The dismal little stories, one after another, endless and shabby and mindless. It meant nothing and it revealed everything. It was New Zealand fucked up and out of it, dealt with promptly and efficiently by a court staff of six, a female judge of uncertain years with a private education accent, and lawyers in grey suits with missing threads at the cuffs. The bailiff pushed through the doors, calling for names. He would return and say, ‘No appearance, ma’am.’ There was only one spectator, a character whose daily rounds also include the Inter City bus depot, where he keeps a close scrutiny on any drivers who pull into Auckland later than scheduled.
Woman, 41, pleads guilty to defrauding a taxi driver. She had been drinking all day in New Lynn; at 6.30pm, she caught a cab to Avondale. The fare was $13. She didn’t have any money. She swore at the driver, and then urinated on the front seat. The cleaning charge was $70. Convicted, and ordered to pay the driver $83. Stunned, she said from the dock: ‘What, the whole $83?’ She was on an invalid’s benefit. It was agreed she could pay back the sum at $10 a week.
The town drunk arrived late in the afternoon. Dressed in walkshorts, socks, sandals and a polo shirt, he muttered aloud to himself at the back of the court, and rustled inside a plastic bag to fish out his wallet, which was empty. Finally, his case was called up. His barrister, chewing at a grimy strip of sticking plaster on the little finger of his right hand, apologised for his client failing to turn up earlier. ‘He has gastroenteritis, asthma and eczema problems. He was advised to remain in bed, which explains him not coming to court, ma’am.’ And then he added: ‘He has a nervous disposition. He can be a difficult character.’
In boisterous spirits and with terrific cheer, the accused approached the dock, and hooted: ‘Hello, everybody!’ But the only people remaining in court were the staff. The one spectator had left, possibly to run his steely eye over the incoming coach from Coromandel. Never mind; the accused had another public announcement. ‘I’m an old boy from the old school!’
His charge of assault was read out. He put on a very convincing display of shadow boxing in the dock. He said to the security guard: ‘You’ll make an All Black one day!’ The judge remanded him to another date. He told her: ‘You’re fantastic!’
The bailiff walked around the courtroom and collected documents, straightened chairs. But the town drunk had one last message to broadcast. He turned as he left the court, and said: ‘I’ve been on TV. You didn’t know that, did you?’ His eyes truly sparkled, and his happy laugh was like a reminder that lawlessness can provide the one thing that formal, civilised life in New Zealand so often withholds: pleasure.
*
Much is made of the psychology and pathology that may or may not be laid bare of the accused in major trials. We feel we get to know something revealing and crucial about people defending serious charges, and reach our own judgment on their character. Who did it — the weird paperboy David Bain, or his weird father Robin Bain? Who do you think was more likely to snap? What did you make of Scott Watson, still claiming his innocence for the murders of Ben Smart and Olivia Hope? We watch, we inspect, we somehow divine their true nature.
I think a great deal of this is dangerous nonsense. I think it did for Mark Lundy, and that the jury reached a verdict based partly on a stupid and vindictive reading of his body language.
But the business of a trial is far less concerned with psychology than with an exercise in complicated physics. It’s a study of time and mass, meaning that it tries to put people back into a space they may have once occupied where something definitely bad happened. Witnesses and expert testimony are called on to confirm or dispute the equation. The effort and specificity are incredible, and essentially futile — no one can go back in time, no one can ever know the truth of an event.
When in doubt, tell stories. Volumes of court transcripts are filled with fiction. Some of it’s intentional — the lying witness, the dishonest cop. Most of it’s confused, mistaken, guesswork, half-truths, or just lousy science and long bows. The sum of it is a demented, swirling kind of fiction; with their competing narratives of guilt and innocence, a trial is always going to take on the literary form of an unreliable memoir. I think that’s one of the main reasons why I like attending court. I like the way it tells stories. I like the ambiguities, the uncertainties.
But trials end with a verdict, which becomes law, and regarded as fact. A strange phenomenon then immediately occurs in the media. Until the verdict, court reporting is typically cautious; it’s stenographic, recording what was said by who. After the verdict, all bets are off. Verdict equals law equals fact, and guilt becomes absolute guilt. Suddenly, you can say what the hell you like, because you know he did it. This bilge, after Lundy’s first trial in 2002: ‘He is a hefty, rubbery figure with a huge bulge in the middle, like the Michelin Man. When he walks, his palms face backwards instead of in towards his sides . . . His eyes swam behind thick lenses, like lazy fish in two small tanks . . . He was a keen watcher of crime documentaries on Sky and the Discovery Channel. He planned the crime carefully and contrived an alibi. The planning was cold-blooded.’
Well — possibly. I doubt it. I don’t know. But I hate the certainty of it, and it was the only thing I promised Lundy
