27
Jun
16

rip bill cunningham

I never knew about this man until I viewed a documentary about him sometime in the last year. His life was so extraordinary in a simple way, I am devoting this post to his memory. It is the least I can do.

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Bill Cunningham, Legendary Times Fashion Photographer, Dies at 87

by Jacob Bernstein, The New York Times

June 25, 2016

Bill Cunningham, who turned fashion photography into his own branch of cultural anthropology on the streets of New York, chronicling an era’s ever-changing social scene for The New York Times by training his busily observant lens on what people wore—stylishly, flamboyantly or just plain sensibly—died on Saturday in Manhattan. He was 87.

His death was confirmed by The Times. He had been hospitalized recently after having a stroke.

Mr. Cunningham was such a singular presence in the city that, in 2009, he was designated a living landmark. And he was an easy one to spot, riding his bicycle through Midtown, where he did most of his field work: his bony-thin frame draped in his utilitarian blue French worker’s jacket, khaki pants and black sneakers (he himself was no one’s idea of a fashion plate), with his 35-millimeter camera slung around his neck, ever at the ready for the next fashion statement to come around the corner.

Nothing escaped his notice: not the fanny packs, not the Birkin bags, not the gingham shirts, not the fluorescent biker shorts.

In his nearly 40 years working for The Times, Mr. Cunningham snapped away at changing dress habits to chart the broader shift away from formality and toward something more diffuse and individualistic.

At the Pierre hotel on the East Side of Manhattan, he pointed his camera at tweed-wearing blue-blood New Yorkers with names like Rockefeller and Vanderbilt. Downtown, by the piers, he clicked away at crop-top-wearing Voguers. Up in Harlem, he jumped off his bicycle—he rode more than 30 over the years, replacing one after another as they were wrecked or stolen—for B-boys in low-slung jeans.

In the process, he turned into something of a celebrity himself.

In 2008, Mr. Cunningham went to Paris, where the French government bestowed him with the Legion of Honor. In New York, he was celebrated at Bergdorf Goodman, where a life-size mannequin of him was installed in the window.

It was the New York Landmarks Conservancy that made him a living landmark in 2009, the same year The New Yorker, in a profile, described his On the Street and Evening Hours columns as the city’s unofficial yearbook: “an exuberant, sometimes retroactively embarrassing chronicle of the way we looked.”

In 2010, a documentary, “Bill Cunningham New York,” premiered at the Museum of Modern Art to glowing reviews.

Yet Mr. Cunningham told nearly anyone who asked about it that the attendant publicity was a total hassle, a reason for strangers to approach and bother him.

He wanted to find subjects, not be the subject. He wanted to observe, rather than be observed. Asceticism was a hallmark of his brand.

He didn’t go to the movies. He didn’t own a television. He ate breakfast nearly every day at the Stage Star Deli on West 55th Street, where a cup of coffee and a sausage, egg and cheese could be had, until very recently, for under $3. He lived until 2010 in a studio above Carnegie Hall amid rows and rows of file cabinets, where he kept all of his negatives. He slept on a single-size cot, showered in a shared bathroom and, when he was asked why he spent years ripping up checks from magazines like Details (which he helped Annie Flanders launch in 1982), he said: “Money’s the cheapest thing. Liberty and freedom is the most expensive.”

Although he sometimes photographed upward of 20 gala events a week, he never sat down for dinner at any of them and would wave away people who walked up to him to inquire whether he would at least like a glass of water.

Instead, he stood off to the side photographing women like Annette de la Renta and Mercedes Bass in their beaded gowns and tweed suits. As Anna Wintour put it in the documentary about Mr. Cunningham, “I’ve said many times, ‘We all get dressed for Bill.’”

Mr. Cunningham’s position as a perennial outsider among a set of consummate insiders was part of what made him uniquely well suited to The Times.

“His company was sought after by the fashion world’s rich and powerful, yet he remained one of the kindest, most gentle and humble people I have ever met,” said Arthur Ochs Sulzberger Jr., The Times’s publisher and chairman. “We have lost a legend, and I am personally heartbroken to have lost a friend.”

Dean Baquet, The Times’s executive editor, said: “He was a hugely ethical journalist. And he was incredibly open-minded about fashion. To see a Bill Cunningham street spread was to see all of New York. Young people. Brown people. People who spent fortunes on fashion and people who just had a strut and knew how to put an outfit together out of what they had and what they found.”

