Judging Juveniles.

It's barely past nine o'clock on a crisp Wednesday morning in Fort Myers, Florida. On the fifth floor of the Lee County Justice Center, defendants, their family members and lawyers are squeezed into Courtroom C. Soon the bailiff will instruct this motley crew to "all rise" for the honorable Judge John Carlin. Meanwhile, a court clerk pops her head inside the blond wood courtroom. Surveying the scene, she says to nobody in particular, "All the old-timers are here"

Whether handcuffed in orange prison-style jumpsuits or squeezed onto the spectator benches, the defendants seem a weary, almost blase lot. A few may hang their heads in shame, but most appear to look down in boredom as they wait to huddle with defense lawyers and enter a plea. Some defendants whisper and snicker among themselves with the insouciance of schoolhouse smartalecks. Other doze off. Are they weary with age? Hardly. Many of the "old-timers" assembled for this juvenile court don't look old enough to shave. The one-quarter who are girls never will. Most of them stare blankly as Judge Carlin struggles to find a program that, he emphasizes, will "meet their needs."

Don't let that touchy-feely language fool you. Elected in 1996 as judge for the Twentieth Judicial Circuit, which includes Fort Myers and its suburb Cape Coral, Carlin is bereft of liberal sentimentality. From extensive interviews and two days in his courtroom, it looks like Carlin does most everything right. That's why watching him is profoundly disheartening. Just how much can a good judge do? Is he ultimately an ineffectual paper-pusher? Faced with young criminals who almost universally come from broken families, can he really set them straight?

This Court is ground zero for the decline of the two-parent home. One memorable mother-and-daughter team appeared in Judge Carlin's court, both in tight jeans and thick make-up. Mom and the young woman she's raising alone each had a previous offense for assaulting the mother's live-in boyfriend. If that's what goes on inside the home, is it any surprise the girl gets in trouble outside?

Carlin struggles to be judge, jury, uncle, and father to these kids. As they teeter on the point of no return, he tries to rescue them from a lifetime of criminality. The juvenile justice system in Florida, he says, is ultimately geared toward rehabilitation. "Juvenile court is still aimed at figuring out what can we do to punish this child so he won't continue in a life of crime. The system has to let them know there are consequences for their bad choices," Carlin explains. "My job is to help those children"

Televised court battles may give viewers the impression that justice is meted out at an excruciatingly slow and deliberative ace. Carlin's courtroom reveals the opposite. The sheer volume of cases means each one can't take more than a few minutes. Starting at roughly 10:30 a.m., Carlin heard about 50 cases in two hours. This is not so much revolving-door justice as bakery-style justice: Fidgety "clients" and their relatives sit restlessly in the court waiting area. A bailiff keeps the process moving by calling out names of defendants "on deck" and justice is served as quickly as possible.

When defendants finally stand before Judge Carlin he swears them in at rapid fire; often, swearing to tell the truth is the only time the juvenile stands up straight. The judge always asks the defendant if his or her plea was entered without coercion. He repeats certain phrases by rote, almost like an auctioneer, asks a few general questions, or mentions that he remembers the kid from a previous appearance. "Each child has a story to tell" he says later. "But that doesn't excuse their behavior."