Delay will allow for more discussions

How we did it

It’s fought in the hood – not on campus

Designed for fairness, it fails to account for prejudice

Tough on Crime Black defendants get longer sentences in Treasure Coast system

STUART — Chase Legleitner was 19 when he robbed three men in a 2008 drug deal.

Lamar Lloyd was 21 when he stuck up a Pizza Hut and gas station the following year.

Both men pleaded no contest to two counts of armed robbery. They went before the same judge, in the same courthouse. Each had a single misdemeanor on his record. They tallied the exact same points on the scoresheets used to determine criminal punishments in Florida.

But their sentences could not have been more different.

Legleitner spent less than two years in county jail. He is now free to golf and fish on the weekends.

Lloyd got 26 years in prison. He will be 47 upon his release in 2034.

Chase Legleitner

Lamar Lloyd

That disparity is not unusual in the courtroom of Judge Sherwood “Chip” Bauer Jr.

Since taking the bench a decade ago, Bauer has been tougher on those with a darker complexion, often sentencing blacks to two or three times longer than white defendants who committed the same crimes.

Or in the case of Lloyd and Legleitner, 13 times longer.

During a meeting with the Herald-Tribune, Bauer was surprised to see his sentencing numbers. But the judge stood by his record.

Bauer said he tries to be fair to everyone who steps into his courtroom and that race is of “complete insignificance.”

“I don’t believe in my heart that I sentence more harshly one race or gender than another,” Bauer said. “We all think we’re fair. We would have never gotten into the business if we didn’t.”

Judge Sherwood Bauer Jr. hears cases in his courtroom at the St. Lucie County Courthouse in Fort Pierce. HERALD-TRIBUNE STAFF PHOTO / DAN WAGNER

A yearlong Herald-Tribune investigation used two databases — one compiled by court clerks and the other by the Department of Corrections — to find that racial inequalities in criminal sentencing are rampant throughout Florida. Blacks spend more time behind bars than whites who score the same number of points under the state’s sentencing guidelines. Blacks also are more likely to have their civil rights revoked, preventing them from voting and making it harder to find jobs and housing.

Bauer’s rulings still stand out. They are among the widest racial discrepancies in the 19th Circuit — one of the worst courts in Florida to be black, according to a statistical analysis of every felony case across the state during the past 12 years.

With a shaved head, a military demeanor and a commanding voice, Bauer said he listens to pleas from family members and considers a defendant’s attitude before determining sentence in some cases. When discrepancies arise, he said, they are the result of plea deals already worked out between the prosecution and defense.

“Almost every single one is negotiated,” Bauer said. “I don’t know of a fairer way to play the game.”

'The buck stops with the judge'

No one calls Bauer a racist.

The chief prosecutor on Florida’s Treasure Coast says he’s a person of the “highest moral and ethical character.”

A top lawyer in the rival public defender’s office lauded Bauer’s dedication to the law and common sense.

Six leaders in law enforcement used words like “integrity,” “fairness,” “prepared” and “professional” to describe the judge.

The 52-year-old conservative family man is characterized by colleagues as having a humble disposition in the courtroom, displaying a sense of humor when the time is appropriate and standing as a pillar in the community even when he’s not wearing the robe.

To his peers, Bauer embodies all of the qualities desired in a judge.

But records show that since joining the bench, he has sentenced blacks convicted of robbery to more than triple the time of whites who committed the same crimes under similar circumstances.

That equates to nearly five extra years in prison.

“How do you sleep at night when you do something like that?” said Rev. Jerry Gore, president of the NAACP of Martin County. “When you go to the jail or the courthouse and start talking about African-American problems, they say, ‘Nobody gets treated like that. That doesn’t happen. We don’t behave like that.’ But these things actually do happen.”

“If an African-American robs a Circle K and a Caucasian robs a Circle K, the African-American is getting more time. We know it’s a problem here. But who are you going to talk to? Where do you go?”