Michele McNally, The Times’s director of photography, said: “Bill was an extraordinary man, his commitment and passion unparalleled, his gentleness and humility inspirational. Even though his talents were very well known, he preferred to be anonymous, something unachievable for such a superstar. I will miss him every day.”

Mr. Cunningham particularly loved eccentrics, whom he collected like precious seashells.

One was Shail Upadhya, whose work as a Nepalese diplomat is perhaps less memorable than his penchant for polka dots, Pucci prints and other assorted peculiarities, like a self-designed floral-print coat made from his retired sofa.

Another was Iris Apfel, a Palm Beach socialite who became the subject of Albert Maysles’s last documentary film only after Mr. Cunningham took pictures of her on the street in her shiny black saucerlike glasses and chunky costume jewelry.

“Bill photographed me before anyone knew who I was,” Ms. Apfel said. “At 94, I’ve become a cover girl, and he was very largely responsible for my ultimate success.”

Mr. Cunningham’s most frequent observation spot during the day was Fifth Avenue and 57th Street, where he became as much a part of the scenery as Tiffany & Company. His camera clicked constantly as he spotted fashions and moved with gazellelike speed to record his subjects at just the right angle.

“Everyone knew to leave him alone when he saw a sneaker he liked or a dress that caught his eye,” said Harold Koda, the former curator in charge at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute.

“Because if you were in the way of someone he wanted to photograph,” said Kim Hastreiter, the editor of Paper magazine and a friend of Mr. Cunningham’s, “he would climb over you to get it. He was like a war photographer that way, except that what he was photographing were clothes.”

“When I’m photographing,” Mr. Cunningham once said, “I look for the personal style with which something is worn—sometimes even how an umbrella is carried or how a coat is held closed. At parties, it’s important to be almost invisible, to catch people when they’re oblivious to the camera—to get the intensity of their speech, the gestures of their hands. I’m interested in capturing a moment with animation and spirit.”

William John Cunningham Jr. was born on March 13, 1929, in Boston, the second of four children in an Irish Catholic family.

In middle school, he used bits of material he got from a dime store to put together hats, one of which he gave to his mother to wear to the New York World’s Fair in 1939. “She never wore it,” Mr. Cunningham once said. “My family all thought I was a little nuts.”

As a teenager, he got a part-time job at the department store Bonwit Teller, then received a scholarship to Harvard, only to drop out after two months. “They thought I was an illiterate,” he said. “I was hopeless, but I was a visual person.”

With nothing to do in Boston and his parents pressuring him to find some direction, he moved to New York, where he took a room with an uncle, Tom Harrington, who had an ownership stake in an advertising agency.

“My family thought they could indoctrinate me in that business, that living with my uncle, it would brush off,” Mr. Cunningham said. “But it didn’t work. I had always been interested in fashion.”

So when Mr. Harrington issued his nephew an ultimatum—“quit making hats or get out of my apartment”—Mr. Cunningham chose the latter, relocating to a ground-floor apartment on East 52nd Street that doubled as a showroom for his fox-edged fedoras and zebra-stenciled toques.

To make extra money, Mr. Cunningham began freelancing a column in Women’s Wear Daily, then quit sometime in the early 1960s after getting into a feud with its publisher, John Fairchild, over who was a better designer: André Courrèges or Yves Saint Laurent.

“John killed my story,” Mr. Cunningham later recalled. “He said, ‘No, no, Saint Laurent is the one.’ And that was it for me. When they wouldn’t publish the Courrèges article the way I saw it, I left.”

By then, feminism was on the ascent, and bell-bottoms paired with flouncy tops were replacing pink suits and pillbox hats. To Mr. Cunningham, it was becoming clear that his days as a milliner were numbered.

Around 1967, he got his first camera and used it to take pictures of the “Summer of Love,” when he realized the action was out on the street. He started taking assignments for The Daily News and The Chicago Tribune, and he became a regular contributor to The Times in the late 1970s. Over the next two decades, he declined repeated efforts by his editors to get him to take a staff position.

“Once people own you,” he would say, “they can tell you what to do. So don’t let ’em.”

