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Ruled, ruler, ruling, the lines of the court are strong, horizontal. The wood, polished and new, is stained with tradition and precedent. Lawyers, askew on their chairs, break the lines, and observe us as we file in and sit in stillness, containing tension: strangers made intimate by common fear.
Dress and unfamiliar custom align us with the accused now wedged into a corner of the court, mendicant on the mercy of his peers. "There but for ... chance? coincidence? desperation? ... go we". We clothe ourselves in impartiality to protect ourselves from his humanness.
"Silence! Stand up!" The peremptory command disallows dissent. The judge, robed, wigged and venerable sinks into his seat, diminished by the dominating bench.
The lottery begins and slowly, ponderously, underlining seriousness, the names are drawn out. My name! and I am challenged. Why? Am I too, accused? Too old, too middle-class, too male?
Although many are called, only twelve are chosen, and a sigh of relief, indelicate as a public fart, escapes from those left over who escape in a flurry of nervous chatter to report again for tomorrow's fraud.
© Neil Quintrell 1991 |