Former Gov. Jeb Bush appointed Bauer to the 19th Circuit Court in May 2005. The position is nonpartisan. Bauer is registered as a Republican with the Martin County Supervisor of Elections.

He never drew a challenger and was unopposed in his bids for re-election in 2006 and 2012. His name has never appeared on a ballot before voters.

The St. Lucie County Courthouse in Fort Pierce. HERALD-TRIBUNE STAFF PHOTO / DAN WAGNER

Bauer spent his first three years on the bench in rural Okeechobee County before moving to felony court in Martin in 2008. He has overseen civil cases, substance abuse issues and mental health matters. He now works family court in St. Lucie County.

Through it all, Bauer has been harder on blacks, according to a Herald-Tribune analysis of points assigned to defendants in more than 1,800 cases heard in his courtroom.

These points are based on the nature and severity of the crime committed, as well as other factors such as criminal history, use of a weapon and whether anyone was hurt. The more points a defendant scores, the longer the minimum sentence.

A judge can depart from the minimum if a defendant is cooperative or needs special treatment, but the law says any departure must be explained in writing.

Florida legislators who drafted the law said they created the system to ensure defendants with the same charges are treated equally by judges.

But Bauer handed down an average prison term of 497 days to whites convicted of burglary. He gave blacks with the same scores nearly triple that time.

He sentenced blacks to five more months for third-degree felonies, the data shows. He handed down an additional 14 months to blacks on second-degree felonies. He also gave blacks an extra two years for the most heinous crimes — despite scoring identical points, according to the Florida Department of Corrections data.

“The buck stops with the judge at the end of the day,” said Veverly Gary Hamilton, an attorney and president of the Florida Treasure Coast chapter of the American Civil Liberties Union. “That’s where liberty hangs in the balance.”

In the cases of Janine Sheehan and Rethema Delancy, both women were charged with felony drug crimes. Both tallied 28.4 points on their sentencing scoresheets, indicating they should receive matching punishments. Both went before Bauer.

The judge gave Sheehan, a white woman, six months in county jail.

Delancy, who is black, got 18 months in prison.

Terrance Berry and Edward Mueller each scored 32.6 points for felony drug charges. Bauer gave Berry — a black man — two years in state prison. He let Mueller — the white defendant — walk with probation.

Convicted of felony driving with a suspended license, Matthew Way and Cornelius Roberson had identical points at sentencing. Bauer sentenced Roberson —the black man — to almost double the time.

Bauer also gives more second chances to those who look like him.

First-time offenders and those the court finds unlikely to re-offend can earn a fresh start through a process called adjudication withheld. This removes the label of “convicted felon” from a defendant’s record.

That discretion lies with the judge, and for those in Bauer’s courtroom, the reprieve is slanted.

Across third-degree felonies, Bauer offered to withhold adjudication for 14 percent of black defendants.

The adjudication withheld rate was 23 percent for whites.

That means even though they were charged with crimes that the law considers equally severe, blacks were more likely to lose their civil rights, such as voting or owning a gun.

“We call it a kangaroo court,” said Jackie Gore, a retired corrections deputy and wife of the local NAACP president, referring generally to courts in her county. Blacks “are afraid to go through the system because they’re afraid they’re going to get railroaded. There’s no justice.”

The stick up

Carolyn Robinson knew something was wrong the night of March 18, 2009. She startled from a deep sleep. Lloyd, her stepson, was missing.

He was on a crime spree.

First, Lloyd and another black friend from work walked into a Pizza Hut. Lloyd was unarmed, but his friend pointed a revolver at an employee and demanded money. The pair left with $150.

Next, they hit a Sunoco gas station. His friend again took out his gun and ordered the clerk to empty the drawer. This time, they took $400, along with some tobacco and chewing gum.

After his arrest, Lloyd confessed to the crimes. He got 26 years, while his partner was sentenced to back-to-back life terms.

“He had no reason to rob anybody,” said Robinson, Lloyd’s stepmother. “He worked. I was making good money and would give them what they wanted.”

