How a marijuana arrest kept me from being admitted to the Pennsylvania bar
Years ago, when I was out to dinner, a friend handed me a joint. Now I can't practice law in the state.
Five years ago, I met a friend for dinner in New York City. Before we went inside, my friend offered to share a joint. As I was holding the joint, an unmarked car pulled up. Four police officers came toward me, and I dropped the joint. I was arrested, handcuffed, taken to the police station, and put in a holding cell before being charged and released pending a hearing. On the way to the station, the arresting officer told me that if I weren’t a lawyer, he would have charged me with destruction of evidence for dropping the joint. It was a stunning admission, but unsurprising.
Days later, I was able to pay $2,000 and retain a defense attorney familiar with the Manhattan DA’s Office. She walked me through the process and accompanied me to court to stand before the judge and advocate on my behalf. As a first-time offender, I was entitled to have my case dismissed and sealed after a set period of time — which, because my lawyer knew the judge, was reduced from one year to just three months. After that, my record was cleared, and I moved on with my life, thinking my run-in with the criminal legal system was behind me.
I was wrong.
When I moved to Philadelphia a year later, I thought my bar admission to practice law in Pennsylvania would be pretty straightforward. I had taken and passed the two hardest bar exams in the country — California and New York. I was entitled to waive into Pennsylvania as a New York licensed attorney with just an application. But the application asked about past arrests. While my charges were dismissed and my court record was sealed, I had been arrested for marijuana possession.
As a result, a bar examiner informed me that I would have to submit criminal and driving records from all six states I had lived in since I was 18, as well as a personal statement about my arrest along with supporting letters from two lawyers barred in Pennsylvania who had read my arrest statement and could attest to my character.
I felt daunted by the new obstacles placed in my path. But I started the process.
I tried to track down and request criminal and driving records from the various states, but each one had a different process, different agencies, different vendors for processing, and different requirements. Tracking these down became a massive obstacle — in one instance, I had to drive out of state to get fingerprints taken to request one record in that state. And each and every request came with a fee. In addition, I had to find Pennsylvania-based lawyers to vouch for me. I had just started a new job and was anxious about disclosing my record to my colleagues and supervisors for a referral; that, plus the risk to my professional reputation, made it all just way too much to handle.
I never finished my application.
I never finished my application.
If I had, I believe the Pennsylvania state bar would have admitted me. But the process was so burdensome, costly, and onerous — even for someone with privilege, access to funds, and the knowledge of how to navigate the legal system. If the system proved too much for me, imagine how it burdens those without my level of privilege.
What I experienced was a form of record-based discrimination: requiring people to jump through hoops over a dismissed and expunged minor charge. It’s something that likely affects every person who comes in contact with our criminal justice system, including the people involved in the more than 10,000 arrests that have taken place in Philadelphia so far in 2023.
My story ends well. Though I’m based in Philadelphia, my work is national in scope, so it doesn’t require my admission to the Pennsylvania bar. I can continue my career without my arrest imposing a major barrier to my success.
The people affected the most by record-based discrimination are young people.
An arrest record has a very different effect on me — a white male adult — than on the disproportionate number of Black and brown teenagers represented in our juvenile legal system. For them, records impede their opportunities at every turn, making it harder for them to find housing, education, and employment. It can prevent them from enlisting in the military.
In other words, if someone makes a stupid mistake as a teenager, it can affect the rest of their lives.
Growing up is hard enough. A history of arrest — especially at a young age — shouldn’t affect someone’s future.
Andrew Keats is a staff attorney at the Juvenile Law Center.