They are entering the maw of a justice system that will squeeze every drop of innocence from them. Paul Cullen watches a sad parade in the Children's Court
Court 55 of the Children's Court is like one of those mechanical toys that you wind up and set down and then watch in the performance of an endlessly repeating spectacle.
A door pops open and a garda rushes in, followed by a small boy. They sit at opposite ends of a long bench, but never look at each other. The judge sits halfway down the table, with clerks at either side. The boy's solicitor bursts into the room, starting to speak before he even reaches his position facing the judge.
The adults talk the language of law - remands, bench warrants, sureties and so on - while the child slouches indifferently in his seat. Decisions are made, forms filled, papers stacked and this minuet is ready for its next rotation.
So the garda and the solicitor leave. The boy is led out one of two doors - one points towards freedom, for the moment at least, and the other leads to detention in St Pat's, Clover Hill or one of the other institutions that takes juveniles.
The garda and solicitor are replaced by two new colleagues, and another small boy enters in regulation outfit of tracksuit, sneakers and buzz haircut. The dance starts again.
Compared to the free-for-all you find in the District Courts, this is a humane place. The courtroom in this award-winning building in Smithfield is no larger than an average domestic drawing room.
Thanks to a glass roof and a recent coat of paint, it's a reasonably bright, welcoming environment.
Yet nothing can wipe away the pervading sense of sadness that permeates the building. For all their swagger and knowing sniggers, these are children, after all.
They should be having the time of their lives. In fact, they probably do think they are having the time of their lives, but they are also entering the maw of a justice system that will squeeze every remaining drop of innocence from them.
For many - let's face it - their future lives will be nasty, brutish and short.
Last Thursday morning was a fairly typical day for Judge Patrick Brady, with about 30 cases, most of them remands.
The only odd thing was the presence of four journalists, as newspaper editors responded to the public outcry that followed the death of two gardaí after being hit by a car driven by teenage "joyriders".
There are a couple of no-shows, and arrest warrants are issued. Judge Brady asks each time if a parent is present, and seems especially pleased if both parents are in court.
The children, who cannot be named, are up on a variety of charges - larceny, "joyriding", malicious damage, etc.
One boy is accused of stealing €10,000 of electrical equipment from a warehouse. His solicitor is anxious to proceed with a trial, but the gardaí say they aren't ready.
They have taken 60 statements and are awaiting video evidence. Judge Brady agrees to give them another few weeks and the boy is sent back to St Pat's. "That's another day off work," says his mother as the judge sets a fresh date.
The only girl to be called fails to turn up. Her solicitor explains there's been a mix-up. The girl's social worker says she is doing well at literacy and addiction classes. It isn't good for her to be "hanging around" the courts. She's actually on probation. The judge accepts the explanation.
The next boy is accompanied by both his parents. He has spiky hair and a polo-neck top and the parents are well dressed. He faces charges of larceny but a criminal damage charge is withdrawn. Remanding him on bail, Judge Brady asks his date of birth, which is given as September 1989 - the boy is only 12!
A red-haired 17-year-old comes before the court. A warrant was issued when he failed to show up in court last year, but his solicitor explains that this was another mix-up; he was sitting a Junior Cert exam on the day. On his last appearance he tried to make a run for it outside the court.
His offence is not specified, but Judge Brady is concerned that it occurred after midnight. He sets bail at €300 and orders a curfew from 10 p.m.
The boy's solicitor says his parents are unemployed and there is "no possibility" they could afford to pay this amount. She asks for a lower amount.
However, the judge refuses her request. The boy's parents will have to control him more stringently.
When the solicitor protests that this is tantamount to refusing bail, the judge upbraids her for making such a suggestion, and points out that she can go to the High Court if she has a problem with his decision. It is the only heated moment in the morning's proceedings.
There follows a "joyrider" who is dispatched to St Pat's, and a few no-shows.
Suddenly, after less than two hours, the sitting is finished. No one has been tried or sentenced, but neither have any of the children escaped the system.
The last time I attended the Children's Court was in 1997, during the controversy over the 13-year-old rape victim known as the C case. Since then some things have changed.
The children seem less bewildered by the experience of being in court; this could be a sign of greater confidence, or of greater familiarity.
There are more young children coming before the court. Purple lights have been installed in the toilets to prevent addicts shooting up.
The system still tries to avoid imposing custodial sentences as much as possible, but it is clear that a greater proportion of children are being kept behind bars before their cases are heard.