Carolyn Robinson talks about the incarceration of her stepson, Lamar Lloyd, at her home in Fort Lauderdale. HERALD-TRIBUNE STAFF VIDEO / DAN WAGNER

Known for being handy, Lloyd grew up in Broward County and had been in Stuart for less than a year. He moved there with his stepmother, studied air conditioner repair at Indian River Community College and worked at Walmart.

Lloyd’s mother died when he was 12. He now considers Robinson his mom. She considers him a good kid.

The ambush

Three men gathered at the back corner of a subdivision just before midnight. They were going to meet a pair of women they had found online to exchange drugs for sex.

It was an ambush.

Attackers jumped out of bushes. Some had guns. One was holding a crowbar.

The three men were told to lie on the ground, keep their faces down or they’d be shot. The assailants rummaged through their pockets, taking cell phones and wallets. They took a pair of shoes and a necklace. They rifled through the vehicle looking for anything of value.

The victims tried to flee, but their car wouldn’t start. They ran from house to house, desperate.

Detectives later learned the two women from the Internet planned the robbery with the four attackers. Two of those men were black — both armed with shotguns. Another suspect was the son of a local police chief. He had the crowbar.

Legleitner was the fourth mugger. He was not armed.

'It shouldn't be based on color'

Lloyd and Legleitner both hired private attorneys and entered no contest pleas to avoid a lengthy trial.

Lloyd’s father, stepmother and stepbrother spoke at his sentencing hearing. They cried for mercy.

“I think the judge knew that day what he was going to do,” Lloyd’s stepmother said.

Bauer, who declined to comment about specific cases, sentenced Lloyd to 13 years for each robbery, to run consecutively, equaling 26 years in state prison. He was credited for seven days in jail.

“I was thinking to myself how can I do 26 years if I haven’t even lived but 23 years?” Lloyd wrote in a letter to the Herald-Tribune. “What are my children going to do without me? What is my family going to do without me?”

A letter from prison from Lamar Lloyd. HERALD-TRIBUNE STAFF PHOTO / DAN WAGNER

Young Lamar Lloyd

Legleitner was sentenced 13 months later. The prosecutor lobbied hard for leniency and Bauer gave him 722 days, which he had already served in the Martin County Jail.

Legleitner and his family could not be reached for this story.

Bauer said it would be improper to discuss matters that have come before him.

Lloyd’s stepmother only had to gesture when asked why she thought Lloyd is still behind bars, while Legleitner is free. She tapped her dark skin.

“Everybody should be judged equally, sentenced the same,” Robinson said. “It shouldn’t be based on color.”

'Still getting the rough end'

Coastal Living Magazine named Stuart the happiest seaside town in America this year, lauding the angling community for its quaint downtown, its resort boutiques and cafes overlooking the blue St. Lucie River.

East Stuart is just a mile across the railroad tracks. The black neighborhood produces many of the defendants entering criminal court.

Lifelong residents say East Stuart was built for the maids and butlers. Groups congregate on the porch steps of small pastel cottages that pepper the district. Windows are barred and broken. Children play around clothing lines that run between aging two-story stucco apartments, reserved for public housing.

Life in East Stuart. HERALD-TRIBUNE STAFF PHOTO / DAN WAGNER

Martin county map

The community has a long history of racial discrimination — a deep distrust for the court system.

At the turn of the 20th century, blacks came to Martin County from other southern states hoping for better living conditions. They farmed and fished the banks of the St. Lucie River.

When industrialist Henry Flagler built the Florida East Coast Railway connecting Jacksonville to Palm Beach, whites began moving in. They pushed the black community inland and took the waterfront.

Blacks retreated to East Stuart, which became known as “Colored Town” until the 1950s. The train station was the only place blacks could use a public bathroom.

Blacks did not dare cross a bridge that connects Stuart with a white suburb at night. They knew the Klan would be waiting.

By the 1950s, the region had its first black patrolmen. But they didn’t have cars. They could not carry weapons and had no arrest power.

