Colleen Murphy is entering her third year at California Western School of Law — against all odds.
“In my 20s, I had experienced a lot of, like, adversity and ended up incarcerated. And at that point, I really thought my life was over,” she said. “After years of struggling through that, I ended up homeless and found out I was pregnant shortly after.”
Becoming a single mother fueled her to change her trajectory. She started community college, and faced a new set of questions.
“Do I qualify for financial aid? Am I going to be able to access this? Do I fit in here?” she said.
She thought people trying to change their lives shouldn’t face these kinds of barriers, and figured law was the tool to change that. She met with a school counselor.
“And she's like, ‘Why are you doing law?’” she recounted. “‘Why would you want to do that?’ That to me was like, ‘OK, I'm not going to ask for help from you.’ So I had to figure it out on my own.”
She did figure it out, landing a spot at California Western.
“The first year of law school was incredibly hard. Like, I laugh about it now, but I felt like I was dying,” she said.
The experience made her determined to make it easier for other formerly incarcerated people.
“I think that that’s a common characteristic of our demographic. Like, we know what it's like to not have support and to feel alienated. And so a lot of us naturally kind of come back to that, like nurturing, caregiving, like, leaving the ladder down for people because we didn't have that,” she said.
Law school is notoriously tough, but there are added barriers for people exiting incarceration.
“Basic needs is a huge component. Like if you can't find housing because you have a criminal record, how are you ever going to be successful in school because you're, you know, the floor is just falling out from underneath you all the time,” she said.
The average total tuition for law school in America is close to $200,000, according to the Education Data Initiative.
There are added costs for formerly incarcerated students, like hiring a lawyer to help them pass the moral character part of the bar examination. It’s almost guaranteed the State Bar of California will place closer scrutiny on the moral application of students with criminal records, Murphy said.
They have to prove that despite their histories on paper, they’re a good enough person to practice law.
“It almost feels like there's a baseline that you're not fit. And so you really have to prove yourself,” she said.
Julie Hinton, now in her second year at California Western, was quoted $15,000 to retain a lawyer to help her pass moral character.
“And like, is that worth the investment? Is it going to be helpful for me? It's just all these questions that I don't think the average law student has had,” she said.
Preparing to pass moral character is challenging not just practically and financially, but emotionally.
“It is a little bit triggering, honestly, to have to re-go-through all of your court documents. And so I am in therapy,” Hinton admitted, laughing.
She also deals with impostor syndrome.
“It is scary,” she said. “Law school starts tomorrow, and I'm like, ‘Oh, the cold calls!’”
During law school “cold calls,” the professor calls on random students to answer questions they may or may not be ready for.
“But honestly, I've been in the worst situation you ever could be in your life at the lowest point possible. And I was like, ‘Well, I survived. So, you know, this cold call in law school? I'll be fine,’” she said.
Second-year California Western student Lauren Tyler can relate.
“Law school is challenging. It’s rigorous for anyone. And I think we all struggle with, you know, whether we're doing enough, whether we're good enough for these situations. But those feelings are exacerbated when you've been in the system, because it's such a dehumanizing system where it really makes you feel like you're less than,” she said. “Even when you're studying for your LSAT, you know, I remember I would stare at the fireplace for like, five minutes every day just to, like, get my mind straight because I had so many voices going on and so many doubts.”
Her perspective has changed since those days staring at the fireplace.
“My background is an asset. And I've learned that. It's a superpower,” she said. “Because it enables you to have perspective that no one else who’s (not) been on the inside will ever have. And it also is going to be a way for us to speak to clients and to actually relate to them.”
Finding each other has been a big reason why Murphy, Hinton and Tyler have been succeeding.
They formed the System Impacted Law Student Association (SILSA) last year. Murphy said it’s the first of its kind in San Diego, and one of the first in the country.
They help each other navigate those practical, financial and psychological barriers.
They also advocate for clients in the county’s Homeless Court — a full-circle experience that’s especially meaningful for Murphy.
A dozen students attended SILSA’s orientation this year. It’s a small reflection of what Murphy said is a growing movement. New state programs and the federal restoration of Pell Grants have made it easier for formerly incarcerated people to access law school over the last decade.
That matters, Hinton said, if the justice system is going to reflect the people it’s supposed to serve. She wonders how society can ignore how many people are like her.
About 77 million Americans — 1 in 3 adults — have a criminal record.
