(74) Justice in da buff, by Azouz Begag - Continued and closing - (6) Anybody ?

Justice in da buff

   by Azouz Begag

(6) ANYBODY ?

         At this moment, a truth forces itself upon me: every citizen can be in this situation, with his back turned to onlookers, representing civil society, mainstream people, facing a judge and a public prosecutor, representing the supreme interests of a lawful society.

          Sometimes the situation gets laughable when the judge drives the accused to the wall, to seek the truth, and forces him to answer his questions. The atmosphere becomes absurd. But most of the time, there is no place for humour, the faces are severe, grey, barely lit by wan lamps, the judge’s gown is black, so are the prosecutors’ and the lawyers’. A smell of death hangs over the courtroom. Besides, even the setting is filled with seriousness. If judging is human, it does lack warmth.

          We are in the basement of society. In the engine room of the Titanic. You meet so many misfits, poor people of all kinds, immigrants, ghetto kids. Here, when you don’t master the French language, you have a hard time. It’s common to see some accused, sitting on the dock, who don’t even understand the judge’s questions, or who speak in a language legal practitioners will never have access to. We don’t speak the same language at the stand. The truth-searching judge, who spent many years in Law School then in the School of Magistrates, asks the offenders why they lied, why they stole, why they cheated. He wants to know. He demands explanations. But the poor fellows can’t explain the things of life. They don’t have the words. All their lives long they tried to trifle with the facts, to create a diversion, to escape from the grip of misery and exclusion.

          Every time I leave the courthouse, I feel depressed. It rains on the city as it rains on society. The iceberg frosts the atmosphere. But I am happy to have a breath of fresh air. Happy and punch-drunk. This afternoon, I almost got hit by a streetcar, I was so absorbed by what I experienced in the Courthouse’s basement. The driver smiled. He told me “Watch where you’re treading!” He had no idea he was perfectly right.

          One day, for three hours, I watched the public prosecutor. A lady prosecutor. A beautiful woman in her forties. Her blond hair and blue eyes strongly contrasted with the darkness of her courthouse gown. She noticed I was staring at her and probably wondered why. It was odd to see this young woman rise after the judge had given an account of the facts, and methodically, coldly pronounce the penalties the Republic claimed to the judge.

Afterwards, I didn’t see her beauty anymore, but above all her drooping mouth, her pointed lips, the lines falling in the bottom of her cheeks when she was pronouncing the indictment. She was there to enforce the law, protect the foundations of the Republic. At the right of the judge. The heart was not invited to the hearing. No sentiment. No affection. When she done speaking, it was already a verdict coming through. I looked at her to try to guess some of her inner feelings, does she like what she does? Does she enjoy applying the legal provisions of the penal code? She didn’t let anything come out. Automatically carry out the laws. Democratically. Same meal for everyone. Rich or poor, French or foreigners, Catholic or Moslem, men or women. We’re in 1789. The Revolution just laid down its Declaration of Equality. The lady prosecutor sits down again, perfectly straight, the exact way she stood up. Now the judge speaks, he has a quick glance at his papers. A few seconds of silence, then the sentence comes out. Prison sentence, suspended or not. Driving ban. Fine… He closes his folder. And puts it back on the pile in front of him.

          Next file.

          The most extraordinary thing is the force of the sentence the judge passed. He has full powers. He decides of the life and the death, at least socially, of every accused who sits before his desk. Against a young recidivist who “never gives a damn”  about the driving bans the Court imposed on him, the prosecutor demands two years of disqualification from driving. The judge thinks about it for a few seconds and finally pronounces an eight-month ban. Why this did he pick this specific number? We don’t know. It’s his own personal opinion. He thinks, sizes up, observes, asks questions to reach the final goal: to punish a person for a breach of the law. He noticed the young man was running a small company. He wanted to give him another chance. But he warned him: next time, he would go to jail. Ok ? The accused was Ok.

          The Law, it’s all of those red codes that are on the judge’s desk. The common reference to all citizens. The token of a democratic functioning of the institution. Legal practitioners throw out their words, which will determine the rest of people’s lives, the people who are standing in front of them, meaningful, heavy words, while they’re looking at the accused in the face. He writes down the sentence on a sheet of paper, and closes the folder. It’s over. The case is settled. The accused can’t turn back the hands of time. Not even throw himself at the supreme judge’s knees, implore his mercy. Nothing. The sentence is inescapable. To steer clear of those outpourings of sentiments, the judge and the prosecutor freeze their faces. Their analysis and their judgements are like scientific matters. Reason guides the sanctions, the general welfare the wish to protect society from the outcasts.

          It’s total nudity.

          You don’t leave the courthouse totally unhurt. Since I started to go to these court hearings, I am even more scared to cross the line, to turn out badly. I always fasten my seat belt when I take the wheel.

          I got out of the courthouse, one more time, paralyzed by the machine functioning. I rise to the surface of life, to the surface of the city. A gigantic ship that makes its way across the ocean, thanks to powerful engines located in the storage room, operated by experienced engineers. On the deck the travellers don’t know what’s going on under their feet, in the mesh system. Sometimes, some of them misbehave and they are caught in the act by the police. They go down the hole. They are sent down. People in black seal their fate. They are the ones who “are at the helm”.

          Avenue de la République, I’m walking while sweeping with my foot the dead leaves away, that had already dropped off the plane trees. I think about the words justice, truth, democracy, while observing the quiet passers-by who go about their daily business. I feel vulnerable, alone against the machinery. A brilliant idea comes to my mind: it should be compulsory: have every citizen go to Court, to a courthouse, to see the steamroller in motion. So you can not let this thing be thought out apart from reality. I found another word that goes very well with truth: reality. Here’s my suggestion: we talk about “educational establishment” to refer to a school, it would be a good thing from now on to call the courthouse the TRUTH ESTABLISHMENT.

                                      The End