That changed in 1994, after Mr. Cunningham was hit by a truck while riding his bicycle. Explaining why he had finally accepted The Times’s offer, he said, “It was a matter of health insurance.”

Occasionally, Mr. Cunningham allowed people to celebrate him in one way or another. For example, in 1993, he was honored by the Council of Fashion Designers of America and biked onto the stage to accept his award. But that was largely out of character.

Later on, Mr. Koda approached him to see if he would be interested in curating a retrospective of his pictures at the Met. Mr. Cunningham turned him down.

“He said to me, ‘I have a job I love,’” Mr. Koda recalled. “He thought it would be a diversion. He did what he loves, and what he loved is documenting this very ephemeral world.”

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Mr. Cunningham was a reluctant participant in his own documentary. According to its director, Richard Press, Mr. Cunningham would agree to be interviewed, then spend months canceling or postponing shoots. Mr. Cunningham said until his death that he had not seen the film.

“We tried to get him to go to the opening,” Mr. Press said. “He just said: ‘Oh, kids, you made a movie. I’m too busy.’ He came to our opening-night party and he photographed it. He put the directors from the festival in his column, but he didn’t even say why they were there or what they were celebrating.”

Mr. Cunningham also resisted the trends of celebrity dressing. He had seen actresses in their fishtail dresses preening and posing before the phalanxes of photographers at ceremonies like the Golden Globes and the Oscars. They were poised. They looked pretty. Yet he could not muster enthusiasm for them.

It wasn’t simply that he was nostalgic for another time, back when famous women like Lauren Bacall and Brooke Astor actually dressed themselves. That era may have held a certain appeal for him, but even when he was in his 70s and 80s, he still had plenty of subjects he loved to shoot.

One was Louise Doktor, an administrative assistant at a New York holding company who had a coat with four sleeves and a handbag made from a soccer ball. Another was Andre J., a bearded man with a taste for off-the-shoulder, ’70s-inspired dresses.

“He had people who recurred in his columns,” Mr. Koda said. “Most of them were not famous. They were working people he was interested in. His thing was personal style.”

Mr. Cunningham put it this way in an essay he wrote for The Times in 2002: “Fashion is as vital and as interesting today as ever. I know what people with a more formal attitude mean when they say they’re horrified by what they see on the street. But fashion is doing its job. It’s mirroring exactly our times.”

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Jacob Bernstein, son of  Nora Ephron and Carl Bernstein, is a contributor to The New York Times. Enid Nemy contributed to this story.

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Bill Cunningham photograph of a stylish dresser in yellow.

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Weather Report

80° Partly Cloudy and Rain

26
Jun
16

no regrets

punishment for parricide.

Many readers will look at yesterday’s post about Noah Crooks as a setback to our efforts. They will look at the decisions that Derek and Alex King have made as a squandering of opportunity, an abuse of those of us who have tried to help them, an argument against leniency or reasonableness in sentencing. They will look at recent articles about Jordan Brown that even in the case of an innocent boy, the system is prejudiced against fairness.

The vast majority of juvenile parricides are serving unspeakably long sentences in prison. In Texas, 40-year sentences seem almost de rigueur. We have one kid who is serving a 99-year sentence, fixed by his jury after only 4 minutes of deliberation. Though ruled unconstitutional by the US Supreme Court, some juvenile parricides in other states are still serving Life Without Parole, if not legally, then at least virtually through commutations to impossibly long sentences.

This is not a cause for the faint-hearted. There are likely to be more “losses” than “wins” in our future—at least until society develops more of a gene for compassion.

In the rare event that a juvenile parricide is released from prison, most remain untreated—or unsuccessfully treated—for underlying mental conditions, and have been indoctrinated for years in the prison culture that violence is an effective means of getting what they want. In the free world it isn’t, but many will try.

In ancient Rome, the murder of any father was seen as so beyond the pale that the punishment was for the parricide to be beaten to a pulp, sewn into a bag with a dog, a snake, and a rooster, and to be thrown into the Tiber to experience certain mutilation and death. I think that we have progressed beyond this point—but not that far.