An old photograph of deputies dragging a black suspect into custody hung for decades in the lobby of the Martin County Sheriff’s Office, said Lloyd Jones, a retired captain who spent 37 years with the agency. Nearly everyone in the black community and some in law enforcement believed the man depicted was innocent.

For Jones, the photo was a constant reminder of where the power lies in Martin County.

“People here think everything is hunky dory, and there’s no need to change anything,” said the retired captain, who is black. “This is the greatest community in the world if you don’t look like me.”

With a 90 percent white population in Martin County, minorities struggle to find equality. One historian called Martin’s shortage of black teachers an “atrocity.” Minorities remain underrepresented in law enforcement. Defense attorneys say they cannot find diversity for jury pools.

A black judge has never served on the bench.

“It brings down morale, and as a result, you find black children rebelling in the system,” said Willie Jay Thompson, a retired teacher who has lived in East Stuart for nearly 80 years and written books on the community’s history. “It’s sad because they’re still getting the rough end.”

Bauer said he factors family support when considering a sentence, along with a defendant’s willingness to turn his life around. If the community stands behind a defendant, that is reflected in the punishment. But he says he only does this when plea deals have not been negotiated upfront or when a case goes to trial.

East Stuart has a different view.

“You can get up there, you can talk, you can snot, you can cry; it does not change a thing,” said Harriet Brown, a Martin County resident and local court watcher whose son was sent to prison for drug crimes.

“Once that judge’s mind is made up, it’s made up," she said in reference to Martin County's court system. "They do not care who speaks on your behalf. They never take the time to see what’s going on in these kids’ lives.”

Life in East Stuart. Herald-Tribune staff photo / Dan Wagner

'One or two of everybody'

Stuart is nearly 1,400 miles down the Eastern Seaboard from Shelter Island, New York — a small town on the tip of Long Island where Bauer grew up. But segregation in both communities is stark.

Bauer was born into a middle class family in New Haven, Connecticut — a coastal city known for its boating and as the home to Ivy League member Yale University.

His father, Sherwood “Gunny” Bauer, was a Navy veteran who served in the Korean War. A known handyman, he operated Ford dealerships. His mother stayed at home to raise their children.

When Bauer was in fifth grade, his father moved the family to Shelter Island to work as a ferryboat captain.

Long Island’s North Fork is marked by vineyards, family farms, country stores, antique shops and fudge and ice cream parlors. It is a sleepy stretch of two-lane road that cuts through small-town America, with old barns and colonial homes.

Shelter Island is only accessible by ferry, an usher to a different era.

There is still not a single street light on the island. There is no postal delivery or trash pickup. The few commercial buildings — town hall, a church and the small courthouse — have been preserved in their old-time charm.

Shelter Island map

Before the move, the Bauers spent their summer vacations on house boats at Shelter Island. Now, they would be considered locals — or “Hare Leggers” because they looked like rabbits rushing off the ferry. A conservative stronghold at the time, the island was a haven for hunters and fishermen.

Bauer grew up in a modest home that his father built on half an acre overlooking the water.

He attended the only school on the island, a two-story brick structure with students from kindergarten through high school. He was one of 265 kids across all grades. There were fewer than 25 in his graduating class.

Former classmates remember Bauer as an excellent athlete. He was class president his junior year and played on the varsity baseball team.

Young Sherwood Bauer

About 30 black people now live on Shelter Island. That’s less than 2 percent of the population.

“You had at least one or two of everybody, I guess,” Bauer said.

Those who knew Bauer’s father described him as a “wheeler and dealer” and “good ol’ boy.” He would help teenagers in the neighborhood with everything from fixing mowers to financial advice. He was always looking for a bargain and obsessed over local politics, worrying the town was becoming too loose-pocketed. Family friends say that rubbed off on his boys.

One of the few black residents living on Shelter Island at the time said he never had any problems with the Bauer family.

Gunny “was a salesperson,” said Jay Damuck, a longtime friend of the Bauers, who owns a kayak rental business on Shelter Island. “He was very personable. He would pick everyone’s brain on the ferry … Everyone respected him. He had strong opinions — but not everyone agreed.”

