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Judge Jimmie Moore '72 turned his own life around. Now he's helping others, from ex-cons to executives, who are seeking their own . . . Turning Point By Virginia Stuart '75, '80G Photography by Perry Smith

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Room 306 looks pretty much like any other courtroom in the Philadelphia Criminal Justice Center, with its witness stand, counsel tables and jury box. The seal of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania hangs on the paneled wall behind the massive, brass-trimmed mahogany bench where the judge sits. What's different is the "bubble"—a wall of bullet-proof glass that divides the gallery from the judge and jury and extends all the way to the ceiling. This is the murder room, and it gets a lot of use in a city that averages more than one homicide a day, a city that has been dubbed Killadelphia.

The glass is there to protect the defendants, attorneys and judge in a room where emotions can run high and more than one judge has been attacked. Some prosecutors have claimed it unjustly implicates defendants. But it also heightens the sense of solemnity in the room. The decisions made here have the power to permanently alter the lives of people on both sides of the glass, and before he walks in from his robing room, Judge Jimmie Moore '72 always says a prayer.

For Moore, the path to Room 306, and the other courtrooms where he presides in his role as municipal judge, has taken many twists and turns. The outcome was hardly a given. Asked if he could have pictured Moore as a future judge when they were roommates at UNH, John Laymon '73 is emphatic and amused: "Hell, no. Hell, no. Hell, no!"

On hearing about the remark, Moore laughs out loud. "I done a few things," he explains. "I understand every 'hell' he said and every 'no.'" There's an air of ease about this judge who slips seamlessly between the poetry of street talk and the prose of the law. His manner is warm and expansive. "I've learned to just let life be life," he says. "Life grows us up. You just let it be. It's going to find you."

Once a child of the housing projects and a gang member himself, he may be uniquely qualified to sit on the bench where, he says, "you hold people's lives in the palm of your hand." Increasingly, he also reaches out to others outside the courtroom—from ex-convicts to executives—who hope to start a new life. "I believe you can alter your destiny," he says, speaking from experience. "And people can help you alter it."

Jimmie Moore came to UNH in 1969 quite by accident. He grew up in a federal housing project in Hartford, Conn., where he lived with his mother and younger brother. His father wasn't in the picture. Jimmie belonged to a gang and had a knack for getting away with things. Things he'd rather not talk about today.

But there were other factors working in his favor—namely some key people in his life. Moore describes his mother, Nura Elmi, 80, as an adventurer and a character. Today she is into raw foods, quilting and computers, and, having recently moved to Philadelphia, takes classes at Temple University three nights a week. She was always keen on education, Moore recalls, and she was always pushing her boys into some program or other, or putting them on a bus to visit relatives in Boston or down South. Jimmie was an Upward Bound student. Even the older members of his gang recognized his potential and cautioned him to stay out of trouble.

Enter a soft-spoken high school guidance counselor, who had learned about a new program for African-American students at UNH. "Mr. Holland kept at me," recalls Moore. "He'd say, 'I wrote a letter for you, and you need to apply.'" To appease him, Moore applied to UNH with no intention of going. Upon his return from a visit to historically black colleges in the South, however, he learned that Holland had unexpectedly died. Moore decided on the spot to honor the memory of the man with a vision for his future, even though it didn't exactly jibe with his own. Equipped with a full scholarship, he set off for UNH, sight unseen.

By his own admission, Moore did not come to college for "the academic pursuits," and both his personality and his stereo helped pave the way for some good times in the 7th-floor room he shared with Laymon in Stoke Hall. Often soul music could be heard blasting from their dorm-room window, especially James Brown's anthem "Say it loud—I'm black and I'm proud!"

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