The judge

I have watched a lot of TV law shows over the years, but I never thought I would be in one. Yet, here I am, not in a TV drama, but standing in the real place, not in the highest court of the land, but a court that deals with matters of what the court describes as civil disobedience, an action described by activists as non-violent resistance. Remember Gandhi. Remember Dr. King.

I asked a few friends what to expect in court. None have ever been to court, so they aren’t much help. As a first-timer, it’s quite the experience. Overwhelming. Once you enter the courthouse lobby, you first need to find the listing of cases being heard, and then the location of the courtroom itself. Wow, there’s a lot of crime around these days, some more heinous than others — everything from murder to shoplifting. Some twenty cases are listed on the day board. Third floor, Courtroom B. That’s me. Off I go.

Entering Courtroom B, the drab, varnished walls of the room suggest nothing of the drama that takes place here. Court officers and lawyers bow upon entry, a sign of respect for the institution. Halfway into the room is a divider, the bar, which only lawyers who are called to the bar are allowed to pass. There are no chairs for a jury, as those cases are not heard here. Neither is there a dock, a place for the accused to stand. Front and centre on a raised platform is the judge’s desk. A clerk sits to the right, and a Sheriff guards the entry door. He checks us in. (I thought  Sheriffs rode horses; I don’t think this one, with his clean, pressed uniform, could even get up on a horse.)

I am here with Ronni, both charged with blockading a public road, and creating a nuisance in our little west coast town. We are here with other environmental protesters from neighbouring communities, all seeking to shine a light on egregious forestry practices, all concerned about the health and life of our forests.

If Ronni and I were the only offenders, we would likely be given a fine and told to “go home; and get over it.” As part of a larger and growing non-violent resistance movement, the court seems concerned to make a point about the consequences of messing with the law. The thing about the law is that it only works when people respect and obey it. When respect for the law diminishes, then, it loses its effect. Therefore, the law itself must be defended; at least, that’s how the court sees it.

I am eventually called up by a Justice of the Peace. Now introduced, she presents me with a small package of documents called “disclosure.” A police report; statements from witnesses; a charge sheet; and a map of the area where the incident occurred. A growing indigestion signals my gastric discomfort. (I wonder if farting in court is an offense? Certainly should be. The Justice gives me a dirty look. Sorry.)

I return to my seat next to Ronni to mull over the documents. Everything seems correct and in order. At this point, my protest has ended: I was there; with others, I blocked the road; I refused to move when asked; local police observed what happened; they approached the blockade and arrested both Ronni and me. All is agreed; case closed. So what now?

When my name is called, I rise from my hard bench to stand behind a pulpit-like lectern facing the judge. It feels strangely comfortable; well, why not, I’m a preacher though today I don’t preach; I plead. The judge asks whether I choose to represent myself.

“Yes, Your Honour,” I reply.

“Do you understand the consequences of self-representation?” the judge asks.

“I do, Your Honour. Thank you,” I say.

“Do you need more time to examine the disclosure, the particulars of your case?”  he continues.

“No, Your Honour,” I reply.

“Very well. Let’s proceed. Madam Prosecutor, your position please.”

Madam Prosecutor is dressed in a drab, muted, brown business suit with an odd little dark green bow tie. Her thin metal rim glasses and short haircut convey a commanding business-like demeanor. She lays out her version of the facts (with which I do not disagree) and recommends a sentence of six months in jail. She argues that if civil disobedience is allowed to become a normative form of resistance following the decisions of industry, government, or in some cases, this court, then justice is poorly served and citizens inconvenienced. Grateful for her short presentation, the judge turns to me, asking me to explain my actions.

“Thank you, Your Honour. I must say that this is the first time I have ever taken principled, public action in support of a cause, and especially an environmental cause at that. Friends and family are surprised by my actions and my stance. Some of my church community are likewise confused. That said, I am learning a lot, and I think I am right in putting myself on the line here.

“As the titans of commerce and industry are given free rein to harvest the forest for profit, I wonder where the prophets are who feel called to guard the environment today. I wonder if our action, and similar actions of others, will go down in history as the beginning of a new kind of ecological movement. Your Honour, our problem is that beyond limited media coverage, and apart from those few stories the press wishes to highlight, we have no other forum to make our case except on the streets, and in this case, in the woods.

I would further argue that the crown’s decision, to prosecute those of us who care about creation and its use and abuse, actually limits our free speech.”

speech on behalf of the natural spaces we all share in common. So, truthfully, I am here today, before this court, because I believe that a negotiated agreement concerning just use of, and access to the forests, is not only possible but the best way forward. Thank you.”

Several in the court gallery are taking notes furiously. At the very least, they are paying attention. The court clerk approaches the bench with some papers. The judge studies them for a moment. Then the judge speaks:

“I have just received two letters from persons present on the day of the offense. Both are members of the Minister’s church, a Mr. Don Arnold, and a Mr. Neil Noteworthy. Assuming that I will convict, which I will, both encourage me to be lenient in my sentencing. Both suggest that youth and inexperience have contributed to an error in judgement.

These letters of support are totally unexpected. Don, sure. But Neil? I am shocked.

The judge continues: “Madam Prosecutor, what is your wish concerning sentence?”

“Your Honour, the Crown seeks a six-month jail term, as a deterrent and warning to others who might adopt a similar strategy.”

The judge says, “The court will recess while I consider my judgement.”

Ronni leans over the bar to me. “What do you think will happen now? Don’t forget, I am next in line here.”

“Not sure,” I say. “I guess we will both get a criminal record, maybe a fine, not so sure about jail. Hopefully pleading guilty helps us. Neither of us has a prior criminal record — at least I don’t. I hope I came across as responsible and principled just now.”

The judge returns. “All rise,” the clerk announces. The judge returns to his chair.

“Here is my decision. While I agree with the prosecution that we must restrain any effort to politicize the court, I do not believe that jail time is appropriate or necessary. I am impressed with the character and considered motivations of this ‘man of the cloth.’ Therefore, I sentence you, sir, to two months of community service through agencies and a schedule approved by this court.”

The gavel drops. “Case closed.”

Case closed, indeed.

Thank you for reading another chapter in the series Stories from Somewhere, fictional reflections of an unidentified place at an unknown time. Other chapters are listed here.

Visit the takenote.ca HOME page for a colourful display of hundreds of other blogs which may interest or inspire you