The truth is, parricide is a very complicated crime. In the majority of cases, parricide results from a proliferation of bad parents whom we are tempted to say “had it coming.” In the case of a parent who sexually trespasses his/her child, the “justification” for parricide seems pretty cut-and-dried. The case of a parent who severely beats or berates their offspring is almost as clear. In the cases of parents who are merely inept (such as Terry King), the “justification” for the parent’s fate is less clear. In the cases of mentally-ill kids who kill good parents—a Noah Crooks, for example—the “justification” is most unclear of all and seen as unlucky as an auto accident. To the lazy or credulous jury, sewing the kid in a bag in all cases must seem so much more simple than sorting out all the contributing causes.

In my regular phone conversations with Lone Heron, she has stressed time and again that the decisive factor in a parricide’s redemption is whether or not an offender wants to become self-reliant and go straight. She is in the minority and one of the most admirable people I know. Unfortunately, our practice of trying juvenile parricides as adults (and the press access it provides) helps cement their identities as jailbirds, incorrigibles, and murderers with fawning Internet followings. I have seen it with my own eyes. They are transformed from parricides to parasites, unwilling and incapable of moving beyond the sources of their notoriety.

After the events of two weekends ago, my son Henry questions this crazy commitment to parricides. At one point in the past I had urged Henry to meet with Derek in person and he even considered a roommate arrangement. Luckily, Derek was a no-show and my son was not entangled in my work. Henry knows I will not throw out the baby with the bathwater, and will be satisfied with results that would turn off most other retirees who only want to live out their days in unchallenging ways. My doctor has recommended that I get into a new line of work. My neighbors are relieved that I have sent Derek away and his unpredictability is no longer a factor to be considered.

But like Henry, they all know that I am undeterred. They know that I have no regrets about having backed into this work. They know I am engaged in a lifetime search for kids—even a single one—who will break the mold and defy people’s low expectations.

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86° and Rain

 

 

25
Jun
16

unremorseful

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In an emotional court hearing on Monday, Noah Crooks, a 17-year-old Osage IA boy convicted in 2013 of the second-degree murder of his mother Gretchen when Noah was 13, was sentenced to 50 years in prison. Trever Hook, one of Noah’s defense attorneys, told me that Noah’s sentence will be appealed to the Iowa State Supreme Court because it is unclear what the law says should be done in this case. The earliest Noah could be released, he said, is in five years.

Noah will start the sentence in adult prison as soon as he turns 18 this summer. Noah has also been ordered to pay $150,000 in restitution to his father. Under the court order, he will not be given probation, but good behavior and other factors may affect the length of the sentence. The judge says he sees no evidence Noah has been rehabilitated. He will not grant probation and needs time to see if the teen is remorseful.

This case is made more complicated because it appears that the family has washed its hands of the fate of the boy. Noah’s father William took the stand for his victim’s impact statement, saying he feels that if he would have stayed home that night, he wouldn’t be here today. He said his wife didn’t deserve to be shot 22 times while sitting on the couch doing homework after preparing Noah’s favorite meal, adding that Noah has never apologized. He said he blamed himself for years for what his son did and says now Noah needs to learn from the hurt he caused. When describing visiting his son at Eldora State Training School, where he’s been since his conviction, William said, “I love you Noah, but you never brought mom up.”

“You need to pay for taking your mother’s life, kid,” he said.

Noah’s uncle took the stand, saying he loves but can never forgive Noah for depriving him of more memories with his sister. He says he has visited Noah and hugged him because that’s what his sister would have wanted. Noah’s grandfather said in his letter that he believes the teen is a serial killer. His grandmother says she loves him very much but it’s clear he has always lacked empathy. She added that she wants Noah safe but also wants society safe from him. She’s not sure releasing him is the answer.

In his statement, Noah said he’s turned his life over to God and wants a relationship with his family again. While Noah says he is now religious, the state maintains he was never religious during his time at the facility. The state also says Noah wrote in a letter that he tried to revive his mother, but evidence shows he tried to rape her. They maintain a doctor says Noah is developing an antisocial personality disorder, though he has not been diagnosed. The state added that another doctor says Noah doesn’t have a mental illness at all but will remain a threat his entire life—even if he is a model inmate, adding that he will say what he needs to in order to get out.

The judge says he needs to take much into consideration in Noah’s case, adding that he’s happy the teen has found Christ and that it will help him. But he said there’s been a lack of response and empathy following the event.

“Noah, for one reason or another, you just don’t want to deal with what you’ve done,” he said.