At times, life on Shelter Island can be isolated, dark and quiet. It can be especially tough for those with brown skin.

Shelter Island was home to the first slave plantation in the northeast United States.

The island was settled by an Anglo-Dutch sugar merchant who operated a livestock ranch and shipped goods to Barbados. He owned black slaves on Shelter Island for nearly 175 years before slavery was abolished in New York.

The “burying ground of the Colored People of Sylvester Manor” contains the remains of as many as 200 enslaved Africans and Native Americans. The plot is fenced. There are no gravestones. The identities of those buried there are not known, according to the educational group that now runs the estate.

As slaves escaped the island, a diverse community of blacks emerged just six miles across the Peconic River.

Known for its port, Sag Harbor drew minorities from across the Northeast. They worked on whaling ships and lived in the village between voyages. In the 1930s, it was among the only places that a black family could legally purchase vacation land. Those properties have been passed on to new generations.

The racial divide between villages like Shelter Island and Sag Harbor remains evident today.

“In Florida, you don’t need to hide it. Here, it’s hidden,” said Georgette Grier-Key, executive director of the Eastville Community Historical Society in Sag Harbor. “Segregation and racism is prevalent on Long Island. It’s always been.”

“There’s a lot that’s unspoken.”

A study by Erase Racism, a regional civil rights organization, found that Long Island’s Suffolk and Nassau counties form one of the most segregated communities in the nation. Only nine other places are more racially divided, according to the group’s research of U.S. Census data.

“You don’t have to have a sign up that says you can’t live here if you’re African-American,” Erase Racism President Elaine Gross said. “But you get the same result.”

Gross attributes Long Island’s segregation to the suburban sprawl after World War II. Many of the new communities were deed-restricted, with bylaws preventing blacks.

That quiet history of discrimination in the Northeast also helped to shape segregation in Florida, as northerners flocked to the Sunshine State for retirement, said James Denham, chairman of the Florida Southern College history department.

“It’s a mistake to think Florida only became open minded when the Yankees came,” Denham said. “The whites who came to Florida to develop subdivisions in the 1920s, ‘30s and ‘40s were insistent on keeping neighborhoods white only. In many ways, things were set back because of this.”

'Integrity and fairness in difficult circumstances'

Scientists who study human behavior say many people are governed by what they describe as implicit biases absorbed during their upbringing.

Implicit biases are different from explicit racism more commonly associated with hate groups.

People with implicit biases may still harbor unfavorable opinions and stereotypes reinforced by how blacks are portrayed in the news and movies. But these biases percolate outside conscious thinking.

Some experts say such implicit biases could play a role in sentencing inconsistencies across Florida's courts.

“It is very possible implicit biases could explain the disparity,” said Lorie Fridell, a criminology professor at the University of South Florida, who was apprised of the Herald-Tribune’s findings but did not know specific judges' identities.

Fridell’s training on implicit biases was adopted by the U.S. Department of Justice.

“You can be a good person and still have implicit biases that impact your behavior,” she said.

For years on the job, Bauer has been asked to relate to young black men who grew up with a much different reality than the one he remembers. Many never had the promise of a life like Bauer’s.

“Most judges believe as long as they hear from both sides they’re being fair,” said Scott Bernstein, a judge for the 11th Circuit Court in Miami, who teaches diversity to judges and was not referring to specific judges. “They don’t want to (admit) they’re making mistakes because of implicit biases. Nobody wants to own up to this. It’s very uncomfortable.”

Bauer does not discredit the science of implicit bias. He even acknowledges that he may harbor some.

“The seasonings that made you who you are, of course they play a factor,” Bauer said. “How could you not be open to the possibility?

“If I have an implicit bias, I want to know. I don’t think I do. But if so, I want to know.”

During a meeting with Herald-Tribune reporters, Bauer shifted most of the responsibility for his sentencing discrepancies to the State Attorney’s Office.

