Are you being served in the halls of justice?

Are you being served in the halls of justice?

When my editor assigned me to cover a trial at the Central
Jakarta District Court -- one of the country's busiest courts
which hears cases of national prominence -- I thought I would be
stepping into an elegant building with a shiny tiled floor.

You know, something along the lines of TV series Law and Order
and Ally McBeal.

Instead, I found myself walking through the side entrance from
a narrow gravel parking lot.

"Mbak (miss), do you want a SIM? No need to take the test,
Mbak. I can get it for you in one day," a young man called out to
me about getting a driving license as I entered.

The building was old and dusty, with spider's webs hanging in
the corners. My first impression was that it would make an ideal
place to shoot a horror movie or one of those supernatural shows
at night.

And Ally would probably have gone into a coughing fit, for the
smell of kretek cigarettes was everywhere.

The main building of the court was no better in the decor
department. Formerly a Chinese school, it has three floors, with
a dimly lit basement for documents.

I arrived at 9 a.m., as the trial was scheduled to start at 10
a.m. Lots of reporters had packed the courtroom, from those from
foreign wire services to bodrex, the bogus journalists ready to
cut a deal for a story if the price was right.

And so we waited. And waited; 10 a.m. came and went, and there
was still no sign of the proceedings getting under way.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to the late schedule," an
experienced court reporter said to me, as the trial finally began
at 3 p.m.

So I did; after about a week, I had quickly learned the ways
of the court. Just as a 10 a.m. scheduled trial meant it would
not start until at least 3 p.m., a 1 p.m. start would mean the
judges would finally be sitting comfortably a few hours later.

I gradually got to know the court "culture".

At my first trial, I was busy scribbling down some legalese
when someone sitting next to me tapped my arm.

"Mbak, Mbak, want (to buy) some Parker pens? I have a
complete collection. Very cheap."

Uhm, a bit of wheeling and dealing in the halls of justice.

On another day, as the judge solemnly read his verdict, there
was an almighty crash. An old wooden bench had given way, leaving
a man not only sore from his fall, but also red faced.

Then there was the time when about 30 soldiers were sent out
of the courtroom for carrying weapons. Well, maybe they could not
be blamed.

The framed poster stating weapons were prohibited was covered
with dust, its tiny print almost completely faded by time.

The soldiers probably did not notice it, and there is no
security check anyway.

And pens are not the only items for sale in the courtroom.
Legal expert Frans Winarta once told me that it really is the
size of one's wallet that tips the scales of justice.

"You might be released after bribing someone or you might be
detained if they expect some money from you," he said.

Now, perhaps, I have a better idea of what is going on during
those hours we wait for a trial to start. Perhaps a bit of the
green stuff is changing hands, and I don't think it's the same
value as a new pen.

-- Sari P. Setiogi