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91° and Clear to Partly Cloudy, Isolated Thunderstorms

 

24
Jun
16

acres of diamonds

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Before TV, before radio, even before the movies, and contemporaneous with vaudeville (but considered much more moral and “uplifting”), the great mass-market movement of the age was the Chautauqua. Founded in 1874 and running through the 1920s (when commercialization killed it virtually overnight), the Chautauqua was operated in over 10,000 mostly-rural communities throughout America.

It was called “the university of the common man” and relied on the social and geographic isolation of farming and ranching communities, and Americans’ natural hunger for education, culture, and entertainment. The Chautauqua was essentially a self-education movement. Some Chautauquas were so religiously-oriented that they were essentially church camps, while more secular Chautauquas resembled summer school and competed with vaudeville in theaters and circus tent shows with their animal acts and trapeze acrobats.

A few remnants of the Chautauqua still exist today, but it is now largely forgotten and is nowhere close to the popular movement that it once was.

In the late 19th century, the “Mother Chautauqua” was founded as a training school for Sunday school teachers by Methodist minister John Heyl Vincent and businessman Lewis Miller at a campsite on the shores of Chautauqua Lake in New York State. After 1907, “Daughter Chautauquas” were organized  in tents pitched on  well-drained fields near towns throughout America with good rail service. Lectures were the mainstay of the Chautauqua, and the Redpath Lyceum Bureau organized speakers who moved from town to town to make their presentations. The reform speech and the inspirational talk were the two main types of lecture. Favorite political reform topics in Chautauqua lectures included temperance (even prohibition), women’s suffrage, and child labor laws. Later topics included current events, travel and stories, often with a comedic twist. After several days, the Chautauqua would fold its tents and move on to the next towns.

russell_h_conwellWilliam Jennings Bryan, with his populist and evangelical message addressing topics such as temperance, was the most popular Chautauqua speaker. But the most popular speech was by the prolific speaker (often booked in the same venues with Bryan) Russell H. Conwell, who delivered his famous “Acres of Diamonds” speech 6,000 times to audiences on the Chautauqua and Lyceum circuits. His theme was “get rich young man, for money is power and power ought to be in the hands of good people. I say you have no right to be poor.”

The central idea of the speech is that one need not look elsewhere for opportunity, achievement, or fortune—the resources to achieve all good things are present in one’s own community. This theme is developed by an introductory anecdote, credited by Conwell to an Arab guide, about a man who wanted to find diamonds so badly that he sold his property and went off in futile search for them. The new owner of his home discovered that a rich diamond mine was located right there on the property. Conwell elaborates on the theme through examples of success, genius, service, or other virtues involving ordinary Americans contemporary to his audience: “dig in your own backyard!”

Conwell was an American Baptist minister, orator, philanthropist, lawyer, and writer. He is best remembered as the founder and first president of Temple University in Philadelphia PA. He is said to have raised all the money he needed to found Temple University and to have sent hundreds of poor young men through its portals from the speaking fees he earned on the Chautauqua circuit.

The popularity of the speech is somewhat a mystery today. I have read a text of it, and many commentators besides me have said it falls somewhat flat to modern ears. Some have said that it is meant to be delivered orally, that it doesn’t work in writing. The only thing I can speculate is that the message of “Acres of Diamonds” was a good fit with the Progressive Era and social aspirations that America was experiencing at that time.

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94° and Partly Cloudy

23
Jun
16

and now, a word from our sponsor

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I pay an extra fee to keep ads from popping up on this blogsite.

Yet I know that most people have a love/hate relationship with advertising. Music has been used to sell products for more than a century, since the first jingle was originated by the Washburn-Crosby Company of Minneapolis, the predecessor of General Mills, to popularize Wheaties breakfast cereal.

Since moving to Estrella Vista, I have escaped the commercialization of today’s culture, yet I realize that in a way, ads still help define today’s zeitgeist.

A couple days ago, I heard this segment on public radio, and was fascinated. It runs 8 minutes, and features Matthew Billy, the host of the “Between the Liner Notes” podcast, about the evolution of ad jingles. If you want to hear a more in-depth history of advertising jingles, you can go here for Billy’s May 9th podcast, which runs about 34 minutes.

This post would provide a perfect opportunity for me to include a bunch of YouTube videos of famous ads, but I don’t have the heart to do that to you. Anyway, there are few surprises out there, and you have already seen the ads countless times as a kid. Plus, if you’re motivated, they’re easy enough to find on your own.

