilty in Oconee is the same as arguing with the judge, and that never ends well. The rumor in jail is that Oconee County has one of the highest conviction rates in the country.

With these five men, the solicitor pushed for jail time. The first man was told to pay $550 in 10 days, and his warrant was lifted. The next case was about an ankle monitor violation. This man had violated the policy many times, but this was his first time before the judge. Apparently, there’s a new policy regarding ankle monitors that everyone seems confused about. The judge considered letting him off light, but the prosecutors, after conferring among themselves, highlighted the man’s long criminal record. The judge joked about the “order of operations” at the prosecutor's table before sentencing the man more aggressively than initially planned.

Throughout the day, the judge took time to joke and tell stories. It was hard to read him—what was his true purpose? One man was charged with damaging a bus, prompting the judge to tell a story about friends who stole a bus in the 50s, concluding with, “It was the 50s, you could get away with it then.” At another point, the judge asked if anyone remembered his previous clerk, mentioning that he had tested as a match to donate a kidney to her. He said this in the same off-the-cuff manner as his jokes about sleeping lawyers, stealing a bus, or saying “financial.” It made me wonder if he truly understood the gravity of donating a kidney, especially since he’s not a young man. If he does understand and is a man of his word, I might have to rethink my characterization of him.

When he says “financial” the way he does, is he really being dismissive? Is he letting people off because the jail is full? If so, then the opposite must also be true—he incarcerates more people when the jail is empty. That would be a nasty characterization of the judge, but it seems likely. If he’s letting people off with payments they can’t make, they’ll be back when the jail is less full. Perhaps he’s a complex man capable of both.

I have to ask myself how he thinks all these people are going to pay the money he’s ordered. Almost everyone leaving was assigned to pay money. My guess is that most don’t have cars, most have criminal records, and most have long since used up any favors from friends and family. Some of the debt amounts, like $20,000 in two years, seem impossible given the circumstances. It seems obvious that many of the people leaving will be driven back to criminal sources of income. Does this judge understand this, and if so, does he care? It’s hard to imagine a scenario where the majority are employed with jobs capable of paying their bills to survive, let alone their debts to “the man.”

Men are given the option of pleading guilty or waiting for a trial. Many have been in jail for some time. Pleading guilty means they may be released today on “time served,” with an addition to their criminal record. A plea of not guilty, I assume, would trigger a trial sometime in the future, and the inmate would remain incarcerated until then. It seems like a solid strategy for increasing conviction rates without wasting court time on seeking justice. Additionally, “time served” is an arbitrary amount. If a judge sentences a man to three months and he gets out in 18 months on good behavior, I understand the process. But if a man serves 152 days because a leaf fire got out of control and burned the neighbor’s grass, then pleads guilty to get out today, and is sentenced to “time served,” the 152 days feels random. His punishment becomes the amount of time the court takes to get around to hearing his case—it has nothing to do with matching the punishment to the crime.

If this is my first visit and I have these concerns, how does the judge not see the same problems? He’s not just complicit; he’s participating in this never-ending disaster. Could this be the same judge who’s willing to nonchalantly give up a kidney to a former coworker? I’m left bewildered.

The day ended with a man receiving two three-year sentences to be served simultaneously at 15% time, meaning 18 months. The man had already served 474 days, almost 16 months. The public defender, the one who drinks her Starbucks with her red nail-painted pinky out in a picture-perfect cliché, argued well for this man. She had been on one of his previous cases but wasn’t his lawyer today. She laid out a background story and stood her ground against the prosecutor. She spoke well and went out of her way to be prepared, even though it wasn’t her case. She was excited and turned around to pump her fist and mouth “yes” after the judge read the sentence. I agree—she was well-spoken and passionate.

I waited for Mr. Abdalla, the lead public defender, in the hallway. I asked if he remembered me from the probate court. He looked concerned, so I assured him I wasn’t upset with him. I don’t know the details of his private conversation with Judge Singleton about me before I was illegally incarcerated, but I have no reason to believe he did anything wrong. I told him I just wanted to let him know that my Initial Brief of Appellant had been filed and that his name was in it. He was appreciative. We discussed how his friend’s son was the man who impersonated a lawyer when representing me. He made a reference to Suits, the Netflix series.