Judge Sherwood Bauer Jr. hears cases in his courtroom at the St. Lucie County Courthouse in Fort Pierce. Herald-Tribune staff photo / Dan Wagner

Bauer says 90 percent of the cases that come before him are plea bargains negotiated between the prosecutor and defense attorneys.

He says some judges — even within his same circuit — alter pleas they don’t believe are fair.

Bauer’s policy is to approve them all, and he says that may contribute to a larger sentencing gap.

The judge also attributes some of the discrepancies to his probation practices. He said if defendants are more prone to violate probation based on their history, he will give them jail time instead, which makes sentences longer and appear tougher on paper — but could also save them problems down the road. Again, he said, this only happens when pleas are not negotiated upfront or when cases go to trial.

There was no implicit bias training in Florida when Bauer became a judge in 2005, but he said judges now talk about diversity.

“I honestly believe that every judge tries their very best to do their job with integrity and fairness in difficult circumstances,” Bauer said from his fourth-floor corner office, with a view of the water. The taxidermy head of a deer he shot peers down from the wall. A large model sailboat and a pair of children’s cowboy boots are propped against the Batman mask overlooking his desk.

“Everybody along the way shares some blame in an outcome that is not ultimately fair,” Bauer said. “I believe you’re incorrect if you think it’s just a judicial problem. They (judges) are part of a system that may have flaws that need to be addressed … The last guy to sign the order is easy to go after, but there are a lot of variables that go into that.”

Bruce Colton, the state attorney for the 19th Circuit, agreed that the outcomes of most cases are negotiated beforehand and that many factors, including a defendant’s past criminal history, play into those decisions.

He said the 19th Circuit is known to be tougher on crime than communities just to the south, such as Palm Beach or Miami-Dade, which offer more second chances and lenient punishments. Martin County has zero tolerance for crime.

But Colton could not explain any race-related disparities.

“It really surprises me to hear these numbers, and I really do not have an explanation,” Colton said. “We’re certainly not telling our prosecutors to be tougher on certain groups of people.”

He also defended Bauer.

“There are several judges in our circuit who don’t give as tough of sentences as we would like,” Colton said. “Bauer is not easy, but I wouldn’t call him really tough, either.”

'Rights for defendants are just not welcomed'

Bauer, Colton and court administrators for the 19th Circuit argued that the Herald-Tribune’s investigation is flawed because each case is unique and defendants have different criminal histories.

But a review of criminal punishment code scoresheets kept by the Florida Department of Corrections shows that even when blacks and whites score the same points, blacks are given harsher punishments. That shouldn't happen, according to legislators who drafted the code.

Across all felonies and judges, blacks in Martin County spend longer behind bars than whites who scored the same points in more than six out of 10 cases.

For example, whites convicted of felony drug possession in Martin County who scored 38 to 38.9 points average 190 days in confinement.

Blacks with the same scores spend 442 days behind bars — more than double the time given to whites.

Whites who score 92 points for robbery are locked up for an average of 470 days, or about 15 months.

Blacks convicted of the same offense — and scoring the same points — are sent to prison for more than nine years.

Like most areas of Florida, judges and court administrators in the 19th Circuit don't keep track of sentencing numbers. They say they don't see the benefit.

“It comes as no surprise to me that there is racial discrimination,” said Robert Watson, a criminal defense lawyer on the Treasure Coast, referring to countywide discrepancies. “Doing criminal defense in Martin County is like trying to pursue civil rights in Alabama in 1965. A lot of the rights for defendants are just not welcomed here.”

'He treated everyone fairly'

Bauer graduated high school a year early, in 1981. His grades were good enough to pursue a legal career and he followed his two older brothers — Kirk and Jeff — to Florida.

Bauer earned a bachelor’s degree in political science from Stetson University and graduated law school from Nova Southeastern University in 1988. He was president of his fraternity.

Bauer started working as a legal clerk for a construction and real estate practice in West Palm Beach. After two years, he joined the State Attorney’s Office in the 19th Circuit.

Bauer spent four years as a prosecutor, handling at least 40 jury trials and another 80 non-jury cases, before stepping down in 1993 to open a private practice.

