I
obeyed the clerk, put away my newspaper and, along with everyone else, rose when their
worships entered the room. The lawyers looked relaxed, too relaxed, and with the help
of their polished English and Latin-infused jargon lent a certain air
of respectability, and at times, eerily, even dignity, to a series of pathetic
and usually repeated failures, idiocies and cruelties. The first man
was guilty and knew it; each one after him even more so.
At
some point their worships didn’t know straight away whether to go
for justice or, well, less justice and decided to do some brain-storming
about the alternative in private. The defendant, his nose bearing a manly
scare, looked at me asking for
love. His eyes were large and sensitive. However, the truth was he
had done it again.
Their
worships* returned and shared with us a few options concerning the technicalities of the
sentence. It was complicated, or they had complicated it, and grew
more so with every minute. From the gallery, I looked at the ‘Dieu et mon droit’, which hung above their heads, and then around the room. Suddenly I saw through
everyone. And there was no one left who was just; the
tell-tale signs bore witness: a stiff upper lip in place of
lamentation, eloquence drowning out
doom, a second-rate joke in face of Hell**. 'Simplify this parody!' I heard the Queen, or someone, say.
Forget consulting probation services; don't bother testing the means;
why waste time adding another hundred hours to the community service
or another year to three? Let them face the music: if justice be done, off with their heads!
*Does it count when they’re not wearing
wigs?, I tried to comfort my mate who feared being locked up (or, if he wanted to be precise, locking himself out).
**someone might want to add: no wigs.
**someone might want to add: no wigs.
