Simon Bourke takes an irreverent look at the goings-on at Limerick Circuit Court
The underlings arrive first. Weighed down by paperwork, their eager faces barely visible beneath the case-files, they shuttle back and forth, doing their utmost to look busy.
The stage must be set, the scene laid out, their masters will soon follow; the lawyers, solicitors and barristers; the great silver-backs of the Irish justice system. Moments later they follow, striding forth, exclusively male, exclusively middle-aged and exclusively puffed up on self-importance.
Formalities will soon begin, but they’ve got ample time for an oul’ natter. Wigs are discarded carelessly upon tables, robes left askew. An air of conviviality pervades. This is the calm before the storm, a chance to exchange news, to joke and jest, joust and jibe. Soon they will decide the fate of those waiting nervously inside cells just feet away.
But for now they’re just the lads, having the craic.
The hubbub rises and falls, laughter fills the room. And then silence. His lordship, King Kong himself, the greatest, most powerful of all silver-backs is about to enter the fray. The court rises in unison, what say you oh great one?
First things first, he declares: Roll-call.
But in this classroom, on this day, most of the pupils appear to be absent. Bail. Remand. Sick. Re-arraigned. Awaiting psychiatric report. The excuses are as varied as they are valid. And yet, looking outside at the blue skies and bright sunshine, one can’t help but question their veracity.
Then, as the list nears its end, he strikes gold: Mr Bloggs, present and correct. Wheel him out, let’s take a look at him.
He ambles forward, looking suitably contrite. A brief chat ensues and he’s sent back to the coop. A cat toying with a long-dead mouse springs to mind. Another is called, this one full of expectant dread. He needn’t have worried. There’s been a clerical error. The judge looks flushed. He’s left the accused’s file at home. No, really. But he’ll have it tomorrow, that’s a promise.
An hour has passed, no sentences have been passed down, no-one has managed to wriggle clear of the system, of the reams of paperwork which stand upon desks like totems of terror. It’s easy to see why members of the public don’t avail of a place in the gallery; Making a Murderer this ain’t.
Then, salvation. A trial. Evidence to be presented, work to be done, now we’ll see what it’s all about, now we’ll see where the taxpayer’s hard-earned goes.
A jury has to be picked first though, obviously. Forty pensive citizens enter the room, some looking more condemned than the accused. They are here under duress, pulled away from more pressing matters by a sense of duty, a sense that they must serve their country, a sense that if they don’t they’ll be in the dock themselves, paying a fine.
One or two look positively thrilled however, their eyes widen with wonder, a lifetime’s ambition finally fulfilled; they will make the difference, they will ensure that justice prevails. At the very least they will get to see the machinations at first-hand instead of through the prism of television.
The lottery begins. The names are called. But not everyone’s a winner.
Allowed seven challenges, the defence utilise them to full effect, flagrantly crushing the dreams of the starry-eyed, sending them scuttling back to the sidelines. The reluctant engineer their own escape: hearing problems, ties to the accused, inappropriate relationships with potential witnesses, the excuses come thick and vast. All are accepted, without question. Barely believing their luck, they swiftly depart, carefully concealed smiles playing across their lips.
Eventually, some time later, we get our twelve. All pre-approved, all fit, ready and in full possession of their faculties. Now we can start. Nope. First they must pick a foreman. A brave soul to speak on their behalf. They retire to the jury room to discuss the matter, emerging just before lunch-time to reveal their choice.
Declaring himself happy, the judge thanks them for their service, and promptly sends them home for the day. Their departure signals the end of proceedings, King Kong is spent, he needs time to reflect, to go home to collect his homework.
The promise of a trial, of seeing the silver-backs strut their stuff, somehow tempts us back the following morning. What fools we were.
A throwaway comment by one of the jurors, overheard by a vigilant Garda, has placed a spanner in the works. Not only will said juror be asked to stand down, but his eleven accomplices too. We must go again.
The 28 remaining jurors, minus a couple of absentees, are called forth. Names are announced, challenges are issued, excuses are proffered and, by the by, a new jury takes place. A lovely jury. A jury that wouldn’t dream of throwing away any comments.
Just one problem: there’s only ten of them. That’s not enough.
The judge scans the room, searching for suitable candidates, for answers, for a solution to this unforeseen conundrum. But none are forthcoming. It’s over, the system has spoken, everyone, including all remaining jurors, can go home. This trial will take place at a later date. When, nobody knows, maybe next week, or the week after that, or in a month’s time. Sure what hurry is on them?