Out of a small office complex in Stuart, Bauer switched sides to criminal defense — arguing against his former friends and colleagues in the prosecutor’s office.

“He was very good at his work,” said Christopher Twohey, Bauer’s former partner at the firm. “When you’re a criminal defense lawyer, you might run into people you may not deal with regularly on a personal basis, but he treated everyone fairly.”

“It’s a small community, so we all know each other,” Twohey said. “I don’t remember him having any problems with anybody.”

The Herald-Tribune read through more than 550 criminal files in Martin County where Bauer was listed as the defense attorney of record.

The records show he represented 85 black defendants through April 2001. Then he took the case of George McLain.

The white Stuart police officer was facing possible discipline for a deadly use-of-force case against a 32-year-old black man during a traffic stop in East Stuart.

McLain stopped the motorist for driving without headlights. When he approached, the driver fled, dragging McLain for several blocks before crashing into a parked car, reports show.

A police investigation stated that the driver refused to show his hands following the crash and made “aggressive” moves toward the officer. McLain fired seven shots, killing the man. The black driver was found to be unarmed. He had two pieces of crack cocaine in the car.

McLain was cleared and has since been promoted to sergeant. He gave Bauer a letter of recommendation that helped him become a judge four years later.

“One of the first persons to come to the hospital to see me was Chip,” McLain wrote in Bauer’s recommendation letter. “When he was made aware of my incident, he did not hesitate to give me the legal support that I needed. His immediate attention to my legal needs in the middle of the night showed me that he is a true servant of the legal system.”

The police killing still sparks rallies and remembrances in the black community.

“A grand jury cleared him,” Bauer said. “My involvement was simply getting him to the grand jury.”

In the four years that followed, 159 criminal defendants hired Bauer.

Only three had dark skin.

Bauer rejects any link between his involvement in the McLain case and his dearth of black clients thereafter.

“My clients are whoever walks in the door,” Bauer said during a second interview with the Herald-Tribune. “I have no idea their racial makeup either before or after any particular case. Race has nothing to do with it.”

‘It’s equal?’

Over the years, Bauer has custom built three homes for his family within a quarter mile of one another on Sewall’s Point, a thin peninsula between the St. Lucie River and the Indian River Lagoon. It is considered one of the most exclusive places to live along Florida’s Treasure Coast.

With its own small police force, Sewall’s Point has one of the better-rated school systems in the area. Homes there can fetch millions of dollars, said Patrick Stracuzzi, a real estate agent with Re/Max in Stuart. In his disclosures with the state, Bauer estimates his home with a pool is worth $750,000. A thin two-lane road separates the property from the sparkling waters of the inlet.

The U.S. Census reports that 25 Sewall's Point residents are black, or less than 2 percent of the population.

As Bauer climbed the ranks in the legal world, his family became leaders in the Martin County community. They are active in their Catholic church, volunteer at the Boys and Girls Club, and the nonpartisan judge took on a mentorship role with the Martin County Young Republicans.

The oldest of Bauer’s three children is now in college. The family enjoy boating and fishing.

Lloyd, on the other hand, spends his days reading in prison.

His release date is too far out for him to qualify for educational programs. He still dreams of owning his own business.

Lloyd and his stepmother talk a few times a week. She visits when she can. He also keeps in touch with his twin sons, who live with their mother in Texas, and another son who lives in Stuart.

Carolyn Robinson at her home in Fort Lauderdale. HERALD-TRIBUNE STAFF PHOTO / DAN WAGNER

Lloyd will be pushing 50 when he's released. His children will be adults.

“My children keep me sane in this crazy place,” Lloyd wrote in his letter to the Herald-Tribune. “They’re who I live for.”

Legleitner’s Facebook profile, which is no longer visible, paints a different picture.

It shows him playing golf, visiting with loved ones, cheering at professional football games and posing with his catch on fishing boats.

“It’s really twisted when it comes to people of color,” said Robinson, Lloyd’s stepmother. “It's equal? No, it is not.”