Steve Bogira – Author of “Courtroom 302: A Year Behind the Scenes in an American Criminal Courthouse”

In his book, “Courtroom 302: A Year Behind the Scenes in an American Criminal Courthouse,” author and journalist Steve Bogira spends a year observing the culture and events within the Cook County Criminal Courthouse. Though primarily a critique of the War on Drugs and the criminal justice system at-large, his analysis illuminates a stark, conflicting dichotomy between the intent and reality behind the construction of the courthouse. In other words, where the architects behind the courthouse sought to use the building and its design as aiding the administration of criminal justice, in reality it is actively contributing to the broken legal system it was designed to reform (Hammett).

While designed with preserving the inmates dignity in mind (Noel), Bogira asserts that the Greco-Roman majesty of the building and its powerful stature feels out of place in light of its location: “With its broad columns and Greco-Roman flourishes, the building resembles a museum— but no tour buses, and few cabs, ever venture to this location, six miles southwest of downtown.” Not only is the courthouse inaccessible and out-of-sight from the general public, but those incriminated do not have the luxury of seeing its ornamental features, instead condemned to dark, cramped jail cells. When speaking of Peter Toneman’s eight allegorical figures, which Bogira likens to “police lineup subjects ordered to face forward,” he notes that their high placement on the building renders them “[in]visible from the back of a police wagon.” That is, the ideals of justice and love these statues and Latin inscriptions propagate do not actually service those in most need of the reminders they provide.

Allegorical Figures by Olivia Yarvis

Furthermore, while Bogira adds that the courthouse’s Neoclassical features, both on the exterior and interior, “impressed reporters,” it takes little more than a glance at the building to realize the ideals of sophistication and justice are quite literally just a façade. Citing the building’s April 1 opening date, one judge quoted in the book called the building in which he works “Chicago’s worst April Fool’s joke.” This can likely be attributed to the fact that despite the SPQC engraving on the building’s exterior which suggests the people of Chicago have agency and respect from the government, the building’s restrooms have inoperable sinks, missing toilets and stall doors, graffiti, and broken ceiling tiles. Thus, summed up aptly by prosecutor Andrew Dalkin, also quoted in Bogira’s book, is a building whose architects were “trying to add beauty to a place that’s beyond beautification.” 

Chicago Appleseed Center for Fair Courts

The Chicago Appleseed Center for Fair Courts is a non-profit organization, who among several other goals, champions access to justice, “identifying and advocating for reforms that will make the management of our courts more efficient and fair.” In December 2007, and in a Next City article from the center’s law and policy analyst Katy Welter, the organization argues—echoing many of Steve Bogira’s points—that the Cook County Criminal Courthouse does not uphold the standard needed to provide due justice to those who enter its walls. 

Courtesy of Chicago Appleseed Center for Fair Courts

Citing a statement from the Supreme Court the organization’s report notes that “justice must satisfy the appearance of justice,” but in the case of the Cook County Criminal Courthouse, “it too often appears threatening, chaotic and hostile through the eyes of the public it serves.” Not only does this provide a stark contrast to the exterior’s majestic Neoclassical stature and the intention of its designers, but the Appleseed Center even argues that “the Court’s dignified exterior created an unjustified expectation of conditions inside the building.” In other words, they argue that a Chicagoan facing trial could perhaps glance up at the Iustitia and Veritas inscriptions, or the allegorical figures and believe that they are entering a caring system, only to be mislead and funneled into one of the most trafficked jails in the nation.

Chicago Appleseed report also calls into question the racial dynamics and discrimination that is baked into the courthouse as potently as its ornamental allegorical figures are permanently affixed to the exterior. The report mentions, among other findings to this end, that “court observers noted that most of the judges and attorneys are white and that most observers on the other side of the barrier are black or Hispanic.” While this research has not yielded any direct statements by public figures involved in the courthouse’s construction that overtly are racist or white supremacist in nature, as aptly summarized by artist and writer Maya Mackrandilal, “Neoclassicism is the style of authority, of power, of money, of the mythology of white dominance over this land. It is also the aesthetics that presides over our public lives. The aesthetics that protects some while carefully alienating others.” This statement is particularly salient considering Bogira’s aforementioned statements about the levels of alienation the courthouse produces.  

Jason Meisner, Reporter at The Chicago Tribune

In his article, “26th and Cal courthouse rich with history and charm,” Chicago Tribune reporter Jason Meisner opts for a more positive take on the Cook County Criminal Courthouse’s storied and controversial history. Perhaps attempting to add an aura of whimsy and reverence to a detrimental degree, he nevertheless addresses that the building is infamous not solely for its reputation as a highly-trafficked and often unjust symbol of Chicago and America’s criminal justice systems at large. 

According to Meisner's reading of the courthouse, “the old-school nature of the building lurks in every corner,” finding a charm in its isolated location and the lack of nearby neighborhood amenities such as a Starbucks. Calling upon its history as a movie and television set location, Meisner likewise states that “26th and Cal looks like something from the movies,” and describes its daily activities – the processing of thousands of cases and inmates a day – as the “daily pageant.” Deciding to shy away from a critique of the courthouse’s discrepancy between intent and reality, Meisner also comments on the courthouse’s role “in that grand tradition [of] iconography touting respect for the law… it's the last of that kind of era of courthouses being a monument to the law."

In sum, Meisner’s chief contention is that “while the courthouse is often labeled outdated, those who work here for the most part simply prefer to call it "old school.” However, he adds that “through the decades, [a] love-hate relationship has remained,” between the patrons and employees and the building. Despite the decrepit bathroom facilities as mentioned by Chicago Appleseed, or the mice and cold temperatures that pervade its halls, the employees quoted in Meisner’s article, such as presiding judge Paul Beibel, carry an immense sense of civic pride for the building in which they work. In their opinion, the building is representative not only that they as legal professionals “made it to the big leagues,” but that it’s symbolic of a by-gone era of immense government spending on public buildings, and one in which Neoclassicism was the popular style (Meisner).