Youth crime: A sense of gloom pervades the Children's Court, where the Children's Act seems to have made little or no difference, writes Joe Humphreys
He doesn't look like a bad kid. But, then, who does among the juveniles who file into the Children's Court in Dublin each day?
"Previous convictions?" Judge Mary Collins asks.
"Assault of a garda burglary failing to appear in court two offences of larceny handling stolen property assault causing harm "
The garda only reaches as far back as last March before the judge interrupts.
"All right," she sighs. She has heard enough.
The youth sitting before her left school when he was just 12 years old. Five years on, he is only starting to get an education at St Patrick's Institution. Both of his latest convictions are for theft, the first of a mobile phone, the second of a naggin of vodka and two cans of beer. In the latter case, the teenager struck a man across the back, apparently with a corner flag from a football pitch, before robbing him.
The boy's solicitor tells the court her client is "in need of some intervention". But where can he be sent? A dearth of places in secure, therapeutic units limits a judge's options in every case.
Judge Collins sentences the teenager to four months in detention. It's either that or let him walk free.
Of course, the juvenile justice system is not meant to be like this - not since the Children's Act came into force in July 2001. But promised new "high support" places haven't materialised, nor family welfare conferences, nor other early-intervention initiatives aimed at keeping teenagers away from the courts or detention. "The only bit of the Act they're talking about enforcing is getting parents to pay for their children's crimes," notes an incredulous Father Peter McVerry, a frequent visitor to the court to speak up for offenders.
Solicitors claim not to have seen a school attendance officer at the Children's Court in Dublin for the past two years. It's hardly surprising when only 70 of 300 promised officers have been appointed, and some of the most deprived areas of the city remain without one.
Cutbacks announced in the Estimates, including an 8 per cent drop in funding for probationary and welfare services for offenders, have added to the sense of gloom.
"Everyone is more or less in despair at the moment," a probation officer confides. "People feel their efforts are being knocked down at every turn."
Even at the best of times, the Children's Court doesn't have it easy, struggling to adjudicate over juveniles hell-bent on ruining, primarily, their own lives.
Is this girl's shrug of the shoulders bravado or insolence? Does this boy need an arm around him or a kick up the backside? Such questions can't easily be answered. Perhaps inevitably, the overall sense one gets from proceedings is exasperation.
"I would love to try to understand what is going on in your mind"
Judge Collins addresses a 16-year-old girl who is up in court for the second day running, having been arrested for public order offences in a breach of her conditions of bail.
"You do have intelligence and you know that," the judge remarks. "You knew you were going to be remanded in custody."
"I did, yeah," the girl replies with a grin.
Nor is it just teenagers who can be difficult to manage.
One defendant's mother waltzes into the courtroom singing an Elton John song. "Are you ready? Are you ready for love?" Her 15-year-old son has admitted committing 43 offences, including several counts of larceny, assault and criminal damage.
Referring to an unprovoked assault on a man in the city centre, the judge says: "You really need to know what it's like to be in the other person's shoes."
"It happened to him a few weeks ago," the boy's mother interrupts. "On the way back from court, four young fellas jumped on him."
The judge ignores what might be considered contempt in another court. "One day," she continues, "you will wake up - I keep saying this - and you will say 'what have I done with the last five years'?"
"It's up to himself," the boy's mother butts in again. "He is old enough now."
The boy is lucky. He gets six months to clean up his act or face a long custodial sentence.
The judgment is typical of those delivered in the Children's Court, according to lawyers working there. "Judges tend to go the extra yard," says one solicitor. "Someone who has used up all their chances as an adult would get more leeway if it was felt they were young and still maturing."
The conveyer-belt nature of the situation gives some people pangs of guilt, among them solicitor mr Pól Ó Murchú, who says he has "grave reservations" about the operation of the courts.
"This is not a criticism of the courts' staff but I think everyone needs training, myself included, in how to best deal with these young people."
Like many others involved in the juvenile justice system, he questions the appropriateness of bringing teenagers into a criminal law environment.
Although judges have begun to attach conditions to bail, such as barring offenders from loitering in the vicinity of Smithfield, concerns still linger that the Children's Court acts as an academy for young offenders.
"Frequently," says Mr Ó Murchú, "the courts are asked to solve problems they are not equipped to solve. The young people come from families that are hugely disadvantaged and those families need to be resourced. Until society is prepared to deal with poverty you can talk about this, that, or the other, but it's not going to work.
"If I had one message, it's support principals in schools."
With an increase in its caseload, the Dublin Children's Court now sits for five full days a week, taking up to 30 remand cases in the morning, and hearing about half dozen in the afternoon.
As with most days, there is no good news story. But one case has promise, the last of the day, involving a 16-year-old boy, David (not his real name), who was orphaned as an infant and, since he was seven, has been battling through the High Court for an appropriate residential place. His guardian says David needs a "significantly more structured" environment to stop him from absconding and getting into trouble, most recently in August 2002 when he accumulated charges for phone-theft, shoplifting and being a passenger in a stolen car.
Since then, however, he has begun to mend his ways. "I am hugely happy," Judge Collins tells the teenager. "You can congratulate yourself as well."
David's local health board says it might have a place available for him within a week. His case is adjourned pending a decision on the matter.
"I don't want any absconding," says the judge, before David gets up to leave. "That is the one thing I do not want."
David smiles and gives a thumbs-up signal.
Will he go straight? The court rises with more hope than expectation.