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Judgment Day
04/06/2008 10:11 - (SA)
Chris Roper
The funny thing about being a white man sitting in the Magistrate's Court in Kempton Park is that you get a sense of what it must have been like to be a black man experiencing the justice system in the 80s.
All the staff are black, and they're speaking Xhosa. It's totally confusing, because you can't figure out if you're in the right court, if it's about to start, and if you're being sized up for the torture chamber. Oh, wait, we don't have those anymore.
The other funny thing is, of the approximately ten cases I sit through, nine involve black accused, and only one involves a white accused. Tsk tsk, you say - typical oppression of the poor. But here's the funny part - only one person gets convicted that day, and it's the white guy! Ha ha! I love this country.
And here's another reason I love this country. I'm State Witness Number 1, testifying about the theft of my laptop from the BA lounge at OR Tambo (read about it here), and State Witness Number 2 is a snappily dressed guy called Bongani.
The Magistrate asks Bongani for his name and occupation. "I'm Bongani, and I own an events company." The Magistrate and Prosecutor confer puzzledly, and then the Magistrate says, "What was your occupation on January 16?" "I was a sweeper in the British Airways Lounge," says Bongani. Now how's that for living in a land of opportunity!
Gloomy
Alas, that's the last cheery part of this story. The Kempton Park courtroom is pretty gloomy. There's a guy walking around selling The Sowetan and Beeld, which must say something about the type of people you generally find there.
The Magistrate is wearing glasses and sternly short hair, the Prosecutor is a big and burly, and the Public Defender is a short, pudgy guy with a random moustache. Almost all of the time, a translator has to translate from English into an indigenous language for the accused and witnesses, and vice versa so that the coloured Magistrate can understand.
Bongani gives his evidence in English. He's there because the two women allegedly stole my laptop then apparently tried to frame him for it. After he gives evidence, which is laboriously translated into Sotho for the two women (both in their 50s, both looking like typical downtrodden working grandmothers), he sits down next to me.
"That's incredible," he says. "That translator? He can't actually speak Sotho. What he's telling them bears no relation to what I said. And they call this justice? These people are infringing on people's rights here." Which I find commendable, given that the people he's talking about tried to frame him for a crime.
That's not the only language problem in this court. The Prosecutor and Public Defender appear to be entirely incompetent. The Magistrate, who is frighteningly competent, spends a lot of time coaching them on how to do their jobs. The Defender keeps asking rambling questions, and the Magistrate keeps trying to get him to make an actual point.
By this stage, State Witness number three is on the stand, a very dedicated BA staff member called Desiree, and she's getting extremely exasperated at the ridiculous questions. After 45 minutes, she's reduced to starting every sentence with "As I just told you..." The Magistrate snaps at the lawyer, "Please, Mr M, you KNOW how to do this," which is demonstrably more a statement of hope than fact.
No resolution
I could go on, but I guess you're getting the picture. The parade of alleged criminals is depressing. No grand thefts here, just a catalogue of petty, almost pointless thievery.
Four girls, who look to range from 18 - 20, are accused of receiving stolen goods - a half bottle of perfume, some old shoes, and so on. When the Magistrate finds them not guilty, on grounds of lack of evidence, they show absolutely no relief. Possibly because the translator has just told them "The badger flies at dawn," or something equally nonsensical. They just leave.
Somebody else is accused of taking money for a construction job, money donated to an old couple by their son, and then reneging on the deal. He's the white guy, and he gets dealt with harshly by the Magistrate, who lectures him on the effect he's having on the economy by creating distrust in small businesses.
My case doesn't get resolved - the Public Defender accidentally points out that one of the confessions made by the accused is a copy of an original, and the Prosecutor tries to argue that in fact it was a copy made in front of a policeman. The Magistrate explains to them that what they have in fact said is that the confession might be inadmissible, so they'll have to come back for a trial within a trial.
When the two of them realise that this will mean coming back the next day, they both try and backpedal. The Prosecutor mumbles something, the Defender tries to argue that in fact he was just kidding, and the Magistrate explodes - well, in a tight-lipped way - and explains to them just how incompetent they really are.
All through this, impassively, the two women - described as "poor mothers" by their colleagues - sit in the dock and wait, seemingly unaware that their lives are in the hand of a useless lawyer who doesn't know what he's doing. Thank goodness for the Magistrate - but I'm not sure there's always going to be a Magistrate to fix things up.
Chris Roper is the Editor-in-Chief of 24.com. Visit his blog on chrisroper.co.za.
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