Dog barking late? I'll see you in livability court

Philip Inwood has had a tough time sleeping since he moved into his comfy Charleston neighborhood two years ago.

It's not worry about work that's robbing him of rest, nor even the nocturnal coos of the new baby in the house. Instead, the nighttime nemesis is "Trigger," the neighbor's rottweiler. "Basically, we've got a dog at large in the garden barking all night," he says.

But this week Mr. Inwood found a sympathetic judge in a trailer house that serves as the home for one of the nation's most unusual experiments in jurisprudence - the Livability Court.

From unkept yards to the unpleasant smell of sewage, the court tackles the minute misdemeanors that seem trivial to all but those experiencing these everyday nuisances.

It is the latest manifestation of the growing nationwide movement to improve the quality of life in urban areas, often using rudely stern measures. From New York to Seattle, mayors have tried to reduce crime by cracking down on minor offenses, in the hope that tidier neighborhoods and getting criminals off the street, even for petty infractions, will lead to an overall reduction in urban violence.

Charleston, however, isn't refereeing disputes over pugnacious pups and sloppy gardeners as a way to curb crime. It's being more Southern about it: It's trying to preserve the city's legendary civility.

"Before this court, judges tended to throw these kind of 'quality of life' crimes out," says Peg Moore, an editor of the Charleston Guardian, a newsletter dedicated to preserving the city's 19th-century charm. "I guess when you're dealing with ax murderers and drug dealers, these issues kind of pale in comparison."

Rated eight times as the "best-mannered city in America," Charleston's new court is in some ways vying to ensure its regal reputation. Or perhaps it's just that people here are too gracious to complain in person. (This being Charleston, the two officers enforcing noise-violation codes on the "tour bus beat" wait until tours are over to confront guileful guides - so as not to embarrass them.)

In an effort to maintain the somnambulant charm of a city known for its kempt cobbled streets and stately waterfront, the mayor tapped Judge Michael Molony, a charming Charlestonian with a steely streak, to sit at the court's low, fake-wood desk.

"From here on out, commercial activity is going to take a back seat to quality of life," Mr. Molony says. "And part of the reason for this court is to protect the people who have paid a lot to have these beautiful homes fixed up, and who deserve the kind of peace and quiet we had years ago."

To Truman Moore, another conservationist, Molony is Charleston's answer to Rudolph Giuliani, the popular New York mayor who took on zoning and petty crime to reform the Big Apple's image. Convening every two weeks, Judge Molony is expected to hear about 80 cases a month.

Indeed, the main thrust of the idea is to abjudicate the smallest complaint, and rule in such a way that "everyone knows exactly what is required of them," Molony says. The court even has a special police officer whose only job is following up on the judge's creeds.

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