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97° and Clear

22
Jun
16

unjust system

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Lawrence County legal case continues to unfold seven years later as teen is released from juvenile center purview

by Karen Kane, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

June 19, 2016

Christopher Brown told his 11-year-old son, Jordan, not to worry as he was put into the back of a state police cruiser and taken to the Lawrence County Jail. Stay strong. You’ll be coming home soon.

“Soon” turned out to be seven years. And counting.

Last Monday, Jordan—now 18 years old—was released from the custody of the juvenile court system. Sort of.

Lawrence County Judge John Hodge ruled that Jordan, who had graduated with honors from a Crawford County high school June 10, could be released from George Junior Republic, a juvenile detention facility in Mercer. Under state law, Jordan could have been held in confinement until he turned 21, having been judged responsible for the 2009 murder of his dad’s fiancee and her unborn son. But, all parties—prosecutors, defense attorneys, and juvenile probation—agreed he had met expectations of juvenile court and should be released.

However, there were conditions: He must meet with juvenile probation and the court periodically; he can go to college but he’s required to live on campus; and he’s not allowed to live with his father, even though his father intends to make his home near that college campus in Erie.

“They stole his childhood from him. They stole his childhood from me. And it just doesn’t end. The hell just goes on and on and on,” said Mr. Brown.

It started on a Friday, Feb. 20, 2009, when 26-year-old Kenzie Marie Houk—nine months pregnant and weeks from delivering her first son—took a single shotgun blast to the back of her head as she slept. Her body was found by her 4-year-old daughter in their farmhouse near New Castle, a home she made with her fiance, Mr. Brown, his son, Jordan, and her daughters, Adalynn, 4, and Jenessa, 7.

At about 2 am the next day, 11-year-old Jordan was awakened by state police troopers and was arrested for homicide. The fifth-grader suddenly had joined one of America’s most exclusive clubs: pre-teen defendants accused of the most serious of crimes.

Because Pennsylvania law requires children as young as 10 to be treated as adult defendants if they are accused in a killing, Jordan was charged as an adult and incarcerated at the Lawrence County Jail. He was given a standard-issue jail jumpsuit. It didn’t fit. Nothing about the situation did.

A flummoxed jail warden pleaded for the child to be moved, but where would he go? These were muddy waters: A juvenile detention center isn’t supposed to take adults and, for legal purposes, Jordan was considered an adult. Even Jordan’s prosecutor—Lawrence County District Attorney John Bongivengo, who was convinced of Jordan’s “guilt”—said he was physically sickened and sleepless over the inadequacy of the system to deal with such a young defendant.

Officials secured a temporary spot at the now defunct Allencrest Center in Beaver County. Within a week, Jordan was moved again, this time more than 100 miles away, to the Edmund L. Thomas Adolescent Detention Center in Erie, a facility designed to be “transitional” for youths.

Though the average stay for residents at “Edmund L.” was three weeks, Jordan was there for three years. Again, he was treading in more muddy water. Because Jordan denied responsibility for killing Kenzie Houk—he still does—prosecutors argued that he wouldn’t be a good candidate for rehabilitation, which is the main thrust of the juvenile court system. They argued if he wasn’t amenable to rehabilitation, then he should be processed through the adult court system where, if found guilty, he would have faced mandatory life in prison—and would have been the youngest “lifer” in America.

His pro-bono defense team, Dennis Elisco of Lawrence County and Steve Colafella of Beaver County, argued that requiring Jordan to admit guilt to gain decertification was a violation of his constitutional right against self-incrimination. The state’s Superior Court set precedent in March 2011 by determining Jordan need not admit guilt to be adjudicated as a juvenile.

An adjudication hearing was set for April 2012, three years after Jordan’s arrest. In a closed-door proceeding, Judge Hodge adjudicated Jordan delinquent of first-degree murder and criminal homicide.

A year later, the state Superior Court determined that Judge Hodge had inadequate evidence to support a guilty verdict. The prosecution appealed to the state Supreme Court, which also ruled in Jordan’s favor. Jordan’s case was returned to Judge Hodge for consideration of a new trial, but the judge denied the request. That decision is on appeal again before state Superior Court.

Much of what has transpired the past seven years for Jordan and his family has been hidden from public view because of his age. When Jordan’s case was “decertified” and he ultimately was deemed a juvenile, his case shifted from the public realm of adult court to the confidential confines of juvenile court. Unlike adult court proceedings, most juvenile proceedings are closed. The news media, including the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, sought unsuccessfully to have Jordan’s hearings opened to the public.

From its start, Jordan’s case garnered worldwide headlines and opinion pieces arguing for changes in the law. It has set court precedent and provoked the ire of juvenile justice advocates. It has focused attention on a judicial and penal system as ill-fitting for a child as the orange jumpsuit Jordan was required to wear in the Lawrence County lockup.

Defense attorney Patrick Thomassey, who has represented a number of juveniles in high-profile cases—including Alex Hribal, who is accused of using a knife to cut or stab 19 students and a security guard at Franklin Regional High School—said there needs to be a blended system.

“It’s stupid what we’re doing,” Mr. Thomassey said.

Because in juvenile court, the system loses jurisdiction when the offender reaches age 21, there is tremendous pressure placed on the judge to keep a case in adult court, he said.

He, like many others in the criminal justice field, suggests a blended system, where when the offender ages out of juvenile jurisdiction, he or she moves into an adult prison, where jurisdiction could continue for five years or more.

To accomplish that change, though, Mr. Thomassey said that prosecutors would have to lobby the Legislature.

“They can get it done if they want to,” he said.

A father’s lament

Christopher Brown, who works as a guard at the state prison in Mercer, consented to speak last week about his son’s case, which continues to unfold.

He said his attorneys believe the appeal pending before Superior Court could vacate the delinquency/guilty verdict against Jordan. In an earlier decision, the same appeals court had ruled there hadn’t been enough evidence against Jordan.

“I know he didn’t do it. He says he didn’t do it. He’s always said he didn’t do it. You have a kid who was wrongfully accused at the age of 11 and has sat through the system, which is a totally messed up system for seven years, shuffled around. And if we get good news in a couple of weeks that he’s acquitted, that’ll be great but it’ll also prove that we were robbed of Jordan’s childhood for no reason,” Mr. Brown said.

He described shock and frustration of the past seven years starting with Jordan’s arrest. “About a six state troopers showed up and said Jordan was being arrested. They put him in handcuffs. They put him in the cruiser. I wasn’t allowed to ride with him. I had to just follow behind,” he recounted.

Within hours he was in the Lawrence County Jail.

He said he remembers looking into the boy’s face and seeing “fear, confusion and sadness.”

Then came the move to a Beaver County juvenile detention center, then Erie, where he remained for three years. During that period, attorneys argued over whether Jordan should be tried as an adult or as a juvenile. The stakes were high. If convicted in juvenile court, he could be confined until he was 21. If found guilty as an adult, he faced mandatory life in jail.

Mr. Brown said he was astounded by the crux of the dispute: Jordan’s consistent denial that he killed Ms. Houk. “They said he wasn’t a good candidate for rehabilitation as a juvenile because he wouldn’t accept responsibility for what he did. Well, he didn’t do it and he didn’t want to say he did it. But, we both realized that if he would have just told them what they wanted to hear, he would have been decertified [and tried as a juvenile] and be placed in treatment and been home in a year and a half.”

He said he and his extended family would tell Jordan to “hang tough, be strong” but he said he was battling a sense of “helplessness that was overwhelming.”

It took about three years but the courts decided that Jordan need not admit responsibility for the killings to be decertified and tried as a juvenile. A juvenile hearing followed that decision. Jordan was found delinquent.

After the finding of delinquency, he was moved to a facility in Chambersburg then to George Junior Republic. Entering as a freshman, he stayed until his senior year where he was so successful academically, behavioraly and socially, that he was allowed to move off campus last fall to a group home in Crawford County that was overseen by George Junior. There, he attended Maplewood High School where he played both football and basketball, and graduated at the top of his class with a near perfect QPA, his dad said.

Mr. Brown said Judge Hodge has ruled Jordan may not live with his father. Instead, he will live with his father’s aunt and uncle in Boardman, Ohio. Mr. Brown said he yearns to share his home with his son before Jordan leaves for college at a university in Erie in the fall.

Mr. Brown, said the uncertainty of his son’s life has created uncertainty in his own life.

“We’ve both had to learn to expect the unexpected, not to get our hopes too high,” he said. “And that’s a hard way to live.”

What about Kenzie?

Debbie Houk deliberately did not attend the hearing last week in the Lawrence County courthouse, when a judge ruled that Jordan Brown could be released from a juvenile detention center after being found responsible for slaying Mrs. Houk’s daughter, Kenzie, and her unborn son.

Mrs. Houk, 62, of Shenango, didn’t go inside last week because she said she “couldn’t stand to hear anything more about Jordan. Jordan this. Jordan that. It’s always about Jordan. What about Kenzie? What about my daughter? What about Kenzie’s daughters who don’t have a mother. What about my grandson who wasn’t even born?”

Mrs. Houk reluctantly agreed to be interviewed last week, having been persuaded by her husband, Jack, 64, and her daughter Jennifer Kraner, 39, Kenzie’s older sister.

“They told me I should say what I think. I should tell you flat out I’ve gotten tired of it. I’m angry. I’m tired of all the appeals. I want somebody to care about my family,” she said.

She described Kenzie as a warm and passionate woman who loved her daughters, was looking forward to the birth of her son, and who wanted Jordan to feel that he was an important and loved part of the family that had been blended about 13 months before Kenzie’s death.

“She would sometimes bring the girls over to my house so that she and Chris could take Jordan to the movies, just the three of them. She wanted him to feel special,” Mrs. Houk recalled.

Just as the Brown family feels that the system has been unjust to Jordan, Mrs. Houk feels the same system has been unjust to her family. She believes Jordan should have been tried as an adult, even if it meant being jailed without the possibility of parole. “The law is 10 and older in Pennsylvania if it’s homicide. Why even have the law if you’re not going to use it?” she said.

She and her husband have full custody of Kenzie’s daughters, now 11 and 14. They have been in counseling on and off since their mom’s death. She says each girl has been impacted in different ways.

She said it would be hard to move forward if it weren’t for her family. “I have responsibilities and that’s what keeps me going,” she said.

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Karen Kane is a writer at the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Paula Reed Ward contributed to this story.

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Jordan and his Sad Dad.

۞

Weather Report

96° and Clear

21
Jun
16

“you’re fired”

trump and lewindowski.

In case you’ve been living under a rock and didn’t hear the news, Donald Trump’s chief alienist, campaign manager Corey Lewandowski, was fired yesterday morning.

I’m no Trump fan, and even less of a Lewandowski fan. But as Trump is trying to broaden his appeal in the run-up to the Republican National Convention in Cleveland OH, one can assert that Lewandowski was at least honest about Trump’s knuckle-dragging.

Trump had faced increasing concerns from allies and donors, as well as his children, about the next phase of the campaign. It is a move that could reassure donors and Republicans more broadly that Trump can adjust toward a November election strategy. According to the New York Times, two people briefed on the move, who spoke on condition of anonymity, said that Lewandowski was fired.

He was seen as having a hostile relationship with many members of the national press corps who cover Trump, as well as many officials at the Republican National Committee. Lewandowski was often also at odds with Trump’s chief strategist, Paul Manafort, who was brought on in March and is rumored to be Trump’s next campaign manager. Lewandowski was also said to have resisted certain moves that would have increased the number of staff members, at times blocking Manafort from making hires or later undoing them.

But the people briefed on Lewandowski’s departure said that the circumstances went well beyond any particular episode or any particular relationship. Lewandowski had a penchant for making headlines about himself that overshadowed his boss, including being charged with misdemeanor battery (a charge later dropped), after he was accused of grabbing a reporter as she approached Trump with a question in Jupiter FL on March 8.

No one inside the campaign was given any advance warning about Lewandowski’s dismissal, who was on the campaign’s daily 8:30 am conference call on Monday. I personally hope this is a harbinger of the unraveling of Trump’s campaign, but you cannot underestimate the stupidity of the American electorate. It is entirely possible that it won’t matter.

On Twitter, some campaign staff members rejoiced at the news of Lewandowski’s departure. “Ding dong the witch is dead!” wrote Michael Caputo, a Trump communications aide who was said to have been antagonized by Lewandowski.

But it remains to be seen how this latest event will work out.

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ding dong.

۞

Weather Report

91° and Clear

 




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